by Diana Tyler
I jump out of the dream with an audible gasp, startling the Centaur who curses under his breath.
“You enjoy your sleep, your highness?” he asks facetiously.
I pat my face with my hands, comb my fingers through my hair, then pull out the jasper stone and press it to my lips.
“Centaur, I never thought I’d be so happy to see you,” I say. And I mean it. Before that dream, never would I have fathomed that one day I could feel relieved to be sitting atop a begrimed and barbaric half-breed while roaming through an utter wasteland in between ranks of armed rebels. But life often proves we don’t know ourselves as well as we’d supposed; what we couldn’t possibly conceive of at daybreak can be our reality by dusk.
“Are you happy to see this?” says the Centaur, his hairy finger pointing ahead.
The solider who spoke to me last night was right. While I slept, the Centaur had carried me all the way to the Soukinoi fortress – at least, I assume it is their fortress because it is the only structure as far as the eye can see. It doesn’t look much like a fortress at all, but rather appears to be the dilapidated ruins of an Alpha temple.
Six massive limestone columns rise elegantly to a mildly pitched wooden roof. The old temple’s façade is made of marble and features what surely was once a spectacular frieze of gods and heroes engaged in war, which, as the esteemed Alpha thinkers said long ago, has “always existed by nature,” and is “king of all of us.” I’m sure it was the sculptor’s intention to portray not only the gore and glory of war, but its inextricable presence in the ages, one that not even the greatest of peacemakers or wisest of sages will ever be able to banish. At the mercy of the Eusebian revolutionaries, however, the tableau is degraded to a canvas, its supernal faces marred by the hate-filled Soukinoi with garish colors of paint.
At Titus’s command, the soldiers break formation. Some dismount and talk amongst themselves, others ride freely past the temple, whooping wildly until they are out of sight, lost behind a cloud of sand and a blinding sun.
“Welcome to Ēlektōr.” I look down to see Alexa holding out her hand. “Your weapon.” I hand the sword to her.
“That would be my weapon,” the Centaur says.
“Half-breed, you own nothing!” Alexa says sharply, raising the sword to his throat.
“Don’t hurt yourself, girl,” the Centaur laughs.
“Titus!” Alexa calls, lowering the sword and shaking her weakened arms one at a time.
Not a minute later, the general approaches. “Are you all right, princess?” he asks.
“Have this sack of scum put in a cell. He vexes me…” she says, cheeks reddening, jaw tightening.
Titus gives an obedient nod and unsheathes his sword. “Come with me,” he orders the Centaur.
“I kept my oath!” the Centaur shouts. “I am free to go!”
“He’s right,” I say, unable to keep out of it. “We had an agreement. He was to get the girl and me here, and then I would permit him to leave.”
“And who do you think you are…” Alexa says, her volatile eyes homing in on me like a hornet. “What makes you think you have the right to permit anything?!”
“I gave him my word. As a Eusebian. If that means anything here…”
“It means we don’t make deals with Pythonian parasites!” she screams. “It means we know better than to believe a word they say. The second he’s back in Limén, he’ll tell all his Alpha friends where we are. All it takes is a few left-over ribs or a piglet runt to bribe a Centaur.”
“Any fire in those hands of yours?” the Centaur growls at me.
“And to you, princess, your word means trick and deceive until you get your way. Sounds Pythonian if you ask– ”
“That’s enough,” Titus stops me. “I didn’t come here to moderate moral disputes, but to do as I’m told. Come with me, Centaur.”
The Centaur turns his head toward me. “Looks like your ride is over,” he says, then kneels for me to climb down. I do so reluctantly.
“You’re lucky you’re being kept alive, half-breed!” yells Alexa.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to him. He looks down at the ground and paws at it, this time not out of ire, but uneasiness – he’s afraid.
“I bet you’ve got sweet bones,” he says wryly.
“Sweeter than the girl’s,” I joke.
The Centaur gives a hoarse laugh as he takes his place beside Titus, whose sword is raised, ready to prod its captive to his confinement.
CHAPTER TWELVE
OATH
Before I humiliate myself by shedding a tear for the Centaur, Alexa pulls on my cloak.
“Come on. We’re going to meet Diokles,” she says.
“Who?” I ask.
“My brother. Our leader.”
“The one who ordered you to stalk me…and to kill me if you had the chance?” I ask, incredulous.
The girl laughs. “You may want to make a good impression. Don’t say too much.”
I follow her up the temple steps, past rows of bronze incense burners and through the colonnades, straight to the east-facing door of the cella, opened just enough for the admission of necessary sunlight. She presses her forefinger to her lips.
“Shh!”
I roll my eyes and then fix them on the once-hallowed earth below, where spotless animals had been sacrificed and votive offerings bought and sold by devout Alphas decades – if not centuries – ago, before their leaders decided to disown their gods, relegate them to bedtime fables and theater farces, and govern by their own wits.
Though I don’t know which gods of the countryside – the Theo Nomio, as the Alphas called them – this temple once honored, I know that they are far from here, perhaps patronizing more pious realms of Petros. Or then again, maybe they truly never did exist at all, except in the minds of the ancient dreamers who sought to answer the riddles of the world, harness the unknown forces hovering above and flowing through it, and with luck, find favor with them.
“Come from the four winds of the earth, O breath.
Breathe into these dead that they may live again.”
A raspy, unctuous voice echoes against the walls of the cella, reciting words every Eusebian child memorizes before their mouths can form them.
“So I gave the oracle as you told me.
And breath flew in from the winds and brought life to the dead.
And they all stood up together, a great army of Duna.”
This is one of the most famous and most cherished Eusebian prophecies; it foretells the resurrection of the spirit and will of our people, and a promised liberation from those who have oppressed us for so long. It seems that whoever is speaking believes the oracle’s fulfillment to be close at hand.
“Let’s go!” Alexa whispers.
We walk slowly into the gloomy inner chamber. Strangely, I feel no angst entering the presence of the man who has been expecting a positive report of my death. It seems that any natural, sensible desire to flee has been superseded by my curiosity to meet the one responsible for galvanizing so many of my people, and threatening the lives of many others. But then, even if I did try to run, how far would I make it before Alexa or another of her comrades flung a knife or sword into my back? Probably no farther than the marble effigies of warring heroes carved into the temple pediment. And no matter if they are nothing more than stone renderings of beings sprung from the arcane crevices of men’s minds, I still do not wish to die a deserter’s death before them.
Alexa shuts the door behind us and motions for me to join her standing still against it. The cella is dark, illuminated only by a few small terracotta oil lamps flickering along the perimeter. At the farthest end of the room is a small niche in the wall, about three feet high and no wider than me. The speaker stands beneath the lamplight and continues to read:
“Then you will know that you are my people, and
That I am Duna, your God.
You will know what I have spoken,
And that I have d
one it.”
The speaker turns so that I can see his profile. If not for his position under the light, he would be invisible, a spirit’s voice haunting his unmarked sepulcher. His gaunt face is heavily lined, his expression austere, shoulders stooped, and the top of his head completely bald and speckled with spots from the sun. What is left of his hair has been collected into a long braid which forms a wispy gray rope down his back. He wears a thick brown robe, so long that even his feet are covered. When he turns toward the niche, I see that he holds before him a large tablet of amber, the sacred text he’s been reading from encased within it.
A second man joins him at his side, kisses two of his own fingertips, then touches them to the amber. The speaker bows slightly, kneels before the niche, and pushes the tablet into it. Then he sits back onto his heels, and with arms outstretched along the floor begins to mumble inaudibly.
“Peace.” The speaker this time is the other man barely perceptible in the lamplight, a man much taller than his elder and with a voice much more resonant. His hair is blond and wavy like his sister’s, but cropped short above his ears. His eyes, however, are bigger than hers, and bright cerulean, the color of the Great Sea on clear summer days; they are eyes that pierce right through me.
“Peace,” I repeat, unsure if silence would have been the safer response. But the leader smiles and motions for Alexa and me to come nearer.
“Sister,” the leader says to Alexa as he bends over to embrace her. “I was up all night long with the priest praying for you. I declared a fast until you returned safely.”
“I’m sorry, brother. I can explain everything if you wa – ”
“Shhh…” he says, and kisses her forehead. “No explanation is required. All that matters is that you’re home now.”
Alexa wraps her arms around her brother’s torso and squeezes him tightly; then, as if remembering the nuisance standing behind her, she quickly drops her arms and shoots her eyes back at me. “Brother, do you not wish me explain her?” she asks.
“This is Acheron’s slave?” he asks.
“Was,” I say, surprised at how much the correction feels like a reflex bursting from my lips. My antipathy toward Acheron seems to be intensifying by the hour…
“Do not speak to my brother unless he asks you to!” Alexa hisses. Her brother smiles and places both his hands on her shoulders.
“It’s alright, sister,” he says. “I can respect her eagerness to disassociate from her master – former master,” he grins, flashing an ivory smile that could only be rivaled by one other person I know…
The thought of Tycho’s dimpled grin makes me remember Carya’s warning to me through Aspasia, that I would find him near the amber scrolls and speak up for his life as he spoke up for mine. But I have heard nothing of Tycho since I sat at Gennadius’s table, and I hope with all that I am no rumor of him emerges, because I haven’t the slightest idea how I could defend him – and more importantly, if I would even dare to try.
The burden I carry assures me that I have no debts owed to anyone, not even to the man who saved my life. All I have is a chance to avenge my brother and the others who have perished at Acheron’s hand. And I’m going to take it.
“My name is Iris, sir,” I say, trying pitifully to redeem my first impression.
“I’m Diokles, leader of the Soukinoi.” He extends his hand, and I take it.
A palpable silence hangs in the air between us as he continues to grip my hand, not hard, but not softly either, just enough to make me feel vulnerable and hope that his moods are not as erratic as his sister’s. I keep my eyes on his, careful not to look away like a cornered animal.
Finally, he lets go.
“It must have been terrifying being a slave to such a monster,” he says. “Never knowing when your next whipping might be. Wondering if the next lash will be the last thing you feel…” I nod my head and bite my lip, fighting to resist the stinging memories of midnight beatings and the smell of wine and blood mingling on my lacerated body. “You must be very brave,” he says, and then slides a knife out of his belt. “Antipater, you may leave now!”
The old priest slowly peels his arms off the floor and pushes a skeletal hand against the wall as he gets to his feet. His feet make a shuffling sound as he moves like a sloth toward the door. With a groan of exertion he pulls open the door and lets himself out of the cella and into an abrasive rectangle of sun. I close my eyes until the door is shut, which seems like an eternity as I wonder why the priest was told to leave…and why Diokles holds a dagger in his hand…
“My sister doesn’t spare just anyone,” Diokles says. “Whether she’ll admit to it or not, her intuition told her to test you, and to bring you here.”
Alexa stares at me blankly, apathetically. Did she really see something valuable in me back in Limén, or was she simply satisfying her thirst for adventure, or indulging her curiosity about my gift? I may never know, but it doesn’t matter anyway. All she wants is to please her brother; that much is clear.
“Lysander wanted to kill you because of your loyalty to Acheron,” Diokles goes on. “I sent Alexa to kill you in case cowardice got the better of you, which it did.” I open my mouth to refute his opinion, but think better of it and bite my tongue. “And both times you have escaped death. I cannot believe that such luck is merely coincidence.”
“I want to kill Acheron. I missed my chance because – ”
“Because her doma didn’t work,” Alexa says casually, as if she were referring to a farmer’s obstinate ox or a builder’s broken hammer.
Diokles’s eyes light up. “You’re an Asher? You must have just received your impartation.”
“And what makes you say that?” I ask, discomfited by his shrewd assumption.
“The fact that you obviously don’t know how it operates,” he answers. “But I can show you. Do you want to master it?” His lambent eyes dance under the dim yellow light.
I want to avenge my brother, I think.
I answer loudly, calmly, “I’ve heard you’re planning a revolt, and I want to be a part of it.”
“Yes, at the Feast of Therismos in Eirene just a few days away. Acheron will be there, along with all the Guardians. And together we will deliver them to Hades, won’t we, sister?” he says, squeezing Alexa’s shoulder. She jumps up and down, clapping her hands, tickled by the thought of massacre.
“I have my own armor, Iris,” she says. “You will be very jealous.”
But I’m too excited to be envious. I’m no longer chasing a dream; I’ve been given a guarantee – a time, a place for my hunt to reach its climax.
“Alexa, the jar,” says Diokles. Alexa turns, disappears into the darkness, and returns moments later holding a cloth and a clay jar. Her brother closes his eyes and repeats from memory:
“‘The man who holds contempt for the judge or for the priest who stands ministering to Duna shall be put to death. You must expel the evil from Petros.’”
“Give me your right hand.” he says, opening his eyes. I give it to him and he turns it palm up, resting the knife blade in its center. “Ah. The power is here. I feel it.” He smiles at my hand, then slowly begins wrenching my forearm until I hiss in pain and my agitated veins rise to the surface, pushing my flame-hot skin against his hand.
He jerks his hand back fast, and the knife falls with a sharp ping onto the floor; he shakes his hand cool before picking it up and taking my hand again. “Full of fire, are you, Iris?”
My heartbeat accelerates and I can feel my hand start to sweat inside his grasp. He already knows what I am and what I have, and I know there’s no turning back, no changing my mind. The prophecy said you would end up here, I hear a voice whisper to me from within. You mustn’t fight your fate.
“Do you swear to focus the energy of your doma on destroying our oppressors?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear never to use your doma against one of your Soukinoi brethren?”
“I do.”
�
�Do you swear to follow the orders you are given without deviation?”
“I do.”
Diokles picks up his dagger and stares into my eyes as he drags the blade across my palm. And I don’t flinch. I’ve known pain much worse than this.
Alexa holds the jar below our hands. I tilt mine, watching the wine-red blood spill into it, feeling the throbbing flesh, and letting my lips form a smile as I envision Acheron’s life emptying into a vessel of my own.
“It is done,” says Diokles. “Welcome, sister.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PROMETHEUS
Alexa sits beside me at a sandstone table while we wait for breakfast with at least a hundred others gathered inside this mud brick tavern. The air is thick, the musty smell of barley porridge permeating the cramped space and causing the biggest and hungriest of the Soukinoi to restlessly spin their swords on the earthen floor and throw their daggers into lines of crude wooden targets that wrap the walls. Alexa drums her fingers along the table, humming a made-up melody as she munches on a sweet-smelling piece of fruit.
“The men and women eat together?” I ask her, counting seven other women at our table alone.
“We aren’t Alpha,” says Alexa. “We’re a family. Didn’t your family eat together?” I nod and feel myself relax a little as I sit back in my chair. Alexa reaches across me and takes two dry, pitted dates from a ceramic tray and dips each one into a honey-filled amphora on her left. “Here.” She places one in my hand as she sinks her teeth into the other with a sportive smile.
As I thank her, the men in the room begin to whoop as the cooks, four matronly, well-fed-looking women, burst out of the kitchen, each carrying a shallow, black-glazed bowl of porridge. The noise elevates, and it becomes clear that the tables cheering the loudest are served first. The cooks rush back into the kitchen and return again, pink-cheeked but cheerful, with hefty bowls overflowing with barley bread, figs, and olives. I look down at my plate; not a centimeter of it has been left uncovered by food.
