CHLOE FELT HIS PRESENCE BEFORE SHE SIGHTED HIM. The question was, was it her imagination manifesting him? Or Cheftu actually in the flesh? She raised her head and saw him. Aztlantu, with hair extensions and elaborate kilt, yes, but his eyes were molten gold and filled with love.
She walked into his opened arms, feeling the heat of his satin-smooth skin, the pounding of his heart, the scent of him engulf her. The anger melted away, replaced with joy. This was how it should be! This sense of homecoming, mingled with security and danger. “I love you,” Cheftu whispered, and Chloe’s blood raced through her veins. “Just let me hold you.”
The scent of crushed thyme, rosemary, basil, hyssop, lavender, and sage surrounded them as they sat overlooking the water, the distant glitter of Aztlan. It was so perfect that she didn’t want to say anything, to destroy the moment. “The mountain awaits,” Cheftu finally said, and they walked on, hand in hand.
PHOEBUS GOT TO HIS FEET, taking the reins of the many sacrificial animals being offered to Apis Earthshaker. The cone rose ahead of him. Niko and Eumelos waited by the traveling chair. The Hreesos guard fanned out around him, and the Minos sprinkled Apis’ blood on his shoulders. With a deep breath, Phoebus began the short climb. The animals were nervous, tugging away, and Phoebus grimly pulled them along. There was no smoke, no clouds of ash. They were safe.
He was one with Apis; he would not be rejected.
Waiting just behind him, the guard watched. This is what it means to be a god, Phoebus thought. To walk to the edge of the Nostril of the Bull and not fear destruction. Crawling over a low ridge of rocks, Phoebus pulled the animals, now protesting loudly, with him.
He froze.
Krion was no longer resting. When had this happened?
The crater gaped like a black mouth. Hair rose on his arms, and he shivered in the cold wind, despite his cloak. Puffs of gas rose from the hole, and Phoebus could see the smoldering core, a wicked glint of red, like blood in the body of the earth. Yellow crystals had formed around the rim of the hole, and black blood oozed out the top. The ground was hot beneath his feet
Feelings of godhood blew away like smoke. He was merely a man, at the mercy of this fury in the earth.
He looked back at the Minos, who motioned him to continue.
Phoebus needed to deliver the animals to the fiery cone itself. Picking his way carefully over warm earth and around boulders, Phoebus stepped down. The air was still and hot. It stank, and Phoebus walked faster. Fear flooded him, and he ran the last distance. Shoving and pulling, he got the animals around the depressed area. Their plaintive cries rent the air, and Phoebus paused long enough to wedge the end of the rope beneath a boulder.
Fleeing with no dignity and even less concern, Phoebus leapt up the side. Rocks fell in small showers around him, and he felt heat rise from pockets that opened suddenly in the earth. He had just crawled over the shallow lip when a noise rocked him, threw him flat.
Phoebus scrambled to his feet and ran, dodging debris as a roaring rumble completely filled the air. A blow to his leg knocked him to the ground. He rose and ran on, hobbling. When something else struck his other leg, his scream made no sound against the continuing roar. It was becoming hard to see. Phoebus crawled, panting, through the thick air. His hair caught on fire and he rolled, putting it out with his back. On pure instinct he huddled behind a boulder and watched fire fly through the sky.
Then it was over.
Through a fog of pain he tried to see around him. No lava, just rocks and gas. Apis had taken the sacrifice and rejected it. Phoebus trembled; what would sate this angry god? He wondered if Apis wanted him as a worthy sacrifice. He didn’t want to die! He couldn’t die!
Pulling himself along the hot, rocky earth, the Golden Bull of Aztlan fought to stay conscious. Blood streaked his wounded legs, his burned back, and he pulled on. “Help!” he cried faintly. “Help me!” This was probably the first time he’d ever begged, he realized. He couldn’t tell how far he’d come. Everything was gray, the ash still smoking, burning his skin. “Help me,” he whispered. Something flew at him, piercing him, and Phoebus screamed with the pain as he sank into thoughtless oblivion.
“Hreesos? Phoebus?”
Phoebus opened his eyes. “Ni-ko,” he gasped out. “Help me.”
CHAPTER 15
CHEFTU BARELY HAD ENOUGH TIME to throw himself over Chloe, shield her from the small landslide of rocks and dirt that rained from the upper path. When it was silent again he lay still, panting, reassured by her breathing.
He felt the cuts and bruises on his back and legs and rolled away gingerly. Chloe leapt up, brushing pebbles from her skin. “Was that an eruption?” she asked, searching the peak for signs of lava.
“Nay, just a cloud of gas.” He winced. “It loosened the rocks.”
“If it loosened the rocks here …” Chloe trailed off.
“Hreesos,” Cheftu whispered, and they took off, hiking quickly up the path, crossing over rock slides and stepping carefully around the edges. Nothing was sturdy here. The screams were faint but audible. Chloe and Cheftu pulled up onto the plain and halted.
What had been green grass before was now scorched earth. The skeletal remains of the traveling chair were visible in the distance, with carbonized figures beside it. … “The carriers,” Chloe whispered. They ran to the west of the scorched flank, where the flower-dotted grass still waved, untouched.
“Your gas cloud is capricious,” Chloe shouted.
“Is not nature always?”
They walked through the field; the cries were growing softer. “Here, Cheftu!” Chloe shouted, kneeling. Niko was holding his dying friend in his arms, sobbing. What wasn’t burned was bleeding, and Chloe didn’t have to be a medic to realize Hreesos would not last the night. A little boy stood to the side, trying not to cry as he looked down on the blond-haired man.
Cheftu’s hands were gentle as he cataloged the ruler’s wounds. “Broken leg, bleeding ear, possibly deaf; back burns and”—he paused when he saw the broken tree limb, spearing Phoebus as effectively as a blade—“belly wound.” His gaze met Chloe’s, and he winced. Hreesos was losing blood rapidly.
Of the thirty men who had accompanied Hreesos, only four survived. Another Minos was dead. They met Nestor on the way down, then gathered the others. A few citizens had been wounded in landslides; even more of them were drunk. Those in the regatta had watched in shock as the mountain had plumed gray smoke. Very few had waited the unlikely return of Hreesos and instead had sailed quickly for Aztlan.
The gods were against them.
Phoebus awoke once, screaming for Irmentis. Dion shared his opium gum to ease the Golden’s pain. Birds were sent to all the clans and to Irmentis’ small island. Niko held his cousin’s hand as the timekeeper quadrupled the pace for the rowers. Night was falling, and the long shadows of the canyon walls clutched the Aztlantu, pulling them into the growing darkness.
PHOEBUS WOKE BY ROLLING ON HIS SIDE. He was hot, cold, lonely, and hurting. The new moon glowed outside, reminding him he lived still. He knew his breathing was growing shallow, too shallow. This is not like the pyramid, he said to himself. I won’t wake up in three days, unharmed.
Irmentis! his soul cried. Please, let me see you just once more, just once! He felt his body gaining weight, heavier and heavier, as his psyche rose to leave. He sealed his lips, squeezed shut his eyes. He must stay alive, just to see Irmentis. He could not die without looking on her face once more.
Mustering all his concentration, he pulled his spirit back, focusing on the pain, connecting mind and body with shackles of blood and agony.
NIKO REFUSED TO LOOK AT THE BLOODSTAINED BODY of the Golden Bull. His heartbeat was dreadfully slow, the cloths wrapped around him were saturated in blood. The jolting of landing and carrying had loosened the tree limb that had served as an admirable plug to the wound. The ship had cast everyone off except a skeleton crew and the Egyptian physician. A strong wind had easily swept them back to the island.
Irmentis’ shrieks filled the air. She was forcibly restrained by two burly Mariners. Her dogs were leashed, held by a scared nymph. Irmentis’ face was blotched with tears. “Save him!” she cried. “Take me! But save him!”
If Niko knew a way to take her life in place of the Golden’s, he would have done it in an eyeblink. The upstart Spiralmaster observed all, and when their gazes met, Niko knew the Egyptian had resigned himself to Phoebus’ death.
Niko’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured for the Mariners to take Irmentis and her hounds away. He would meet with her in her Megaron momentarily. First he would see Hreesos stabilized.
He gestured to the Egyptian.
Irmentis’ fists were clenched as she turned to the Spiralmaster. “He is dying! Surely with your foreign ways you can do something?” Her hounds were seated behind her, their pleading eyes fixed on the Egyptian.
The Egyptian sighed. “His loss of blood is too great. His wounds are too severe. He might not even be able to walk.”
“What about the elixir?”
“The elixir?”
Niko smothered a smile. Two things the Egyptian didn’t know. But Niko did, and Irmentis was right, they could give Phoebus the elixir.
“Who will be Hreesos if you let Phoebus die?” Irmentis’ voice was wheedling, hints of Ileana’s temper in her intonation. “Nestor isn’t man enough to lead Aztlan, the chieftains will fight against him. It could mean civil war, Spiralmaster. You are sworn to protect the empire. Phoebus is the empire!”
Niko considered her words as the Egyptian thought. As if the comment needed thought! The glory that had taken centuries to develop and mature was falling like ash on their heads. Nestor was a nice boy, but not the stuff of rulers. The chieftains would pull against him.
“If he needs blood, give him mine,” she said.
Cheftu paled.
Irmentis stared at him. “I know it is thought that I am ill, but aside from … a few things, I am healthy as a young calf. I am pure blooded, Spiralmaster. Both Ileana and Zelos are my sires. It would be pure blood of the Clan Olimpi.”
“You speak nonsense, nymph,” Spiralmaster said without conviction. “There is no way.”
“There is,” Niko said in a rush, stepping closer. “I know of experiments. I know you can take blood from one creature and put it in another.” Irmentis knelt before Cheftu, her lithe body etched with muscle and sinew, tinted with the blue of her veins. She took his Egyptian hands into her own, scarred from sun exposure.
Spiralmaster looked from one of them to the other. “What if he should take on your aversion to the sun? This is an empire in the sun, how could he rule? Will your clansmen trust a Golden king who can’t abide the light of day?”
“Nekros rules his clan easily in the dark,” Niko said. “Irmentis lives there peaceably.”
She clenched his hands, staring with wide, black-lashed eyes up into his face. “Better a ruler in the dark than no ruler at all, Spiral-master. But you must act! Phoebus begins his journey as we speak.”
The man sighed. “I do not know this procedure of taking blood and replacing it.” He looked at Niko, beseeching.
Niko turned to Irmentis. “We will use your blood, see if we can restore Hreesos.”
She rose. “And the elixir?”
“Nay! Nothing unknown!” the Spiralmaster said. Niko sent her a silencing glare.
Irmentis turned on her heel, calling her hounds and snapping for serfs. She gave them low-voiced commands and turned back to Niko. “The sun is setting on Phoebus. Hurry!”
When we give him the elixir, Niko thought, he will have forever.
Cheftu watched as Niko checked the Golden’s temperature. Phoebus’ harsh breathing filled the room, and Cheftu could see black blood rising in the belly wound. Cheftu’s every instinct said that Hreesos of Aztlan would die.
Death might be preferable to living in that wreck of a body, Cheftu thought, looking at the man’s burns, the damage to his left leg.
The door burst open and he looked up. Irmentis’ face was unnaturally flushed, and her gaze skittered around the room. At least she’d left her hounds elsewhere. Her left hand pressed a cork down on the vial tucked in her sash. What was this?
She strode to Phoebus’ side, her gaze caressing his face, his body. “Niko has a remedy.”
“A remedy?” Cheftu snorted. “Phoebus has been near gutted, mistress! Only direct intervention of the gods will save him. Even they cannot restore him to fullness.”
“The gods,” she repeated softly, her eyes on her brother. “Zelos has Become a god. He is athanati. Are you watching him, Pateeras? Will you allow your Golden son to die before his Megaloshana’a?” She spoke in a monotone, and Cheftu began to fear she would fall into a fit.
“Spiralmaster Cheftu?”
Nestor stood in the doorway, a line of serfs behind him holding all manner of objects.
“This is a sickroom,” Cheftu said in exasperation. “My patient needs prayers and peace, not a thoroughfare of people in his chambers!”
“This is the method of transferring blood,” Niko said, stepping into the room and directing the serfs. “It will take only moments, Egyptian, to set up. If we are disturbing you, please step into the corridor.”
Cheftu looked at Nestor, who was setting the objects down in the room: coils of fine wiring, bandages, needles, and vials of wax. Swallowing his fury, Cheftu bowed curtly and stepped into the corridor. A group carrying a low bed passed him, then a few Kela-Tenata. He ran down the stairs, spotted Dion, and grabbed his arm. “Do you know of this?”
“The transfusion. Aye.”
“Has it been done before?”
Dion sighed, clapping his hand over Cheftu’s. Cheftu withdrew his in confusion. “Aye. Done before.”
“Did the patient live?”
Dion looked away. “Aye. It did,”
“I cannot be part of this,” Cheftu said stiffly. “I neither know nor have heard of such a practice.”
“So learn,” Dion said equably.
“It is unconscionable to experiment on … on … a human being!”
“Better a man than a corpse,” Dion said.
“At least we should use someone else’s blood!” Cheftu implored. “Irmentis is ill.”
“Aye, that is known.” Dion’s gaze became intent. “Do you know the nature of her illness?” he asked.
“There is a rare blood weakness. She seems to have all the characteristics. I cannot know until I test her urine.”
Dion blanched. “Her blood is weak? How would it affect Hreesos?”
In the miraculous event that he survives, Cheftu thought. “He would gain Irmentis’ abnormalities.”
“Blood lust,’ Dion murmured.
“Your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Dion said, giving him a quick glance. “Nothing of importance.”
They walked in heavy silence back to Hreesos’ quarters.
The Kela-Tenata watched the sun while saying the prayers of healing and protection, begging Kela to touch Hreesos with a healing hand. Clustered around his bedside were Aztlan’s Kela-Tenata, each prepared to pierce the Golden’s flesh with gold tubing as they pierced his sister’s. The branch in his belly would then be extracted, and they would learn if the Golden Bull would live or die.
The priestess sang out sharply; the time had come. Cheftu looked into Irmentis’ eyes, dark and unfocused, probably from the pain of hundreds of tiny tubes forced beneath her skin. A priestess tied her arm to force the blood from her body into Hreesos. Niko watched, his amethyst eyes narrowed to slits. Nestor and Dion stood motionless, and Cheftu wondered if they wished for Phoebus’ death or life. Was not Nestor the inheritor of the throne?
Hot wax sealed the tubes to flesh, and the Kela-Tenata moved around, adjusting and monitoring the transfusion process. The final tube was attached, and all stepped back. The two royals slept on, connected by golden veins of blood. Niko would extract t
he stick once Hreesos had received two heqat of blood. The Kela-Tenata walked around the room, lighting pots of healing herbs and chanting her series of prayers.
Cheftu watched the system work, fearful of its failure. What if Phoebus died? What if this killed him? Could he live with himself? Would the Aztlantu let him live? Despite the fact he’d had no hand in it, he was the foreigner—immediately suspect. Would Hreesos live?
Dozens of Kela-Tenata held and eased the golden tubing, raising it on Irmentis’ side and lowering it into Phoebus. Still, Phoebus’ breathing was shallow and ragged, his eyes fixed behind his closed eyelids. The scent of fresh blood hung in the air, and beyond this room Cheftu could hear the corridor filling with worried courtiers and citizens.
The transfusion would take several hours, several tries with Irmentis’ blood. The tubing was tiny, and blood ran through very slowly. In between she would drink cow’s blood to renew her. Each drop she gave would enhance Hreesos’ chances of survival, encouraging his heart to keep pounding.
Cheftu noticed that Nestor and Dion had left him all alone with the patient and Niko.
He could almost hear Chloe saying, “Can you spell s-c-a-p-e-g-o-a-t?”
IRMENTIS’ VISION WAS A GLADE, like one of the many on her beautiful island, yet different. The trees breathed, the water sang, everything around her was filled with life. She was the same yet different—her skin glowed, her unbound hair danced on a soft breeze. The luminescence of stars glimmered within her.
“Irmentis, my sister.” The voice was weak, borne to her on the air. Phoebus, whole and healed, stood before her, his strong body gilded in the silver light. His hair hung over his broad shoulders, his eyes were lit from within like silver disks. “You are giving me that of which you have so little, your blood.”
Irmentis shook her head in agreement, unable to move her gaze from her brother’s body. A delicious heat stole through her, the light within her began to throb. What was this? As if he could read her mind Phoebus answered, “You are feeling the want of a whole woman, Irmentis. What you would feel had not Ileana …”
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