by Lentz, P. K.
But I cannot speak of these things. For now, no one must know.
I turn and address my fellow Atlanteans. "Do any among us have cause to reject the invitation of Ares? Do any not wish to dwell in peace with the Chrysioi in the city they have built, that greater safety might be found in combining our strength? Speak now!"
No voices are raised. I turn to Ares, who smiles as I bid him, "Take us to Neolympus."
12. Neolympus
Well before we reach the city, I can see why the Chrysioi chose the site on which they have built their new city. Unless giants are better climbers than folk of our stature (which is the case, for all I know) then Neolympus would seem to have only one, arduous route of approach. But inaccessibility is not its only defense. A surrounding wall, carved from the stone of the mountain, makes the city all but invisible from afar. It remains so until one is almost upon it, at which time the sight inspires awe.
I do not know exactly how many Chrysioi there are, but no matter the number, I find it hard to comprehend how they could have accomplished so much in so few seasons. As we near the great timber gates of the wall, I realize that each stone block is as tall as I am. Did I not know better, I would think this the work of Pyrakmon's people. The wall is ... Cyclopean.
It is a sobering sight. If the Chrysioi can build this, we cannot possibly stand against them. If they were to insist on making slaves of us, we would have but two choices: submission or death. If it turns out that Ares has spoken falsely in drawing us here, I honestly cannot say which of those two I would choose.
Behind the stark surrounding wall lies a paradise. There are more structures than I can count, many of them with peaked roofs supported by columns. Gardens everywhere are filled with broad-leafed plants the likes which I might have seen before in my unremembered life, but not in this one. Looming behind it all is a sheer wall of purple mountainside down which cascades a slender waterfall that erupts at its base into clouds of billowing mist.
As I marvel, a familiar sound turns my head. Perched on a peaked roof, cawing, I see not one but two ravens. One is that which has dogged us since our arrival in this place; it has followed us here. The second looks to be his twin.
The several male and female Chrysioi we see on entering the city look nothing like the ragged refugees that we must seem; no, they are clean and well-dressed, and the name of Golden Ones suits them. Most wear grins and offer us friendly greetings which we are happy to return, but a few, likely those who view us as strangers looking out from the eyes of men and women they once knew. I can scarcely blame them; I only hope that those who despise us are a minority which can be held in check by Ares' command.
Scanning the faces of the Chrysioi, I find one which I have never seen, but whom I recognize by some fleshly instinct, or simply the way her bright eyes fix on me and me alone. She, like Daphne and some others of the female Chrysioi, wears battle dress, a sheathed sword hanging at her hip, dark hair tied sleekly back and gathered in tightly wound braid. She is Enyo, wife of Ares and mother to Enyalios whose flesh I have usurped, and she conveys from afar, without need for words, her hatred of me. I let my gaze fall upon her only briefly, returning nothing, and thereafter I avoid looking upon her.
"Ares," I say, drawing to a halt in this mountain paradise of cut stone and lush greenery. "I would speak with you privately."
The Lord of the Chrysioi smiles and invites me to walk with him. Letting Crow know with a look that our people are in his charge, I accept.
In a garden of broad-leafed trees and flowering vines near the base of the gentle waterfall, far enough from the others to afford us some privacy, I address Ares: "I have three demands."
"Demands?" he echoes with a smirk of amusement.
"Yes," I reply humorlessly. "Three, at present. First, a question."
Ares' smile fades. "By all means."
"Your breastplate."
He looks down upon its gruesome visage—I decline to follow suit—and answers, "The Aegis. An artifact of great power. It protects the wearer from all physical harm. It was my sister Athena's."
"Who led the Chrysioi before you," I recall aloud. "That you now wear it says it failed her."
Ares nods, almost mournfully. "It did and did not. Athena yet lives, and is here with us in Neolympus. But since the battle in which she fell to the swarm, she sleeps, and cannot by woken by any means we have yet discovered."
"I see." It is of some interest to me to know that the Chrysioi have among them a potential leader other than Ares, even if she presently cannot rule. But that interest is neither immediate nor pressing. I continue, "My demands are reasonable. One, Medea must endeavor to help us regain our memories. Two, a fresh search will be conducted for our missing sister, led by me and with aid from the Chrysioi. And three, if we Atlanteans truly are to be treated as equals, then the fruit known as Ambrosia must be shared equally with us."
I fall silent, awaiting Ares' reply. After a moment's consideration, he gives it:
"To answer your last point first, the small stock we of the fruit which we brought with us has been depleted. Ambrosia grew in but one orchard in all of Olympus. If and when we succeed in getting the trees to take root in in this land, it will be many seasons before they can bear fruit. At that time, if it comes, then the harvest will gladly be shared.
"As to the first, your memories," Ares goes on, "Indeed, I shall make the request of Medea that she spare no effort in making you whole. However, I cannot say whether the task is within her considerable power. I hope that it is, and that she can help you obtain the answers you seek.
"Lastly, the question of your comrade, Ayessa." Ares frowns sympathetically. "I sense that she means more to you than the others. Thus does it pain me to repeat to you my strong belief that she is not missing, but dead. However... I see no harm in your leading a fresh search, so long as it is limited in scope and duration. I understand your desire to find her, but given our somewhat fragile position in this world, we can scant afford an open-ended endeavor on behalf of one."
Ares smiles. "Do you see? Your every demand is met with no thought given to recompense. Does this not bode well for our future?"
"Aye," I concede. Ares offers his open right hand, and I clasp it tightly.
As our hands part, a raven caws, drawing Ares' eyes and mine to the black bird perched on a slender branch within the garden in which we stand.
"That thing has trailed us since our arrival here," I remark. "We have seen no others like it, until today, on your wall."
"That is no coincidence," Ares declares in a darker tone than seems warranted, causing me to take notice. "Its twin has spied on us almost constantly since our own arrival."
"Spied?"
Ares raises dark brows at me in a look of mild surprise. "Do you mean to tell me that in more than twenty days, you have failed to draw that conclusion?"
"We were born twenty days ago," I counter. "A bird did not seem of importance."
"Oh, but it is," Ares tells me. "For they are not mere birds. Medea's magicks have no effect upon the one which has watched us. Every so often, it leaves us to fly through a certain pass in the mountains. Without doubt, it returns to its master."
"Who?" I ask.
Ares shrugs. "Surely not the brutes we have encountered thus far. If we are lucky, it is some solitary enchanter who is wary of us. But if we are not lucky..." He chuckles darkly. "If we are not lucky, Thamoth, then we must be strong, instead. And uniting our two peoples strengthens us both in the face of whatever may come."
"In all this time, have you not sent scouts through this pass? To follow the ravens?"
Decisively, Ares shakes his head. "I have forbidden it. If there is to be conflict, hastening it can do us no good. Time is on our side. Either they will come to us in a spirit of war or peace, or else, one day, when we are ready, and not before, we shall seek out the ravens' master."
Sighing, I look about and scowl at the brightly-painted roofs, stout walls, fluted columns, and verdant gardens
nestled in the shadow of a craggy, cloud-wreathed peak. I believe Ares. Not to a fault, but enough to accept that Neolympus will serve well as a home for my people.
Yet I myself will not long dwell here. I shall stay long enough, perhaps, for the witch to restore my mind or, failing that, to learn that she cannot. I must leave behind this, my new home, before it even can become my home, and leave the people whom I have led here, having fulfilled, for now, my obligation to them.
I must seek Ayessa, and thanks to Ares, I know with near-certainty where that search must take me. I must go where the ravens fly. There, I will find answers, and there, if her bones do not litter these mountains, I will find Ayessa.
I tell Ares, "This is cause for celebration."
My own mood is not celebratory, but I wish for my people, and theirs, to see our union as a joyous occasion.
Ares smiles again, and it is not the smile of the hunter whose unsuspecting prey has taken carefully lain bait. It is, as far as I can tell, a smile of genuine pleasure.
He throws his arms open and embraces me, as he might a brother, or the lost son whose skin I wear.
13. Medea
Into that evening, we feast and drink wine made by the uptight Kerion, whose evident distaste for Atlanteans fails to sour us on his product, which we are happy to drain to the dregs. I myself drink sparingly at first, that I might keep one eye always on the two ravens.
My vigilance pays off. As the sky turns pink, I witness one of the dark twins take to wing. I am able to follow its path away from the city and make note of the distant mountain pass through which it disappears. Thereafter, egged on by Crow, I permit myself to partake more freely of the sweet Chrysioi wine and soon am able to enjoy myself. That night, two peoples take a small step closer to becoming one, laughing and fraternizing as though no distinction separates us.
I am glad for that, as I succumb to heavy sleep in a bed of flowers.
The following dawn, I shake off the prior night's ill effects to begin learning what I can and planning my departure. There are ninety-odd Chrysioi, all told. Unlike ours, their numbers are split roughly evenly between male and female. We thirty-three-plus-ten Atlanteans are assigned comfortable quarters in three shared dormitories, two housing men and another for our twelve women. Ares introduces me to his brother Hephaestus, a mountain of a blacksmith who drags one lame leg behind him as he walks. Although he shares blame with his brother and all the Chrysioi for the needless deaths of some fifty Atlanteans, I offer him words of genuine gratitude for having provided the key which saved those of us who yet live.
I also 'meet' their sister Athena, whose slumbering, battle-dressed form is laid out on display on a marble plinth in a columned sanctuary built for the purpose. In speaking to various Chrysioi, I gather that Athena is older and better liked than Ares, and would naturally retake her place as leader of the Chrysioi were she to awaken.
I do these things with impatience, for what I truly wish to do is commence my search for Ayessa. But preparation is required, and anyway, if I truly intend never to return to Neolympus, at least not in failure, then there is one matter of vital importance to which I first must attend...
It is not until our second full day as Neolympians that I am able to gain audience with the witch Medea. My first close-up sight of her chills me every bit as much as did the glimpse I had in the cavern in Hades, where first she summoned my soul up from the depths. The cloak she wears is of dark red, the color of a wound, and from its deep hood issues black hair in chaotic spirals which take on a similarly bloody hue when light hits them. Across her eyes and over the bridge of her nose, running from temple to temple, is a painted streak of gray, the color of ash, from within which golden irises skewer the object of their stare. Her angular cheeks are unlined, and the bronze skin of her neck is supple, but she does not have the appearance of youth; yet neither does she look old. It may be that she is ageless.
Physically drained, I have been told, by the extensive application of her powers in the building of Neolympus, the witch hugs a tall staff that might be the only thing holding her upright. Such posture makes her no less imposing a figure, though, for the strength Medea radiates is not of the physical kind.
Her first word to me is my name: "Thamoth." A whisper which sets my hairs on end. "You wish to know thyself?" A silent affirmative is all I can manage. "Are you certain? You may not be pleased with what you learn."
She walks around me, her staff thumping slowly on flagstone in a garden adjacent to the great hall from which Ares rules over Neolympus.
"Most lives end full of regrets," she continues. "You have been given a gift that few ever receive, that of a new start. Why not take it?"
"Another soul was reborn to which I feel drawn," I confess to the witch, even though it is no concern of hers. "She knew my name, and I hers. She... feared me, but I know with every shred of my being that in our prior lives, I loved her."
"Hmmph," Medea intones, scorn twisting her dark lips. "You speak of the one eaten by giants."
"She lives!" I counter angrily. I do not bother to ask how she knew that; she is a witch.
Medea scoffs. "I suppose you feel it in your heart, or your left leg, or your... Pfft! Never mind. I care not. You wish to know yourself? I doubt it is possible, but fortunately for you, I rather enjoy doing the impossible. Return to me tomorrow, and every six days thereafter, until either you know why the tasty dead girl feared you... or I have grown tired of trying."
She whirls and stalks off, crimson cloak billowing, staff thumping stone.
That night, I stand alone upon the Cyclopean walls, glumly staring down on the distant tops of evergreens as I weigh a decision I do not wish to make: to leave tomorrow on my search, as planned, if Medea fails, or to remain here for some multiple of six days in the hope she will succeed.
She mocked my feeling that Ayessa lives, but I do feel it. Rather, I know that her death would have shaken my soul. She is out there, somewhere. My gaze is drawn to the ravens' pass. However it is that I know Ayessa lives, I know, too, that that is where my search must take me.
But... first I will give the witch some number of chances to do the impossible. In the meantime, I can take Kairos, for his luck, and whomever else is willing, on expeditions into the surrounding valleys, to seek my Wellspring. I have not lived long, so it is possible that I am merely a fool and my feelings false.
Perhaps Medea will succeed in her first attempt, and my worry will prove for naught.
The next day, in her witch's den, far from the other dwellings and structures of Neolympus, Medea drains my blood into a goblet, mixes it with several unsavory ingredients, and speaks enchantments over the potion before bidding me drink it, which I do--to no result other than retching.
Swallowing disappointment, I lead a search party to the site where Ayessa was last seen, guided there by a survivor of the same giant attack that resulted in her disappearance. It is nothing but a clearing, and I discover no clues there, but I do privately take note of one fact: the place stands on a direct line between Neolympus and the wooded pass through which the ravens fly. From Ayessa's last known location, the pass is clearly visible.
We scour a wide area, to no avail. Six days later, in Medea's den, I inhale foul-smelling smoke and fall unconscious, to awaken hours later with my burden of ignorance no lighter. In the six days which follow, I conduct another search and quietly prepare Crow, without informing him of my plans, to lead our people in my stead. Then I allow Medea to hold my head underwater while I thrash and spasm and finally pass out.
All for naught. It is the near-drowning which first makes me suspect that Medea might be entertaining herself at my expense. But when I raise the possibility to Ares, he assures me that such are the witch's ways. And so, three more times, I submit to her indignities in the hope of knowing myself.
In all, I meet with Medea six times over thirty-six days.
"Tell the truth," I demand angrily of the witch, after the sixth visit yields not the vaguest
vision of my lost past. My bare flesh is covered with arcane sigils drawn with ink made from my own blood and the ashes of a bird that has been burned alive. "Are you any closer to success than the day we began? Is this task beyond you?"
She fixes me with a golden glare.
"Tell me!" I press, frustration making me bold. "Can you do it?"
"I don't know!" Medea snaps, displaying what she has not until now: frustration. She has not been toying with me, then, but only been unwilling to admit that a task is beyond her. "My magic is better suited to other uses. More important ones!"
She sweeps her staff at me. She no longer leans upon it, having steadily recovered her strength of limb as the burden required of her in the building of Neolympus lessens.
"Be gone with you!" she spits. "Be grateful for the new life I gave you, and stop asking for more!"
I heed her and leave, for I do not need the Chrysioi to tell me that it is unwise to sink too deeply into argument with a witch. I am disappointed, of course, but hardly surprised.
In a way I feel relief, for now my path is clear. It is the path forbidden by Ares. The ravens' path.
14. Ravens' Pass
When I gather my next set of volunteers to search the woods, I know it will be the last time I do so. Conveniently, the destination I have chosen is an area near the ravens' pass. I take with me extra food and supplies, but this comes as no surprise to any who know me, for it has been my calculated habit to stay out searching for an extra day or two after the rest have returned to Neolympus.
Crow has on occasion been among the searchers, but I discourage it. I prefer that he remain and become accustomed to the responsibilities of leading our people and representing their interests to Ares. He has done well. He is surely more ready for the role than I ever was when I took it on.
Shortly before my departure, Crow regards me in way which causes me to tense with worry. "I think I know what you plan, Thamoth," he says.
