She cried out when he touched her, then heard his thoughts, felt the pounding of desire in his body, and knew that despite the women he’d bedded and the children he’d formed, there was no one and nothing else he wanted more than her.
It frightened her.
She did not want this; she loved him, but not in this fashion. He was to be loved from afar: this was too close. “You reject me here, too, Irmentis?” he said. She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn’t him, not his fault.
Then she was awake, her body weak and shaking. Tears poured down her cheeks, mingled fear and sorrow as she looked at her brother. The golden veins were being carefully removed from his body, while they prepared to pull the wood from his belly. Niko was directing the extraction and she turned to him, wincing from the many pierce marks.
“He lives, Niko.” His gaze, purple and tortured, met hers, and Irmentis realized that Niko too loved Phoebus, loved him more than as a clansman. “Give him the elixir, Niko. He has nothing to lose. Do not let the Olimpi, your dearest friend, die.”
He walked out, as though he didn’t hear her.
NIKO RAN THROUGH THE HALLWAY, down the twisting stairway, and knocked on the door in series of pressures. It swung open.
He stood in Spiralmaster’s laboratory. The vials and jars and flasks were as well-known to him as his name. Where would Spiralmaster have hidden the elixir? Knowing the cagey old man, he would have placed several vials in different places, with some form of coding so they were discernible only to one who knew Spiralmaster’s thinking.
“Looking for this?” Ileana said, stepping from the shadows. Her beauty was invisible to him. All Niko saw was the vial.
“Give it me, Ileana.”
She hid it in her palm. “Why, Niko? You seek to prolong the life of a man who hates me, who has not gotten me pregnant. I will lose my power, respect, and adoration of Aztlan, if I do not swell with child.”
“Your concerns matter nothing to me, Ileana. Give me the vial.”
“Are you certain it works, Niko? Are you certain it won’t further poison his already crippled body?” She laughed, and Niko’s blood simmered like lava.
“What do you want, Ileana? To be athanati? I can make that a reality. I can give you eternal youth and beauty.’
“It means nothing unless you can also make me pregnant,” she spat.
“I can do that.” For Phoebus he could do anything. Even touch this spider of a woman.
She smiled, her gaze caressing him from head to toe. “You are comely, but you do not care for women, do you, Niko?”
He actually didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
“When shall we arrange an assignation?”
“My offer is this: I will fill you with child, here and now; you will give me the elixir the moment my seed is spilt.”
She was breathing faster, her breasts swelling before his eyes; by the gods it was repulsive! “I will give you some of the elixir, Niko. Enough for the service you will render me. If you want more, you will know the cost.’
“All I need is enough for Phoebus, but I need it now!”
“Swear it, and your Phoebus may live.”
“I swear by the Spiral and the Shell.”
He watched as she poured a little of the elixir into a smaller flask. “Swear by blood.”
Cursing, shaking, and afraid he would vomit on her, Niko slashed his palm with a broken blade, swore again, and rubbed blood on his lips. Ileana’s hot mouth was aggressive in her desire. She kissed him until he was dizzy, licking the blood from his lips. “Does it excite you to know that Phoebus kisses like I do?”
It did. Tremendously.
She turned her back to him, releasing her skirts. “Now, Niko.”
Caught between revulsion and pounding lust, Niko moved to her as he’d seen a dozen friends do over the summers. Her hands were sure in guiding him, and nineteen years of abstinence made the experience very short.
Ileana’s glance was disparaging, but she climbed onto the table, crossed her legs, and lifted them. With one hand she began to touch herself. With the other she handed Niko the small flask, keeping the vial at her side.
“Where were you?” Irmentis hissed. “The Spiralmaster and Kela-Ata have concluded Phoebus is dying!”
Would this work? How could he know? The stones. “Go speak to them, cry, wail, distract them after a few moments. Go!” he instructed her.
“Niko—”
“Do it!”
Niko stepped into Phoebus’ bathing alcove and pulled a stone from each of his pouches. Setting down the flask, he bent close to them, as though to an elderly relative. “Will Phoebus live with the elixir?”
He tossed the stones and watched as they turned. Aye!
Niko grabbed the flask and ran into the Golden’s apartments.
The stones continued to turn. “I-n-d-a-r-k-n-e-s-s-a-n-d-l-u-s-t.”
Niko stepped in, watching those who were allowing Phoebus to die. The Kela-Tenata, the Egyptian, were focused on Irmentis’ hysterics. They had their backs to him. Phoebus lay silent, but Niko heard his labored breathing and knew Hreesos was still, barely, alive. He was not yet gone, but they had bathed him and arranged his arms in a position of death.
Irmentis fell to the floor with a cry, twitching violently. The Kela-Tenata grouped around her, and Niko sprang toward the couch. Niko saw that Phoebus’ skin was drained white. His hair and body were drenched in blood. How to administer the elixir?
Niko wrenched back the blood-soaked bandage, swirled the liquid, and then poured it into his belly wound. Phoebus convulsed with a shout, and the Kela-Tenata turned as a body. Irmentis threw herself on Phoebus, her lips pressed to his ripped abdomen.
Her screams filled Niko’s ears. He watched in horror and barely conscious jealousy as she licked at Phoebus’ wound, her salty tears falling into the gash, blood coating her lips and cheeks. She was immersed in the taste and scent of Phoebus’ life. The magi pulled her away.
Niko had to restrain his own screams of fear. Phoebus was still, so uncommonly still. The elixir had killed him? The stones had promised it wouldn’t. They had said Phoebus would live. While all eyes were on Irmentis, Niko raised the flask to his lips, but the liquid was gone. Niko staggered back into the alcove, pocketed his stones, and crept out the serf’s passageway. He heard shouting and yelping from afar as they led Irmentis away, down corridors.
The Kela-Tenata believed Irmentis had killed Phoebus. Ultimately Irmentis would wander in the punishment of the Labyrinth.
Niko knew the truth: He had misused his gifts and murdered his friend. His just punishment was to live without Phoebus.
PART IV
CHAPTER 16
AZTLAN
PHOEBUS WOKE WITH A SUDDENNESS that was shaking.
He felt well-being flow through his body; his sense of smell, hearing, and sight had never seemed so strong. He realized that something heavy was across his face, but he didn’t have the energy to move yet. He smelled fear and death and something, an aroma so tantalizing that his mouth filled with liquid. Not saliva. It was a virulent bile that burned his tongue and throat, ate at his teeth.
Slowly he opened his eyes. His lashes rubbed against metal, and he carefully removed the mask from over his face. A death mask? He looked around, wondering where he was. He knew it was cold, but he didn’t feel it. There was no decoration on the walls; indeed it seemed more of a cave than a room. Why was he in a cave? His brain flitted in his head, seeking a solution for this madness.
Shakily he sat up, clutching with both hands the leather-strip stretcher he lay on. The floor was dirt, cold, and powdery—like a cave. He rose to his feet, strength and power flowing through the strange quietness of his body.
Spying a jug, he walked to it, lifting it with ease as he poured it into a shallow bowl. Sloshing water over his face, he wondered what to do. Was this some unknown trial for the throne?
He glanced down, then braced himself against the wall. Dizziness and dis
orientation engulfed him. Phoebus closed his eyes as he fought what had to be sheer exhaustion. Opening them, he gazed into the depths of the water. Water that always, his entire life, without fail, returned his blue-eyed, golden-haired appearance.
Nothing.
It reflected back the ceiling well enough. He moved a jar right beside the water. The edge of the jar was visible. He dropped a comb in the water, and it caught the reflection before it rippled away. But he was not there.
Swallowing, wincing at the bile he tasted, Phoebus turned away.
Eumelos lay asleep on the chalk floor, curled tightly into himself. Phoebus stepped to his son, blindsided by the hunger that suddenly arced through him. A smell filled his nostrils, and he felt a seductive beating inside his head. He sank back on his heels. “Eumelos? Son?” He shook the boy’s bony shoulder and flinched when Eumelos screamed.
Then his son was in his embrace, crying like the child he was, and Phoebus’ arms were around him, feeling his bones beneath his hands, the pounding of his small heart as he sobbed. “You’re alive! They said you were dead! I didn’t believe them, but they said it, they did, they did!”
“Son,” Phoebus said, keeping his voice steady. “Who said I was dead?”
Eumelos’ blue eyes were glistening with tears. “The new Spiral-master and Dion. They brought you down from the mountain, you were all bloody and dirty.”
Faint images of fire and pain floated in his head. “But I lived?”
“They traded your blood with Theea Irmentis’ and something went wrong. There was a lot of shouting—” Eumelos was getting too excited, his breath was raspy, and Phoebus held his son tight, soothing him. Why would Dion and Cheftu tell such falsehoods? Why would they terrify his son?
“Where was Nestor?”
“He cried a lot and they made him go away. They wanted to make me go, too, but I wouldn’t, not even when Nekros came. He made a mask and left it on you.” The boy’s sobs were getting softer, and Phoebus changed position, his legs were sore.
“As you can see, Eumelos, I am well.” Then he looked down at his legs. Strong legs that were supporting him. Hadn’t they been hurt? Yet both ankles worked; Phoebus inhaled deeply, then moved his hand from Eumelos’ back to his own belly. Only a faint scar remained where a stake of wood had impaled him.
“How … how many sunrises has it been?” he asked Eumelos, setting the boy on his bent knee.
“I do not know.” Eumelos wiped his nose, smearing it across his face. Phoebus smiled at the gesture. By the gods, he loved this child! “Maybe five?”
Phoebus felt his arms begin to tremble, and he grabbed Eumelos close, this time to comfort himself. He remembered it in patches. More images, Irmentis—her ultimate rejection. His whole lifetime he had hoped she would turn to him, but in that shaded glen of her mind her psyche had forsaken him. Phoebus moved past his fury, the love that was mutating into hate, to his next memory. Blood and a fire that had roared through Phoebus’ veins when Niko poured something on him.
The elixir?
The boy coughed, and Phoebus touched his forehead. He was hot, though to Phoebus everything felt hot. “I need you to do something for me, Eumelos. I think someone wants my throne, do you understand?”
“They want to be Golden?”
“Just so.” Phoebus’ heart ached when he thought that Eumelos would never inherit the throne. It would be worth the self-sacrifice just to see this bright child rule Aztlan. Far preferable to any whelp Ileana would birth. He shuddered. “Go to the pyramid and ask for the Minos. Do not leave until you bring him back here.” He looked around. “Where am I?”
“In the caves beneath Kela’s temple.”
“Tell only the Minos that I am well, Eumelos. No one else. Swear to me?”
“He died, Pateeras.”
He died and I live, Phoebus thought. “Just so, tell whoever is wearing the Minos mask.” Surely the inheritor had stepped into his position in five days? “Swear.”
They linked their smallest fingers and swore; blood was too much for a boy this young. But it was never too early to learn the concept of honor and keeping one’s word. Phoebus kissed his son’s head, assuring him he was fine, and lay back down on the stretcher, touching the shallow scars that covered wounds that should still be seeping.
What was in the elixir?
HUNDREDS OF LUNCHING CITIZENS were scattered about the hillsides of Aztlan and Kallistae. Sunlight glinted off the Pyramid of Days, and the deep blue of Theros Sea was capped with white waves. Chloe relaxed in the sunshine on her balcony, feeling its heat steal over her bared body. She’d been in meetings all morning, and between the lingo she didn’t understand about cattle and the gnawing lust she felt from just seeing Cheftu across the room, it had been both stressful and frustrating.
Hreesos’ demise was a carefully guarded secret, and her husband was sequestered until further notice. The populace knew nothing officially, though she was certain rumors were flying thick and fast. The eruption of Mount Krion had been visible from Aztlan, and the consequences were hard to hide.
The death of the Minos was on everyone’s lips.
In the beauty of the sun, it was hard to imagine widespread destruction. A breeze across her skin offered relief from the heat, and Chloe imagined how wonderful it would be were Cheftu beside her. She smiled while dozing.
Suddenly all over the island, birds flew up screaming as they fought for airspace. Then she heard it, a dull rumble that seemed to reverberate deep in her breastbone like a bass guitar. She ran to the balcony’s edge, looking out toward the land bridge and the adjoining island.
“The Bull roars!” she heard someone shout. She saw citizens running for the sea, leaping in from hundreds of cubits above the water, racing down the zigzag path, pushing into boats so full they capsized almost immediately.
She crouched and fought a wave of nausea as the balcony trembled beneath her. The air was thick with cries, and Chloe hunkered down, her hands flat against the colored stone. The rumbling grew louder, deafening, and she raised her head.
Across the churning waters, on the island of Kallistae, the cliff’s edge seemed to shudder, and one section, dense with people, fell crashing into the sea. A human avalanche.
Then it was still.
“Citizens!” A voice rose on the wind.
Chloe turned, shielding her eyes, looking toward the pyramid. A white-cloaked figure stood at the Calling Place, his arms wide. “Fear not,” he cried. “The Bull has rumbled his last!”
Around her she heard the caustic comments: “What assurance is that?” “Shut up, you old fool,” “Tell that to the dead.” Chloe watched as the robed figure made a sign, a blessing or a curse, she didn’t know, and turned slowly in a circle, showing himself to all. Hreesos!
“I am Hreesos!” he whispered … a soft declaration that grew and swelled like a tidal wave.
“He’s dead!” some brave soul shouted.
The white-robed figure pointed. “I have become athanati, and yet I will rule. I have faced Apis and I won. Join me, citizens! Eat of the flesh of Apis and rejoice in his strength. In my strength.”
From the bottom of the pyramid priests led out dozens of bulls. Some were black Apis bulls, some were just cattle. An altar was set up, and as Chloe watched, a bull was sacrificed. She looked toward the sea, where nothing seemed changed—as if those lives hadn’t even rippled the surface of the water. Did no one realize it would take more than a bull snack to save them?
Hreesos continued to speak, telling of his triumph over Apis Earth-shaker.
How was this possible? How was it that he swept down the stairs and handed out bloody bits of bull to the cautious few who grouped before the pyramid? Five days he’d been dead! At least, that was what rumor said.
Was this like a soap opera—don’t believe the dead are actually dead unless you pinch them in an open casket? Chloe shook her head, watching as pithoi of wine, then baskets of bread, were brought out. What was Hreesos doing?
&n
bsp; “My mistress?”
She turned to the unknown serf. “Eee?”
“The Kela-Ileana requests you present yourself in her Megaron as you are bid. The serfs will bring your belongings.”
“You are from Kela-Ileana?”
“Aye.”
“People are dying in the lagoon, shouldn’t she be helping?”
“The Queen of Heaven requests you,” he said, his tone firmer.
“Where is your heart? Hundreds of people are down there,” Chloe said, tying on sandals.
“You are the inheritor; the fiancée of Hreesos requests you.”
“Until a few moments ago, there was no Hreesos and nothing to inherit!”
The serf smiled tightly. “Come with me, mistress.”
“Nay,” Chloe said from the doorway. “These people need help.”
“My mistress kindly requests your presence.”
“There are things more important than her request,” she said, stepping over the threshold.
“Nay. There are not,” he said sternly, following her.
Chloe turned around, tapping her foot. “She may be Queen of Heaven, but she can wait. They can’t.”
He grabbed her around her waist, and Chloe struggled, getting away, turning to tell him off.
All she saw was his fist.
CHEFTU LAY ON HIS BED, SHIVERING. He didn’t feel cold exactly, just … unsteady. Turning on the couch, he brought up his leg, easing the sore that grew larger and larger each day. Another had started on his side, usually hidden by his corselet.
“Spiralmaster!” Nestor called. “Cheftu, where are you?”
Struggling upward from the morass that he seemed to be wallowing in, Cheftu tried to cry out, to call the young man, but he heard the doors close and Nestor’s footsteps against stone as he ran upward.
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