She looks at me and smiles. “A life for a life seems fair, does it not?”
I hold her stare with a level one of my own and then slowly incline my head.
For a moment, she lets shock show on her face. Members of the Council are murmuring behind her. Mikkos starts to grin with anticipation.
“As the accused is my Second,” I say loudly, silencing the mutters, “it is within my rights to carry out her punishment.”
“You’ll kill her?” my mother exclaims. She realises immediately that she has allowed her emotions to show, and attempts to put her mask of indifference back on. But I have seen it.
And so have others.
My father begins to laugh. Low at first and then slowly louder. Until he is cackling. His shoulders shake and his whole body curls in on itself, as he tries to still the effects of the Alchemist chains.
Every eye on the mountain top stares at our Rigas.
I am not so enamoured. He has a plan, and I have just played to it.
“Perhaps,” my father says, “you are a son of mine, after all.”
He stops laughing and looks directly at me.
“But are you man enough take what is not yours to claim?”
I smile at him. Unfortunately, it probably shows too many teeth. Too much of my anger.
“Shall we see, Pateras?” I say.
The Rigas looks towards the Council and nods his head. They did not need his agreement to this challenge, but having received it, they visibly relax.
Fools. He will punish them soundly for this having been allowed to occur at all.
That is, of course, if he survives this. And I have every intention of ensuring he doesn’t.
“Well,” my mother says. “The Rigas has spoken. But first, we will have this traitor’s head.”
She walks toward Isadora determinedly and draws out a sword.
I am momentarily nonplussed. My mother is not an executioner. Then I recognise the sword as that of my father’s.
“Release him,” she instructs the Alchemists.
They look to me. I nod my head. I’ll let this go on for a while longer. The more they believe they are the ones with power, the harder reality will be.
The chains are released, and my father stands to his full height. He matches me. He stretches his neck, tipping his head from side to side, and then rolls his shoulders. Without even looking at my mother, he reaches out and takes the sword she offers and then swings it loosely.
I have not drawn mine yet.
My father paces in front of me. Behind Isadora. I do not look at my Second, but I know she must be questioning me. I breathe evenly. Then call on my Pyrkagia.
It’s been waiting; patiently. Just there, shielding what I hold in my hand.
In a movement too swift to see, I release the dagger.
Someone screams. My mother throws herself to the ground. The Rigas stands tall and faces me.
But the dagger was not for him.
The dagger, sliding smoothly through the air as if Air itself is guiding it, lodges itself in Isadora’s chest. She gasps. Her eyes widen. She looks at me as if I have betrayed her.
I don't move a muscle. I watch Dora fall over sideways, the toxin already affecting her body.
She shudders. No longer breathing. And then her eyes stare sightlessly towards her attacker.
“Judgement has been passed, and punishment rendered,” I say succinctly.
Everyone stares at me and then they look toward Isadora.
“She is Athanatos,” my mother says. She wants her head.
She can not have it.
“Oh, Mitera,” I say, emphasis on the Greek for ‘mother’. “I am merely following your lead.”
“My lead?” she sputters.
“Did you not advise Melita to use poison?”
Poison to kill me. We are Athanatos. Practically immortal. But we can die. Take our heads, and there is no coming back from it. Just as there was no coming back from the poison Melita had dipped her daggers in without using the antidote.
Thankfully for me, the Alchemists had stolen that from us long ago, along with our Stoicheio.
My mother doesn’t deny my accusation. She is too stunned. No one would have expected me to carry out the sentence. Isadora may not hold my heart any longer, but she will always have a small place within it as a trusted friend.
My mother knows this. She knows that Dora’s death would crush me. She’d been counting on it.
She failed.
“Can any here confirm the traitor is dead?” a Council member asks.
No one steps forward.
“You there! Gi!” he shouts. I do not turn toward Rhea. “Speak up! Has the Prince used a toxin to fake this woman’s death?”
I still do not look at Rhea as she steps forward. In languid strides, like a jungle cat approaching her prey, she walks toward Isadora. Green flares from her eyes as she calls on Gi. She crouches, runs her hand over Dora’s still form. Hums something.
“Well?” the Council member demands. “Have you nothing to say? Speak freely.”
Rhea stands and bows to the Council.
“No toxin, then,” he assumes. Rhea says nothing. “Very well, step back.”
Rhea turns on her heel and walks back to her companions.
She does not look at me.
I let out a slow breath of air, then enquire pleasantly, “Satisfied?”
“I…I…,” my mother manages.
None of the rest of the Council says a thing.
“Enough!” my father shouts. “Remove the body.”
I flick my wrist, and Nico walks forward. He scoops Isadora up and returns to stand behind me.
My father flexes his sword hand.
He glares at me.
“All right, little boy, let’s see what you’re made of.”
A sword appears in my hand. I don't test my hold; I’m not here to showboat. I simply step forward to meet him.
“Gladly,” I say, and our Pyrkagia surges.
Fierce, scorching and lethal.
Chapter Eighteen
May Aetheros Be With You
I’m burning. Pyrkagia swirls all around me. I can not see those gathered to witness this battle. I can not even see my father. All that I see is Fire. Scorching. I draw on its strength even as it saps me. This is no ordinary Pyrkagia; my father is using his blood to enrich it; to make it more than it was. I struggle to control it. Struggle to accept it. But my father is so much stronger than me.
I have not used my sword yet. Neither has my father used his against me. This is a battle of wills right now. If I win it, I can charge him. If I don’t, he will charge me.
I use the edge of my sword to nick my skin and allow my blood to mix with the flames. They soak it up readily. But my blood is not as pure as my father’s blood. He is a son of Aetheros. His blood is potent. I can not hope to fight on equal footing.
So, I must think of some other way to combat him.
For now, it takes all of my concentration to battle the Pyrkagia that rages around me.
Cassandra talks to her Stoicheio. She’d been able to talk to all of them when she was Aether, in possession of five Elements at once. I have never had that kind of relationship with Pyrkagia. But I attempt to reach the Element now.
If he wins, I tell it, balance will be lost again. He will tip the scales, I say. Genesis will return.
The Element does not reply. It seems, in fact, to intensify its efforts. But that could just be my desperation talking.
He is so strong, my father. I am down on one knee. My head bowed, my fists clenched; one around my useless sword; one empty.
I let out a sound of rage, urging my Pyrkagia to overpower my father’s. But the Fire around me flares brighter, its heat actually hurting me. I have suffered much at the hand of my father. I have been burned before by his Pyrkagia. It takes a lot and leaves him weak, but he can harm me. That, even more so than the days, weeks, months, spent in the Bull, maddens me.
&
nbsp; How dare he use an Element I love to hurt me.
Pyrkagia is as much mine as it is his. But he wields it in a fashion that is disgusting.
My father has for a long time now debased our Stoicheio. Befouled our Element. Misused Aetheros’ gift to us.
But even as that notion enrages me, my anger is not enough to combat my father’s power. To match the strength of his blood.
The cut on my hand has healed already, and I am tempted to slice my palm again, but it would be fruitless. I am not in the habit of making the same useless mistakes over and over.
So, I struggle to come up with an alternative.
Blood will not work.
Talking to Pyrkagia has failed.
I take my cue from my heart and do what Casey would do. I pull on our Thisavros connection.
She is not here, so this will probably not work. And all those who wield Fire are witnessing this battle, so no one can provide a conduit for Cassandra in Gi to reach me. But Earth and Fire are strong. The strongest of the Elements. And Earth and Fire are meant to be together. Just as I am meant to be with Casey.
A small surge of power flows through me. For a moment, I am unsure if I am sensing it correctly. Pyrkagia still blazes around me. My skin blisters. My blood boils. The scent of charred flesh meets my nose.
But in amongst it is the scent of something else. The jungle. The Amazon. Gi.
I can not touch it. I can not command it. It is not mine to wield. But it is here, willingly. Simply because I reached out to Casey. I am at its mercy, just as I am at Pyrkagia’s mercy. For a while, nothing happens. Just the knowledge that Gi watches. That the Thisavros connection exists and through it, I have somehow called Gi to me.
Then, the Fire around us changes. It flares brighter and then settles as if it has been out of control and somehow it has managed to find some form of peace.
My father makes a sound. Even through the raging firestorm, I hear him. It is enraged and violent and unstable. My skin begins to heal. The scent of flowers reaches me. Pyrkagia fuels me. Gi soothes me.
I have not used it to strike out at my father. I don’t believe that would be possible. But somehow Gi’s presence calms Pyrkagia’s unease. The unease that my father has created using the Element to harm one of its own.
This battle will not be won using our Stoicheio. All my father has done is weaken himself by wielding Fire against me. It rebels at such defiling. It chafes at such debasement. It accepts Gi’s offer to aid it. Willingly.
My Stoicheio wants to be calm. To be at ease. To be balanced.
Just as the world wanted Casey to save it, Pyrkagia wants Gi to do the same thing.
I put everything I have into my Thisavros connection. Unlike wielding Pyrkagia against one of its own, it does not weaken me. It strengthens me.
Pyrkagia settles. Gi surges. My father and I are in the eye of a storm that we have no hope of controlling. He attempts to. I stand still and just breathe. I breathe in the scent of ash. Of scorched wood and charged concrete. Of melted metal and singed leaves. Of new buds and fragrant petals. Of overturned dirt and thick vegetation and newly emerging seedlings.
I tip my head back and let the Elements play as my father screams.
And then the Fire that has raged for the past few minutes ceases, and a star-filled, ink black sky above Mount Eden emerges and across the crater from me stands my father. Panting. Sweating. Leaning on his sword as if he has fought a battle for days not seconds. As if he has battled an entire regiment of Gi.
He blinks at me. Shocked. Alarmed. Panicked.
And it is now that I swing my sword. That I make a show of my finesse with a blade. That I showboat.
It is for him, but those standing here with us see it. I may not have stronger blood than my father, but I am the stronger Athanatos because of Casey. Because of my Thisavros connection. Because Gi and Pyrkagia are the strongest of the Elements and together they are mighty.
My father has abused his Thisavros connection. And even if he hadn’t, I am unsure whether a Pyrkagia and a Pyrkagia connected would be as strong as a Pyrkagia and a Gi.
It is in that instant that I realise Aetheros never intended for us to be divided. For the castes to separate and isolate themselves. He always intended for us to be together. Whether it is Pyrkagia with Gi and Nero with Aeras. Or all of us intermingling.
We had forgotten. Just as my father has forgotten, there are more ways than with fear to lead.
I stand tall and face him. This man who has ruled his people with an iron fist and ruled his son with cruelty.
I stare at him. He shakes visibly.
And I say, “You are no father of mine, Gallus Petroupolos.”
He takes a step back at the vehemence in my voice. At the power, within the words, I am speaking. And then a slow, cruel smile spreads across his face.
“No,” he says simply. “I am not.”
I notice my mother pale behind his right shoulder, but I cannot take my eyes off my father’s face. He is up to something. And it is likely to be something that delivers pain. It is likely to be excruciating.
“I should never have taken you in,” my father growls. Despite the recent release of so much Pyrkagia, I feel a chill invade my bones. “The bastard son of my brother,” he spits. “An orphan no one knew about.”
I shake my head; refusing to believe this rubbish. But I see the truth on my mother’s face. The realisation that her secret is out. Procreation for Ekmetalleftis is difficult. It requires the helping hand of our god. I can only think Aetheros was determined to end Gallus and Leda Petroupolos’ line by denying them the honour of a child and heir.
My father watches and waits. He expects this news to cripple me. And perhaps on any other day it would. I do not know much of my father’s brother. He is rarely spoken of. But I know he died young. Did Gallus kill him? Did he kill my biological father so he, Gallus Petroupolos, Rigas of Pyrkagia, could have a son?
A king without an heir is presumed weak. I have always been a shield for my father and nothing more.
And he thinks this news will cripple me.
I feel only relief. I will not be passing on this madness to my son. And I do not have to kill my father; the man who sired me.
But kill my corrupt King? I smile. Gallus scowls imperceptibly.
“You are no Rigas to Pyrkagia,” I say; a statement and acceptance of the truth in one fell swoop. “Your time here is done.”
He staggers as if the words alone have struck him heavily. But it is not my proclamation, not my accusations, not even the challenge that has weakened the man before me.
It is himself. And his lack of compassion. His madness. His inability to accept that power comes from unification. From combining your soul with another. From acceptance. And forgiveness. And most of all, from loving our fellow Ekmetalleftis. From welcoming and not excluding. From integration and not segregation.
The man who raised me, possibly stole me from my real father, has forgotten the old ways, and he has forgotten our god’s teachings.
The Alchemists have remembered. They, who we believe stole from us, have never stopped worshipping the old ways.
I start to chant. I start to say the words I have not heard for millennia. The words every Alchemist knows and has never forgotten.
“‘May gold and silver line your pockets. May your life be blessed with longevity. May Fire flow through your veins. And Air sustain your lungs. May Water provide sustenance. And Earth ground your soul. And may Quintessence bind them all in harmony.’”
It is Noah who answers, his companions mimicking him.
“May Aetheros be with you,” they say.
I look at the man I have called my father for three-thousand years. Still the movements I’d been making with my sword. Stand before him in complete balance and harmony.
And then I say, “May Aetheros be with you, Gallus Petroupolos.” He will never again be ‘Pateras’ to me.
And then I strike.
Chapter Ninetee
n
My Blade Is Sharp And It Is Precise
The cold ring of metal on metal sounds out. A spark flares as the blades scrape against each other. A grunt emerges as we throw our weight into the movement. The Rigas staggers, and then grits his teeth and pushes back against me. His face is red; his forehead is beaded with sweat; he snarls at me.
“You think you are better than me?” he demands.
I say nothing. He may be weak, but he is not without cunning. I focus solely on the fight, my sword arcing through the air to meet each strike precisely.
“You think you can beat the son of a god?” he screams, punctuating each word with a thrust of his sword.
I deflect. I conserve my energy. He is already weakened, I wait for the fight to steal what is left of his physical strength.
But the man who raised me is stubborn. He is a King who has never backed down from a challenge. I don't expect him to forfeit his throne easily.
“You, who I gave such power to?” Gallus rages. “You, who have squandered my generosity so recklessly? You do not deserve to rule! You do not deserve to continue to breathe!”
I strike, his sword deflects my blade. I strike again; he deflects again. We move across the crater of Mount Eden, sparks flying, sweat glistening, the harsh sounds of breathing interspersed by the clang of metal on metal.
He realises his words aren’t reaching me. I am steel as much as my sword is steel. I am resolute before him. An unmovable object that just keeps on coming. Blow after blow after blow.
He hides his exhaustion well. I know he is calling on Pyrkagia to fuel him. And the Element is answering his call. Why would it not? He is Pyrkagia. As I am Pyrkagia. So, although I do not need the strength yet, I call on Pyrkagia also.
It is the only use of our Stoicheio that we make.
This battle will be won in the old way.
Metal rings, sparks fly, edges scrape. I nick him. He manages to nick me. Blood pools in the cuts, soaks our clothes, drops to the earth at our feet. But Pyrkagia does not touch it.
The Eternal Edge Of Aether Page 9
