The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  “Where will Mr. Acacius go after his Coronation?” Agnes asked.

  “That’s the best part,” said the chief councilman, smiling at them like a magician about to start his grand finale. “Wherever…he…wants to go.”

  Once again, the children stirred with excitement—all of them except Chloe, whose focus was on Acacius and his shaking hands.

  “Acacius!” called a voice from above their heads. Chloe looked up to see a council member standing in the balcony before a giant stained-glass window. “Have you chosen your final destination?”

  Acacius shifted his weight from one foot to the other and drooped his head even lower. The chief councilman clutched the man’s shoulder and whispered something inaudible into his ear.

  “I have,” the old man said as loudly as he could, then he coughed into his sleeve.

  “Come with me. We will send you there promptly,” said the council member with a smile. He stretched out his arms to Acacius, beckoning the worn-out Elder to join him upstairs.

  The councilman patted Acacius on the back. Every eye watched as the head attendant hobbled down the center of the hall, with each shuffle of his heavy feet wrenching Chloe’s heart.

  “Will he be young again?” Chloe couldn’t help herself. The question popped out of her mouth before her mind could give it permission.

  “Say ‘Your Eminence!’” whispered the boy sitting beside her.

  “Your Eminence!” It sounded more like she was demanding rather than inquiring, but the councilman didn’t seem to mind. He turned to her and sauntered back toward the platform.

  “I almost forgot to mention…” he began as he took his seat. He took a drink from the glass of water that sat on the podium before him, then interlocked his fingers and raised them to his chin. The children knew this was what adults did when they had something especially significant to say, and they leaned in with curiosity.

  “During one’s Coronation,” the councilman continued, “one reverts to the peak of one’s youth, twenty-five years of age. Old enough and young enough to enjoy the best of their final destination with the throngs of fellow Petrodians that have gone before them.”

  Chloe turned back toward Acacius as he finally made it out of the room and joined the two attendants who were waiting for him. The ebony doors groaned shut, and Chloe wondered why she didn’t feel comforted. If Acacius were about to enter eternal bliss, wouldn’t he be happier about it? Was he too decrepit to show any degree of joy over his Coronation? Was he too cold-hearted not to want to see his parents again, who’d had their own Coronations years ago?

  The children startled as the room suddenly went dark. Chloe’s eyes jumped to the windows that had sealed themselves with steel shutters. The flames of the tripods below them were nothing but smoke. Then a haze of soft blue light shone down on them, and every head tilted up to the painting of the cosmos, now transformed into a cloudless sky.

  “In just a few moments,” said the councilman from somewhere in the shadows, “you will see what Acacius sees when his Coronation is complete. Everyone’s final destination is self-determined. As you will see, the sky’s the limit.”

  Chloe and her classmates lay back and watched the blue dome fade to white, accompanied by the sound of whinnying horses. Seconds later, there appeared a sea of rolling, emerald-green hills that stretched across the ceiling, each of them dotted with purple crocuses and yellow daffodils. It seemed so real to Chloe that she thought if she could only find a ladder, she could climb up into it.

  Horses of every shade and size galloped into view, their manes flowing in the wind regally, and their hind legs kicking playfully in the air. And then a young man appeared; he remained facing away from his audience as if he knew he was being watched. He meandered through the small herd, taking his time to feel the soft grass beneath his bare feet, examine each horse, and enjoy the breeze blowing in his wavy black hair. After a few minutes, he stopped in front of a golden palomino that shimmered in the sun. He swung onto the animal’s back, kicked its flanks, and with an ecstatic yell, took off into the distance.

  “There goes our Acacius,” said the councilman as he stood, leading his fellow councilmen in the Petrodian salute.

  Each man held his right arm out straight, palm facing the floor. They recited in unison, “We salute you, Sovereign. We honor the works of your hands. May you forever savor the fragrance of this new life.”

  Looking out her bedroom window as the sun peeked over a cloud, Chloe wondered if Acacius really was somewhere basking in the sunshine of his own paradise. But more than that, she wondered what had become of her own parents who’d not lived to make it to their scheduled Coronations.

  Chloe looked down at the walnut, the question of eating it no longer a question. Even if the nut didn’t provide answers or reunite her with her parents, she could think of nothing more worthwhile than finding out for sure.

  CHAPTER TEN

  INTIMATION

  Chloe had kept herself busy with homework until the house went quiet, save for Travis’s abominable snoring. She’d reasoned it was best to avoid getting caught carrying a knife upstairs. Around midnight, she sneaked downstairs and scoured the kitchen drawers for a sharp knife and a cutting board.

  She returned to her room and sat staring at the knife and nut on her desk as her mind thought of one unsettling positive in her list of pros and cons. She jotted it down in her diary. I accidentally cut myself with the knife, scream, then Damian runs in here, asks me why in the world I’m trying to eat walnuts in the middle of the night, and then eats them himself or throws them away. He probably wouldn’t even bandage my hand first.

  But as she stared at a cluster of stars twinkling high in the heavens, her mind conjured up those green fields and whinnying horses. Then the image was shattered by a much less pleasant one, that of old Acacius’ shaking hands and spiritless, downcast eyes.

  She tucked up her knees, rolled herself onto the edge of the bed, and slid the knife and walnut toward her. She held the walnut between the fingers of her left hand, pressed the knife into the crack in the shell, then wriggled it and twisted. The two halves split apart, revealing a perfectly normal-looking walnut.

  “It looks like a brain,” Chloe mused as she got a closer look. Then, before she could mull it over a second more, she popped it into her mouth and watched the edges of her room shrink to total blackness.

  The darkness remained and Chloe felt as though she were suspended somewhere in outer space. But there was no oxygen in space, and her breathing was easy. In fact, the air felt pure and pleasant in her lungs and on her skin.

  Before she could see anything, she heard women’s voices speaking a foreign language, and fell forward as the earth rose to meet her feet. She caught herself before hitting the ground, just as light sliced gently through the darkness, causing the gloom to roll up into its shadows and flee. The first thing she saw were her bare feet, since she’d almost tripped over them. They were standing on a sandy floor, and yet there was a mud wall a few feet in front of her. She was inside a room.

  She turned slowly toward where the voices were coming from, the ones speaking in what she assumed was Próta, the first and only other Petrodian language; a dead language.

  She saw two women, one who appeared to be in her mid-forties and the other her own age. The older one sat at a small wooden table holding a bone-colored reed in her right hand, and the younger stood over her shoulder, speaking softly. The young girl had curly, strawberry-blond hair that fell to her waist and wore a long, cream-colored robe that was draped elegantly over one shoulder.

  The older woman’s hair was the color of rich, red wine and was pulled back into a bun, which was intertwined with several braids and crimson strips of fabric. She wore a robe similar to that of her companion, only hers looked heavier, its excessive fabric gathered and joined together by copper brooches.

  Where in the world was she? Chloe decided to find out.

  “Hello, there. My name is Chloe Zacharias,”
she said as she took a step toward them.

  The two women continued talking. The older woman stood and kissed the younger on her cheek and temple as she placed a rolled-up scroll in her hand.

  “Na prosécheis, Charis,” the older woman said.

  Chloe approached the women, but still they gave no response. She tried to pick up the jar of ink that rested beside a stack of papyrus sheets, but it might as well have weighed three tons. She tried to shake the table to get their attention, but it felt bolted to the floor.

  “Ναί, Mama,” Charis said, and kissed the older woman back. And then she vanished.

  “What was that?” exclaimed Chloe as she took Charis’s place beside the other woman.

  The woman was facing her, but seemed to stare right through her, completely unaware of Chloe’s presence. She turned toward an unlit hearth and raised a hand toward it. A small ball of fire, no larger than Chloe’s palm, shot toward it, kindling it with a flurry of flames upon impact.

  Was it the woman from the ship? The thought was like a hammer slamming down on Chloe’s brain. Her heart began to pound. Where was she? Who were these people? How was she going to get home?

  She pinched herself until the sides of her wrists were covered with rows of tiny crescents. She even called for Carya to get her out of there. She ran to the door, but as she pushed it open, the mud-brick walls melted around her, and the world went dark again.

  Chloe was sure she was in Hades. Two thick walls of roaring fire enclosed her. Billowing smoke blocked out most of the cloud cover above. A circle of daylight was visible at the end of the tunnel, but Chloe sensed she’d be a heap of ashes before she got near it. And she doubted anyone nearby was a doctor, much less one with the knowledge and means to save her life.

  Looking over her shoulder to search for any other hope of escape, she saw Charis and her mother. Their long robes were tucked into thick leather girdles as they ran breathlessly alongside a man and a grotesque-looking animal, which had the head and torso of a man, and the feet and hindquarters of a horse.

  Chloe cringed at the sight of the mother’s ashen face, strained and covered with sweat. Her eyes were squeezed shut, arms outstretched to either side, and palms erect as fire flowed out of them like gushing rapids.

  “Why are you doing this?” Chloe shouted at her. But, again, no one knew she was there.

  The man shouted something at the woman, followed by the name “Iris.” They started to run faster, and Chloe had no choice but to join them. After just a few seconds, Chloe’s sprint had decelerated to a lumbering jog.

  It was time to find out if there was an afterlife or not. She felt more distressed at the thought of dying than she’d expected as her survival instincts began kicking in. She wasn’t sure whether she’d die of asphyxiation or cardiac arrest, or if she’d just catch on fire. She picked up her pace and watched as Charis disappeared again.

  “Take us with you!” Chloe yelled, her weak lungs retaliating with sharp stabs in her ribs. She’d never run so hard or so far in her entire life.

  Not five seconds later, Charis reappeared a few yards in front of the others and stood still with her arms lifted, reminding Chloe of one of the marble goddesses she’d seen in her mythology books.

  Iris closed her hands and doubled over to catch her breath and rest her arms. The walls of fire weakened until only dark gray whorls of smoke were left. Everyone, including Chloe, lay on the ground for a good while, gasping for air as drops of rain fell onto their parched tongues.

  Orpheus and Hermes stood over Chloe’s bed, watching her closed eyes flutter rapidly as she tossed and turned fitfully. Then, with a final jerk, she stopped. Her eyes softened and her breathing slowed, and Orpheus noticed goosebumps rising on her arms and neck.

  “The ichor in our veins makes the air get colder when we’re around them,” said Hermes.

  “She’s about to wake up,” Orpheus said. “You’re certain we’re invisible?”

  Chloe shivered and opened her eyes as she yanked the comforter onto her shoulders. Orpheus ducked beside the bed and watched as Hermes skipped around the room and clicked his heels together like a frolicking satyr.

  “The only evidence of our proximity is the temperature change,” Hermes said, “which they mostly attribute to fever, normal climatic shifts, or air-conditioning, which I don’t have time to explain to you just now.” He leapt onto Chloe’s desk. “Their other senses cannot perceive us,” he shouted as he stomped his feet.

  “Shhhhh!” Orpheus scolded. But Chloe wasn’t reacting to any of it; the little devil was right. “So this is the woman I’m to keep an eye on?” he asked.

  “It’s not so easy as that,” hissed Hermes as he jumped down into a squatting position beside Orpheus. His copper eyes narrowed as he came within inches of the poet’s face. “You have to do what your father trained you to do.” He reached for the lyre in Orpheus’s arms and plucked it with a long, curved fingernail. “Your mission, my charming nephew, is to charm her.”

  Orpheus laughed as he stood and walked toward the window. “I cannot believe it. I cannot believe I fell for one of your idiotic jokes,” he said, shaking his head and turning toward the bed.

  Hermes was crouched on the pillow beside Chloe. They watched as she sat up, rubbed her arms for warmth, and then hurried out the door.

  “You won a friendly bet with my father, is that it?” Orpheus said. “And now he’s permitted you to drag me on some ludicrous charade for your own twisted pleasure.” His smile faded to a scowl. “Well, you’ve had your fun. Now take me back to the Vale.”

  Hermes shook his head and joined Orpheus at the window. “You, and all who dwell below, are ignorant of what has taken place in Petros,” he said in a low, earnest voice. He untied a small satchel from his belt and pulled it open. “This will answer all your questions about this modern age,” he said, flicking its side with his finger.

  Orpheus smirked. “And what bedazzling sorcery is this?” He leaned in to catch a glimpse of the bag’s contents.

  Hermes turned the satchel upside down and out fell a smooth, round graphite stone, and green confetti of crushed leaves. “The laurel leaves will give you knowledge,” he said. “That stone is the sacred Baetylus kept in the innermost sanctum of Hades’ palace. It’s what will imbue you with life and a youthful form. Every mortal will interact with you as if you were one of them; you will be one of them, as well as one of us, able to reenter Hades and communicate with me. But the most important facts are these. Are you listening?”

  Orpheus nodded.

  “First, you must have the satchel with you at all times.” Hermes collected the items and returned them to the pouch. “You are not powerful on your own. But surely you know that better than anyone, considering all you’ve suffered.”

  Orpheus bit his tongue. He knew better than to exchange insults with Hermes; it would only encourage him.

  “Second, every evening at dusk, you must go to Lake Thyra,” Hermes said. “Again, the lotus leaves will educate you and orient you with your surroundings. Thetis, the sea goddess, will meet you there and bring you back into Hades until morning. Any questions?”

  “Am I dull, uncle, or did you neglect to tell me what my actual task is besides wooing this homely maiden,” Orpheus said gruffly as his lyre fell to the floor. He pounded the windowsill and pushed himself away from it just as the sun, the true sun that he had not seen in thousands of years, splashed the eastern sky with rosy foam. He was too upset, too confounded to gaze upon a beauty that might soften him. How could he possibly win back Eurydice if he had not the foggiest idea what Apollo wanted from him?

  “All you must do is lead her to Psychro Cave and lure her into the pool therein. What waits on the other side shall take care of itself.”

  Hermes gave a mischievous wink, and Orpheus didn’t even bother asking what his guileful mind was plotting. As long as it won him Eurydice, he didn’t care.

  “Now I must be going, nephew,” said Hermes, patting his dog-skin cap
and pulling it lower over his brow. “Be a good lad and fasten the satchel securely to your girdle. Your clothing will change shortly. Then you must hide the satchel inside what the Petrodians call a ‘jacket.’”

  Orpheus’s ichor veins felt as though they were freezing over inside him. His anger was rising, causing his temperature to drop and his teeth to chatter. He’d never felt such a sensation in either life or death.

  “Don’t worry, Orpheus. Your blood will run hot soon enough. I’ll see you back in hell.”

  Orpheus opened his mouth to object, but it was too late. Hermes was gone, leaving Orpheus with nothing but a pouch of flowers and a silly mortal to bewitch. He picked up his lyre, turned toward the sunrise, and couldn’t help but strum a few notes. As he imagined Eurydice smiling at him in the blushing sky, he stopped playing and held the satchel to his chest.

  “Bring me Eurydice,” he prayed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  METAMORPHOSIS

  Orpheus didn’t know how or when he had ended up on a bench within the courtyard of Eirene High School. Moreover, he wasn’t sure how he even knew the place was called Eirene High School, or why he wasn’t appalled by the boisterous teenagers rushing around him dressed in tight-fitting pants and vulgar shoes.

  He stretched out his legs and looked down to see that he, too, wore dark denim pants, and that his sandals had been replaced by leather shoes the color of metal. Somehow he knew they were called “loafers.” Rather comfortable, he thought, curling his toes inside them.

  He glanced down at his arms and shoulders, covered by a fitted black “bomber jacket” made of wool. Jacket…

  Remembering the satchel, Orpheus explored the outside of his new garment for pockets, but the few he found were no deeper than the length of his pinky finger. Then he found, on the inner right side, a small zippered compartment. He gave a sigh of relief when he saw the pouch safe inside it, still filled with the laurel leaves and the stone that was giving him life. He pressed two fingers to his wrist and relished the feeling of his pounding pulse.