Templar Scrolls: a Nia Rivers Adventure, #3

Chapter One

Through the ages of my long life, one truth always remained. It was the one fact that had never failed me. And that truth was there was nothing a little salt water couldn’t cure.

I’d crossed the Pacific Ocean and made it to the West Coast of the New World before Columbus’s boat had even been built. Four hundred years later, I’d survived the sinking of the Titanic in the Atlantic Ocean. Just a few years ago, I’d evaded Somali pirates in the Arabian Sea after taking samples of Dhambalin art, which depicted ancient drawings of cattle and sheep dated more than five thousand years old.

Throughout all these sea adventures, the curative properties of salt water reigned true. It cleansed the colon, releasing toxins accumulated in the digestive tract. It was great for skin care, clearing pores and combating acne. Sprinkle a little salt on a bland dish and everyone’s taste buds would water. Sea waters washed away waste, blemishes, stains, sweat, and tears.

All throughout my past, whenever something ailed me, I ran to the sea. These waters, rough one day, calm the next, were no place for the weak. The rolling ocean of blue required patience, cunning, and steadfastness to navigate. The sea stretched out to give me room to breathe, surrounding me and smothering me with attention at the same time. Its tranquility embraced me, wrapped me up in lulling waves, and allowed me to see my next course of action.

Not going to the waters after my initial heartbreak had been a mistake. I’d been left battered and bruised by love this year. But now, the sea air was healing my aches and pains.

I’d been sailing for over a week after leaving Greece with my best friend Loren, also known as the girlfriend most likely to key her ex’s car with a sword. She and I had emerged largely unscathed from the battle of the Greek gods and their twisted version of familial love. That demigod drama was now behind us, and I was finally starting to feel a bit better.

When we’d left the Mediterranean Sea, it had been mostly calm and placid. The horizon had been clear. The Meltemi winds, which often lashed out from land and caused mischief in the waters, had left Loren and me alone. It was once we got into the Celtic Sea that the tides began to turn, as often happened when leaving a tropical clime for a cold and damp one. The storm had come out of nowhere like the flu on the first day of summer.

Like the tickle that began in the back of the throat, the waters began tugging at the boat’s anchor. In the same way that the flu virus would spread from the throat through the neck, the ripples of the waters sent the boat rocking to and fro. Like in a head cold when the sickness would fog the brain, the foam of the whitecaps broke at the bow of the boat, sending a spray that misted our eyes and temporarily blurred our vision. The waves bunched about the ship like the restless fingers of nausea. The stern groaned a dry heave as though the heart of the ship was about to break.

I gripped the steering wheel as the waves broke all around me, rising, falling, and thrashing my vessel. The storm felt like it required superhuman strength to navigate. Luckily, I was superhuman. Not only that, but I also had the skill and endurance to make my way through the tempest.

I feel like we’re up a creek without a paddle, said Loren. Only the creek is an ocean and there are no paddles on yachts. Are there?

The humor in her voice was strained. Her fingers curled tight around the railing. Her knuckles turned white at the force of her grip. A tremor wobbled her knees as another wave broke and battered the side of the boat.

Loren, go below deck and make sure everything is secure.

Everything was already secure. My preparations were impeccable, as always. I took pride in any vessel I commanded. I knew the boat was secure; I just wanted my bestie out of harm’s way.

Loren ignored my command and stayed by my side. Someone needs to watch your back.

It wasn’t my back I was worried about. I could weather this storm, but her human body wouldn’t heal if it was thrown overboard. I’d paid attention to the weather forecast. Nothing about the fast winds of this storm had been predicted. Gale winds were manageable in this day and time because there were normally forewarnings well in advance of the winds’ arrival upon a boat.

I didn’t need to rely on any predictions. I’d been sailing for hundreds of years. I knew how to read the clouds. The cyclonic system followed a predictable sequence. Each cycle had its own cloud formation, wind shift, and weather pattern. Nothing in the movements of the sky could have predicted what was going on in these waters.

We’d gotten further inland at the end of the Celtic Sea as we neared the British Isles. We weren’t too far beyond the continental shelf, that area of seabed around a large landmass. Since it was relatively shallow as compared to the open sea, I was considering deploying the sea anchor.

I’d turned off the self-steering system and was helming the yacht by hand, which was tiring, especially at night. I might be strong and Immortal, but I needed a break before I made a mistake that could cost my friend her life.

I was considering finding shelter in a sea inlet, a loch. Often in those narrow pockets, the weather was different, like standing in the eye of a hurricane. I just had to get us to one.

But for the second time today, just as soon as the storm had come, the winds died down. The waters calmed. It felt supernatural. For a moment, I wondered if it was the Greek god Poseidon messing around with me.

He’d played around with me before, pulling practical jokes that made me think I was seeing things in the water when I’d journeyed into Greece last month. But we’d left him behind a couple of weeks ago in Athens. I didn’t get the impression that the seal-hugging environmentalist got his kicks out of dashing a vessel around with two women on board. The middle brother of the Olympian clan was too laid back, cool, and collected for this.

What happened? Loren asked. Her voice echoed into the eerie silence that had settled over us like a warm blanket on a winter’s night.

I don’t know.

I put the boat back on self-steering and slumped into a deck chair. After running shaky fingers over my brow, I clutched at my stomach, feeling a touch of sea sickness for the first time in my long life. My body and brain were exhausted.

Loren slid down into a chair beside me. I saw my life flash before my eyes.

Thankfully, I hadn’t seen mine. Who knew how long that would’ve taken. I had no idea how old I was. But I’d been around long enough that the reel of my life would need to be played out over several showings in a day. Possibly a week.

I heard my mom calling out my name, Loren continued.

I turned to study her. Her blonde tresses looked as though they hadn’t seen a brush in a week. Light blue eyes were glassy and dazed. Her chest caved in as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Loren and I had only known each other for about three months. Her father and I had been in the same line of work—archaeology. But Dr. Van Alst and I had never met in person. I had met a handful of Loren’s lovers, and she’d met two of mine. But we’d never discussed her mother. Or where Loren lived in her normal, non-adventurous life. Or if she had left something behind to come gallivanting around the world with me. I realized I knew so little about this person I’d spent nearly every day with for the last quarter of a year.

You’ve never told me about your mother, I said.

Loren shrugged. She died when I was very young. She was from England, some tiny little town in Somerset called Glastonbury. I’ve never been.

I had. I’d visited it a couple of hundred years ago when it was still called Glistening Town because of the witches and wizards who’d lived there.

I don’t remember much about her, Loren continued. Her name was Magda. Can you imagine? She shuddered as though the Germanic name tasted sickly-sweet on her tongue.

It wasn’t an uncommon name. Well, maybe a couple of hundred years ago it was.

She was blonde with blue eyes that sparkled, Loren said. Her mouth settled into a small smile after swallowing the bitterness of her mother’s name. At least that’s how I remember them as a child. I remember the sound of her voice. It sounded like a piccolo, one of those tiny little flutes. Light and happy. It made me want to dance and hold still and listen all at once.

I stared at her. This was the first time I’d ever heard Loren wax philosophical. Normally, she had a biting wit, a sharp tongue, and a twinkle of mischief in her eyes.

It sounds like you remember her pretty well, I said.

No. Loren shook her head, frowning now. I don’t know anything else about her, except that very short list. My father didn’t like to talk about her. I remember he was devastated after she died. Like the unable-to-pull-himself-out-of-bed type of devastated. He never looked at another woman again. I think that’s why I cringe at relationships. The idea that someone could have such a massive effect on your life…it’s terrifying.

I understood. Even now, with the salt in the air and the sea waters sprinkling my face, I still felt the pangs in my heart. I didn’t know if I could ever let another man get as close to me as I had let Zane. And he was very much alive. But the disentanglement process felt like murder inside my body.

I do remember her reading to me, Loren said. She loved the tales of Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. I remember lying in my bed, which was usually a cot in a tent because we traveled with my father most of the time. She’d read me the tales of Lancelot and Guinevere, Sir Gawain, and the Green Knight he had to battle to the death. Tristan and Isolde and their star-crossed love. Sir Galahad and his quest for the Holy Grail was my favorite. I loved those stories. They probably screwed me up, though, making me believe a man would come and rescue me. Like that would ever happen in modern times.

Loren and I were far from damsels. We carried blades on our hips and knew how to use them. The weapons were often accessorized with designer purses slung over vintage tops. A woman should look her best while she was kicking butt.

Now I get to meet the real Arthur. Loren’s gaze twinkled with a mix of delight and mischief.

Not the actual Arthur. He died over a thousand years ago. This is his… I had to count the Arthurs in my head as well as on my fingers. Great-grandson.

That’s only four generations.

Yeah, I agreed.

So this Arthur has to be at least a couple of hundred years old?

I nodded. They age really well in Camelot.

How? Loren said. Are they Immortal, too?

No. They’re something else. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

"So far, I’ve seen ninjas flying over my head, Greek gods shooting lightning bolts, and humans getting their souls sucked out of their eyes, so not sure there is much I wouldn’t consider believing anymore."

She had seen all those things. And in each of those adventures, she’d nearly lost her life standing by my side, just like she almost had during the storm. Guilt swept over me. One of these days I was probably going to get her killed.

My life was dangerous for someone supernatural. It was disastrous for a mortal. That was the reason why I didn’t allow myself to get too attached to humans. They were fragile creatures, easily breakable in body, mind, and spirit. I hadn’t tried to send Loren away, but I knew one day she’d leave me on her own or die trying.

We’re getting close, I said.

We were headed to Caerleon in the south of Great Britain. The Arthur had requested my presence for something to do with the Holy Grail. It was purported to be the cup the prophet Jesus used at the Last Supper. But it was also rumored to be the cup into which his blood fell during his crucifixion. Men had fought and died to find and possess the cup, believing it held magical powers. But from what I knew, it had been safe in the Knights of the Round Table’s possession for hundreds of years. Their castle, Tintagel, was an impenetrable fortress, even for someone like me.

When an emissary brought an invitation for me to cross the drawbridge a couple of weeks ago, I’d jumped at the chance. Not too high, though. I didn’t want The Arthur to know how eager I was to storm his castle. There were more ancient artifacts behind the walls than just the drinking cup, and I wanted to get my hands on them—just to look, of course. But I needed to get there first.

However, the closer we drew to the British Isles, the more the winds picked up. It was as though something was trying to keep us from the shore.

Out on the horizon, I spotted another boat. The seas churned it up and down like a roller coaster. The other vessel sent up a distress signal. The waves crested, and I saw two bodies pulled off the ship and dropped into the unforgiving waters. No human would survive such a fall, much less be able to swim through those waves.

I made a rash decision. I dropped the anchor.

Loren, stay here.

For once, I hoped she’d listen to me. I dove into the waters and headed for the ship in distress.

Chapter Two

The impact stung my cheeks, and the salt burned my eyes. I swam fast and furiously in my attempts to reach the distressed boat. At my speed, I could keep up with a sailfish, one of the fastest fish in the oceans. My body moved easily through the water’s depths. I broke the surface to see I was more than halfway to the other vessel. Wiping the water from my eyes, I still had to blink a couple of times because I couldn’t believe what I saw.

It was difficult to sink a ship. After all, the vessels were designed to stay afloat, unlike submarines that rose and sank. It was common for waves to break over the sides of a ship and for tiny leaks to occur. But those rivulets of water would eventually find their way to the lowest point of the boat, the bilge, where the small stream would be pumped out. The waves crashing into this ship looked as though they were reaching up from the bowels of the sea and actively pulling it down into its depths.

I’d never seen anything like it. It was like a freak storm from hell—if hell were in the oceans. The