Shadows on the Aegean (46 page)

The Council stood near the top of the flight. Atenis, Talos, Iason, Dion, Embla, Minos, Chloe—he didn’t dare let their gazes
touch for more than a moment; still, his heart swelled. She was so beautiful, so magnificent in her passion, her care, and
her talent. Zelos and Nekros bade him Apis’ wisdom. With a last glance toward the sun and Chloe, Cheftu stepped down into
the shadows of the pyramid.

The Minos touched his arm and Cheftu followed him, listening to the crunch of the high priest’s sandals on the shell-strewn
floor. He felt, rather than saw, a wall loom before him. Without hesitation he walked to the left and, after a sharp turn,
entered the room. For a moment breath left him. In more than a decade of dwelling amid Egypt’s gilded splendor he had never
seen such opulence. Again he asked, Who were these people?

The walls were covered in a mosaic of gold, silver, and bronze, depicting scenes of the founding of Aztlan by Atlas Olimpi.
As Dion had told him, everything was written in the ancient tongue, scratchings and symbols that had no meaning outside of
the priesthood and the Scholomance.

However, they were decipherable to Cheftu. He’d learned this language, along with a host of others, in order to unravel the
mystery of Egyptian hieroglyphs. It was a proto-Hebrew.
Mon Dieu!
Cheftu stepped closer, reading the legacy of these people. The text contained innumerable references to “stones.” Communicating
stones.

Turning to check that the door was open, Cheftu was shocked to realize it was gone. He scrutinized all the walls, the stories
marching seamlessly down one long wall and onto another. He could find no way out. He looked up. Even the ceiling, covered
with the same precious metal mosaic, offered no exit. He stalked through the room, calming himself. Measure the paces, he
thought. Here, as in Egypt, numbers are very significant.

It measured sixty-six by sixty-six paces. Thank God he’d learned the exact measure of an Aztlantu pace yesterday. Cheftu stared
at the floor. It was abstractly patterned hammered gold. If there were any more light in this room, he would be blinded.

He glanced up, a shimmer unlike silver or gold having caught his eye. He scanned the far wall, moving his head slowly until
he saw it again. He crossed the room and stared into the crystalline eye of the Bull.

Cheftu reached up and pried at the crystal. A loud groaning filled his ears, then was gone. The crystal pulled forward, extending
a full cubit, then halted. He stepped back, looking at the crystal and knowing there had to be logic behind it. Were there
more?

For a decan he searched the room, finding two more crystals that extended from the wall. Three, the mystery number. Dion said
it was odd, consequently sacred to the goddess, just as sixty-six was an even number and would be sacred, doubly so, to Apis.

Now what? Cheftu had already taken off the gold links he’d been wearing, so he stripped off the elaborate belled skirt and
loosened his corselet. The three crystals formed a triangle of sorts. Triangles were sacred; any mage knew that. But there
wouldn’t be just one. There had to be at least two more.

The ceiling! The floor!

After decans of searching he found another triangle, formed by shards of black obsidian. He pushed against it until stone
ground against stone. The room sounded as though it would shatter as the mechanism outside it shifted.

The third triangle was simple to find. Cheftu leaned against the wall and tried to put himself into the mind of the builder.
What was the purpose of this exercise? He’d dealt with the three dimensions of creation: width, depth, height. The only other
dimension was time.

Time? He stood up and walked around the room again, searching for some symbol of time. Find an ankh. He turned back to the
room, mentally imposing the triangles he’d created on the ceiling, floor, and walls. There, at the joining of the three dimensions,
was the key of life for millions of years; a more potent symbol for time did not exist. Looking down at the floor, he smiled.
An ankh-shaped depression.

Now where was the ankh that fit there? Again he perused the chamber. Stepping closer, he noticed an ankh that was made of
a metal other than the silver in which it was set. The difference was subtle but noticeable.

It jiggled in its setting, and Cheftu tried to slide something beneath it, but his nails were short. Think, he told himself.
He walked back to the center of the room, looking again at the hollow, approximately where the three triangles intersected.

Using the post of his earring, he pried the ankh from its resting place and put it in the shaped hollow. The ensuing noise
shook the walls. He watched the room change. With great shrieks the walls moved, portions levering and sliding, until at the
end he was in a triangular room.

By the stones of Apis, this was incredible!

The gold-and-silver narrative had been replaced by smooth walls, one lapis, one malachite, and one jasper. The floor beneath
him remained the same. Warily he picked up the ankh and jumped back as a section of floor rose, waist high. Then all was still
again.

The risen part looked like a stone trunk. Cheftu nudged what he presumed was the top—back and forward. It wouldn’t budge.
With an exasperated sigh he remembered the ankh and placed it in the hole. Nothing happened. He placed his ear on the stone,
turning the ankh until he heard a series of clicks. Of course, three turns to the left, three more right, and three more left;
Egyptians and Aztlantu had that much in common.

He pushed the top off easily and stared.

A small trough, a square, a wooden box, a plumb line, a level, and a trowel. He laid each of them on the table. At the bottom
of the box were two linen bags and three jars. He took them out, opening as he went. A white powder, with small pebbles; he
tasted the next—natron; a brown slime; a big bag of larger pebbles; and a jug of water. Cheftu paced. What could these have
to do with each other?

What had Chloe said? The ability to pour stone, shape rock, and transform?

He had studied at the Temple of Amun-Ra before choosing medicine and joining the House of Life. He had learned how certain
substances and liquids interacted with each other, forming new substances. Enamel was created by mixing
mafkat
powder with niter and holding it over a flame. He sped back to the table with its odd assortment.

Niter and water and lime—the white powder—made a caustic substance; add
mafkat
until it dissolved, then mud. When it thickened, he would pour in the stones. Cheftu stripped off the remains of his finery
and began to measure and mix, pulling from recipes and rituals his mind never forgot.

He would succeed.

When the food appeared, Cheftu could not say. Yet it was there—roasted meat, sea scallops, and a salad of sliced citrus and
onion. A flask of watered wine complemented the meal. He glanced over his shoulder; his experimental mixture was setting in
the wooden box. Already it had taken on the appearance of limestone, its edges sharp and clean, the faces smooth and sparkling
with bits of mica and ore. The art of
al-khemti
—even
called
Egyptian, after the land of Kemt.

Dion had said the priests, the
mnasons
, trained a lifetime learning to form
ari-kat
stone. They had constructed the many buildings on Aztlan Island using their series of secret gestures and their tightly knit
clanship.

This
ari-kat
stone had built the Pyramids. Cheftu was certain of it. The limestone looked the same, and it would explain how such enormous,
perfectly shaped rocks fit together flawlessly. They were
poured
. He smiled. Not only was Pharaoh Kufu’s Imhotep brilliant, but he was wily, passing on the legend of thousands of workers
quarrying immense stones for tens of Inundations.

Now Cheftu understood why no one had ever known anyone whose family had worked on the Pyramids. Most likely the priests had
poured the stone into molds, then poured more when they dried. In a land built of mud brick, it really was no surprise. It
would have taken a few thousand people as opposed to hundreds of thousands of people.

Cheftu ate, then slept. When he awoke in the jewel-toned room, he ran over to his brick. It was cool, so he pulled away the
wooden blanks and looked at it. A rectangle of limestone that looked as if it were quarried from the finest veins in Aswan.
It weighed like limestone also. Cheftu was laughing to himself when he heard a faint noise.

Turning around, he saw that his breakfast had appeared—fruit and bread. He turned back to the table; the entire table, including
the
ari-kat
limestone, was gone.

Another table was in its place, with another box, another flat surface. Except this one had a throwing wheel. Eating his fruit
as he unpacked the box, Cheftu frowned over the ingredients. A vial of natural acid, a block of alabaster, rags, oil, and
a template drawn on linen, round and fat on one end, narrowing, then bulging again before the neck. Last, a dried bladder.
He picked it up, turning it over and around. A dried bladder?

Cheftu paced, drawing on his lessons and ideas. He had no idea how many days it had taken him to make the
ari-kat
stone or how many days he was expected to be in the pyramid.

What was he to make from this? He toyed with the block of alabaster. The stone was pleasantly weighted, the height just right
for a perfume vial. Acid. Alabaster. Another Egyptian skill, praise Ptah!

He opened the acid vial and poured a little on the stone. … The reward was a satisfying hiss as the acid began to eat at the
stone. Hands trembling, he poured the acid into the bladder, squeezing the flow onto the stone, controlling how and where
the stone was formed.

The ability to shape stone.

C
HEFTU HAD BEEN IN THE PYRAMID FOR TEN DAYS
. Chloe only hoped they were feeding him. What could take ten days? Instead of worrying, she was letting Atenis kill her.
Slowly, painfully, and thoroughly.

Today they were working on pace.

Chloe thought she knew how to run; she had done a lot of it in the air force, and she had spent a fair amount of time running
in ancient Egypt. However, according to Atenis, Chloe didn’t know the first thing about it.

First there had been the discussion of her running posture. She clenched her fists, a no-no; she also looked down. If I don’t,
I will trip and break something, Chloe argued, but Atenis chided her: looking down shortened her stride. Sibylla had long
legs, she should be able to eat up the
henti
. It was a major advantage over Ileana, who was shorter.

Then there was the critique of her footwork. No slapping, no heels hitting the ground. Run only on the balls of her feet.

The calluses Chloe was developing were as thick as bubble wrap, complete with popping blisters. If she were running a long
distance, she needed to run heel to toe, propelling forward with her toes.

Chloe followed the path’s curve, wiping sweat off her brow with her elbow, keeping her hands loose. Running this way, on her
toes, her shoulders immobile, did feel a lot better. She felt fleet, graceful, and the stretch of her leg muscles was … nice.