Erzulie Sangmarée's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Molten light bled up through the cracked floor. The chamber Erzulie had fought to open now spat heat into the water. She still gripped Proteus by the wrists, her three tentacles coiled tight. The old prophet laughed at her, unafraid, even as the volcanic stone groaned beneath them. He was Poseidon's shepherd of seals, a god who read the dead tongue she could not. He gave nothing unless you held him. She held him now. "The rites," she said. "Read them. All of them. Or I let the fire take us both." "You would die for a lesson." Proteus studied her face. "That is new." A shape burst from the glowing opening. Not fire. A seal, sleek and grey, darted through the smoke and circled Proteus like a hound seeking its master. More followed, slipping from the dark. His herd. They had found him. Erzulie's grip did not loosen. "Call them off." "They answer to me, not you." He watched the molten crack widen. The toppled statue of old Atlan shifted as the floor tilted. "But I see your future, witch. You will not release me, and the fire will not wait. So I will make a trade." "I don't trade. I take." "Then take this." His voice dropped. "You cannot read the old script. You never will. It was not carved for voodoo tongues. But the rites live in the orichalcum itself, not only in the words." He twisted one wrist free, just enough to point at a cluster near the opening. A knot of raw ore glowed orange-gold, its faceted surface cut with the same sharp Atlantean marks as the seal. The ore pulsed in time with the molten light. "The stone remembers," Proteus said. "Press your magic into it, not the carving. The ore will teach you what the letters cannot. I did not need to read it for you. I only needed to show you where to listen." Erzulie stared at the glowing ore. Her whole hunt had been for the script. She had captured a god to read dead letters. And the answer was the metal she already craved. The floor lurched. A seal nipped at her tentacle. She made her choice. She released Proteus and lunged for the ore. Her tattooed hand closed over the hot facets. She sang the voodoo word that had failed on the seal. This time the ore answered. Heat climbed her arm. Images flooded her mind, not words but rites, raw and old, poured straight into her blood. She gasped and pulled the ore to her chest. Proteus was already gone, slipped away with his herd into the smoke. He had traded his freedom for a truth that served him better than silence. Erzulie rose through the shaking chamber, the glowing ore clutched tight. She could not read the script. She no longer needed to. But the rites inside her burned hotter than she expected, and she did not yet know how to make them stop.