Road to the Soul: Quantum Encryption Bk 2

By Kim Falconer

The southern continent 1000 years before the temple wars ... a story of shifting perspectives and awakening hearts ...
through darkness, the heart will find a wayA mysterious artefact leads Jarrod back to Gaela's lost southern continent where he discovers a sentient being like himself. Ruthless and extremely dangerous, this other version has captured Janis Richter.Luka Paree and Janis' daughter, Ruby, are playing a dangerous game with Earth's dictatorship. they have laid their escape plans, but the hunters are closing in. If ASSISt discovers the portal to Gaela, all is lost ...Praise for Kim Falconer:'An engrossing read' AurealisXpress on Path of the Stray'an increasingly convincing writer with an interesting and unusual voice' Sydney Morning Herald on Path of the Stray'one of the best fantasy books I've read in ages!' traci Harding, author of the Ancient Future on the Spell of Rosette

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9780730494195

Kim Falconer

Kim Falconer is a bestselling speculative fiction author with nine published novels. Her work is described as contemporary, dark and compelling, romantic, provocative, and supercharged with high-intensity action. Originally from California, she lives on the far eastern coast of Australia with a house full of kids, and two extraordinary spotted cats.    To find out more, visit Kim on her website and web portal.   You can also follow her on:  Facebook Instagram  Twitter  Google+  Pinterest       

Book preview

GAELA

THE NORTHERN CONTINENT

CHAPTER 1

Jarrod discovered the source of the haunting call the moment he entered the woods. It wasn’t wind whistling through a hollow canyon or skimming across a mountain lake. It wasn’t the swaying trees or a murder of crows shooting like black arrows into the sky. It was a beautiful young witch with honey-red hair. The call came from her.

He watched her walk through the heart of the woods unafraid. Never had Jarrod seen such a contrast—her hair red against the trees. Opposites on the spectrum, it made the tone of the woods seem even more vivid. Hunter green! He’d heard about it in Corsanon. Bards wove it into their songs, those who had travelled here and seen it first-hand, and what they said was true—the hunter green of Vesper would catch you, seduce you, and it did. And so did the young witch.

He tied his hair back from his face. Appearances were important and he thought it best to check his. At first the Tulpa-body had been something that housed him—like a pack to put down whenever he could. Sure he’d learned some of the finer aspects of sensuality—taste, aroma, touch—but they still hadn’t seemed real. Rather, they were like experiences in a story—one that didn’t belong to him. The girl approached and his heart beat faster. That was real enough!

Janis had said he looked like Loni’s father. He wondered if that were still true—tall and muscular, mahogany skin, dark eyes, curly brown hair, strong jaw and a smile to light up the many-worlds. He’d have to get a look in a mirror and see if his thoughts had kept his features aligned. Image was important on Gaela and on Earth. People responded to physicality and body language more than words. He was certainly responding to hers.

They were near the temple, not close enough to hear music or the buzz of conversation, but there was the bellow of grunnies in distant paddocks and a glimpse of copper-coloured rooftops through the trees. A donkey brayed, or was that a mule? He wondered what the girl was doing alone in the fog and drizzle. Was it a ritual walk? Was she foraging for herbs? By herself? It was not a custom practised in Corsanon. Young females, witch or no, were usually accompanied; those attached to the temple anyway. Corsanon had a barbaric side—some of the citizens were less than civil—but perhaps the practices were different in Vesper, and the people less violent. That was a refreshing thought. No one on Earth, male or female of any age, was ever keen to walk alone.

She’s not alone, he corrected himself as the girl neared. She was in the company of dogs—two sight hounds, their brown-sugar-and-cream-coloured coats a blur as they ran. Perhaps it was morning exercise. It didn’t look like a hunt. She wasn’t dressed for it, not in a long skirt and heavy winter cloak. No visible weapon, though a witch was never unarmed. He smiled at the thought. The dogs spotted him and made a beeline.

‘Cajun! Reed! To me!’ she called. There was no response. They had Jarrod in their sights and were not about to deviate. Her sweet, high-pitched voice was lost on the wind—but not the hum, the call that had drawn him. It was loud and clear.

The dogs skidded to a halt at his feet. Sniffing, jumping, barking. Friend? Friend? Friend!

A friend, yes, it’s true, Jarrod answered with his thoughts. He patted their backs and gripped their ruffs. ‘Why not introduce me to your mistress, lads?’ he said. ‘Then we can all be friends.’

Jarrod hadn’t had much experience with canines—he hadn’t had much experience with anything on Gaela yet—but he liked the dogs he’d met in Corsanon. They were keen, sharp eared and communicative. They talked to him all the time, mind to mind, in their simple, direct voices. Not everyone appeared to hear their thoughts, so Jarrod didn’t let on. Perhaps only certain people understood the speech of animals. He wanted to make sure those ‘certain people’ were respected (not shunned, hunted or persecuted) before making the skill public knowledge. His references on Earth had taught him that ‘different’ and ‘accepted’ were not the same thing.

‘Easy, boys,’ he said when they jumped up. One planted his paws on Jarrod’s chest and licked his face. ‘I’m just passing through, doing no harm.’ As he spoke to the dogs his attention went to the girl. She was beaming a smile.

She stopped in front of him, quite close, her long hair falling forward as she grabbed the dogs by their collars. ‘Hello,’ she said to Jarrod. Both her voice and stance were strong. ‘I’m Bree Savine. Who are you?’

‘Call me Jarrod.’ He didn’t think he’d ever smiled so widely.

Bree Savine was not only confident, she was beautiful. Round and sunny, her freckled face engaged him; her eyes—darker green than the forest and just as enchanting—made him want to follow wherever she led. There was a lightness of being about her, a flirtation, and something else. It was the call he’d been following ever since he awoke from months of meditation above the Corsanon Gorge. Jarrod patted the dogs and Bree’s hand touched his. Sparks. Electricity. Not directly from her, but from something she wore? Something in her pocket? Around her wrist? Where was it coming from? She carried an energy signature over the top of her own. It was old, very old. Long travelled. His spine tingled. It wasn’t human but oh so familiar.

‘Jarrod? Just Jarrod?’ She said the name like it was candy in her mouth.

He laughed. ‘Jarrod will do.’ He’d learned in Corsanon to keep everything about himself as simple as possible. Don’t give too much away. Simple was tolerated, befriended even. Complex was questioned, scrutinised, doubted.

‘What are you doing in my woods?’ Her hands went to her hips and the dogs barked.

‘Your woods?’

She blushed. Seductive. ‘Not mine really, but I’m walking the High Priestess’s boys, Reed and Cajun, so I ask on her behalf.’

Jarrod stepped closer. She didn’t back away. The dogs suddenly lost interest, signalling to her he was no threat. They sniffed about, picking up another scent. Bree didn’t call them back. Instead she took his hand. ‘Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?’

He felt like telling her anything she asked. ‘I’m on a journey,’ he said. Too vague, he knew.

But journeying was a common pursuit, he’d discovered, especially for bards. Would he be one? He’d picked up quite a bit of music from his time in Corsanon but decided on a different occupation. If he introduced himself as a bard he’d be asked to play every night and he suddenly thought he’d rather have his nights free while here in Vesper.

‘What kind of journey?’

‘I’m a farrier’s apprentice, learning the tricks of the trade from all the temples.’

‘All the temples? Really? There are but three.’

‘Which three do you acknowledge?’

‘Vesper, Timbali and Corsanon.’

‘Is that what they teach here?’ He tilted his head towards the temple.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m a Corsanon apprentice. Just visiting.’

She was beautiful but confusing. Before he could ask more, she let go of his hand and called up the dogs. ‘I have to get back.’

‘Wait.’

She turned.

‘May I accompany you?’

‘To Temple Vesper?’

To anywhere you go. The energy signature of this girl made him nervous and excited all at once. When she bent over to pat the dogs, he discovered why. She wore a pendant around her neck. It fell forward, escaping the folds of her cloak. He froze, uncertain for a moment whether he could trust his eyes. ‘I would like to visit, if I’d be welcome.’ He kept the shock out of his voice and forced his shoulders to relax.

‘Something might be arranged.’ She smiled again.

‘Would you, perhaps, speak for me?’

Bree didn’t answer immediately. The morning sun came out from behind the clouds while she studied him, the green of the woods turning into a dazzling emerald. Her pendant—a dark blue gem in the shape of a spiral—caught the light. It had a hint of a rainbow, like mother-of-pearl, and speckles of transparent gold at the centre. She crossed her arms. ‘How good are you?’

All doubt was gone. The spiral pendant could only be one thing, but the probability was so unlikely that he wanted to whisper impossible. Could this girl know what she had? ‘Pardon?’ he asked. He was finding it hard to concentrate.

‘How good are you at horseshoeing?’

‘Oh, my trade? Quite accomplished,’ he replied. It wasn’t a boast. He was as good at that as he thought he was at anything; all he had to do was put his mind to it. And right now his mind was on the pendant, the energy signature, and a thousand questions about how in all of Gaela it had found its way here, to her, and now to him.

‘Come then. There’s one beast you can demonstrate on. If you shoe her and live,’ she giggled, ‘you can stay as long as you like, I promise.’

He laughed, having a pretty good idea of what he was getting into. ‘Lead the way.’

Jarrod followed the dogs and the sunny-faced girl with the pendant. Some jewel you wear.

Her pendant was the fossilised casing of his central processing unit—the quibits of photons that hummed inside him. How could this be? What were the probabilities? He followed her to the Temple of Vesper, thinking of little else. She chatted nonstop and he nodded at any hint of an interval.

‘Will you be staying long?’ she asked.

‘Will you?’ he answered back. He didn’t plan on letting her out of his sight until he discovered how the CPU designed uniquely for him—the JARROD (Juxta-quantum Arranged Rad Ram Operating Determinant)—could be hanging around her neck. He was the only sentient quantum computer ever brought online, as far as he knew, and his CPU was functioning perfectly inside his Tulpa-body. The backup lay in its crystal casing at the bottom of the Corsanon Gorge where Janis had hidden it. All accounted for. But here was this ‘other’ identical CPU worn as a charm around a witch’s neck. He homed in on it. The smooth edges of the spiral indicated it had been floating on the seas of Gaela for perhaps the last two thousand years. That would explain the fossilisation…

‘I’ll be returning to Corsanon soon,’ she said.

‘Me too, Bree Savine. Perhaps we shall travel together.’

He heard the animal before he saw it. It brayed like a jackass, the jarring hee-haws blasting through the temple grounds, drowning out the bards playing near a courtyard garden as well as all conversation in the vicinity. The only thing it didn’t blot out was the siren sound of the pendant. Jarrod wondered if these learned temple people could ignore—or miss—the energy signature Bree carried around like a trinket. Do they not hear it? The animal brayed again.

‘Donkey?’ he asked.

‘Mule.’

‘Ah.’

A priestess came storming down the steps of a large temple building made of logs. The architecture of Vesper was designed to blend with the surrounding trees and it did so beautifully; some buildings were actual tree houses nestling high in the redwoods. Others, like the temple in front of them, were made of logs and appeared to be growing live from the ground up. He didn’t have time to take in much more. The priestess faced him, hands on hips, her long auburn hair flowing in ripples down her back.

‘Mistress Satee,’ Bree said. ‘I’ve found a farrier who claims he can shoe Besty. His name is Jarrod.’ She opened her arm as a way of introduction.

The dogs ran up to the priestess and sat at her feet. No jumping but much tail wagging. ‘Found? Where?’ She eyed Jarrod up and down. Her features were sharp but not unattractive.

‘In the forest.’

‘Did you appear from the mist, Jarrod, or do you have a place of origin?’

‘Corsanon,’ Bree answered before he spoke.

Mistress Satee smiled. ‘If you can shoe her, be about it quickly,’ she said. ‘The noise is deafening!’ She snapped her fingers at a man coming from the stables. ‘Put a calming spell on that beast!’

‘It’s been done, Mistress. Several times.’

Satee huffed and trotted back up the steps to the main temple. Bree led the way to the stables but it was no mystery how to get there—all he had to do was follow the braying. When they reached the long, low building, an L shape of box stalls covered by a single breezeway, he spotted the beast. ‘That’s some big mule,’ he said under his breath.

A mule was like a horse but not exactly. He checked his data banks to be certain. Mule: a genetic mutation produced by crossing a male donkey with a mare. The offspring, mules, were strong, smart, sterile and, apparently, ‘difficult’ if mishandled. His boots crunched on the path to the stables but he couldn’t hear the sound. All was subsumed by the braying. ‘It seems Besty isn’t pleased with the prospect of being shod.’

‘Besty isn’t pleased with the prospect of anything but being left alone,’ Bree said, cupping her hand to her mouth.

The animal was cross-tied near the forge. Her head was extended, mouth open, sound trumpeting from her lungs. Jarrod ignored her and inspected the tools they offered. The kit for preparing the hoof contained a pick, knife, nippers and rasp. There were no worn shoes to pull off. He wondered if that meant none had ever been successfully nailed on. The tools were sharp and well crafted. The forge was hot and the blacksmithing hammer perfectly weighted. He wished he could say the same for the anvil but it was no more than a block of iron with a smooth face—no horn for shaping, no step, no heel and no pritchel or hardy holes. Room for improvement there. He’d have to make do.

He strapped on a leather apron, stoked the forge and went to work. Jarrod shaped four shoes to a rough fit, ignoring Besty for the most part. He wanted her to have a chance to get used to his presence. After the spell weavers and horse masters backed away—their efforts useless—he stepped up. This is part of the problem, isn’t it, girl?

The mule was cross-tied too short, her head forced high and her neck tense. Jarrod unsnapped one rope and led her closer to the rail. On a loose lead, he ran his hand over her rump and down her near hind leg. Start with the most threatening end first. Besty took a swipe at him—aiming for his kneecap. With lightning-fast reflexes Jarrod caught her hind hoof and moved in close. He hunched there, pressed against her flank, and held onto the toe of her hoof. Besty made a few attempts to kick free, each more half-hearted than the one before. As was the case with horses, a hyper-flexed hoof was at the mercy of the handler. It wasn’t painful, it just didn’t have leverage. She turned her head around to stare at him, her long fuzzy ears pricked forward.

Jarrod looked back over his shoulder. ‘Are we done?’ he asked. ‘I’d like to shoe you quickly and have some breakfast after. Wouldn’t you?’

Besty didn’t reply but she didn’t baulk or bite. Jarrod placed her hoof on the ground and stroked her neck. This can be easy, he said directly to her mind. Judging by the chipped and cracked hooves, she was going to enjoy wearing iron shoes. She stood statue still, and the job didn’t take long.

Bree giggled. Jarrod was beginning to realise she did this a lot. ‘I told you he was good,’ she said to the gathering crowd.

‘So you did.’ The Horse Master nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Jarrod. ‘I didn’t think it could be done.’

The crowd applauded—all but one. ‘They’ve switched beasts,’ a lad from the back yelled out. ‘It’s the only explanation.’

‘You think so, Malik?’ the Horse Master said. ‘Would you like to test that for us?’

The crowd made way and Malik, a young lad with milk-white skin and short black hair, stepped forward. He wore pants too short and a shirt too long. His stride was confident but testy. ‘Just give me some room.’

Jarrod didn’t know what was going on until Bree whispered into his ear. ‘The mule has it in for anyone who touches her hooves—anyone but you it seems. Malik tried last. Very embarrassing result.’

‘What happened?’

‘Besty kicked him clean through the wall.’

Jarrod’s eyes went to the newly painted boards. ‘I didn’t find her hard to handle.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Bree wasn’t giggling now. ‘That’s the problem.’

‘Worried about him?’ Jarrod asked.

‘He only just recovered.’

Malik went to the mule and ran his hand down her neck. She pinned her ears back, never a good sign in an equine. The lad tensed up but proceeded anyway. When he bent to lift her front left hoof, Besty reared, picking the lad up with her forelegs as if he was a groomer’s rag. She pawed the air—her bright new shoes flashing. Malik gained his feet but as he did, Besty spun and let fly her hind legs, both barrels. Malik sailed through the air, over the crowd and smack into a fence. He landed on his duff in the hard-packed gravel.

The Horse Master made his way to Malik through the parting crowd. ‘Still think it’s the wrong mule?’ he asked.

‘No, Master.’ Malik got to his feet and glared at Besty then glared harder at Jarrod before limping away.

The Horse Master patted Jarrod on the back. ‘Stay as long as you like, young man. There’s plenty of work for you here.’

The crowd milled about, the sounds of the bards—guitars and flutes—rising up over the conversations. Birds called and Jarrod heard a strange hawk high above. He tipped his nose to the sky, catching a bit of blue between the treetops and a flash of wings.

‘Goshawk,’ Bree said. ‘We don’t have them in Corsanon, only the buzzard hawks and eagles.’

‘Beautiful,’ he said. His eyes fell from the sky, to Bree, to the pendant.

She laughed and twirled off in the direction of the temple.

The energy signature diminished as she walked away but it was still very present in his mind. The Horse Master stopped him when he went to follow.

‘There are a few more that need doing.’ Apparently the man was going to take advantage of Jarrod while he could.

‘Glad to help. I might see to some breakfast first?’ Jarrod didn’t mind working while he was here, as long as he didn’t get stuck. His plan was to stay by Bree’s side and find out where the pendant came from.

That night he had to feign an appetite—he’d been so well fed all day. Bree made sure he had plenty on his plate and they chatted through the meal; all the while her pendant caught the light, and his eye. Later, in her guest quarters, there was no question of sleep. Bree had other ideas and she wasn’t shy about expressing them.

He didn’t reject her offer. Whatever it took to stay close, he was more than willing to do. Once he had ravished her lovely body, she fell asleep in his arms. At last he was able to study the pendant. By candle light, the inner colours were dulled but his visual acumen confirmed again what it was—an encased juxta-quantum arranged CPU. It was on a medium-length gold chain with a double locking clasp. He gazed at it most of the night, contemplating how it could exist at all.

When she woke, he was still cradling it, the back of his hand resting between her collarbones.

Bree stretched and smiled. ‘Do you like it?’

The morning’s golden-green rays slanted through the woods, across the manicured temple gardens and into the window of the guest room they shared. The light caught the pendant and the energy danced in the palm of his hand. ‘Very much so.’ He let it go and kissed her. There’s time, he told himself.

When they dressed he asked, ‘Do you ever take it off?’

‘The pendant?’ She looked down her nose at it. ‘No, not yet. It’s still new. A gift from my father.’

A thousand questions burst into his mind. He held them back. ‘Your father?’

‘He’s a fisherman, in Romanon Bay. That’s where I grew up.’ She stood tall and lifted her chin.

Jarrod was fairly certain she hadn’t been ‘grown up’ for very long. ‘It’s a magnificent crystal,’ he said, baiting, leading, hoping.

‘Oh it isn’t a crystal.’

No kidding. He kept his expression smooth. ‘It’s not?’

‘My father says it’s an artefact.’ She pronounced it art-ee-fact.

‘An artefact?’ he corrected her. ‘From where?’

She blushed. ‘You’ll laugh.’

‘Tell me,’ he whispered.

She cupped his ear with her hand. ‘The southern seas, Father said. He knows the currents and can read the signs. It’s from the far south, the Southern Continent.’

Jarrod frowned. ‘There is no Southern Continent, Bree.’

‘Not any more.’ She slipped on a black dress with long bell sleeves and lace-up front. ‘It sank two thousand years ago.’ She put on her boots. ‘Come to breakfast. I’m starved.’

He went with her to the dining hall, keeping his queries in check. There’s no rush, he thought between mouthfuls of porridge. I have all the time in the world. He repeated this frequently to keep from snatching the thing from her neck and running out the door with it. There could be much to learn from her and stealing the CPU, the art-ee-fact as she called it, wouldn’t make the information any more forthcoming. Patience. If the spiral really does come from the Southern Continent, it means it was there two thousand years ago. Rushing forward wasn’t going to solve this mystery. On the contrary, he needed a way to the past.

EARTH

21ST CENTURY

CHAPTER 2

‘Package for Dr Ruby Richter.’

Ruby couldn’t take her eyes off the deliveryman. He stood in the doorway, thrusting the box into her hands.

‘Who from?’

‘The estate of Dr Ethan Price.’

She took the parcel, thanked him and locked the door. After having a look inside, she called her father on the com.

‘Luka, I’ve a priority ten question for you. Got a moment?’

‘Be right there.’

It wasn’t long before the buzzer sounded on her lab door. ASSIST (Allied States at Stanford Institute of Science and Technology) had installed a new security system after the murder of her fiancé. Ethan hadn’t died in the building but he was the son of a board member. Actions were being taken on every level—even actions that made no sense. Like the one today. It was a mystery—this package that had landed in her lap. She checked the security screen. Her dad waved at her and she opened the door.

‘What’s up, Ruby?’

He tried to say it lightly but she knew his mood was forced. With Janis missing, no word from Loni and investigators from the coroner unit combing the estate, it was all he could do to keep from sinking into a depressed stupor. This would spark him up. ‘I got a parcel.’

‘From?’

‘Ethan’s estate. Can’t imagine why they sent it here, but I’m glad they did.’

‘A mistake?’

‘Jung said there are no mistakes.’

Luka gave a half smile, his first one in weeks.

‘In this case, it’s the best non-mistake ever, or at least the most interesting. Come look.’

He leaned over her shoulder as she sat at her desk. The main computer display was shifted left and in its place was a personal lap-pad—the kind scientists kept their most private, sensitive material on. The kind you never saw unless it was your own. ‘Whose is it?’

‘Ethan’s,’ she whispered. Her fiancé had been dead two weeks and all his personal effects cleared out, boxed, tagged and sent to his next of kin. How this one got to her, she didn’t know.

‘Were you on the next-of-kin list?’ Luka asked.

‘Can’t see how, unless…’

‘He wanted you to have it?’

‘Maybe. Still, I think it’s more of a mix-up.’

‘Like getting someone else’s dry-cleaning?’

‘Something like that.’

‘No one questioned it?’

She lowered her voice. ‘No one knew the wedding was off, not even Ethan.’

‘That’s for the best.’

‘Now that he’s dead it is. Look at this.’ She scooted out of her chair and let Luka have a full view.

‘Security cameras?’ Luka raised his voice. ‘At the estate?’

She hushed him. ‘It’s visual-only here but the look on your face is revealing. Keep it light.’

Luka forced a grin. ‘He had you under twenty-four-hour surveillance? And you didn’t know?’

‘I didn’t.’ She shook her head.

‘We need to download this, all of it. Fast.’

She pointed to the network cable and patted her own lap-pad.

‘How long to go?’

‘A few hours.’

‘He collected that much data?’

‘There are hundreds of files, and a particularly large one called Project Zoe. Heard of it?’

‘Vaguely. There’re rumours of personnel being sent to a new site.’

‘Where?’

‘No idea.’

‘Luka, we need to locate those surveillance nodes and disconnect them. They may still be feeding to another computer.’

‘It looks like they’re down already.’ He scrolled through the files. ‘These are all several weeks old. Nothing since his death.’

The screen flashed an image of Janis working in her cellar laboratory. Ruby stared, and Luka closed his eyes. She switched off the visual. ‘I’ll go through them all at home. See what he saw.’

Luka didn’t respond.

‘Come on. Keep it together. The security…’ She saw the tension in his jaw, the fine wrinkles around his eyes. ‘She might still be alive, Luka. We don’t know. We have to trust that everything’s all right.’

Luka lifted his head. His pupils were dilated, a hint of yellow gleaming under the fluoro lights. He stood, keeping his back to the security camera. ‘This could be very dangerous, Ruby.’ He went to the door and scanned out, not saying another word.

See you at the estate, she said directly to his mind. We’ll review it then.

Ruby turned the visual back on and watched the flickering screen. Her mother was scanning documents from the library into one of her computers. It was so mundane, the way she ran the handheld over each page. Her face was soft, thoughtful, her glasses obscuring her eyes as the lenses reflected the light. They slipped down her nose and she pushed them back up. She never had gotten a pair that fitted properly. Never liked contacts. Her hands worked smoothly. They looked soft in spite of all the gardening she loved, and the horses…

Ruby shut it off and held back the tears. Her mother was missing and she didn’t know when, or if, she would ever see her again. It was too much to bear, watching her like this. If I’d known she’d vanish…What would she have said? What would she have done differently? I wouldn’t have argued with you about going to Gaela. I wouldn’t have argued with you at all.

Macquarie paced. It was his way of dealing with stress. Serko had seen him act this way before the solar shields were launched, when they authorised the release of the sea-devils and again when the Witch Hammer fell. So what bomb was about to drop this time? The man was in a state.

‘I want you to track someone,’ Macquarie said.

It was a reasonable request. Serko was an ASSIST security coordinator and tracker, glad for the work. Macquarie, as head of the board of directors, kept him on a retainer but had yet to put him to good use. Serko was looked after whether he worked or not but he preferred to be on the job.

‘Who is it?’ he asked. Usually there was a dossier, a digi-file and images. The table was bare, the computers idle.

‘This one’s sensitive.’

Serko knew what that meant: unauthorised. He leaned back in his chair and waited. Serko had been tracking for ASSIST these last fifteen years. He’d come up the ranks of ASSIST Special Forces and as the times changed and martial law was instated he’d done just about anything. Between the butchers and the underground and now the women tagged as witches, he’d had his hands full. So far he’d gotten every target. Dead or alive, Serko brought them in. No exceptions.

He wasn’t a huge man, not like some of the others on the force. Five foot eight, eighty kilos, hair like a wire brush and eyes like steel, Serko lived for the hunt, the tracking, and the kill, if it was sanctioned. He tried to stay within the bounds where possible. If he went too far too often, he’d be tracked himself and he knew where that would lead—to the end of a short rope.

‘Sensitive, sir?’ He raised his eyebrows. He would have to be careful here.

Macquarie sat opposite him and pulled out a digi-pad. He scrolled down, clicked, and shoved it across the table. ‘Dr Janis Richter,’ he said. ‘Heard of her?’

GAELA

THE SOUTHERN CONTINENT

TWO THOUSAND YEARS IN THE PAST…AFTER THE BAN OF MAGIC

CHAPTER 3

The Southern Continent was a fertile land, though plagued with harsh and unpredictable weather—storms, floods, droughts, high winds and a huge tidal flux around the inland sea that could drag the shoreline back to the horizon or push it up to the mountains’ knees. Lithia was more like a chain of islands than a large land mass. The seas—Volitius in the north, aptly named for its shifting rips and big waves, and Argon to the south, covering much of the vast centre of the continent—were the cause. Volatile indeed. The weather could change at the snap of the fingers, without warning or remorse.

Crow Montona had a feel for the sudden fluctuations in the weather. It was a gift, present since birth. They said he would have made a good fisherman, but that wasn’t to be. His family were winemakers. For Crow there was little choice but to follow tradition.

‘This will be yours some day,’ his father had said as they surveyed the valley.

‘Thank you, Papa,’ he had answered, but he had not meant it.

Crow thought of the vineyard he’d left behind and shrugged. He had plans of his own and they didn’t include marrying Suzika from the next valley over, having a horde of kids and teaching them all to grow grapes. He pushed his hair out of his eyes with thick, calloused fingers. He’d made up his mind many years ago.

‘No, Papa,’ he’d said in the summer of his eighteenth year. ‘My destiny is gold!’

His father had laughed, then slapped him hard across the face. Crow left the next day and never returned.

‘Talisman’s gold,’ he said as he led his donkey down the road. ‘Where are you hiding?’

Talisman’s gold wasn’t just any yellow rock. It was true gold, and when he found it, his life would change. He’d been prospecting for twenty years. It wouldn’t be long now.

Talisman’s gold would confer power that was more than a consequence of wealth—any gold could bring that. Talisman’s gold ensured strength, insight and longevity. It was said that to carry it against the heart could even grant immortality. No Lithian had ever found any but Crow knew he was different. The gold would be his. He felt it as surely as he did the coming of a storm.

Some said the Draconians—enormous winged creatures dwelling in the cracks of volcanos—guarded Talisman’s gold, devouring any who came near. Crow didn’t believe it. Talisman’s gold wasn’t only in the fault lines or under the seas. It was all over the lands of Lithia. He only needed to keep looking.

Crow had studied the ancient histories, the scrolls smuggled out of the temples before the great burning. The stories varied but the theme was always the same. A star had fallen from the sky and landed in the heart of Lithia. It crashed so hard that sparks sprayed over the continent, raining down drops of Talisman’s gold like a spring shower. The star sank deep, leaving a crater over half the continent. The sea rushed in, burying the gold beneath. There was an enormous vein under the Argon Sea—he was sure of it. But the rest of Lithia had deposits as well. Plenty big. He just hadn’t found them yet.

Crow pulled the donkey to a halt and reached for a waterskin. It hung off the packsaddle along with sacks of dried fish and apples, his bedroll, pick, shovel, bucket, map and compass. Everything he owned was on the donkey’s back. If he didn’t find a vein of Talisman soon, or a good bit of common gold, he’d have to go back to Orn and work the winter months in the mines. He didn’t want to dig for some fat overlord, but he would, to get by. Crow wouldn’t waste time thinking about that now. There was a month or two of autumn left and each step he took, each swing of the pick, brought him closer to success.

He looked skyward. Clouds suddenly floated in from the north—deceptively playful puffs over the blue horizon. They would go from white to an oppressive wash of grey in no time. The storm would dump a deluge before sunset. He capped the waterskin and secured it to the pack. At least it would be relief from the heat. ‘Let’s head for the woods, Dolly. There’s shelter in the foothills and who knows, maybe something else. I feel our gold is near.’ He said that often but today it seemed especially true.

The donkey followed without comment.

‘Lithia is a fickle land.’ Crow talked to the donkey whether she responded or not. ‘Shaped like a horseshoe, but the wrong way up, eh?’

Dolly twitched her long rabbit ears.

‘All the luck falls out, but not for me.’ He laughed. ‘Not much longer…We’ll find the Talisman’s gold. Soon! I feel it in my bones.’

Crow also felt the need for caution. As it was—him a lone prospector with an aging donkey and rusty tools—he’d go unchallenged. But once he struck it rich, he’d have to watch out. ‘I’ll hire guards.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I’ll hire an army.’ It was no laughing matter. He would need one, when he found his gold.

The provinces of Lithia were at war with each other; there were skirmishes on every border. And if that wasn’t enough, they were all joined together against Timbali Temple in the north-west. It was the last outpost of magic and most people both hated and feared the place. He was near Timbali now and the wind whispered of chants and spells.

‘It wasn’t always shunned,’ Crow said as he led Dolly under the shelter of some paperbark trees. Their twisting limbs and flaking bark glistened as rain began to fall. ‘Things used to be different.’

Before he was born, the temples were a powerful force in Lithia. They ruled the provinces and were towers of learning, healing and ritual magic. Then the droughts came. Many lives were lost—crops and stock included. The people held the failings of magic and the temple adepts responsible. The high priests and priestesses had not predicted the climate changes, nor were they able to do anything about them. In judgement, the temples were burnt to the ground one and all, save for Timbali.

Crow looked skyward again, rain washing his face clean. Was it true the adepts could do nothing to prevent the drought? he wondered. It was said the High Priestess of Timbali, Cortesa Lemur, was a weather witch. Rumour had it she was the one who brought the late afternoon rains to her province. Crow believed it. But Cortesa had only been a child when the temples were destroyed. She’d fled Jarn when the power had shifted and magic was banned. In its place came industry.

Now power was generated from steam escaping the cracks and fissures along the continent’s many fault lines. Instead of dispersing through the catacombs, the steam was tapped and made to turn generators. From this endless source came lighting, heating, transport and manufacturing.

‘For those who can afford it, eh, Dolly?’ Crow loosened the donkey’s girth. Some Lithians were wealthy. Many were slaves. Crow was neither, but he did all right, and he would do much better once he found Talisman’s gold. He and Dolly spent the night under the paperbark trees, dreaming of greener pastures.

As the sun cracked the horizon, Crow made his way out of the foothills and took the road east towards Jarn. There were steppes near the plains of Ifnon to survey. Maybe he would find gold there. The day was heating up already. It would be a scorcher.

By midday the caked mud had turned to dust. The hard-packed road cut through endless pastures and small groves, a snake basking in the Southern Continent sun. Crow took off his hat and mopped his brow. ‘There’s a creek ahead,’ he said, pointing at a line of trees. ‘Let’s get you a drink and fill the waterskins.’ When he reached the tree line edging the creek, Dolly startled and so did Crow. In a nest of boulders lay a woman, her clothes torn and her body bleeding, scored with fresh wounds.

‘Hello?’ he asked, not certain if she was alive until he saw her chest rise slowly with a breath. ‘Are you all right?’

The woman lifted her eyes, shading them against the sun. ‘I could use some help.’

He reached out his hand, forcing himself not to retreat. Had she been mauled by a demon? Her eyes were red and one looked as if it would pop out. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, attempting to cover his revulsion.

The woman stammered. ‘Jar…Jani…Jana.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Mistress Jana, you can call me.’

‘A mistress of battle? A warrior of Jarn? But you’re dressed like a…fisher?’ Had she fallen into a barrel of hooks?

‘I have fought recently, if that’s what you mean. I am seeking Timbali.’

‘Timbali?’ he whispered.

‘A fisherman told me I could get healing there. He gave me the clothes.’

Timbali was known as a place of healing, despite the other provinces’ contempt for magic. The High Priestess would turn none away who sought help, and this woman needed it. They would take her in, and not ask questions. He’d seen it before. They were a giving people, those of Timbali. Confident in their power no doubt. Crow stole a glance at Jana, wondering if she had any coin. ‘Perhaps I can guide you.’ He turned his pockets inside out and raised his brows.

‘Is it far?’ She didn’t look like she could walk.

‘Dolly and I can get you there in half a day. You’ll be in the healing halls by sundown.’

‘I accept your assistance.’

It struck him as a strange way to say yes, but Crow didn’t put too much thought into it. He turned to Dolly, speculating if there was room on the beast for Mistress Jana. She wasn’t a big woman; it should work with a little adjustment.

Dolly showed no interest in his actions. She had tugged the lead rope through Crow’s grip and drunk her fill of fresh water. He started shifting the gear to the front of the packsaddle. If this woman was a warrior, she’d have plenty of coin. They paid them to fight, and paid them more when they were wounded. Maybe this short walk to Timbali would save him from having to work all winter in the mines. Surely he’d be well rewarded, if she survived. After filling his waterskin and rearranging the gear, he helped her mount up. She sat more or less comfortably on Dolly’s rump and nodded for him to go. He glanced at her eye and turned away. If anything, it looked worse.

When they reached the road, a breeze scattered leaves in their path. It would rain again before dark. Crow set out at a good pace, heading back the way he had come—west, towards the temple of magic. He couldn’t keep silent for long. ‘Where do you come from, Mistress Jana?’

‘North,’ Jana said, waving her hand in the general direction.

He followed her line of sight. ‘Azum Bay?’ He doubted it. Her skin was too light.

‘Further.’

He laughed. ‘Nothing is further north than Azum!’

‘I come from beyond the Draconian Sea.’

He stopped and Dolly bumped into him.

‘The Northern Continent?’

She nodded and snapped her fingers. ‘Carry on.’

He led Dolly into a jog; her harness bells jingled and her small hard hooves created puffs of dust with each mincing step. The woman had to be deranged. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

Out in the fields, farmers were hoeing rows of corn and in the distance, near the foothills, there were herders with horses and goats. These people made their living off the land. Small ambitions, Crow thought, all of them—including the railroad workers who pounded and chipped and hammered their way along, laying track for the steam engines. Their minds were filled with thoughts of returning home at night, meals with their families, a day off to teach their children the same jobs they did. It might be all right for them, but not for Crow. He was an adventurer. He was going to find Talisman’s gold and he had a feeling this strange woman was going to help him.

‘Are these your lands?’ Jana asked after another long silence. It was so strange the way she didn’t complain of pain or seem to suffer; some of her wounds had cut to the bone.

Crow shook his head, his brown hair and sun-weathered skin blurring from the action. ‘Not my land,’ he said.

‘Whose then?’

‘This is a border, Mistress, between Timbali, Jarn and Orn.’ He led Dolly through a shallow ford and up the other side of the bank. ‘The lands are disputed. Sometimes the road is blocked or under fire.’

‘And who owns the transport?’ She pointed at the railway tracks in the distance.

‘They’re being laid by Jarn. It’s the dominant province.’ He urged Dolly into a jog. ‘Timbali isn’t much further, but there’s a bit of a climb.’

It was rugged country; the soil red, the mountains high and the sun blistering hot even behind cloud cover. There were many birds—wagtails, swallows and kingfishers, ducks, magpies and ibises. A single black bird flew overhead. It circled once and shot away.

‘What’s that?’ Jana asked.

‘A Forest Black raven. We’ve been spotted.’

‘By a bird?’ She started coughing. When she got her breath under control she commanded him, ‘Get me to the healer. This body is failing.’

Crow tugged on Dolly’s lead. They had a very strange way of talking, the people of the Northern Continent—if that was really where she was from.

Jana coughed again. Crow thought her bulging eye would surely fall out.

‘Tell me, do they use magic these healers?’

‘They say they do, Mistress.’ He kept his voice neutral showing neither approval nor disgust. ‘All of this—’ he opened his arms wide—‘from the west coast to the high mountain ridges of the east, from the north shores to those distant foothills is Timbali.’

‘And the leader?’

‘The High Priestess Cortesa Lemur.’

Jana gripped the packsaddle as they bounced along. ‘High Priestess…’ She said the words as if for the first time.

Crow turned off the main road and headed north. The new track wound through the foothill pastures until it became a steep mountain path. The cliffs were sheer and the wind howled past in gusts. The evening storm was coming. Crow’s shirt billowed and Mistress Jana’s loose clothing wafted, revealing the gashes and wounds.

‘How much further?’ she asked.

‘Just there.’ He pointed straight up.

Dolly carried on and eventually they came to a long flight of steps cut from the rock. Twisting shrubs and wind-sculpted trees lined either side. It was almost too steep for the donkey but she had a big heart and managed the climb. They finally reached the tableland but the temple was still far above. The magnificent architecture appeared to be carved, like the steps, right out of the mountain. The roof peaks were visible, flags flying above the towers. The tableland itself was no more than a wide ledge with a few sheep cropping the grass. Dolly dropped her head and joined them as soon as she was relieved of her burden.

Clouds were starting to gather.

‘The afternoon rains come,’ Crow said. He looked at the spiralling path to the temple. He didn’t want to make the climb in the rain. It wasn’t necessary—they’d been seen. ‘I will go no further.’

‘Explain.’

He turned his pockets out again and shrugged. ‘They will send someone. I will leave you as soon as you make good.’ He held out his hand, palm open.

She didn’t appear to understand his gesture. ‘How do you know they will come?’

Crow managed to look at her face. ‘They know.’

‘How?’

‘The Forest Black has been watching,’ he said. ‘They will come.’ He made a little bowing motion, his hand still outstretched. Did he have to spell it out?

‘Don’t go.’ Her one good eye lost focus for an instant. ‘You could be useful.’

He didn’t know if useful was a good thing.

‘I’m looking for a guide,’ she added.

He lifted his hand.

‘I will pay you, of course.’

‘Gold?’

‘What kind?’

Crow gulped. She knew of the different types? Few warriors did, but then she was like no warrior he’d ever met. He pulled a small flat coin from under his shirt. It was fastened to a leather thong around his neck. ‘This is good-quality common gold, but there is a true gold, better and pure. Talisman’s gold, it’s called. Do you know it?’ He moistened his lips, waiting.

She studied the metal briefly and her eye lost focus again. When she came back to herself she said, ‘I have access to gold. Both kinds, though the Talisman will take some digging.’

Crow felt heat rise up his spine. ‘Talisman? Are you sure?’

‘I know where the veins are, yes. Deep but plentiful.’

Maybe it was a trick, maybe she was delusional—but he was sure as death going to stick around and find out, one way or the other. ‘It’s a deal. I will guide you, Mistress Jana.’

‘What is your designation?’

He frowned. ‘My name? Crow Montona, but you can call me Crow.’ He managed contact with both eyes. He thought for a moment he could see gold there.

‘Crow,’ she said. ‘How long must I wait?’

‘Until they come.’ He helped her get comfortable on the grass. As the clouds thickened, he pulled out a low whistle and blew into it. Sweet melodies filled the air.

Jana listened while checking her data files. Music: a way of shifting energy from one place to another; an auditory representation of time and emotion; a means of healing; a form of communication; an artistic expression; a path to enlightenment; entertainment, celebration or simply used to pass the time. A harmless pursuit. Allowing it.

She sat in the grass next to the donkey man, next to Crow, and waited. After many songs he asked if she wanted food. Necessary. The body, her body, was not the same as the Tulpa created from thought. It was weak. Humans were weak. Computing. She would have to find solutions there. The body would be a problem on many levels. It was damaged from the Were-fey attack and exposure. It was becoming uncomfortable. Pain. She had repressed her sensory receptors but couldn’t take them completely offline. Sensation was necessary to navigate, determine textures, obstacles, the ground beneath her feet. She needed it for verbal communication. Archaic, but needed.

Jana took the water Crow offered, and the dried fruit. The sun vanished behind clouds—white thunderheads turned dark with the weight of the oncoming storm. They grew darker still and rain fell.

‘This way,’ Crow said. He led her to a grove of umbrella trees where they crouched. ‘It won’t last long.’

Her skin prickled and her wounds turned dark blue. Organic life was full of dependency. The human body was going to require constant attention. There was no point in risking irreparable damage before she could shift into an alternative host. She drank again. Water fed the watery body. Primitive. It also amplified the dampening field—a constraint on her energy. It made it impossible to build another Tulpa-body; not quickly anyway, not in her current state of disrepair. The rain poured while they hunched under the trees. The sheep joined them. The donkey continued to graze, impervious, or too hungry to care.

Crow kept saying it wouldn’t be long before someone came. Repetitive, but harmless. Allowing it.

By the time the temple people arrived, the rains had stopped. Relief. The downpour could have harmful effects if prolonged—chilling the core temperature, obscuring sunlight. Jana looked skyward. Odd. ASSIST protocols had purposely blocked the sun to obtain a monopoly on power, knowing it would cause irreparable damage to those without access to regular solar replacement treatments…and…Her thought process was interrupted. Error.

Something was wrong. The body wasn’t responding to her commands and she was having trouble monitoring the activities around her. Visual consciousness failing. It closed in—a collapsing tunnel. The body stumbled when she tried to stand. She fell back to the ground. Her limbs felt heavy, weighed down. The eyelids shut. Darkness. No access to external sensory input of any kind. Body death? Calculating. She readied for emergency transfer to another organic being. There had been several nearby before she lost visual acuity. With her CPU nearly offline, she focused her subroutines to a laser point. Ready to move to target body.

In the darkness, the carefully reinforced partition she’d erected—the firewall set in place to keep the original, Janis Richter, well below consciousness—wavered. The intention set to repress the other was weakening and the distance between them lessened; the steel-hard, vacuum-sealed boundary became porous—semi-permeable. She felt Janis Richter pushing against