“It is chaos out there,” Atenis argued. “She can show you where he is.”
“Get her a traveling chair.”
“She cannot sit, Dion,” Atenis said, gingerly taking Chloe’s hand. The dark chieftain walked around her, and Chloe heard his hiss when he saw her back. “By the gods—lead,” Dion commanded Chloe, touching her cheek gently.
Back through the falling ash, which now covered everything like two thousand years of dust, they walked. Somehow Chloe led them to the room where Cheftu lay. Dion pushed past her, running to kneel beside Cheftu. He issued a series of curt commands, and Cheftu was lifted and laid on the stretcher, still facedown. Dion walked beside the stretcher, and Chloe wondered if he knew he was crying. They reached the undamaged section, and Chloe saw people had begun to gather.
People. They barely looked human. Faces and bodies burned, pummeled with falling debris, coughing up blood. Those who could move fetched and carried water, oil, and the few herbs that were available.
Of Kallistae’s 55,000 inhabitants, a few hundred remained. Vaporized, Chloe thought. Heat so extreme that the meat and bone of human and animal instantly became gas, air, mist. Vapor. Lava had flowed north, covering the towns of Hyacinth and Daphne, and flowed south over Echo.
Indeed, the strangest thing was how the pyroclastic cloud had bounced from the shore of Kallistae to the shore of Aztlan. They’d thought they were safe being on a separate island; the lava hadn’t touched them. They’d not counted on the cloud’s demonic ability to bounce from shore to shore. She glanced over the mass of destruction.
Now the volcano rested, but for how long? Hours or aeons? They needed to flee. They could run to Caphtor, though no swallows had returned with news of how the Caphtori had fared or the fate of the other islands.
Chloe doused cloth strips with wine and poppy and dribbled it into the mouths of the victims. For those who had no lips she set it on their teeth, letting them suck the liquid drop by drop.
Mechanically she moved, her body screaming with pain, but activity kept her from thinking about Cheftu, about what had happened. She tried to barter with God. She’d always sucked at negotiating, but the outcome had never been more precious. Let him live, please. Just to breathe and laugh and smile?
If I were in a movie, Chloe thought, I would vow to God that if Cheftu were allowed to live, I would let Dion have him. I would sacrifice his love and my happiness to save his life.
This was not a movie and God knew her better, Chloe realized.
No amount of lying to the Almighty was going to be convincing. Cheftu was hers. Please let him get better and she would be a faithful, understanding, wonderful wife.
And if Dion stepped in her way, she’d stomp him.
“FIND HIM,” DION SNAPPED.
Nestor sighed. “We combed the cavern Sibylla said he was in. What more can be done? He is one man, Dion. There are thousands who need aid.”
Dion looked at the back of the man lying so still before him. Imhotep was gone—as was the intellectual wealth of Aztlan. The snake goddess’s temple, enclosing the Kela-Tenata, had been shattered during the last earthquake, pieces of column and fresco crashing into the sea as the island seemed to slant more each decan. Dion possessed simple healing skills, but Cheftu needed more, far more. “There must be someone, some way.”
Nestor laid a hand on Dion’s shoulder. “It is not destined, brother. The man is beginning his journey. Leave be, Dion. Bathe him if you will, but others need you more.”
Dion ground his teeth. Others might need him more, but he needed Cheftu. He would not let him die, even if he had to face death in his place. He shrugged off Nestor’s grasp. “Return with Niko or die in the fires!”
Night had fallen, though how they were supposed to know the difference between night and day, Dion couldn’t say. He sluiced water over Cheftu’s back, trying to cool the angry red welts. A fine coating of glass splinters had showered him, so Cheftu looked as though he’d been pierced by a thousand pins. Instructing two serfs to hold lamps so that the tiny particles, almost amber in color, caught the light, Dion had plucked them out.
The opening door made him turn. Nestor, stained with sweat and gray with ash, entered. “We found Niko, Dion. But I doubt you will be able to use him.”
Dion barely had time to turn before he vomited. Nestor handed him a cloth for his mouth. “It strikes without warning,” he said.
In the name of Apis, what had happened? Dion looked again. Niko, distinguishable only by his violet eyes, seemed to be wearing a cloak. Nay, no cloak; his skin was so badly burned it left him a pulpy, massive wound. His hands were twisted into claws. Next to him, Cheftu seemed an ideal of health.
Dion caught Niko’s gaze. “What happened?” Dion asked.
Niko tried to blink, but his eyelids were burned.
Nestor whispered in Dion’s ear, “His throat is scorched. It’s hard to speak.”
Dion bit back his howl of frustration. If Niko could not help, why had Nestor brought him here? To watch him die?
“You wanted him. No one should die alone, Dion. No one,” Nestor said softly. He began to wash Niko’s face and shoulders, preparing him for the Isles of the Blessed.
Shaking his head, Dion looked over at Cheftu. He wouldn’t die alone. Sibylla had collapsed, and they’d taken her outside to lie with the other corpses. It was some small satisfaction that he’d have Cheftu to himself, if only for a while.
“Aeeeh … Aeeeaaah …”
“He’s trying to speak,” Nestor said.
“Bring him drinking water!” Dion shouted.
“And a reed!”
“A reed?” Dion asked, then watched as Nestor deciphered the agitated sounds from the thing that was Niko. Slowly Nestor began to hover his hands over the length of Niko’s body, moving down. He stopped at Niko’s groin, where amazingly he seemed mostly undamaged.
The serf returned, and Nestor took the water and reed, sucking water through the reed, then slipping the other end into the cavern that Niko had left for a mouth. Slowly Nestor released the drops of moisture into Niko’s throat, drop by drop. Dion’s eyes filled with tears as he watched.
“Try the pouch.”
Nestor again searched, following Niko’s raspy commands. Nestor slipped his hand in and brought out a flat black stone, the length of his palm and oblong.
“Uuurrrrmm.”
“What?”
“Uurrmm.”
“Try the other one, Dion.”
His hands suddenly shaking, Dion felt in the pocket of Niko’s kilt. His fingers closed around a stone, and he brought it out. Like the other, it was oblong and sized to fit in his palm. But it was foamy white, pearlescent. He held it up.
“Thhhhhmn,” Niko panted. His violet eyes were wide, excited. “Urrmm thhhmm urmm thmmnn,” he repeated, then choked. They turned him to the side, trying to clear his throat. His breathing was even more labored. Dion listened as Niko fought for breath, the painful gagging sounding magnified. His eyes ran with tears of staring, but they didn’t plead or beg for life. Frantically Nestor bathed his legs and chest, blessing him, wishing him Kalo taxidi.
A long hiss signified his death. Nestor slipped his hand inside Niko’s pouch again and brought out a vial. “The elixir.” Gently Nestor laid a linen over the mage’s face, gesturing for the corpse to be taken outside.
The rhyton-shaped vial of blue glass was the purpose of it all. The true method for living eternally. Dion snatched it from Nestor and ran to Cheftu, pulling out the cork. He poured the liquid on the man’s wounds.
“Nay, Dion!” Nestor caught his hand. “Think, brother. Do you have the right to change his life?”
“If I do nothing, he will die!”
“If you give him this elixir, he may live, blind and crippled! Do you have the authority to decide his destiny? Aztlan lies in ruins because we believed we were gods. We thought we could order men’s lives. Spiralmaster was wrong, we are not gods. Do not make this man athanati, Dion. Prepare him
for eternity and leave be.”
Dion felt the sobs gathering in his throat. His chest convulsed painfully, and his hands fell to his sides. “I love him,” Dion croaked. Nestor pulled him close, standing between Dion and Cheftu.
Tears and mucus smeared on the Golden’s chest as Dion sobbed, racking, painful gasps that made Nestor hold him closer. Behind Nestor’s back, Dion’s hand held the unstoppered vial. Carefully he moved his finger from the top and poured it into Cheftu’s slack-jawed mouth.
Easing the vial to Cheftu’s side, Dion clenched Nestor closer, looking over his shoulder. Cheftu’s lips glistened with moisture, and Dion felt a fierce surge of delight.
He had the authority because he loved Cheftu. Now there would be time enough to wait for his love to be returned. Dion would take it, too.
We are gods, he thought. Nestor just didn’t know it yet.
CHAPTER 21
CHLOE WOKE UP IN THE FALLING ASH. It was clogging her nostrils and her mouth. She coughed, then struggled up and ran for the still standing wing of the palace. She would not be left outside like trash! She had to see Cheftu.
He’d been so still, so silent. Her burns hurt, but nothing like the agony she imagined he was suffering. Was Dion taking care of him? The thought brought her up short, but Chloe straightened her shoulders and walked on. If he had tired of her, Cheftu would have to tell her good-bye. His kisses had not been the kisses of a woman-weary man. She was a novice in some ways, but she also had excellent instincts and knew Cheftu’s body and desires better than her own.
If he were gay—she’d better say homosexual or they would have another talk about joy and happiness—he would have to come right out of the closet and confront her face-to-face. Otherwise he was hers! Bug off, Dion, she thought, marching now down the hallways. Mimi had once told her crazy Aunt Rina, not to be confused with her twin, crazy Aunt Lina, that any woman who could not hold her man was not worth the starch in her petticoats.
Chloe had stripped off her petticoats, but she still had Kingsley blood.
Cheftu, if he lived, wasn’t going anywhere.
Please God, let him live.
DEATH WAS EVERYWHERE. People with a spectrum of wounds covered every available surface. Cheftu blinked, opening his eyes—one eye. The oil had blinded him, he realized. But he was alive. He inhaled—the air was filled with the smell of fire and roasting flesh. He was lying on his stomach, facing a wall. His hands were numb beneath him, and he turned his head, pushing himself upright.
Recognition and recall flooded his mind: the eruption, protecting Chloe, screaming as hot oil rained onto his back, his head, his hand.
Blackened, misshapen things were lying on the floor beside him.
Burn victims.
I am a burn victim, he thought, looking at his hand. Blistered and broken, two useless fingers, and the other hand? Cheftu sat on the edge of the couch, looking at his hands. He was horribly burned, huge blisters rising up on his skin. Would he be able to practice doctoring again? Did he dare touch Chloe with these talons?
Would she want to see him? Half-blind, nearly maimed? With trembling fingers he touched his eyebrow and felt the puckers of skin that covered the side of his head.
He stood slowly, stepping away from the couch. He ached, and blisters pulled and tightened as he moved. Aye, he’d been hurt, but he could walk. How was Chloe?
A scream made him turn, and he saw a serf faint dead away. Nestor, stained and rumpled, his blond hair dark with ash, stepped toward Cheftu. “By the holy bull of Apis,” he breathed. “You live?” Atenis stood behind Nestor, her gray eyes wide.
“Should I not?”
“I’m here to bathe you. You were but a mass of wounds, with little hope.”
“I still am, my friend,” Cheftu said. His throat hurt dreadfully, but his mind felt clearer than it had in many moons.
Nestor walked around Cheftu in silence. He picked up a vial from the couch; just a few drops remained in the bottom. “He did it anyway,” Nestor whispered.
“Did what? Who? Why are you so shocked?” Atenis asked.
“Do you recognize the vial, Cheftu?” Nestor asked.
Cheftu looked at the glass vial. Of course he didn’t recognize it. Abruptly he turned to Nestor. “Wait! The—?”
“Say it, Cheftu.”
“He gave me the elixir?”
Nestor turned the vial, watching the drops fall and merge. “It would appear so.”
“The immortality elixir?” Mon Dieu! It was unknown, not tested! Cheftu tried to check his fear. “This cannot be. Where is Sibylla?”
Atenis laid a hand on his shoulder, “My sorrow with you, Egyptian.”
Cheftu blinked. Atenis was sorry? Realization dawned on him, but Chloe could not be dead. “Where is she?”
“She has begun her journey.” Nestor nodded his head in regret. “She seemed well enough, but she collapsed and Dion had her laid outside with the others.”
“It was too late for a lustral bath,” Atenis whispered.
Black rage shielded what remained of Cheftu’s vision.
“You live!” Dion cried, running into the room, embracing Cheftu.
Livid, Cheftu swung at Dion’s jaw, then his gut. His fists connected with satisfying thuds, the reverberations traveling up Cheftu’s arm. He was amazed at how good it felt to hurt the man. “You gave me the elixir?” he hissed.
“I wanted you to live. Beside me,” Dion whispered, panting. Atenis helped him up, and Cheftu smiled grimly when the chieftain winced.
“You took my choices from me, Dion!”
“I could not let you die.”
Cheftu continued to glare at Dion, his hands clenched into fists. “Where—is—my—wife?” he asked, enunciating every word.
Dion rubbed his jaw, frowning. “I didn’t know you had a wife, Cheftu. You don’t wear a tattoo.”
Blisters on his hand stretched as Cheftu tensed. “Where is Sibylla?”
“Sibylla was your wife? She was not your equal.”
“By the gods! Are you insane, man?” Nestor shouted at Dion, stepping between them.
“Show respect, Dion,” Atenis said, pulling on Dion’s arm.
“She began her journey, Cheftu. I laid her in the ash myself.”
Cheftu didn’t step forward and break the man’s neck. Chloe was alive, and every minute spent killing Dion was a moment not spent finding Chloe. “My wife is a warrior. An artisan. She loves with a grace and power that leaves me weak.” He stepped back from Nestor, picked up a kilt discarded on the floor, and belted it, then threw the stone disk he’d worn around his waist for months onto the floor. It shattered on contact. “You, Dion, are the one who is unworthy even to speak her name.”
“I have given you life!” Dion cried.
“What was that?” Nestor asked as Atenis knelt over the pieces of stone.
Cheftu turned at the doorway. “I am sure my wife will thank you for my life, for I will spend it with her.” He looked at Nestor. “Get your cloak and come with me. Now.”
“He is my clansman and brother, Cheftu.”
Atenis was gathering up the shards of stone, stained with Cheftu’s blood. “What was this, Spiralmaster?”
Cheftu looked from one face to the other. “The recipe for the elixir. Spiralmaster gave it to me. There will be no more grasping at godhood.”
It was utterly silent.
Cheftu stumbled through the palace to the gardens. It was impossible to discern whether it was night or day. Everything was gray. Looking southeast, he saw naught but destruction; looking back to the section of the palace he had just left, it hardly seemed the world had rocked and regurgitated.
“They were laid there,” Nestor said, pointing to ash-covered lumps. He didn’t meet Cheftu’s glance, but the fact that Nestor had accompanied him needed no words. Cheftu knelt and felt beneath the warm coating of ash, trying to touch any limb that seemed familiar.
The bodies were closely lined up, but there were a few gaps. Nestor dug o
n the other side. “Cheftu,” he said into the stillness, “come see this.’
Footsteps led away, hidden by dustings of ash. Big feet.
Grâce à Dieu!
JUST AS CHLOE HAD BEEN READY to break into a chorus of “Stand By Your Man,” she heard a voice in the darkness. Though the accent, even the language, was different, the tone was the same. A voice that pleaded, terrified because the owner’s world had crashed, collapsed, fallen around her ears. The same cry that had gotten her into a mess of trouble in ancient Egypt.
A voice asking her for help.
More specifically, asking Sibylla for help.
Before Chloe had the option of literally playing dead, a chorus joined it.
“Mistress Sibylla! Praise Kela!”
“I knew you were right, mistress, I told my husband I did, but he never did listen to me—”
“Help us, lady! Please!”
There were dozens of them, asking for help. She, after all, had predicted this collapse. Fire and water—oh, aye, those had been her words. They wanted to leave; there was no way out.
Well, there was one way.
Chloe blinked in the night like darkness. She knew the passage now, was that the point? The Labyrinth was easy—she should have figured it out before. Daedelus had constructed it, and the man knew one symbol. The Greek key. She’d seen it on his clothes in Knossos; it was the only piece of jewelry he wore. She obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly. One Greek key depthwise, three widthwise. That was the Labyrinth. Would the boat below hold this motley crew?
Their voices grew louder, yammering at her, pleading with her. “I will take you!” she said. “But it is not an easy journey. We travel through Hades itself.”
Silence.
One brave soul spoke. “With you we will get through. Left here we will die.”
“Are the Golden fleeing, mistress?”
I really don’t know, Chloe thought. But Cheftu is not leaving with Dion, that I can promise you. “If we are going, we need to go,” she said.
As if they were first-graders on a class trip, Chloe paired them up, swiping torches as they walked through the deserted palace. Instructing them to be quick and quiet, she led them down the steps. Please let the boat be there. Please let everyone fit! She hardly wanted to exercise values clarification by deciding who stayed and who fled.
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