Shadows on the Aegean

by Suzanne Frank

The next time he woke, he vomited. His head hurt and when he touched the back of it, he found a huge scab on his scalp, matted blood snarling his hair. He had a head wound? No wonder he’d been disoriented and sleepy. He needed water. Head pounding, he stumbled to his feet and began walking. Fallen needles and plants formed a springy pathway beneath his feet as Niko concentrated on moving one battered foot after another, forward.

  The ground changed some time later; fine pebbles were laid in elaborate patterns of creatures and vines. Niko looked up in surprise. In the center of the clearing a pile of stones formed a table of sorts. An archway rose over it, standing fifteen, maybe eighteen cubits in the air. Niko walked forward.

  The table’s top was an obsidian slab that rested on two mounds of smooth river rocks the width of Niko’s waist. The archway was formed of red sandstone. As Niko studied the odd structures, he became aware of a presence, as tangible as the smell of flowers or the low bellow of approaching cattle.

  Niko saw no one. Terrified and awed beyond his understanding, Niko knelt. It was arrogance to come here and make demands, he realized. What had seemed a thoughtless matter, like feeding the Apis bull, suddenly expanded in difficulty. The thing that dwelt here would never be caged, could never be, he thought. It had no need for his food, or care. It was far more fearsome than any being Aztlan knew.

  “I apologize,” he whispered into the wind and rocks. The Aztlantu had forsaken their right to ask for anything. Niko realized he should leave. This god was too powerful, too terrifying, to confer with. Again Niko tried to force himself up, and again he stayed kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed. He couldn’t make himself move.

  Peace ruled here; no questions, no answers, a sense that none of it truly mattered.

  A soothing, gentle breeze teased his hair, stinging the wound on his head. His eyes burned beneath his lids, yet he hesitated to open them. The sense of presence had grown stronger, and Niko felt if he just reached out he would touch … It.

  He began to tremble.

  Images flashed through his mind: his careworn parents, who had given their son the best life they could by giving him away; the young woman who had sweetly offered her body to him as a youth, whom he’d reduced to tears with a callous rejection; the fellow students he’d prided himself on surpassing and delighted in subtly humiliating. Finally, Phoebus, whom he had loved and hated in ways he dared not consider.

  For the first time since stepping into the red-columned halls of the Scholomance, Niko broke down and wept. His secret shame, hidden pride, and fear—always fear—bubbled out. His tears slipped between the tiny patterned pebbles as he lay, twisted into a ball, sobbing.

  When he opened his eyes later, the clearing was hazy with rose, gold, and purple light. Sunset, Niko thought. He heard rushing water and followed the sound to a stream. After rinsing his face and head wound and drinking till his belly felt tight, he leaned against the stone cliff, trying to gauge where he was.

  A sound made him turn his head—and Niko shouted.

  Not a hand’s width from his nose was a grinning skeleton. He backed away like a crab, resisting the urge to run.

  He’d been sitting at the entrance to a cave. A cave filled with skeletons.

  They were not decently buried in tholoi beneath the earth with golden butterflies and octopus funeral symbols, but shelved here, like papyri scrolls, one beside the other. They wore pendants instead of death masks, their features melted away by time. What defilement was this?

  Shivering, Niko leaned over one of the skeletons and blew at the dust that covered a medallion. The first part was impossible to read, but the latter part, written in the ancient Aztlantu script, was legible: “Resting Iavan son of Iapheth, son of Noach Who Tamed the Waters.”

  He blinked, his fingers tracing the letters. A sole man, Iavan and his wife shipwrecked. Had he found the burial island? Were these the earthly remains of Iavan? Gritting his teeth, Niko moved the bones around, looking over the other skeletons. No communication stones.

  But he had found the right island!

  Slowly he walked back to the clearing, the night sky blacked out by the haze from Mount Calliope. Where would the stones be? Leaning against the center altar, Niko felt very alone. There were no night sounds, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

  Something was out there. Shuddering with fear, he hunched closer to the altar, his eyes tightly closed.

  The breeze seemed to speak to him. “You asked, you shall receive. You sought, I have helped you find.” The rhythmic beat of blood in his veins was nearly deafening until Niko realized he was hearing something else entirely.

  The noise in his dream!

  Beneath the altar was the odd-shaped box. Gently he lifted the peaked lid: the stones were inside. They were not imbued with actual color, but Niko could see the dark judgment of the one and the light mercy of the other. They were etched with the symbols of ancient Aztlan, the archaic text used before the Council decided the language needed to be symbols: skins, fish, men, instead of just arranged marks. But Niko knew these letters, the sacred letters.

  In the mysterious glow of the box, he reached for the stones. Shaking them together in his hand and tossing them against the box, he saw them flash as they turned while they fell. On each throw, light caught certain characters. Eventually he could read words, and chains of words, spelled out.

  “T-e-l-l-t-h-e-p-e-o-p-l-e-t-o-f-l-e-e-t-h-e-y-h-a-v-e-f-o-r-g-o-t-t-e-n.”

  “Forgotten what?” Niko asked, then tossed the stones.

  “T-h-a-t-I-A-M-h-e-w-h-o-g-i-v-e-s-a-n-d-p-r-o-t-e-c-t-s.”

  Niko felt pierced to his very core. The god who had given them all the secrets of the earth and the sea, which Aztlan had forgotten, just as the tale said. Only two laws, and Aztlan had broken them both. Niko laid the stones inside the box and put the cover on it. They clattered riotously inside. Following the bidding he felt in his mind, he took them from the box and slipped them into his sash. They continued to move.

  Aztlan had been forgiven. This great god who’d showed them everything and had been forsaken had given them another chance. Niko realized it took more strength to be gentle than harsh. It took more control and power to forgive than to punish, more character to be kind, especially to one who had erred. The mission he’d been entrusted with had been completed. This god wanted communication with them. He would save them. Niko need only believe.

  CHAPTER 7

  CAPHTOR

  SIBYLLA SMILED AT THE PETITIONER. It was nice to have her body back. She was glad that the skia, the interloper, was resting. This was the world she knew, a world where the words made sense and her mind was not bludgeoned with strange images of silver birds, their bellies full of people, tablets with no folds, or a prediction box that never stayed focused for more than a few heartbeats.

  Aye, here in Eleuthia Sibylla was at peace.

  The meadow before the cave was bright green with new grass. She’d just walked the few henti from Knossos, through the fields. Caphtori were nudging the final olives from the trees, the fruit landing onto a cushion of sheepskin before it was gathered, bruised, crushed, and made into oil.

  Spring was coming; the Season of the Bull was almost upon them. Vintners were busy cultivating the vines, trimming old growth away with sharp bronze blades, and burning the dead vines as an offering to Kela for allowing the roots to survive the winter. Golden stalks of winter wheat caught the brighter light, contrasting with the groves of almond trees, hinting pink with blossoms. Red and white anemones, yellow oxalis, and blue lupines were scattered across the fields.

  Leaving her cloak at the guardian’s small dwelling outside the cavern’s entrance, Sibylla stepped into the cave. It was long, with fairly even ground and ceiling. Spots of light showed her where the petitioners stood, votives held like fallen stars. Amid whispers of “the Sibylla!” “the priestess of the winds,” and her other titles, Sibylla walked carefully to the cave’s center.

  The earth’s phallus in the cavern was a shoul
der-high stalagmite as thick around as she was. Sibylla placed a piece of poppy gum on her tongue as she leaned against the stone. Within moments she felt a delicious lethargy steal through her body.

  Come to me, Kela, she thought. I am open; let me see your divine loom. Let me foretell the futures of these children! The darkness that filled the cave seemed to fade, and she could see the faces of the petitioners.

  Most petitioners were women; they came to learn when they would get with child, what they should name the child they carried, or what to do with the child they had. Sibylla spoke slowly, her words forming calm, ordered statements. The petitioners left gifts for her at the mouth of the maze enclosure.

  Sleep licked at the edges of her mind, and Sibylla rested on the stalagmite, feeling the stone cradle her, comfort her. Her answers became less distinct.

  Speak to me, she asked. Let me know.

  Like a fine blade ripping a hide, knowledge sliced through her drug-induced stupor.

  Fire. Blood. Dust.

  Sibylla saw mountains black and red with lava. Trees that had been lush and green were charred stalks. Flowers were withered, birds lay dead, blackened, fruit was carbonized into lumps on the ground. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

  Against her will she was pulled forward. Sibylla couldn’t get her bearings, the sea had vanished beneath a mass of gray stone. The air was thick with sulfur. Bits of humanity—a broken pot, a scrap of cloth, a wooden doll—scattered the earth like macabre seeds.

  Sibylla stood at the edge of a cliff and looked down.

  Where a mountain had once stood, a gaping hole let her see into the wound of the earth. She turned away, looking back at the fields. But there were no fields, no orchards, no homes, no people. It was a wasteland; nothing moved, not a snake, not a spider.

  Tell them. The words reverberated through her bones.

  This couldn’t be the future, Sibylla thought. It couldn’t be her land.

  Tell them.

  Let me go! Sibylla cried. Leave me alone.

  Tell them.

  She opened her eyes to an audience of wide-eyed, openmouthed women.

  The cave was too close. She needed air, she had to breathe. Pushing her way through the women, stumbling over the clay votives of birds, bulls, butterflies, and men, Sibylla fled through the cavern.

  For an eyeblink she hesitated on the threshold, terrified that her vision was reality.

  Sunlight blinded her, and she rubbed her eyes, looking around.

  Green fields, the cry of a father to his daughter, the muted bleating of sheep.

  Sibylla fell to her knees, shaking.

  Relief or fear?

  BELIEF WAS MORE DIFFICULT FOR NIKO when two days later he was still stranded. He walked along the shoreline, picking through driftwood and blocks of pumice in search of usable material. If he could just find a big enough piece of wood, he could hew a boat.

  Provided he could find a blade, he amended.

  Other pieces of the clansmen’s lives had washed up: metal pots, linen sheeting, even a broken table. Try as he might, Niko could not recall where this island was in relation to Arachne. His tablet did not appear.

  The stones were stowed safely in their box, silent once distance separated them. Still, in his mind he could hear the stones turning. Don’t turn too much, he thought. You are needed for important questions.

  If you are going to save me, he told the god irritably, please make it soon. I have done what I came to do; I am ready to leave.

  So engrossed was he in searching the horizon for a ship and the shore for wood that he missed the sound. He attributed it to an animal or the waters themselves. A sound, a cry of pain, separated itself from the rush of the water, pulling him to awareness. Niko turned, trying to isolate the direction. There! Another cry!

  Niko ran down the beach, following the sound, which grew louder with every step. He almost tripped over what he thought was a large black stone. A woman. Her body was badly burned: long singed hair shielded part of her body as she rolled back and forth, moaning. She must be in agony.

  “Mistress?” Niko reached out toward her, recoiling when he saw her face. Lava burns. By the stones of Apis, was she dying? Her whole eye was glazed with fever, the other burned shut. Niko hoped his Scholomance education would be enough. When he lifted her into his arms, she screamed as her blistered skin pressed against him. She thrashed violently, upsetting his balance and tumbling them both into the surf.

  Water washed over her. She didn’t move. Ignoring her wounds, Niko turned her over, pounding the center of her back until she sputtered and coughed. He carried her to the clearing.

  He dribbled fresh water into her mouth and tried to rinse her wounds. More than half of her body was scorched, as though she had been laid onto a sheet of scalding lava for just a few moments. One arm crossed her chest, her hand protected beneath her opposite arm. Despite his efforts, Niko could not get her to remove it. Fever gave her strength and she curled up, ripping at the sores swelling on her side and front.

  After spending countless gray decans fighting her fever, Niko realized he had spent more time with this injured woman than he had with anyone in his life. He estimated she was younger than he, judging from what remained of her features. He tried to guess what she had looked like. She’d been a dyer, her hand was blue. Had she once been pretty? She never would be again. He traced one finger over an arched brow, down the healthy half of her face, circling a round cheek and dimple, feeling sorrow for her. Would it have been better to let her die?

  On Niko’s fifth night on the island, her fever soared. He soaked his kilt in an icy well and draped it over her, but her fever dried it faster than he could wet it. Stars were out when he fell asleep at her side, only to awaken from the heat of her body.

  Half-awake, Niko carried her to the stream. He laid her in the shallows, holding her shoulders steady as the icy water flowed over her body. When he was shivering and sniffling, he pulled her back out, relieved that her body felt cooler. Lying her on the stone-paved ground, he poured bucket after bucket of cold water over her until she was shivering and chilled.

  Afraid he’d gone too far, Niko bundled her in some of the linens he’d found on the beach and held her close. Her body had become as familiar to him as his own, and he was filled with a sensation he’d never felt before. She was his. He’d found her, restored her, she belonged to him. Cradling her to his side, he lay down.

  “Master Niko?”

  Was he dreaming? Niko moved but felt weight holding him down. His arm was numb. “Master Niko?” the voice repeated. Niko’s throat felt as though he’d dined on sand, and he swallowed gingerly before opening his eyes.

  Mariners. They stood politely in a circle around him with their pressed green kilts and clean hair blowing in the wind. His ship must have freed birds before they went down, so the Mariners knew where to search. Niko was very conscious of being naked. The cool, soft body next to him made him very aware of his own body. “Her fever!” he croaked, rolling the woman flat on her back, peeling his kilt off her. “It is down!”

  She was still asleep, but her body felt cooler and her wounds were weeping. “Sheets,” he commanded one of the Mariners. “Wine. Herbs.” He noticed the men look away from her damaged face and body. “Contact Spiralmaster, she will need immediate care.”

  “She will have to wait, master,” a Mariner said. “We are treating the survivors, the few there are, of Delos first.”

  “She is mine. That gives her precedence.” The Mariner didn’t argue and another gave Niko sheets. Gingerly he wrapped her, then gave her drink. Despite his exhaustion Niko would not allow anyone else to carry her. Once aboard he remembered the stones.

  Back at the clearing, he found the box where he had left it, the white and black stones safe inside. He couldn’t risk dropping the box in the sea or someone stealing it. He ripped the hem of his kilt, then tied one palm-size stone into each side of the makeshift sash and wrapped it around his waist. The stones thudded aga
inst his thighs as he walked, but they didn’t turn. The boat was already in the shallows, crowded with the survivors of the Clan of the Muse. Niko pulled himself onto the deck as the Mariners rowed to the ship. The blue-purple sail of Aztlan caught the wind, taking them home.

  THE GREAT GREEN

  THE RUSH OF WAVES WOKE HIM, and Cheftu jerked alert. A northwestern, cutting wind pulled at the ship. He tightened his kilt and lurched toward the mast. Lightning struck in the distance, and he could see the white froth of angry, churning waves. Thunder sounded around them, and Cheftu held on to the ropes as he made his way back to his scarce possessions.

  He sank down on the deck, wincing at his sore leg, clutching his cloak around him. The waves rocked the ship, and lightning flashed again. The sailors’ shouts carried on the wild wind that whipped first from the west, then from the north, pushing them farther away from Aztlan. From their direction, due north, he guessed this mysterious kingdom was close to Greece; maybe it even was Greece. He’d never heard of Aztlan, except when he was in Hatshepsut’s Egypt. This clothing, this language, none of it was familiar. He shivered.

  Cheftu doubted they would arrive within five days, as the captain had claimed. The captain of the Krybdys had chosen to sail directly across the Great Green from Egypt to Caphtor, then on to Aztlan. Nestor and his shipment of cattle were out of sight, aboard the Cybella.

  Sailing across the Great Green in wintertime was unheard of in Egypt. The few times the Egyptians sailed at all, they always stayed within sight of land. The Arabs, Turks and Greeks of Cheftu’s century did the same, tacking up the coast of the Holy Land, then over to Turkey and into the Aegean Sea. The winds were too unpredictable, too many people had died on the Mediterranean in the winter. Most ships docked until spring.

  The Aztlantu sailed the sea year round, the feat that made them a powerful, intimidating thalassocracy. Water splashed Cheftu, cold in sudden twilight. He huddled in his cloak, staring at the grayish substance sifting down from the sky. Warm and gray.