What was happening to him?
You’ve got the disease, his reason said. You have seen this happen a dozen times. Can you still walk?
Determined to prove himself, Cheftu forced his body upright and took a step away from the couch. Then another. His legs didn’t seem to be working together, and sweat soaked his kilt from the effort. Steadying himself against a table, he tried to think, tried to reason.
Later, he would try later.
He fell onto his couch.
CHLOE CAME TO IN AN UPSIDE-DOWN WORLD. Her head throbbed in counterpoint to her head bobbing.
She was upside-down.
I’m going to be very sick, she thought. She twisted as her carrier walked down a set of steps. Chloe tried to pull away; his shoulder was gouging her stomach.
“Cease moving!”
Oh great, the Tyson wannabe.
“Sick,” Chloe gurgled.
He bounced her into his arms, his touch as impersonal as a masseur. Not a moment too soon, either, Chloe thought. Her head was splitting, her jaw ached, and her normal sense of outrage was muffled by her desire for Excedrin. Had she ever been hit like that before? She certainly couldn’t recall it.
Double doors opened before them, and Chloe was set on her feet in a room of great beauty.
Dolphins swam gracefully on the walls, their humped backs forming a dado around the room. Beneath that ran a bench of gray stone, its back waved to follow the dolphin design. Four-pointed stars covered the ceiling, and lilies bloomed between the open doors. Chloe jumped at a piercing scream, then saw a peacock stroll in, his tail open and proudly erect. She heard a snap of fingers, and her carrier pulled her into the next room.
“Greetings, Sibylla. My gratitude for accepting the invitation that you take your rightful place here.”
“Correct me, Ileana, but am I not a clan chieftain? So wouldn’t my rightful place be the island of Hydroussa? Or perhaps my own apartments?” Chloe didn’t even bother to keep the sarcasm from her tone.
“Your position as inheritor to the Queen of Heaven takes precedence,” Ileana said.
“Are you still not with child?” It must be weeks into her month-long mate-fest with Phoebus. Of course, he had been allegedly killed toward the beginning of it. Would Ileana get a complimentary month? When would this be over?
Ileana’s gaze was as warm as an ice cube. Her fingers flexed on her still-flat stomach. “Sadly, Phoebus has weak seed.”
“Or you are infertile,” Chloe quipped.
Ileana’s turquoise eyes narrowed like a bushy-tailed cat’s. Apparently it had never dawned on the Queen of Heaven that something might be wrong with her. Chloe took a step back.
“Since the goddess has not yet blessed me, I must remove Phoebus’ options.”
Chloe began to feel a tad nervous.
Ileana smiled at her like the Grinch on Christmas Eve. “You are sailing away—”
“Nay, I am not.” Not yet, anyway.
“Nay, of course not,” Ileana said, further confusing Chloe. Do I stay or do I go now? The question was answered as Chloe’s arms were jerked behind her and tightly bound. She opened her mouth to scream, but that just made it easier to stuff a wool scarf in. “Your ship has sailed, the clan horns were visible for henti around. You will be lost at sea, though because you are not expected, no one will know until it is too late to seek you out.’
No! I can’t do that to Cheftu! But she couldn’t speak—she was eating a sheep, whole.
“Enjoy the Labyrinth, Sibylla.”
She was taken, sometimes carried, sometimes dragged, through narrow hallways and convoluted staircases until it was very, very dark.
Blinking at the sudden brightness of two torches, she read the name above the doorway, then read it again. In Aztlan it was a name too profane and too powerful to be spoken aloud.
Hades.
Eee! the things Edith Hamilton didn’t include!
The serf blindfolded her, and Chloe twisted back and forth; it was inevitable that the serf would win, but some instinct rebelled at the thought of blindness. He slapped her, and in the ensuing dizziness that reawakened her headache, her sight was hidden behind a linen scarf.
Her last vision was of fire.
The serf pushed and she stumbled. Unable to catch herself, she fell forward into open space. Air rushed by her, and her muffled shriek was the only sound in her ears.
“I TRIED TO WAKE YOU, MASTER, but I couldn’t find you,” Nestor explained.
Cheftu clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. Mon Dieu, as soon as they find the cause of the illness, the entire populace is fed it! It was too late. He’d forsaken his reason for being in this time, and because he could not rise from his couch, a whole culture was doomed.
Surely he was not solely responsible for their demise? But ultimately those who were infected would die. All this vast knowledge, wisdom, and experience would be lost. Mon Dieu, what could he do? “Is Commander Y’carus in port?”
Nestor didn’t know, so Cheftu sent a serf to learn. He gestured for the younger man to sit down and wondered how to say what he needed to. “Your Spiralmaster selected me for this role because I know the future.” Nestor blinked, at once fearful and suspicious. “In that future, Aztlan falls.” Cheftu looked away, brushing his long hair over his shoulder. “The legacy lives on, and we must see to it that some people live on. Who would not have eaten the bull?”
“Anyone not on the island.”
“Nay. Here. Who on Aztlan would have been overlooked?”
Nestor sat back. “The serfs, the infirm, the poor.”
“I haven’t seen any poor.”
“They do not live side by side with the citizens. Ofttimes they were cast out of their clan for personal offenses and must beg or leave Aztlan altogether in order to live.”
Cheftu stood up, holding on to the back of the stone chair. “We must find them, get them out of here.”
“I will call some Mariners.”
“Nay! I fear we must do this in secret. No one must know what we are about, and no one who ate the bull must be on that ship.”
Nestor paled. “Do I have it?”
“I know not. However, I do.”
CHLOE GULPED FOR A NONSHEEP–FLAVORED BREATH. She needed air. Nasty! What was that smell? She choked on her hard-won breath and vowed to use only her mouth for breathing. Sulfur!
She really was in hell.
Her fingers twisted and turned at the knot holding her wrists together. Swearing at the rope’s burning, she slid it higher up on her hands. She couldn’t see to know if anything sharp, like a razor blade or a pair of scissors, were conveniently stuck in the wall, so she’d have to get her now bleeding wrists to her mouth and gnaw through, like a giant rat.
As if on cue, Chloe heard scampering and flinched. Maybe her blindness was a blessing incognito.
Holding her arms as straight as she could, she lay back on them and strained to inch her backside through the loop of her arms without dislocating a shoulder. It hurt, she felt sweat on her forehead, but then her arms were beneath her legs—and fourteen layers of ruffles. She wasn’t wearing the best exercise gear. Pulling her knees to her ears, she got her hands clear of her feet and chewed on the knots.
It was actually easier to untie them, despite the straining that had tightened them. The serf was no Boy Scout, and the rope was tough. Blindfold next. Another few seconds and she was free! Sight, at last.
Chloe blinked a few times, rubbed her eyes, and looked around.
There were many shades and terms for black: Mars black, black as night, black-cat black, midnight darkness, dark as a dungeon, Stygian darkness. Black as Hades.
Oh God, oh God.
She felt panic rising in her throat like a tunnel being sealed shut. Don’t freak! Oh God. You can get through this. Take it one step at a time.
One. You can’t see a bloody thing. That’s okay—still, you have four senses and intuition. She felt the ground. Hard-packed dirt.
T
he stink of sulfur. It was hot as an August night in Texas with no breeze, and it sounded eerie. Sad, whispering calls and plaintive moans did nothing to encourage her.
Hopeless cries. Dante’s warning flashed through her mind: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”
She shook her head and continued her pep talk. What do I already know? Sibylla’s brain remained silent, so Chloe pieced together what she could.
The Labyrinth, Hades, was a maze by definition. There were no light sources. She’d fallen down, way down. Or at least it had felt that way. But not far enough to break anything.
She was expected to die.
Bad thought, Chloe.
She put her head on her knees. Think! The maze you beat before was art—a design motif. Maybe this is the same? How can I know when it’s too dark to see?
She’d pretend she was Helen Keller.
On her feet again, she took a step and slipped, falling down a vertical shaft, her flailing hands finally catching a ledge. She scrambled up the sheer chalky sides with bare toes and fingers. Chloe huddled, her breath loud and her heart pounding.
Part of her just wanted to fall off a ledge and be done with it. She was terrified, trapped in a place designed to kill—or send you round the bend.
Then she thought of Cheftu. They’d been through so much, yet here they were. Together, no less. She still hadn’t drawn his hands or told him about her family. Or had his children. No, leaving Cheftu was not an option.
Her stomach growled and Chloe realized that her ability to think clearly would be pretty limited. She could survive without food. Not happily, not in a good mood, but she would live. Water—water was trickier, especially since she was sweating like a mule. What I wouldn’t give for a squeeze sport bottle!
On her hands and knees she crawled forward, away from the ledge. Standing carefully, she reached up and touched ceiling. She’d walk as far as she could, see if she could understand the plan better. There had to be a method. One didn’t just construct something without a method, a blueprint; it had to make sense to somebody! She just had to guess the right somebody. Swallowing dryly, Chloe walked forward.
THE GODS APPEARED TO LISTEN TO PHOEBUS. In the days that followed his ascension of the pyramid, utter calm descended on Aztlan. Not a tremor shook the earth, not a wave flickered high on the sea. The wounds that gaped in the soil of the empire became green with growth, and the fire that had warmed the citizens’ feet in warning, cooled.
The anger of Apis seemed dissipated; no stench of sulfur, no pockets of steam. The sky was blue, swallows fluttered on the breeze, butterflies lighted on buildings, a blessing of the goddess Kela. The dead had been peaceably interred in the caverns of Paros. A few clansmen returned to Delos, now two slivers of island, and began to design a newer, better city for the Clan of the Muse.
From around the empire, citizens came to clean out the burned fields of Naxos. Mariners and engineers from Siros updated the irrigation system with better aqueducts. Women from Tinos brought seedlings and laid them in the ash-coated earth with love, honoring the dead and praying to Kela for fertility.
Priests journeyed from Folegandros, set about pouring new ari-kat stone for buildings, watchtowers, and walls. Mount Krion slept, not even a puff of smoke emitted from the pointed cone. Priests monitored Mount Stronghyle and Mount Gaia, but Apis rested. Phoebus had assuaged the gods. He was one of their number now.
Hreesos was seen everywhere. Always white cloaked, his blue eyes and a flash of gold were the only things visible beneath his hood. Niko, his mage, was ever at his elbow, as was Eumelos, his firstborn, who trembled when his father left his sight. From the tip of Hydroussa to the pylons of the Breakwater, the Golden Bull inspected, encouraged, and supported his people.
As proof of his kingship, his worthiness to rule and omen of the bounty he would bring to Aztlan, the Queen of Heaven was rumored to be with child. Every night they coupled, and every day she was carried from the palace to the sprawling temple of the snake goddess for the Kela-Tenata to observe her. Though her waist was still tiny, citizens speculated that her breasts grew heavier and noticed she no longer wore her cincher.
Had Aztlan ever had such a powerful, magnificent ruler? He was athanati already; he’d battled the bull god and won. He was everything a ruler should be—fertile, wise, handsome, strong, and mysterious.
His people would do anything for him; Phoebus was a god.
NIKO SLAMMED THE DOOR, and Neotne looked up. He dismissed her with a snap and walked to his chest where the stones lay hidden. Phoebus was being difficult, refusing to believe the peace would end.
The stones had spoken, though Niko hesitated to share their prophecy. The stones were Niko’s secret.
More danger approached. Niko had been trained to see the signs of impending eruption. The priests had quietly informed him of the newly poisoned water, the activity of the snakes.
With shaky hands Niko pulled out the black and white stones, tossing and throwing, asking mundane questions as he worked up the courage to ask the difficult ones. He checked what he knew of the language against the chart he’d made. The letters were confusing, and a single misread mark could change the meaning of the word or sentence.
Phoebus had not mentioned Irmentis, not even asked after her. He had to know she’d been thrown in the Labyrinth. He cared only for Eumelos.
A child.
He let Niko handle all the questions citizens asked, he just moved through the day, smiling, waving. The clansmen were dazzled, but Niko alone knew the Golden Bull had lost his energy, his will. Phoebus never spoke to his childhood friend, he just smiled. It was as though Phoebus had died; being with Eumelos was the one thing that kept him from lying down and embracing the Isles of the Blessed.
It was clear he no longer cared for Niko. The realization cut him to the quick: first Spiralmaster betraying him, now Phoebus’ passive forsaking him. If only Niko could win back his love, his friendship, his old, easy companionship, he would never ask the gods for another thing. He questioned the stones. “Will the Scholomance survive?”
“T-h-e-e-s-s-e-n-c-e-w-i-l-l.”
“When will the mountain erupt?”
“T-h-e-S-e-a-s-o-n-o-f-t-h-e-L-i-o-n.”
“Which day?”
Niko felt someone watching him and turned quickly. No one stood behind; it must be his fear, his imagination. He wrapped the stones in cloth and snapped for a carrying chair. He needed to speak to the Council.
Aztlan was dying.
THE GIRL WAITED UNTIL SHE SAW HER PROVIDER’S CHAIR take him away. She crept into his chambers, looking around for his hiding place. Those stones were talking to him; she could see the answers in his pale, burning eyes and flushed face.
Neotne wanted some answers.
Her teeth permanently gritted against the ache of her missing hand, Neotne used it as a brace while her right hand sifted through her benefactor’s possessions. Two squares of silk from Kos were set on opposite sides of his chest. She pulled out one and recognized the black stone she’d seen over Niko’s shoulder. She unrolled the second and laid it beside.
The stones moved!
Stifling a shriek, Neotne watched as the stones flipped and turned. Faint markings in some mysterious text colored their sides, and she felt tears prick her eyelids. It was a language she didn’t know.
The stones were twisting and tumbling as though caught in a violent wind. How would she get them back inside? Despair had almost drowned her until she saw the crude clay tablet. Beside each of the markings from the stone was an Aztlantu translation.
Trembling with fear and anticipation, Neotne picked up the struggling stones in her one hand and tossed them, as she had seen Niko do. In a voice that was low and rough from weeks of silence—why should she speak if the gods would not heed her—Neotne asked her question.
“Does Y’carus live?”
The stones flipped three times, and she quickly compared the markings, then again. Elation flowed through her so quickly she f
elt dizzy. Aye! Y’carus lived! The next question on her lips was how to find him, yet her eye was drawn to her hand.
From her hand, to her arm, then her marred breasts. She could see through only one eye; grasp with only one fist. Y’carus lived, and he had loved her. The woman she had been was dead, though. A new creature stood in her place. A being that most found repulsive; she couldn’t bear to see that pitying, fearful look in Y’carus’ eyes.
She wouldn’t find him. She would leave Aztlan, go far away. Perhaps in summers to come she would find the courage to take up life again. “What is there for me?” she whispered, blinking away tears. She must be strong; she was alone now. Niko had treated her well, saving her from a painful, certain death, but he didn’t need her. He tolerated her, but he had no warmth, no love, in his psyche.
The stones slipped from her fingers onto the table. The answer took much longer, as she thrice verified each letter. “B-e-r-e-a-d-y-t-o-s-a-i-l-f-a-r.”
“Who are you?”
“T-h-e-v-o-i-c-e-o-f-I-A-M.”
The stones seemed to burn in her palms as Neotne slipped them into their silken pouches, separating them enough so that they were still, then putting them inside the box. She had to ready herself to sail. She had to be brave.
CHAPTER 17
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM started to give way. Small quakes, deep beneath the earth’s surface, began. They shifted rock and jostled lava that surged from the earth’s core, racing like molten blood freed from a tourniquet. As the shifts moved higher, the level of the lava rose. On the ocean floor silent plumes of rock, gas, and steam burst forth, incinerating fish and roasting flora.
The quakes continued, a ripple effect in soil as they moved higher, above sea level, into the remaining channels of the Aegean ocean rift. As indigo-sailed ships rowed above, the sandy bottom of the sea cracked, a break that ran north and south, east and west, causing a dozen, then a hundred other fissures.
Slumbering inside the towering cones, the liquid rock surged and fell, compressing, tightening. The hundreds of earthquakes felt and not felt each day thereafter shifted and irritated the boiling, writhing mass.
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