by Rick Riordan
Then Grover found his groove. His notes became more confident and lively, his cadence steadier. He played a fierce, desperate jig—the sort that satyrs piped in springtime in the meadows of ancient Greece, hoping to encourage dryads to come forth and dance with them in the wildflowers.
The song was hopelessly out of place in this fiery crossword dungeon. No nature spirit could possibly hear it. No dryads would come to dance with us. Nevertheless, the music dulled my pain. It lessened the intensity of the heat, like a cold towel pressed against my feverish forehead.
Medea’s chant faltered. She scowled at Grover. “Really? Are you going to stop that, or must I make you?”
Grover played even more frenetically—a distress call to nature that echoed through the room, making the corridors reverberate like the pipes of a church organ.
Meg abruptly joined in, singing nonsense lyrics in a terrible monotone. “Hey, how about that nature? We love those plants. Come on down, you dryads, and, uh, grow and…kill this sorceress and stuff.”
Herophile, who had once had such a lovely voice, who had been born singing prophecies, looked at Meg in dismay. With saintlike restraint, she did not punch Meg in the face.
Medea sighed. “Okay, that’s it. Meg, I’m sorry. But I’m sure Nero will forgive me for killing you when I explain how badly you sang. Flutter, Decibel—silence them.”
Behind the sorceress, Crest gurgled in alarm. He fumbled with his ukulele, despite his bound hands and two crushed fingers.
Meanwhile, Flutter and Decibel grinned with delight. “Now we shall have revenge! DIE! DIE!”
They unfurled their ears, raised their swords, and leaped toward the platform.
Could Meg have defeated them with her trusty scimitars?
I don’t know. Instead, she made a move almost as surprising as her sudden urge to sing. Maybe, looking at poor Crest, she decided that enough pandos blood had been shed. Maybe she was still thinking about her misdirected anger, and whom she should really spend her energy hating. Whatever the case, her scimitars flicked into ring form. She grabbed a packet from her belt and ripped it open—spraying seeds in the path of the oncoming pandai.
Flutter and Decibel veered and screamed as the plants erupted, covering them in fuzzy green nebulae of ragweed. Flutter smacked into the nearest wall and began sneezing violently, the ragweed rooting him in place like a fly on flypaper. Decibel crash-landed on the platform at Meg’s feet, the ragweed growing over him until he looked more like a bush than a pandos—a bush that sneezed a lot.
Medea face-palmed. “You know…I told Caligula that dragon’s teeth warriors make much better guards. But noooo. He insisted on hiring pandai.” She shook her head in disgust. “Sorry, boys. You had your chance.”
She snapped her fingers again. A ventus swirled to life, pulling a cyclone of cinders from the ichor lake. The spirit shot toward Flutter, ripped the screaming pandos from the wall, and dumped him unceremoniously into the fire. Then it swept across the platform, grazing my friends’ feet, and pushed Decibel, still sneezing and crying, off the side.
“Now, then,” Medea said, “if I can encourage the rest of you to BE QUIET…”
The ventus charged, encircling Meg and Grover, lifting them off the platform.
I cried out, thrashing in my chains, sure that Medea would hurl my friends into the fire, but they merely hung there suspended. Grover was still playing his pipes, though no sound came through the wind; Meg was scowling and shouting, probably something like THIS AGAIN? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
Herophile was not caught in the ventus. I supposed Medea considered her no threat. She stepped to my side, her fists still clenched. I was grateful for that, but I didn’t see what one boxing Sibyl could do against the power of Medea.
“Okay!” Medea said, a glint of triumph in her eyes. “I’ll start again. Doing this chant while controlling a ventus is not easy work, though, so please, behave. Otherwise I might lose my concentration and dump Meg and Grover into the ichor. And, really, we have too many impurities in there already, what with the pandai and the ragweed. Now, where were we? Oh, yes! Flaying your mortal form!”
“RESIST!” Herophile knelt at my side. “Apollo, you must resist!”
I could not speak through the pain. Otherwise I would have told her Resist. Gosh, thanks for that profound wisdom! You must be an Oracle or something!
At least she did not ask me to spell out the word RESIST on stone tiles.
Sweat poured down my face. My body sizzled, and not in the good way that it used to when I was a god.
The sorceress continued her chant. I knew she must be straining her power, but this time I didn’t see how I could take advantage of it. I was chained. I couldn’t pull the arrow-in-the-chest trick, and even if I did, I suspected Medea was far enough along with her magic that she could just let me die. My essence would trickle into the pool of ichor.
I couldn’t pipe like Grover. I couldn’t rely on ragweed like Meg. I didn’t have the sheer power of Jason Grace to break through the ventus cage and save my friends.
Resist….But with what?
My consciousness began to waver. I tried to hold on to the day of my birth (yes, I could remember that far back), when I jumped from my mother’s womb and began to sing and dance, filling the world with my glorious voice. I remembered my first trip into the chasm of Delphi, grappling with my enemy Python, feeling his coils around my immortal body.
Other memories were more treacherous. I remembered riding the sun chariot through the sky, but I was not myself…I was Helios, Titan of the sun, lashing my fiery whip across the backs of my steeds. I saw myself painted golden, with a crown of rays on my brow, moving through a crowd of adoring mortal worshippers—but I was Emperor Caligula, the New Sun.
Who was I?
I tried to picture my mother Leto’s face. I could not. My father, Zeus, with his terrifying glower, was only a hazy impression. My sister—surely, I could never forget my twin! But even her features floated indistinctly in my mind. She had silvery eyes. She smelled of honeysuckle. What else? I panicked. I couldn’t remember her name. I couldn’t remember my own name.
I splayed my fingers on the stone floor. They smoked and crumbled like twigs in a fire. My body seemed to pixelate, the way the pandai had when they disintegrated.
Herophile spoke in my ear, “Hold on! Help will arrive!”
I didn’t see how she could know that, even if she was an Oracle. Who would come to my rescue? Who could?
“You have taken my place,” she said. “Use that!”
I moaned in rage and frustration. Why was she talking nonsense? Why couldn’t she go back to speaking in riddles? How was I supposed to use being in her place, in her chains? I wasn’t an Oracle. I wasn’t even a god anymore. I was…Lester? Oh, perfect. That name I could remember.
I gazed across the rows and columns of stone blocks, now all blank, as if waiting for a new challenge. The prophecy wasn’t complete. Maybe if I could find a way to finish it…would it make a difference?
It had to. Jason had given his life so I could make it this far. My friends had risked everything. I could not simply give up. To free the Oracle, to free Helios from this Burning Maze…I had to finish what we’d started.
Medea’s chant droned on, aligning itself to my pulse, taking charge of my mind. I needed to override it, to disrupt it the way Grover had done with his music.
You have taken my place, Herophile had said.
I was Apollo, the god of prophecy. It was time for me to be my own Oracle.
I forced myself to concentrate on the stone blocks. Veins popped along my forehead like firecrackers under my skin. I stammered out, “B-bronze upon gold.”
The stone tiles shifted, forming a row of three tiles in the far upper left corner of the room, one word per square: BRONZE UPON GOLD.
“Yes!” the Sibyl said. “Yes, exactly! Keep going!”
The effort was horrible. The chains burned, dragging me down. I whimpered in agony, “East meets we
st.”
A second row of three tiles moved into position under the first, blazing with the words I’d just spoken.
More lines poured out of me:
“Legions are redeemed.
Light the depths;
One against many,
Never spirit defeated.
Ancient words spoken,
Shaking old foundations!”
What did that all mean? I had no idea.
The room rumbled as more blocks shifted into place, new stones rising from the lake to accommodate the sheer number of words. The entire left side of the lake was now roofed by the eight rows of three tile-wide words, like a pool cover rolled halfway over the ichor. The heat lessened. My shackles cooled. Medea’s chant faltered, releasing its hold on my consciousness.
“What is this?” hissed the sorceress. “We’re too close to stop now! I will kill your friends if you don’t—”
Behind her, Crest strummed a suspended fourth on the ukulele. Medea, who had apparently forgotten about him, almost leaped into the lava.
“You too?” she shouted at him. “LET ME WORK!”
Herophile whispered in my ear, “Hurry!”
I understood. Crest was trying to buy me time by distracting Medea. He stubbornly continued playing his (my) ukulele—a series of the most jarring chords I’d taught him, and some he must have been making up on the spot. Meanwhile Meg and Grover spun in their ventus cage, trying to break free without any luck. One flick of Medea’s fingers and they would meet the same fate as Flutter and Decibel.
Starting my voice again was even more difficult than towing the sun chariot out of the mud. (Don’t ask about that. Long story involving attractive swamp naiads.)
Somehow, I croaked out another line: “Destroy the tyrant.”
Three more tiles lined up, this time in the upper-right corner of the room.
“Aid the winged,” I continued.
Good gods, I thought. I’m speaking gibberish! But the stones continued to follow the guidance of my voice, much better than Alexasiriastrophona had ever done.
“Under golden hills,
Great stallion’s foal.”
The tiles continued stacking, forming a second column of three-tile lines that left only a thin strip of the fiery lake visible down the middle of the room.
Medea tried to ignore the pandos. She resumed her chanting, but Crest immediately broke her concentration again with an A-flat minor sharp 5.
The sorceress shrieked. “Enough of that, pandos!” She pulled a dagger from the folds of her dress.
“Apollo, don’t stop,” Herophile warned. “You must not—”
Medea stabbed Crest in the gut, cutting off his dissonant serenade.
I sobbed in horror, but somehow forced out more lines:
“Harken the trumpets,” I croaked, my voice almost gone. “Turn red tides—”
“Stop that!” Medea shouted at me. “Ventus, throw the prisoners—”
Crest strummed an even uglier chord.
“GAH!” The sorceress turned and stabbed Crest again.
“Enter stranger’s home,” I sobbed.
Another suspended fourth from Crest, another jab from Medea’s blade.
“Regain lost glory!” I yelled. The last stone tiles shifted into place—completing the second column of lines from the far side of the room to the edge of our platform.
I could feel the prophecy’s completion, as welcome as a breath of air after a long underwater swim. The flames of Helios, now visible only along the center of the room, cooled to a red simmer, no worse than your average five-alarm fire.
“Yes!” Herophile said.
Medea turned, snarling. Her hands glistened with the pandos’s blood. Behind her, Crest fell sideways, groaning, pressing the ukulele to his ruined gut.
“Oh, well done, Apollo,” Medea sneered. “You made this pandos die for your sake, for nothing. My magic is far enough along. I’ll just flay you the old-fashioned way.” She hefted her knife. “And as for your friends…”
She snapped her bloody fingers. “Ventus, kill them!”
THEN she died.
I won’t lie, gentle reader. Most of this narrative has been painful to write, but that last line was pure pleasure. Oh, the look on Medea’s face!
But I should rewind.
How did it happen, this most welcome fluke of fate?
Medea froze. Her eyes widened. She fell to her knees, the knife clattering from her hand. She toppled over face-first, revealing a newcomer behind her—Piper McLean, dressed in leather armor over her street clothes, her lip newly stitched, her face still badly bruised but filled with resolve. Her hair was singed around the edges. A fine layer of ash coated her arms. Her dagger, Katoptris, now protruded from Medea’s back.
Behind Piper stood a group of warrior maidens, seven in all. At first, I thought the Hunters of Artemis had come to save me yet again, but these warriors were armed with shields and spears made of honey-gold wood.
Behind me, the ventus unspooled, dropping Meg and Grover to the floor. My molten chains crumbled to charcoal dust. Herophile caught me as I fell over.
Medea’s hands twitched. She turned her face sideways and opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Piper knelt next to her. She placed her hand almost tenderly on the sorceress’s shoulder, then with her other hand, removed Katoptris from between Medea’s shoulder blades.
“One good stab in the back deserves another.” Piper kissed Medea on the cheek. “I’d tell you to say hello to Jason for me, but he’ll be in Elysium. You…won’t.”
The sorceress’s eyes rolled up in her head. She stopped moving. Piper glanced back at her wood-armored allies. “How about we dump her?”
“GOOD CALL!” the seven maidens shouted in unison. They marched forward, lifted the body of Medea, and tossed it unceremoniously into the fiery pool of her own grandfather.
Piper wiped her bloody dagger on her jeans. With her swollen, stitched-up mouth, her smile was more gruesome than friendly. “Hi, guys.”
I let out a heartbroken sob, which was probably not what Piper expected. Somehow, I got to my feet, ignoring the searing pain in my ankles, and ran past her to the place where Crest lay, gurgling weakly.
“Oh, brave friend.” My eyes burned with tears. I cared nothing for my own excruciating pain, the way my skin screamed when I tried to move.
Crest’s furry face was slack with shock. Blood speckled his snowy white fur. His midsection was a glistening mess. He clutched the ukulele as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world of the living.
“You saved us,” I said, choking on the words. “You—you bought us just enough time. I will find a way to heal you.”
He locked eyes with me and managed to croak, “Music. God.”
I laughed nervously. “Yes, my young friend. You are a music god! I—I will teach you every chord. We will have a concert with the Nine Muses. When—when I get back to Olympus…”
My voice faltered.
Crest was no longer listening. His eyes had turned glassy. His tortured muscles relaxed. His body crumbled, collapsing inward until the ukulele sat on a pile of dust—a small, sad monument to my many failures.
I don’t know how long I knelt there, dazed and shaking. It hurt to sob. I sobbed anyway.
Finally, Piper crouched next to me. Her face was sympathetic, but I thought somewhere behind her lovely multicolored eyes she was thinking Another life lost for your sake, Lester. Another death you couldn’t fix.
She did not say that. She sheathed her knife. “We grieve later,” she said. “Right now, our job isn’t done.”
Our job. She had come to our aid, despite everything that had happened, despite Jason….I could not fall apart now. At least, no more than I had already.
I picked up the ukulele. I was about to mutter some promise to Crest’s dust. Then I remembered what came from my broken promises. I had vowed to teach the young pandos any instrument he wished. Now he was dead. Despite the
searing heat of the room, I felt the cold stare of Styx upon me.
I leaned on Piper as she helped me across the room—back to the platform where Meg, Grover, and Herophile waited.
The seven women warriors stood nearby as if waiting for orders.
Like their shields, their armor was fashioned from cleverly fitted planks of honey-gold wood. The women were imposing, each perhaps seven feet tall, their faces as polished and beautifully turned as their armor. Their hair, in various shades of white, blond, gold, and pale brown, spilled down their backs in waterfall braids. Chlorophyll green tinted their eyes and the veins of their well-muscled limbs.
They were dryads, but not like any dryads I’d ever met.
“You’re the Meliai,” I said.
The women regarded me with disturbingly keen interest, as if they would be equally delighted to fight me, dance with me, or toss me into the fire.
The one on the far left spoke. “We are the Meliai. Are you the Meg?”
I blinked. I got the feeling they were looking for a yes, but as confused as I was, I was pretty sure I was not the Meg.
“Hey, guys,” Piper intervened, pointing to Meg. “This is Meg McCaffrey.”
The Meliai broke into a double-time march, lifting their knees higher than was strictly necessary. They closed ranks, forming a semicircle in front of Meg like they were doing a marching-band maneuver. They stopped, banged their spears once against their shields, then lowered their heads in respect.
“ALL HAIL THE MEG!” they cried. “DAUGHTER OF THE CREATOR!”
Grover and Herophile edged into the corner, as if trying to hide behind the Sibyl’s toilet.
Meg studied the seven dryads. My young master’s hair was windswept from the ventus. The electrical tape had come off her glasses, so she looked like she was wearing mismatched rhinestone-encrusted monocles. Her clothes had once again been reduced to a collection of burned, shredded rags—all of which, in my opinion, made her look exactly like The Meg should look.
