Shadows on the Aegean (26 page)

His hands, the color of bleached linen, touched it, and he marveled at the smoothness of the wood. The clicking was growing
louder, the flashes of color brighter
.

He set aside the lid and looked in
.

Niko shielded his eyes from the blinding contents
.

Two rocks lay inside, each throbbing with color after color. One stone flashed in a continual spectrum of black to deep purple,
blood red, clear red, orange, yellow; the colors were beautiful but inexplicably tragic, and Niko felt melancholy. The other
stone flashed from purest piercing white through a range of blues and greens so indescribably rich that Niko blinked back
tears
.

Like living things, they flipped again and again, clattering against the sides of the smooth wooden box. The clear rhythm
penetrated through to his bones. When Niko reached for them his hands exploded into flames
.

Exquisite fire
.

The pleasure was soul searing, his head filled with the song, the call, the clicking of the stones. Louder and louder …

He woke to see a bird pecking away at the tree, just next to his ear. Niko sat up, so thirsty he ached, disoriented from his
dream. He rose to his feet, angry and confused. The Scholomance had taught that many times one’s dreams were hidden truths.

Of course, such dreams could also come from eating undercooked squid.

In contrast with the previous day’s silence, the island was brimming with life. Birds filled the trees, small animals poked
their heads out of their holes, noses twitching. The woodlands were coming alive. Niko felt watched.

He ate what fruits he could gather, hoping the rich, juicy flesh would help him swallow, his mouth was so dry. He slept again,
within the protection of the trees.

The next time he woke, he vomited. His head hurt and when he touched the back of it, he found a huge scab on his scalp, matted
blood snarling his hair. He had a head wound? No wonder he’d been disoriented and sleepy. He needed water. Head pounding,
he stumbled to his feet and began walking. Fallen needles and plants formed a springy pathway beneath his feet as Niko concentrated
on moving one battered foot after another, forward.

The ground changed some time later; fine pebbles were laid in elaborate patterns of creatures and vines. Niko looked up in
surprise. In the center of the clearing a pile of stones formed a table of sorts. An archway rose over it, standing fifteen,
maybe eighteen cubits in the air. Niko walked forward.

The table’s top was an obsidian slab that rested on two mounds of smooth river rocks the width of Niko’s waist. The archway
was formed of red sandstone. As Niko studied the odd structures, he became aware of a presence, as tangible as the smell of
flowers or the low bellow of approaching cattle.

Niko saw no one. Terrified and awed beyond his understanding, Niko knelt. It was arrogance to come here and make demands,
he realized. What had seemed a thoughtless matter, like feeding the Apis bull, suddenly expanded in difficulty. The thing
that dwelt here would never be caged, could never be, he thought. It had no need for his food, or care. It was far more fearsome
than any being Aztlan knew.

“I apologize,” he whispered into the wind and rocks. The Aztlantu had forsaken their right to ask for anything. Niko realized
he should leave. This god was too powerful, too terrifying, to confer with. Again Niko tried to force himself up, and again
he stayed kneeling, head bowed, eyes closed. He couldn’t make himself move.

Peace ruled here; no questions, no answers, a sense that none of it truly mattered.

A soothing, gentle breeze teased his hair, stinging the wound on his head. His eyes burned beneath his lids, yet he hesitated
to open them. The sense of presence had grown stronger, and Niko felt if he just reached out he would touch … It.

He began to tremble.

Images flashed through his mind: his careworn parents, who had given their son the best life they could by giving him away;
the young woman who had sweetly offered her body to him as a youth, whom he’d reduced to tears with a callous rejection; the
fellow students he’d prided himself on surpassing and delighted in subtly humiliating. Finally, Phoebus, whom he had loved
and hated in ways he dared not consider.

For the first time since stepping into the red-columned halls of the Scholomance, Niko broke down and wept. His secret shame,
hidden pride, and fear—always fear—bubbled out. His tears slipped between the tiny patterned pebbles as he lay, twisted into
a ball, sobbing.

When he opened his eyes later, the clearing was hazy with rose, gold, and purple light. Sunset, Niko thought. He heard rushing
water and followed the sound to a stream. After rinsing his face and head wound and drinking till his belly felt tight, he
leaned against the stone cliff, trying to gauge where he was.

A sound made him turn his head—and Niko shouted.

Not a hand’s width from his nose was a grinning skeleton. He backed away like a crab, resisting the urge to run.

He’d been sitting at the entrance to a cave. A cave filled with skeletons.

They were not decently buried in
tholoi
beneath the earth with golden butterflies and octopus funeral symbols, but shelved here, like papyri scrolls, one beside
the other. They wore pendants instead of death masks, their features melted away by time. What defilement was this?

Shivering, Niko leaned over one of the skeletons and blew at the dust that covered a medallion. The first part was impossible
to read, but the latter part, written in the ancient Aztlantu script, was legible: “Resting Iavan son of Iapheth, son of Noach
Who Tamed the Waters.”

He blinked, his fingers tracing the letters.
A sole man, Iavan and his wife shipwrecked
. Had he found the burial island? Were these the earthly remains of Iavan? Gritting his teeth, Niko moved the bones around,
looking over the other skeletons. No communication stones.

But he had found the right island!

Slowly he walked back to the clearing, the night sky blacked out by the haze from Mount Calliope. Where would the stones be?
Leaning against the center altar, Niko felt very alone. There were no night sounds, but the hair on the back of his neck stood
up.

Something was out there. Shuddering with fear, he hunched closer to the altar, his eyes tightly closed.

The breeze seemed to speak to him. “You asked, you shall receive. You sought, I have helped you find.” The rhythmic beat of
blood in his veins was nearly deafening until Niko realized he was hearing something else entirely.

The noise in his dream!

Beneath the altar was the odd-shaped box. Gently he lifted the peaked lid: the stones were inside. They were not imbued with
actual color, but Niko could see the dark judgment of the one and the light mercy of the other. They were etched with the
symbols of ancient Aztlan, the archaic text used before the Council decided the language needed to be symbols: skins, fish,
men, instead of just arranged marks. But Niko knew these letters, the sacred letters.

In the mysterious glow of the box, he reached for the stones. Shaking them together in his hand and tossing them against the
box, he saw them flash as they turned while they fell. On each throw, light caught certain characters. Eventually he could
read words, and chains of words, spelled out.

“T-e-l-l-t-h-e-p-e-o-p-l-e-t-o-f-l-e-e-t-h-e-y-h-a-v-e-f-o-r-g-o-t-t-e-n.”

“Forgotten what?” Niko asked, then tossed the stones.

“T-h-a-t-I-A-M-h-e-w-h-o-g-i-v-e-s-a-n-d-p-r-o-t-e-c-t-s.”

Niko felt pierced to his very core. The god who had given them all the secrets of the earth and the sea, which Aztlan had
forgotten, just as the tale said. Only two laws, and Aztlan had broken them both. Niko laid the stones inside the box and
put the cover on it. They clattered riotously inside. Following the bidding he felt in his mind, he took them from the box
and slipped them into his sash. They continued to move.

Aztlan had been forgiven. This great god who’d showed them everything and had been forsaken had given them another chance.
Niko realized it took more strength to be gentle than harsh. It took more control and power to forgive than to punish, more
character to be kind, especially to one who had erred. The mission he’d been entrusted with had been completed. This god wanted
communication with them. He would save them. Niko need only believe.

CAPHTOR

S
IBYLLA SMILED AT THE PETITIONER
. It was nice to have her body back. She was glad that the
skia
, the interloper, was resting. This was the world she knew, a world where the words made sense and her mind was not bludgeoned
with strange images of silver birds, their bellies full of people, tablets with no folds, or a prediction box that never stayed
focused for more than a few heartbeats.

Aye, here in Eleuthia Sibylla was at peace.

The meadow before the cave was bright green with new grass. She’d just walked the few
henti
from Knossos, through the fields. Caphtori were nudging the final olives from the trees, the fruit landing onto a cushion
of sheepskin before it was gathered, bruised, crushed, and made into oil.

Spring was coming; the Season of the Bull was almost upon them. Vintners were busy cultivating the vines, trimming old growth
away with sharp bronze blades, and burning the dead vines as an offering to Kela for allowing the roots to survive the winter.
Golden stalks of winter wheat caught the brighter light, contrasting with the groves of almond trees, hinting pink with blossoms.
Red and white anemones, yellow oxalis, and blue lupines were scattered across the fields.

Leaving her cloak at the guardian’s small dwelling outside the cavern’s entrance, Sibylla stepped into the cave. It was long,
with fairly even ground and ceiling. Spots of light showed her where the petitioners stood, votives held like fallen stars.
Amid whispers of “the Sibylla!” “the priestess of the winds,” and her other titles, Sibylla walked carefully to the cave’s
center.

The earth’s phallus in the cavern was a shoulder-high stalagmite as thick around as she was. Sibylla placed a piece of poppy
gum on her tongue as she leaned against the stone. Within moments she felt a delicious lethargy steal through her body.

Come to me, Kela, she thought. I am open; let me see your divine loom. Let me foretell the futures of these children! The
darkness that filled the cave seemed to fade, and she could see the faces of the petitioners.

Most petitioners were women; they came to learn when they would get with child, what they should name the child they carried,
or what to do with the child they had. Sibylla spoke slowly, her words forming calm, ordered statements. The petitioners left
gifts for her at the mouth of the maze enclosure.

Sleep licked at the edges of her mind, and Sibylla rested on the stalagmite, feeling the stone cradle her, comfort her. Her
answers became less distinct.

Speak to me, she asked. Let me know.

Like a fine blade ripping a hide, knowledge sliced through her drug-induced stupor.

Fire. Blood. Dust.

Sibylla saw mountains black and red with lava. Trees that had been lush and green were charred stalks. Flowers were withered,
birds lay dead, blackened, fruit was carbonized into lumps on the ground. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Against her will she was pulled forward. Sibylla couldn’t get her bearings, the sea had vanished beneath a mass of gray stone.
The air was thick with sulfur. Bits of humanity—a broken pot, a scrap of cloth, a wooden doll—scattered the earth like macabre
seeds.

Sibylla stood at the edge of a cliff and looked down.

Where a mountain had once stood, a gaping hole let her see into the wound of the earth. She turned away, looking back at the
fields. But there were no fields, no orchards, no homes, no people. It was a wasteland; nothing moved, not a snake, not a
spider.

Tell them
. The words reverberated through her bones.