Sword and Pen (The Great Library #5)(40)

Half an hour. Khalila didn’t like the idea of that, not at all, but she had no better suggestion. She didn’t dare sabotage this effort, not if it was as all-important as both her friends seemed to think.

She’d just have to use her best judgment. Power in her hand, again. Heavy and fearful.

She realized with a start that noon had struck, and as Morgan reached for Thomas’s hand, and both bowed their heads, she got to her feet and moved back. Facing east put her at an angle to them, but she could see them well enough; she had a little flask of clean water that she habitually carried with her, and now she performed the ablutions, cleaning carefully as she did, but with no wasted motions. She could wait on her friends while conducting her dhuhr prayers with all the earnestness she could find; today, of all days, the prayers were vital. Show us the straight path. The words resonated strongly; they had never meant so much to her. Today would be the day of judgment for the Great Library. And for all of those who loved her.

As she finished, she added an extra plea to Allah for protection for her friends, and then she went to look at them anxiously. They were so very . . . still. Though as she watched, she saw that Thomas was moving very slightly: twitches of his big hands, his fingers, his chest moving in deep, painful heaves that were almost gasps. His face had gone quite pale and strained. Morgan, beside him, looked almost as strange.

Whatever they were doing, it was difficult. Very difficult.

And as she looked out to sea, she saw that the enemy navies were starting to move.

They were sailing for the harbor.

Khalila felt a sudden wave of dizziness and quickly grabbed for the protective rail to hold herself steady. You should have eaten, she chided herself, but there was no help for it now. She was tired, hungry, worried . . .

The dizziness hit again and it was worse this time; holding to the railing only helped her control her collapse to her knees. She breathed in deep, hungry gasps. There was a terrible sense of . . . injury. Almost as if she had suffered a wound and was now losing blood, though as she looked down at herself she saw no sign of such a thing.

But something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

It’s Morgan, drawing power from my very essence. She knew it, knew it, and tried to rise. Could not find the strength, no matter how much will she put behind the effort. It felt like she was a piece of cloth being unraveled into ragged threads. Did Morgan even know what she was doing? Did she care?

Khalila let go of the railing, pitched forward, and managed to crawl a few feet before she lost the will to do even that. She felt loose inside, gray, exhausted. Oddly unafraid. She had done her salat; she had meant it. Surely Allah would be kind if this was her last day in the world.

No. I will not surrender.

She couldn’t.

She wasn’t sure how long it took her to move again—moments? longer?—but she began to slowly inch her way toward Morgan. If I can only wake her, she’ll realize what she is doing. How wrong it is. It was agonizingly slow progress, but finally she could just touch the windblown fabric of Morgan’s shirt. A few more inches, one strong push to plunge Morgan into the water, and this might end.

Or she might kill her friend.

Whatever Morgan was expending so much dreadful power to do, it wasn’t working, and Khalila felt a tight panic spread inside as she realized that Morgan might actually kill her in this quest for—for what? She didn’t even understand what they were trying to achieve.

Khalila made it to her knees, with an effort that felt like her last, and just as she did, the harbor’s waters began to boil, as if they’d suddenly been heated over a huge stove. She paused, struck by the spectacle, and felt her strength ebbing more. No. I have to stop this.

Something told her to hang on. To wait. And she did, vision going gray, strength fading.

She saw a god rise.

The sharp golden points of its crown broke the surface first; it looked like a strange, sharp island emerging with seaweed dangling wet and green from its edges. Khalila stared as the head emerged: a massive riot of metallic bronze curls cascading down the automaton’s back. It was dark from the sea, crusted with dead coral like bone jewels, and it kept rising, up and up and up, until it was taller than the Lighthouse. Taller than the Serapeum. It was massive, incomprehensibly huge, and as it turned its head toward them she felt a horrible urge to hide herself from that incandescent blue gaze. The human face seemed impossible at that scale, the prominent cheekbones and pointed jaw so perfect they blinded. Every muscle showed in definition on the automaton’s neck, shoulders, arms, chest, legs. It was nude except for a rich golden loincloth, and the deep water of the harbor came only to its knees.

In one hand it held a three-pronged spear, a trident.

Poseidon had risen.

And it belonged to them.

Khalila felt the last of her energy sliding away. “Morgan!” Her voice was barely a thread, but she heard the desperation in it. “Morgan, let me go!”

She had no hope that Morgan would hear, or obey, but she felt the heaviness in her chest, the slowness of her heartbeat, and knew she was moments from death. If Morgan would not stop, she’d have to save herself.

The god strode forward, waves building before it with each step. It took it six strides to reach the wide mouth of the Alexandrian harbor, and then it reached down, bent almost double, and plunged its left hand into the water.

What it brought up was a chain. An ancient, massive chain that it held at about the height of a man above the lapping surface. Its action brought up pillars on either end where the chain was anchored, and there was a loud, audible snap as the chain pulled taut, shivering.