by Rick Riordan
“Er, well, I’m the god of music.”
“Then that is what I shall be. A god of music.”
Meg glanced back and smirked.
I tried to give Crest an encouraging smile, but I hoped he would not ask to flay me alive and consume my essence. I already had a waiting list for that. “Well, let’s master these chords first, shall we?”
We traced our way north of LA, through San Bernardino, then Pasadena. I found myself gazing up at the hills where we’d visited the Edgarton School. I wondered what the faculty would do when they found Jason Grace missing, and when they discovered that their school van had been commandeered and abandoned at the Santa Barbara waterfront. I thought of Jason’s diorama of Temple Hill on his desk, the sketchbooks that waited on his shelf. It seemed unlikely I would live long enough to keep my promise to him, to bring his plans safely to the two camps. The thought of failing him yet again hurt my heart even worse than Crest’s attempt at a G-flat minor 6.
Finally Crest directed us south on Interstate 5, toward the city. We took the Crystal Springs Drive exit and plunged into Griffith Park with its winding roads, rolling golf courses, and thick groves of eucalyptus.
“Farther,” Crest said. “The second right. Up that hill.”
He guided us onto a gravel service road not designed for a Mercedes XLS.
“It’s up there.” Crest pointed into the woods. “We must walk.”
Grover pulled over next to a stand of yuccas, who for all I knew were friends of his. He checked out the trailhead, where a small sign read OLD LOS ANGELES ZOO.
“I know this place.” Grover’s goatee quivered. “I hate this place. Why would you bring us here?”
“Told you,” Crest said. “Maze entrance.”
“But…” Grover gulped, no doubt weighing his natural aversion to places that caged animals against his desire to destroy the Burning Maze. “All right.”
Meg seemed happy enough, all things considered. She breathed in the what-passed-in-LA-for-fresh air and even did a few tentative cartwheels as we made our way up the trail.
We climbed to the top of the ridge. Below us spread the ruins of a zoo—overgrown sidewalks, crumbling cement walls, rusty cages, and man-made caves filled with debris.
Grover hugged himself, shivering despite the heat. “The humans abandoned this place decades ago when they built their new zoo. I can still feel the emotions of the animals that were kept here—their sadness. It’s horrible.”
“Down here!” Crest spread his ears and sailed over the ruins, landing in a deep grotto.
Not having flight-worthy ears, the rest of us had to pick and climb our way through the tangled terrain. At last we joined Crest at the bottom of a grimy cement bowl covered with dried leaves and litter.
“A bear pit?” Grover turned pale. “Ugh. Poor bears.”
Crest pressed his eight-fingered hands against the back wall of the enclosure. He scowled. “This is not right. It should be here.”
My spirits sank to a new low. “You mean your secret entrance is gone?”
Crest hissed in frustration. “I should not have mentioned this place to Screamer. Amax must have heard us talking. He sealed it somehow.”
I was tempted to point out that it was never a good idea to share your secrets with someone named Screamer, but Crest looked like he felt bad enough already.
“What now?” Meg asked. “Use the downtown exit?”
“Too dangerous,” Crest said. “There must be a way to open this!”
Grover was so twitchy I wondered if he had a squirrel in his pants. He looked like he wanted very much to give up and run from this zoo as fast as possible. Instead, he sighed. “What did the prophecy say about your cloven guide?”
“That you alone knew the way,” I recalled. “But you already served that purpose getting us to Palm Springs.”
Reluctantly, Grover pulled out his pipes. “I guess I’m not done yet.”
“A song of opening?” I asked. “Like Hedge used in Macro’s store?”
Grover nodded. “I haven’t tried this in a while. Last time, I opened a path from Central Park into the Underworld.”
“Just get us into the maze, please,” I advised. “Not the Underworld.”
He raised his pipes and trilled Rush’s “Tom Sawyer.” Crest looked entranced. Meg covered her ears.
The cement wall shook. It cracked down the middle, revealing a steep set of rough-hewn stairs leading down into the dark.
“Perfect,” Grover grumbled. “I hate the underground almost as much as I hate zoos.”
Meg summoned her blades. She marched inside. After a deep breath, Grover followed.
I turned to Crest. “Are you coming with us?”
He shook his head. “I told you. I’m no fighter. I will watch the exit and practice my chords.”
“But I might need the uku—”
“I will practice my chords,” he insisted, and began strumming a suspended fourth.
I followed my friends into the dark, that chord still playing behind me—exactly the sort of tense background music one might expect just before a dramatic, bloodcurdling fight.
Sometimes I really hated suspended fourths.
THIS part of the maze had no elevators, wandering government employees, or signs reminding us to honk before turning corners.
We reached the bottom of the stairs and found a vertical shaft in the floor. Grover, being part goat, had no difficulty climbing down. After he called up that no monsters or fallen bears were waiting for us, Meg grew a thick swath of wisteria down the side of the pit, which allowed us some handholds and also smelled lovely.
We dropped into a small square chamber with four tunnels radiating outward, one from each wall. The air was hot and dry as if the fires of Helios had recently swept through. Sweat beaded on my skin. In my quiver, arrow shafts creaked and fletching hissed.
Grover peered forlornly at the tiny bit of sunlight seeping down from above.
“We’ll get back to the upper world,” I promised him.
“I was just wondering if Piper got my message.”
Meg looked at him over her blue-taped glasses. “What message?”
“I ran into a cloud nymph when I was picking up the Mercedes,” he said, as if running into cloud nymphs often happened when he was borrowing automobiles. “I asked her to take a message to Mellie, tell her what we were up to—assuming, you know, the nymph makes it there safely.”
I considered this, wondering why Grover hadn’t mentioned it earlier. “Were you hoping Piper might meet us here?”
“Not really…” His expression said Yes, please, gods, we could use the help. “I just thought she should know what we were doing in case…” His expression said in case we combust into flames and are never heard from again.
I disliked Grover’s expressions.
“Time for the shoes,” Meg said.
I realized she was looking at me. “What?”
“The shoes.” She pointed at the sandals hanging from my belt.
“Oh, right.” I tugged them from my belt. “I don’t suppose, er, either of you want to try them on?”
“Nuh-uh,” said Meg.
Grover shuddered. “I’ve had bad experiences with enchanted footwear.”
I was not excited to wear an evil emperor’s sandals. I feared they might turn me into a power-hungry maniac. Also, they didn’t go with my arctic camouflage. Nevertheless, I sat on the floor and laced up the caligae. It made me appreciate just how much more of the world the Roman Empire might have conquered if they’d had access to Velcro straps.
I stood up and tried a few steps. The sandals dug into my ankles and pinched at the sides. In the plus column, I felt no more sociopathic than usual. Hopefully I had not been infected with Caligulitis.
“Okay,” I said. “Shoes, lead us to the Erythraean Sibyl!”
The shoes did nothing. I thrust a toe in one direction, then another, wondering if they needed a kick start. I checked the soles for buttons
or battery compartments. Nothing.
“What do we do now?” I asked no one in particular.
The chamber brightened with a faint gold light, as if someone had turned up a dimmer switch.
“Guys.” Grover pointed at our feet. On the rough cement floor, the faint gold outline of a five-foot square had appeared. If it had been a trapdoor, we would’ve all dropped straight through. Identical connected squares branched off down each of the corridors like the spaces of a board game. The trails were not of equal length. One extended only three spaces into the hallway. Another was five spaces long. Another was seven. Another six.
Against the chamber wall on my right, a glowing golden inscription appeared in ancient Greek: Python-slayer, golden-lyred, armed with arrows of dread.
“What’s going on?” Meg asked. “What’s that say?”
“You can’t read ancient Greek?” I asked.
“And you can’t tell a strawberry from a yam,” she retorted. “What’s it say?”
I gave her the translation.
Grover stroked his goatee. “That sounds like Apollo. I mean, you. When you used to be…good.”
I swallowed my hurt feelings. “Of course it’s Apollo. I mean, me.”
“So, is the maze, like…welcoming you?” Meg asked.
That would have been nice. I’d always wanted a voice-activated virtual assistant for my palace on Olympus, but Hephaestus hadn’t been able to get the technology quite right. The one time he tried, the assistant had been named Alexasiriastrophona. She’d been very picky about having her name pronounced perfectly, and at the same time had an annoying habit of getting my requests wrong. I’d say, Alexasiriastrophona, send a plague arrow to destroy Corinth, please. And she would reply, I think you said: Men blame rows of soy and corn fleas.
Here in the Burning Maze, I doubted a virtual assistant had been installed. If it had been, it would probably only ask at which temperature I preferred to be cooked.
“This is a word puzzle,” I decided. “Like an acrostic or a crossword. The Sibyl is trying to guide us to her.”
Meg frowned at the different hallways. “If she’s trying to help, why can’t she just make it easy and give us a single direction?”
“This is how Herophile operates,” I said. “It’s the only way she can help us. I believe we have to, er, fill in the correct answer in the correct number of spaces.”
Grover scratched his head. “Does anyone have a giant golden pen? I wish Percy were here.”
“I don’t think we need that,” I said. “We just need to walk in the right direction to spell out my name. Apollo, six letters. Only one of these corridors has six spaces.”
“Are you counting the space we’re standing in?” Meg asked.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Let’s assume this is the start space.” Her question made me doubt myself, though.
“What if the answer is Lester?” she said. “That has six spaces, too.”
The idea made my throat itch. “Will you please stop asking good questions? I had this all figured out!”
“Or what if the answer is in Greek?” Grover added. “The question is in Greek. How many spaces would your name be then?”
Another annoyingly logical point. My name in Greek was Απολλων.
“That would be seven spaces,” I admitted. “Even if transcribed in English, Apollon.”
“Ask the Arrow of Dodona?” Grover suggested.
The scar in my chest tingled like a faulty electric outlet. “That’s probably against the rules.”
Meg snorted. “You just don’t want to talk to the arrow. Why not try?”
If I resisted, I imagined she would phrase it as an order, so I pulled forth the Arrow of Dodona.
BACKETH OFF, KNAVE! it buzzed in alarm. NE’ER AGAIN SHALT THOU STICKEST ME IN THY LOATHSOME CHEST! NOR IN THE EYES OF THY ENEMIES!
“Relax,” I told it. “I just want some advice.”
SO THOU SAYEST NOW, BUT I WARN THEE— The arrow went deathly still. BUT SOOTH. IS THIS A CROSSWORD I SEE BEFORE ME? VERILY, I DOTH LOVE CROSSWORDS.
“Oh, joy. Oh, happiness.” I turned to my friends. “The arrow loves crosswords.”
I explained our predicament to the arrow, who insisted on getting a closer look at the floor squares and the hint written on the wall. A closer look…with what eyes? I did not know.
The arrow hummed thoughtfully. METHINKS THE ANSWER SHALT BEEST IN THE COMMON TONGUE OF ENGLISH. ’TWOULD BEEST THE NAME BY WHICH THOU ART MOST FAMILIAR IN THE PRESENT DAY.
“He sayeth—” I sighed. “He says the answer will be in English. I hope he means modern English and not the strange Shakespearean lingo he speaks—”
’TIS NOT STRANGE! the arrow objected.
“Because we don’t have enough spaces to spell Apollonius beest thy answereth.”
OH, HA-HA. A JEST AS WEAK AS THY MUSCLES.
“Thanks for playing.” I sheathed the arrow. “So, friends, the tunnel with six squares. Apollo. Shall we?”
“What if we choose wrong?” Grover asked.
“Well,” I said, “perhaps the magic sandals will help. Or perhaps the sandals only allow us to play this game in the first place, and if we stray from the right path, despite the Sibyl’s efforts to assist us, we will open ourselves up to the fury of the maze—”
“And we burn to death,” Meg said.
“I love games,” Grover said. “Lead on.”
“The answer is Apollo!” I said, just for the record.
As soon as I stepped to the next square, a large capital A appeared at my feet.
I took this as a good sign. I stepped again, and a P appeared. My two friends followed close behind.
At last we stepped off the sixth square, into a small chamber identical to the last. Looking back, the entire word APOLLO blazed in our wake. Before us, three more corridors with golden rows of squares led onward—left, right, and forward.
“There’s another clue.” Meg pointed to the wall. “Why is this one in English?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Then I read aloud the glowing words: “‘Herald of new entrances, opener of the softly gliding year, Janus, of the double.’”
“Oh, that guy. Roman god of doorways.” Grover shuddered. “I met him once.” He looked around suspiciously. “I hope he doesn’t pop up. He would love this place.”
Meg traced her fingers across the golden lines. “Kinda easy, isn’t it? His name’s right there in the clue. Five letters, J-A-N-U-S, so it’s got to be that way.” She pointed down the hallway on the right, which was the only one with five spaces.
I stared at the clue, then the squares. I was beginning to sense something even more unsettling than the heat, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
“Janus isn’t the answer,” I decided. “This is more of a fill-in-the-blanks situation, don’t you think? Janus of the double what?”
“Faces,” Grover said. “He had two faces, neither of which I need to see again.”
I announced aloud to the empty corridor: “The correct answer is faces!”
I received no response, but as we proceeded down the right-hand corridor, the word FACES appeared. Reassuringly, we were not roasted alive by Titan fire.
In the next chamber, new corridors once again led in three directions. This time, the glowing clue on the wall was again in ancient Greek.
A thrill went through me as I read the lines. “I know this! It’s from a poem by Bacchylides.” I translated for my friends: “But the highest god, mighty with his thunderbolt, sent Hypnos and his twin from snowy Olympus to the fearless fighter Sarpedon.”
Meg and Grover stared at me blankly. Honestly, just because I was wearing the Caligula shoes, did I have to do everything?
“Something is altered in this line,” I said. “I remember the scene. Sarpedon dies. Zeus has his body carried away from the battlefield. But the wording—”
“Hypnos is the god of sleep,” Grover said. “That cabin makes excellent milk and cookies. But who’s his twi
n?”
My heart ka-thumped. “That’s what’s different. In the actual line, it doesn’t say his twin. It names the twin: Thanatos. Or Death, in English.”
I looked at the three tunnels. No corridor had eight squares for Thanatos. One had ten spaces, one had four, and one had five—just enough to fit DEATH.
“Oh, no…” I leaned against the nearest wall. I felt like one of Aloe Vera’s spikes was making its slimy way down my back.
“Why do you look so scared?” Meg asked. “You’re doing great so far.”
“Because, Meg,” I said, “we are not just solving random puzzles. We are putting together a word-puzzle prophecy. And so far, it says APOLLO FACES DEATH.”
I hated being right.
When we got to the end of the tunnel, the word DEATH blazed on the floor behind us. We found ourselves in a larger circular chamber, five new tunnels branching out before us like the fingers and thumb of a giant automaton hand.
I waited for a new clue to appear on the wall. Whatever it was, I desperately wanted the answer to be NOT REALLY. Or perhaps AND DEFEATS IT EASILY!
“Why is nothing happening?” Grover asked.
Meg tilted her head. “Listen.”
Blood roared in my ears, but at last I heard what Meg was talking about: a distant cry of pain—deep and guttural, more beast than human—along with the dull crackle of fire, as if…oh, gods. As if someone or something had been grazed by Titan heat and now lay dying a slow death.
“Sounds like a monster,” Grover decided. “Should we help it?”
“How?” Meg asked.
She had a point. The noise echoed, so diffuse I couldn’t tell which corridor it came from, even if we were free to pick our path without answering riddles.
“We’ll have to keep going,” I decided. “I imagine Medea has monsters on guard down here. That must be one of them. I doubt she’s too concerned about them occasionally getting caught in the fires.”
Grover winced. “Doesn’t seem right, letting it suffer.”
“Also,” Meg added, “what if one of those monsters triggers a flash fire and it comes our way?”
I stared at my young master. “You are a fountain of dark questions today. We have to have faith.”
