Ileana crashed into her, jabbing her knee into Chloe’s thigh, and Chloe staggered, catching her balance.
It was moments too late.
Ileana had won!
Dazed, on a dread high almost like a car accident or IRS audit, Chloe could only stare. Ileana’s pupils were huge in the darkness as she magnanimously thanked Kela for selecting her again. She curtly reminded Chloe to be in her chambers at tomorrow’s dawn to learn about her position as inheritor.
Above them, on the pyramid just tinted with light, Minos cupped his hands and cried out, “Kela-Ileana, consort of Hreesos!”
Chloe wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. Ileana had cheated. How could she win? She stood silent, gazing over the land bridge. She had never failed, not really. Almost anything was attainable if she worked hard enough. Atenis touched her elbow. “She has yet to get with child. There might still be hope.”
She hugged Atenis. “My sorrow. I tried, dear Kela, I tried.”
“She is a viper; she has always won.” The chieftain’s gray eyes were sympathetic. “You didn’t race like she did. No one is more vicious than a cornered predator.”
“What did they mean by ‘inheritor to the consort of Hreesos!”
Chloe asked, striving for calm, coming to grips with losing. No wonder Sibylla had been so quiet. Chloe had been manipulated, and she had lost to a cheat.
Atenis stepped back, looking at her strangely. “She won the right to be mother-goddess. If, after thirty days of mating, Ileana is not pregnant, you will be Queen of Heaven.”
If Sibylla still existed, Chloe would kill her. “Meaning exactly what?”
“The sacred marriage. You will bear Hreesos’ children, be his wife. Sib, you are acting oddly. Are you well?”
Chloe couldn’t quite take it in. She’d run this race, she’d almost killed herself, to oust Ileana. That she knew. She’d lost. She knew that, too. That she could still become Kela, the mother-goddess in every last way, was news. This is what I get for leaping before I look, Chloe thought.
For the first time she considered how nice it would be to live in her own body for a change.
Without Cheftu?
THE DAY OF THE BULL DANCE ARRIVED in a haze of beauty. Colored tents contrasted with the sea and sky, flaunting their clan emblems. The chieftains would conclude the meetings of the Council. Then, Phoebus alone would undergo the rituals of Becoming Golden.
He stood silent as attendants dressed him in the elaborate ceremonial robes of the Clan Olimpi. He would ascend the Pyramid of Days and emerge a changed man: no longer only the firstborn son of Bull Zelos, but the embodiment and incarnation of a god. A ruler in his own right, able to convene with the Council. But first the Bull Dance, the ritual, the sacrifice. Then one moon cycle with Ileana—his skin crept at the thought—and he would be the supreme ruler of the thalassocracy.
What a threshold in which to assume his throne. A plague was killing off the Aztlantu elders, two clans had been all but obliterated. It was a good thing he was moving against Egypt and the eastern mainland. Aztlan would soon need their food, men, and resources.
He exhaled as his dresser laced a red leather corselet around his waist. The man deftly tucked the edge of the loincloth under the corselet and called for the ceremonial kilt. It wrapped low on Phoebus’ hips, the elaborately patterned cloth swathing him and then falling into a waterfall of fabric that reached his sandals in the front. Phoebus held out his arms as bands of gold were strapped on his biceps and forearms. The heavy pendant of the clan of the Triton, Clan Olimpi, was laid around his neck. He clenched his teeth as he submitted to the formal twisting and binding of his waist-length hair. His eyes were lined with gray kohl, and golden earrings pierced his ears.
“Phoebus?” Her low voice sent a shudder throughout his body. He snapped the dresser away before turning. Instead of her tunic, she wore the attire of a highborn Aztlantu woman: a tiered skirt and fitted jacket, which covered her shoulders and arms, then tied tightly around her waist, leaving her white breasts with their painted nipples free.
He heard the low whine of her hounds in the corridor. Would that he could be her dog! “Irmentis,” he said, coughing, “I welcome you, sister. My gratitude for coming.”
“You know I hate court, but I could not miss your Becoming. How do you fare?” Though the question was courteous, her blue eyes seemed to see deep inside him, and he knew that she alone really cared.
“Nervous,” Phoebus said, crossing his arms so he wouldn’t reach for her. “It is odd to realize that in this twenty-four decans I will make earth-shaking decisions, choices that will craft me into another person.”
“Your life will no longer be yours. You will belong to Aztlan.”
I want to belong to you, he thought. “Aye. My days of mingling freely with the clansmen are finished.” Phoebus flexed his jaw.
Irmentis walked to the window, looked out, then over to his dressing table. “I cannot stay for all of the ceremony,” she said. “The sun, you understand.”
“Aye. Nekros tendered his apology as well.”
They stood in awkward silence, and Phoebus wanted to weep. Until recently there had never been tension or discomfort between them. He crossed to a woven chest and pulled out an alabaster vial he’d filled for her. A wrapped parcel lay next to it, and he gave both to Irmentis.
She ripped the fabric away from the honeycomb, and he watched as her trembling hands poured some of the opaque green liquid over it. As if it were the finest of delicacies, she bit the comb—the honey and artemisia mingling in her mouth and veins. Phoebus watched in sweet agony as she licked her fingers, sucking the honey from her nails.
“I have some news,” he said, unable to look away.
“Aye?”
“Ileana has won the race.”
Irmentis froze for a moment, then continued to clean her hands. “It is no more than we expected.”
“You could race her anytime you chose, Irmentis. Only you can beat her. We could be together.” The words came in a rush. She stood perfectly motionless, not looking at him. The vial and honeycomb lay before her. She’d eaten almost half. Was Niko right that she was becoming dependent on it? He stepped forward. “Irmentis, my sister, we can wed. You can easily beat Kela-Ileana. All of our dreams can come true! The race isn’t even in daylight.” He saw her smile for just an eyeblink; still she would not look at him. Gently, as though approaching a fawn, he stepped to her. He pulled her chin up. “Irmentis, this is what we have always wanted, my sister, my love. We can be together! We can mix our blood—”
She jerked her chin from his grasp. “I came to tell you I am leaving, Phoebus.”
“What?”
“There is an islet off Nios. Pateeras has gifted me with it, and I am going there. It is well wooded, and I will have my nymphs for companions.…”
Phoebus shook her in rage, ignoring the warning growls he heard from her hounds. “Leaving? I have offered you my crown and couch! You tell me you are leaving?”
“I cannot marry you, Phoebus. I have told you that as many times as there are stars in the heavens. Dreams are not real.”
“You mean you will not marry me.” Phoebus dropped his hands. He heard her snap her fingers, and the dogs sat, watching him but silent. She didn’t move; neither did he.
Finally she raised her gaze, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Nay, my brother, I cannot.” Her words were slow, enunciated carefully.
“I am sick beyond bearing of hearing that, Irmentis!”
“I am sick beyond bearing of your selfishness!” she screamed. The dogs’ low growls underscored her ire. “Never have you asked me, consulted with me, about the future you so easily create! You simply choose your path and expect me to chase behind you. I will not continue this, Phoebus! I cannot marry you! Should you wish to know why, should you ever listen to me, Ileana can tell you!”
Phoebus felt stricken. Her breasts moved with her agitated breathing. “Ileana?” he repeated.
Irmen
tis turned away, staring into the brightly sunlit day of which she could have no part. “Wed whom you must,” she said in monotone. “Leave me to my peace.”
Desperate, Phoebus pulled her to him, plundering her mouth with a hard kiss. He pressed her jaw until her mouth opened and thrust his tongue in, savagely searching for a response.
A dead octopus was more passionate.
He pulled away, immediately contrite. Irmentis’ lips were bruised, the light color she’d painted them was now smeared across her face. Red marks showed on her white breasts where he had handled her. Her eyes were flat, and Phoebus felt a wave of shame. The dogs were on their feet, snarling, showing their teeth. Phoebus half wished they’d fall on him, end this misery. What had he done? “My sorrow,” he whispered, straightening her jacket and rubbing ineffectually at the smudges on her face.
Someone knocked at the door. “My master! Time grows short!”
“Please do not leave me,” Phoebus begged. “Not like this, Irmentis. Please.”
“There is nothing more,” she said. “We cannot go forward or back.”
“Please. We can find some compromise, we can walk a joint path. Please, Irmentis. …”
She pulled her hands from his and smiled softly. “We cannot.” With a gentle hand she traced his lips, and Phoebus felt his breath catching. “Wed another, my love,” she whispered.
Phoebus stared at her, lost in her gaze, her touch. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
Phoebus whirled away—he couldn’t seem to control his anger now that it was out. “Tomorrow? This is all the farewell I get? When were you going to tell me? Or would you simply leave and let me wonder if some animal devoured you?”
“Phoebus, don’t be a child. I will only be a day’s sail away. It is no time. I was going to tell you, I just had not decided when. I had to stay a while, though, to know that you—”
“Will survive?” he asked bitterly. “What difference will it make to you?”
She dropped her gaze at his words, and Phoebus stepped into the path of sunlight, looking blindly toward the sea. After tonight he would no longer live two lives, one in the day as the Rising Golden and one in the night as Irmentis’ fellow shade. Could he give up the night? The silvery moon? The cool quiet of wind through the trees, the heavy fragrance of night flowers? The golden glitter of a wolf’s eyes, the shriek of the bats? The warmth of Irmentis’ body beside his as they ran over hills and through valleys, their bows beneath their arms?
He had never spent more than a week away from her. She was his friend, his partner, his dream lover. To her he could confess his fears as prince. To her he could entrust the details of his experiments. To her he could rage over the precarious state of Aztlan’s bloated chieftains and bickering clans and discuss his new plans to resurrect his empire. With her he could plot revenge against Ileana.
Could he survive?
He turned to her, her frail figure clad in clothing abhorrent to her yet worn for his sake. Where were her tunic and sandals? Where was the silver circlet that held back her long, curly hair? Would he train her like a hound? Was that what marriage would do to her? She was a wild thing—was it fair to tame her?
He read the answer in her eyes.
Let me be free.
She edged around a patch of sunlight on the floor and then stepped into the dark corridor. Phoebus watched as his heart, his dreams, his reason, walked away.
THE PYRAMID OF DAYS rose high, visible for henti, its multicolored sides inscribed with the history of the empire, its golden top throbbing with the power of the sun. The red, black, and white buildings of the palace contrasted against the dark soil and vibrant greenery. The nobles’ regatta sailed beneath the graceful arches that spanned the lagoon between Aztlan and Kallistae, accepting the outpouring of flower petals and praise as their due.
The procession entered the tunnel.
The ceremonies were begun.
The Ring of the Bull was not actually a ring, but rather a rectangle that ran the length of the palace. Complete with balconies and overhangs, it seated more than three thousand people.
The men and women of the Decan Council were stripped to loincloths, save Nekros, who wore an all-concealing cloak that he would discard when they moved from the sunlight. Their long hair was bound up and crowned with feathers, their bodies prepared for burial from lustral baths. The table in the center of the room was empty, its surface inlaid with the decapod crab and the emblems of Aztlan’s ten clans. There was neither head nor foot at the oblong table. Though Hreesos had ultimate power, in the Council chamber he was only another clan chieftain.
To the solemn march of drums, they walked in and took their places.
They followed the ritual of Becoming.
“I am the Clan of the Muse, Chieftain Atenis.”
“I am the Clan of the Stone, Chieftain Nekros.”
“I am the Clan of the Horn, Chieftain Sibylla.”
As they spoke, all placed their ruling trident on the table, so that the tines met in the center. Each wore the golden seal of their clan, and male or female they wore the ritual dagger of Olimpi, given to them when they assumed the chieftainship, in the understanding that they would sacrifice even themselves to prevent internal war.
“I am the Clan of the Vine, Chieftain Dion.”
“I am the Clan of the Wave, Chieftain Iason.”
“I am the Clan of the Flame, Chieftain Talos.”
Cheftu rose, ruler of the Scholomance. “I am the Clan of the Spiral, the Spiralmaster.”
The two religious orders representatives spoke. “I am the Cult of the Bull, the Minos.”
“I am the Cult of the Snake, the Kela-Ata.”
Hreesos rose, laying down his triton with finality. He would not be present at this table again. “I am Hreesos Zelos, Clan Olimpi.”
Together they spoke the creed that was the foundation of Olimpi Aztlan.
For the benefit of all, the detriment of none,
No people, no property, shall break our bond,
We ten rule alone, yet reign as one.
Formed by fire and flood,
Ellenismos our blood,
We live, rule, and die together
Aztlan athanati!
While cheers filled the hall, serfs removed the table. Doors that had been closed were opened, forming a labyrinthine maze of rooms and corridors in which the chieftains would seek the face of Apis. The ten men and women removed their heavy gold pectorals and waited in silence.
Each chieftain was handed a noose and picked up his or her triton. Serfs came forward and removed the center prong, leaving them with staves. Chloe put the coil of brightly colored braided flax over her shoulder and looked up. Thousands of people watched from the balconies and lofts around the arena. They would remain there all day, throughout this ceremony and Phoebus’ Becoming Golden.
The noise of the crowd was a low hum in her ears as she listened for the rumble of the Apis bull, somewhere in the palace. He was the bull they were to corner and tie.
Hreesos stumbled, catching himself against the wall. The other chieftains frowned and whispered among themselves. As they waited, Chloe knew palace serfs wove through the many hallways and rooms of the maze, clearing hallways and damping fires for the ease of the chase. Cheftu seemed lost in another world; she had not seen him since she was declared the inheritor of Kela-Ileana; she was not supposed to be with any other man. If only I’d known that before.
Hindsight really was twenty-twenty.
The serfs ran into the arena, handed Hreesos his stave, an indication the ritual was to begin.
The plaintive groan of the bull echoed throughout the palace, the sound building into a massive roar that silenced the chattering citizens. Chloe was petrified and electrified. They would stalk the bull through the labyrinth of rooms, and whoever noosed it would receive a boon from Hreesos and the Clan Olimpi.
“Yazzo!” he cried, and the chieftains ran into the winding darkness. The chanti
ng of the crowd swept into the many chambers like a flood, rising to the painted roof and falling down again. Each chieftain set out in a different direction, and Chloe took the skinniest, darkest hallway. Surely it was too narrow for the bull?
Reminding herself that caution was the better part of valor, and surviving this was her goal, Chloe walked through the deserted hallways. Unless she had a rifle she wasn’t going to deliberately seek out a creature with horns and an attitude. She’d seen bullfights!
She froze as a low rumble echoed through the hallways. Dear God, where could it be? Listening for anyone else—especially Cheftu—Chloe wondered through how many rooms she was required to wander.
She guessed there were at least a hundred rooms in this wing. Divided by ten crazed Council members and one hungry bull. If she tried just ten rooms, she would at least be doing her share. Did this incredibly long, dark hallway count? she wondered. Glancing to her right, she saw a glow of light. Would the bull head toward the light or away? Cautiously she poked her head into two rooms. Both were empty: no bull, no people.
She passed through the light well and into another hallway, more chambers. Chloe walked through at least six hallways before she heard the bull again. Louder? Closer? The walls vibrated.
The acoustics are probably distorted, she assured herself, peeking into another half dozen rooms. Aztlantu interior design was all or nothing, she decided. Either every square millimeter was covered with pattern and painting or the walls were plain white, or red, or the shrieking yellow Dion called “saffron.”
Two more rooms before the next light well. Nothing in either. Nevertheless, the hair on the back of her neck began to rise, and she walked forward slowly. Then she heard a scream, a terrible, agony-filled, high-pitched scream.
Chloe ran, through the light well and down another hallway, heading in the direction of the sobbing screams and another light well. She stopped abruptly at the doorway. She could see nothing, her eyes were adjusting to the sudden brightness, but she could hear panting. Slowly she canvased the chamber with her gaze. Wall, doorway, wall, painting—the gaze dropped down, and Chloe felt her stomach heave.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 33
