Shadows on the Aegean (35 page)

“Aye, and strong, and intelligent and passionate and vibran—” His voice broke. “However, I was able to bid her farewell.”
Cheftu looked away, muttering in Egyptian, “Then, in a cruel jest, I thought we’d been given another chance to be together,
only to have my hopes trampled. Literally.”

Y’carus ignored him, staring out at the water. “In Aztlan, we don’t bid farewell, but rather
Kalo taxidi
, Good journey. As the dead travel and submit to trials, they are strong because they know they are loved.” It was silent
on the sea, only the rush of waves around them.

“We are now entering the current that will carry us into the lagoon of Kallistae, surrounding Aztlan Island.”

“I am confused,” Cheftu said, grateful for something to think about other than Chloe and how he had betrayed her with Sibylla.
His body tightened—don’t think about Sibylla at all. “How is Aztlan governed?”

“By clans. Each one has a chieftain, and the chieftains assemble in Council every nine summers. There they discuss and debate,
negotiating policies for goods and services that will stay in place for the next nine summers.”

“Do men and women rule?”

Y’carus shook his head. “In the eyes of the clan, there are no gender differences. Each gender has his or her own god, each
is born and given to their clan—”

“Born and given to their clan?”

“Aye.” Y’carus drew a deep breath. “You really know nothing about us, do you? Just so. Aztlan is built not on blood connections,
but on birth order.”

“Aye?” Cheftu said, prompting him.

“The firstborn, male or female, inherits the clan position of the parents. The second-born joins the defense clans: mining,
or as a Mariner, or an engineer. Also, there are those who supply weapons, armor. They are the Clans of the Stone, the Wave,
or the Flame.”

“Just so.”

“Third-born go to the cults. We have the Cult of the Bull, Apis. Or the Cult of the Snake with Kela, the earth goddess. She
is the patron of women.”

“She was the one honored …”

“Aye.” Y’carus grinned. “You worshiped her in Knossos.”

Adultery
and
idolatry, Cheftu thought. He was going to be in purgatory for a
very
long time.

“Within the priesthood are many different factions. The Apis priesthood are the builders. They make the stones and pave the
walkways. The Kela priesthood are the fishers, the Shell Seekers. In fact, it is against the law to fish without permission
from the cult.”

“Why is that?”

“You deprive them of their labor.” He grinned. “We find great satisfaction in our work. Our clans are everything to us: our
family, our occupations, our identities.”

“Your beloved was … ?”

“My clan sister. I was second-born, destined for the sea in defense. My bloodparents were dyers in the Clan of the Muse.”
He swallowed. “Neotne came to foster with my family at age five. I was ten the summer before I left to foster. I knew even
then, as soon as I saw her. …” They stood, the salty breeze blowing over them. “Just so,” Y’carus said, his voice thick. “The
fourth-born go to the land. Olives, fruits, vegetables, vines, they keep the empire green.”

“Those would be the clan of … ?”

“Clan of the Vine. If it grows, they nurture it. The Clan of the Horn raises animals, both for food and products. Fifth-born
are the artisans. We are—were—proud of our creative skills: textiles, ceramics, painting. They are the Clan of the Muse.”

“Arachne was the city there? The city that was destroyed?”

“Aye. Arachne was. I grew up there; it was my home.”

“What of the Scholomance?”

“Eee
. It is for the brightest minds, regardless of their birth order. Parents bring their children to foster with the greatest
intellects of Aztlan. They learn everything—medicine, arts, science, architecture, mathematics, astronomy, and astrology.
They guide us. Are you going to the Scholomance?”

“I know not.” Though if that was where the medical arts were headquartered, Cheftu guessed he’d be there. “My gratitude for
your helpful words,” he said, stumbling a little. “Where are your magi?”

“In Aztlan?” Y’carus shrugged. “The medical skills are administered by our Kela-Tenata priestesses.”

Women in medicine? In Egypt women were healers only in small, poor villages. In France? Cheftu almost laughed. “I know not
this word.”

“Kela, the goddess, and Tenata, her working arm. Each village and town has its own temple, with Shell Seekers—”

“For fish.”

“Aye and Kela-Tenata—”

“For medical care.”

“You learn quickly. Also Coil Dancers.”

Cheftu blinked. “State-regulated … ?”

“Temple prostitutes.” Y’carus frowned. “I forget how restrained you Egyptians are. Aye, each village has temple prostitutes.
Marriage is a sacred undertaking here, since the clans are woven so tightly together. The Coil Dancers ease the needs of men
and women, so that they approach Kela’s altar with the intention of being forever unified.”

Cheftu thought back to his own world, the facades of marriage and the promiscuity that was still such a vivid memory. Marriage
was a business contract. Once an heir was born, both parties, provided they were discreet, were free to take lovers. “So once
people are wed, they no longer go to the Coil Dancers?”

“Nay!” Y’carus laughed. “Nay, a man or woman may visit anytime they need to. Men do so often when their wives are with child.
However, it is only a release of the body. A worship act to Kela.”

“No attachment of the heart, then?”

“With a Coil Dancer?” Y’carus sounded appalled. “They are sworn to Kela! She is their husband.”

“They never marry?”

“Their initiation is marriage to her.” Y’carus pointed. “Behold! The beginning of the lagoon!”

They were moving rapidly now, the timekeeper singing a bawdy tune that made Cheftu blush even though he understood only one
or two words in every line. He was reminded uncomfortably of the green-eyed priestess.

“We come to the mouth of Theros lagoon and Aztlan Island,” Y’carus shouted over the rising noise. They entered a narrow canyon
whose walls grew steeper with every cubit. The sound of rushing water was deafening now, and Y’carus gestured for Cheftu to
tie himself to the boat with one of the embroidered straps. They were moving rapidly through part of a massive river.

The cliffs surrounding them were striated and so high that the sun had yet to touch the water. Like an ancient legend, the
city rose from the sea, perched above on colored cliffs. Houses and villas in white, red, black, and yellow, intricately designed
and painted, hung over the cerulean water. Beyond was the glint of gold, topping everything. Terraces covered the hillsides.
“That is the city of Hyacinth!” Y’carus shouted.

Cheftu glanced at the sun and saw they were coming in from the southwest. Two arms of land embraced them, well populated and
verdant. Cheftu saw bustling ports, tiny in comparison with the striated cliffs.

They reached a curve where the islands, the bridges, and the harbor were visible. Aztlan Island towered above the islands
that surrounded it. Atop the mountain sat a jewel-toned pyramid. It was smaller than an Egyptian one, sans capstone, but identifiably
a pyramid. The flat gold top blinded them, even at this distance, with the sun’s reflection.

The currents pushed and pulled as they passed beneath the first bridge that attached Aztlan Island to Kallistae. “That bridge
will take you to Hyacinth. On the other side of the land bridge is another crossing that will take you into the main street
of Echo.”

The harbor was filled with brilliantly patterned boats. A mixture of languages rose on the midmorning air. Astonished at how
quickly they had arrived, Cheftu stepped out of the way as the Mariners lowered the sails, hauled in the lines, and dropped
anchor.

On to Aztlan.

PAROS

Z
ELOS AND HIS BROTHERS
N
EKROS AND
P
OSIDIOS
stood in the torchlit darkness. On the island of Paros, where Nekros was chieftain, many of the dwellings and buildings were
underground. Huge caverns for both clan administration and citizens’ housing alternated between quarries on this island where
most men and women worked beneath the earth.

Nekros’ white skin glowed unnaturally in the shrouded chamber. Zelos, still slightly dizzy from the quick journey, looked
around the cavern. The walls were damp—indeed, the whole place was cool, like a winter night without the wind. He wondered
with a shudder where the bodies were interred. In addition to being the maintenance clan for the many caves and coves throughout
the empire, quarrying, mining for precious stones and metals, Paros was also the land of the dead.

While most chieftains had luxurious estates or commanded the best views, Nekros lived alone on this islet Antiparos, journeying
out only at night and spending his days ruling the clan from this dank room.

Nekros’ belongings were scarce and elementary. Zelos imagined his brother had even less female company than he had possessions.
Who would want the cold hands of the lord of the dead on her body?

Posidios was studying the map laid on a flat-topped stalagmite, its carved markings faint in the torchlight.

“What is left of Naxos?” Zelos asked.

Nekros leaned back against another stalagmite. “Not much. My clanspeople are seeking out the dead, to bring them here and
inter them with all other generations on Paros. Thus far the account is no survivors.”

Zelos closed his eyes in pain. “Chieftain Bacchi?”

“The clan chieftain is dead. His body has been found.”

Snapping for a serf, Zelos demanded a note be flown to Aztlan. Dion, the inheritor, was the new chieftain. “Can anyone guess
what this inferno has done to the produce?”

“As of this moment, there is no produce. There are no people.”

“By Apis stones, brother, 23,000 people dwelt on that island! Do you tell me that not even one person still lives?”

Nekros shrugged. “The reports are preliminary. I can tell you no more.”

Zelos raked a hand through his hair. This was the worst imaginable disaster. Two clans wiped from the face of the empire within
weeks. Please do not let this be an omen, he thought.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the archway of the cavern. The brothers turned as one and stared at the woman who was standing
there. “I thought I saw your ship,” Zelos said.

“I sent a warning to Chieftain Bacchi,” she said. “He chose to ignore it.”

“He may have received it too late,” Posidios said, turning to the woman. “Greetings, daughter.”

Sibylla halted, her green eyes widening for a moment. “Greetings, uh, Posidios,” she said quickly. “Bacchi ignored me.”

“Welcome to Paros, niece,” Nekros said. “You honor us with your presence this black day.”

She snapped her fingers and a scribe ran forward, offering a clay tablet to each of the three men. “Based on preliminary reports,
most of the island is either ravaged by fire, which is still burning on the northeastern side, or is submerged in mud slides,
which ran from the reservoir on the slopes of Mount Zelos to the valley, washing out hundreds of homes, produce, and most
important, people.”

The three men exchanged glances.

“Where are you getting your information?” Posidios asked.

She stepped closer, and Zelos noted with appreciation that his niece Sibylla had become a desirable woman. Her glance was
anything but warm, however, and she seemed discomfited beneath her capable veneer. “When I realized that the chieftain had
ignored my request, I inquired of Atenis owing to her proximity.”

Nekros laid his tablet on the stalagmite that served as a table. “This is a thorough inquiry. It is a great sorrow that Bacchi
did not heed your word,” he said gravely.

“Regardless of what Bacchi did or did not do, people are trapped, homeless, starving, and dying of thirst. We need to get
to them.”

“The island is dead,” Zelos said.

“It is not.”