Shadows Before the Sun (10 page)

The siren straightened. He was handsome, a bit on the thin side with a straight nose, long chin, and thick dark-blond eyebrows. Like all sirens, he was blond and blue-eyed.

“Your name, siren,” Sandra prompted him with patience.

He colored. “Pelos, Emissary to the Royal House of Akleion. I offer greetings from King Aersis himself and bid you welcome to Fiallan. You would bestow a
great honor upon us to accept the king’s invitation to stay at the palace during your visit to our fair city by the sea.”

“Well spoke, Pelos.” Sandra turned to me, an eyebrow arched.

“Your servant—” His gaze swept over my insignificant self until it landed on my weapons, visible since I’d removed the robe. “Pardon, your guard is most welcome, too, of course.”

“She is both, as it happens. It is always wise, dear Pelos, to employ those with multiple talents. Will her weapons be permitted inside of the palace?”

Pelos stumbled. It was clear by the red creeping in his cheeks that they were not.

“Of course,” Sandra continued on, “there is no need for protection within the royal house, but my . . . popularity, you see . . . Once word reaches the masses, well, as you can imagine my presence requires protections from those more . . . ardent seekers of the future, and I am so attached to my guard and rely on her greatly.”

His eyes grew wide and he was nodding before he probably even realized he was. “Oh, of course. I had not considered that. You must need protecting at all costs. I’m sure the king will permit this protection on your behalf.”

Sandra bestowed a glorious smile on poor Pelos. “That is wonderful news! We shall accept his invitation with the highest gratitude.”

Pelos turned and motioned to someone behind
him. A siren guard, dressed like those at the gate, stepped inside of the room and picked up Sandra’s bag. I waited for him to pick up mine, but no. They were already walking out the door, leaving me to shrug back into the robe, toss my backpack over one shoulder and my duffel over the other.

The emissary fawned over the oracle as we were escorted past the wall and into the inner city or old city as it was also called. As my subservient role required, I followed directly behind them.

The old city of Fiallan sloped gently down toward the sea. Houses had been built snugly into the rocky landscape, packed tightly together or with narrow alleys between them. It was no wonder the sirens took an interest in the Greeks—their land was familiar, from the rocky landscape to the blue sea and the pebble beaches.

The city was made of marble and whitewashed stone that seemed to glow in the sunlight. The main streets were wide and paved with smooth flagstones, and the houses all faced the sea with balconies and fluttering curtains waving in the breeze.

We walked through the meandering streets, Sandra chatting idly with Pelos while I took in my surroundings. Seabirds cried. The sound of the waves mixed with the sounds of everyday life. It was all so familiar and yet . . . not.

I couldn’t help but think of Hank as a child, growing up here. His roots were here, his family, his people. I spied the other two towers rising in the distance—needles
jutting up from where the wall turned into sheer cliffs rising straight up from the sea. Goose bumps sprouted along my arms at the contrast of beauty and the evil I knew to lurk there. Sometimes that was the worst kind of danger, the kind veiled in beauty, the unsuspecting kind.

Pelos pointed out areas of interest as we went—the way to a sacred spring, the baths, the market, and the temples to the sirens’ primal sea deities, Merses, and his consort, Panopé.

“And those magnificent towers,” Sandra said. “Framed on either side of the cliffs, they look like gateways to the sea itself.”

“There are two more on the wall behind us. We have four in all. They are the Malakim Towers, built during the war with the Adonai, a thousand years ago.”

“Is it true there are children guarding the towers?”

Pelos didn’t miss a beat, and I remembered what Hank had told me about the Malakim being so old and so ingrained in his people’s customs that no one questioned it. It was just something that had always been. “Oh yes, and they are the bravest of our people,” Pelos was eager to share. “The practice, you see, began during the war with the Adonai when the city of Fiallan nearly fell. The Circe, old even then, saved our fair city by creating the four towers and the spell by which four sons—children of its mightiest warriors who were off fighting the Adonai—would release their power, link together, and form the rings of
protection around the city. It worked. The city was saved from an Adonai attack. The young guardians became heroes.

“Once peace was reached seven years later, the Circe entered the towers to remove the children. Only, the sons of its warriors proved strong and proud. They asked to continue their guardianship and thus became Malakim. Every seven years, they would be approached again, and yet again refuse.”

“Such bravery is rare indeed,” Sandra said. “But surely your fair city is safe. There has been no threat from the Adonai since the peace.”

“Oh, but the Circe say we must be ever vigilant. There are threats always lurking, always waiting for a weakness to show itself. The towers and the Malakim protect us to this day.” He glanced back at my stony face. “Much like your protector guards you.”

“Indeed,” Sandra said lightly as Pelos moved on to another subject, but the quick look she shot over her shoulder was incensed.

I wanted to grab Pelos by the collar and shake some sense into him, but a calmer side of me played devil’s advocate. The siren people had been duped by the Circe for so long. There was no one left alive from the war, and the entire population had been born into the Malakim practice and into the Circe’s control. They knew no other way. And they had no idea what had really happened in that tower when Hank freed himself. No, the blame lay squarely on the Circe’s shoulders.

Eventually, we came to the palace. It had been
built at the southern edge of the inner city on an outcropping of craggy rock, a vast complex of straight lines with large, long rectangular buildings supporting smaller ones, like building blocks stacked wherever there was room. It had a commanding view of the sea and everywhere there were smooth columns painted red and black. They lined entire buildings, framed entranceways, or held up balcony roofs, and there were several sets of stone stairs leading to balconies on varying levels.

It wasn’t heavily guarded or fortified, but I supposed it didn’t have to be seeing as there were the towers and walls and the Circe to contend with. Fiallan was remote, separated from the nearest siren city of Murias by Gorsedd, a forest the size of Texas. It made me wonder why the sirens had built a city here to begin with and why they’d warred with the Adonai in their early days. What could the Adonai possibly want with such a remote city?

The main courtyard was huge, rectangular and paved with smooth stones inlaid with mosaics depicting sea creatures of the natural and mythical kind. Steps that ran the entire length of the courtyard led into a gallery with a line of red columns with black bases. The far wall was brightly painted in reds, blues, and sea green.

We passed through what appeared to be a main hall and then through a confusing maze of hallways, levels, and atriums before finally coming to our rooms.

“I hope the rooms are to your liking, oracle.” Pelos
pushed the door open and stepped inside. “You have a main lounge, two bedrooms on either side with bath chamber, and a private balcony with views of the sea.”

“It’s lovely. Please extend our thanks.”

“Of course. We have already dined, but I’d be happy to bring something to eat if you’re hungry.”

“That would be most welcome, thank you, Pelos. You are an excellent emissary. I will be sure to tell the king.”

Pelos looked like he was going to burst into song, but he held himself straight and still. “You are too kind. I shall return shortly.”

Once he was gone, I said, “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

“A requirement when one plays with royalty. Be glad you have me along.”

“As much as it pains me to say it,” I admitted with a small smile, “I am glad. And grateful.”

Sandra clutched her chest, her eyes squinting in humor. “Be still.”

I ignored her and wandered around the room, taking in the luxurious appointments and the way the open balcony, which ran the length of the entire room, framed the blue sea. White curtains hung on either end and they moved ever so softly in the warm breeze.

“Is it just me or does this place have a bad vibe?” I asked, eyeing the view.

“Like being in a nest of vipers.” She rubbed her arms. “With a gorgeous view.”

The sky was striped with indigo, orange, and pinks from the setting sun. One of the towers by the sea was in the frame of that beautiful picture. Had Hank been there? Was he still there?

“I’m taking this room!” Sandra’s voice echoed from one of the bedrooms. No doubt, it was the larger of the two. But I didn’t care. What did it matter? I wasn’t here to vacation; I was here to save my partner.

I leaned my shoulder against the column that framed each side of the balcony, crossed my arms over my chest, thinking I might just take a little night stroll through the city . . .

I walked the streets alone, passing sirens and other visitors. Lanterns and open fires burned, lighting the streets and the market, which had yet to close down. Waves crashed against the rocks and lapped gently into the shallow curves of beaches. But nowhere did I feel the warmth of my mark.

Sounds were all around me, but distant. Inside I felt silent and dark and alone, so still that every step I took, every breath I made sounded like thunder to my ears.

I followed the long curve of the inner wall, stopping at the base of each tower. I placed my hand on the warm, smooth stone, and felt nothing. At the end of the north tower, I could go no more unless I wanted to drop off the massive cliff into the sea below, so I went down the winding walking path that led to the shore.

For a long time I stood on the pebble beach, listening to the waves and feeling an absence of emotion, of hope. Voices in melody seemed to go in and out with the waves, sounding faintly hypnotic and encouraging—inviting me into the sea. But those were most likely from the people on the docks and in the market.

Finally, I moved away from the water and continued my search.

In the center of the city was a massive square with an impressive fountain and a statue of a mermaid sunbathing on a rock. Stone dolphins surrounded her like sentinels, water pouring from their open mouths.

I went slowly, past every building, every temple. The city hall. The treasury—and still nothing. My mark did not react.

I had no idea where prisoners were kept—if there was even such a building. And it seemed with every step, my hopes grew fainter.

I headed up a winding street toward the palace and then swung a left to where colossal houses were tucked against a sloping curve in the land that led back toward the sea. It was a dark area of the city. Old. Private. Wealthy. Commanding high vistas over the water.

The breeze turned cooler. I walked beneath a tree with gnarled limbs reaching over the street. A gate’s rusty hinges whined in the silence. Unlike most of the low walls that defined the property of the wealthy homes I’d passed, the wall I came to next
was overgrown and crumbling. The gate was open. And down the drive, I could see the dark shape of a sprawling ruin.

It was a lot like the palace, only smaller. Columns were faded and broken. Weeds and vines grew unchecked. The courtyard was cracked and strewn with dead leaves. The doors were open, so I
had
to go inside. It was more than the usual curiosity, I thought as I went. Something inside of me related to the house, the desolation, the sadness.

Inside, it was hollow and gutted, except for a few broken bits of pottery. Scenes painted onto the walls were faded or chipped away. It was easy to imagine a family living there, the place filled with voices, the running feet of children, of gatherings. A home this large should be filled with family.

But now it was empty, the shutters on the windows gone or hanging askew, left open to the elements, the wind and leaves, the insects and birds . . .

The clip of boots sounded on the stones behind me and then stopped.

I stilled, a zing of alarm sliding up my spine.

Several seconds passed. I didn’t move. The visitor didn’t move.

Then, slowly I turned to see a man leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest, regarding me with an even but curious expression. Could’ve been a siren or an Adonai. He certainly had the looks—tall, golden brown hair, muscular build—but I wouldn’t be able to tell for sure until he spoke.

One thing, however, I could tell. He was one
powerful
sonofabitch.

“When visitors come to Fiallan,” he said in a deep baritone, “this usually isn’t on the sightseeing list.”

I didn’t feel threatened . . . just wary and on guard. He, on the other hand, projected a calm indifference, and his aura was astounding—a rainbow of colors snapping like an energy field around him. Hadn’t seen
that
before.