Shadows on the Aegean (48 page)

Cheftu was there when he began his journey. Despite the power, position, and wealth the dying man possessed, none of his friends
or family dared get close to him, fearing the illness. Afterward, in his library, Cheftu looked through the notes Imhotep
had dictated. A scribe had been the former Spiralmaster’s constant companion, taking down every word as though it were holy
writ.

Unlike illness brought on by
ukhedu
, the body was not fighting this sickness. The lack of immune reaction—no fever, no sweating, no vomiting—was the most puzzling
element. Later that night, as Chloe lay in his arms pillowed on his chest, he explained the fear that was growing around the
illness about the lack of symptoms.

“It’s completely fatal?” she asked.

“Aye. No one has recovered, or survived.”

“Did the victims have anything in common?”

“All were part of Zelos’ cabinet.”

She was silent, her fingers beating out a rhythm on his stomach. “A germ, maybe?”

Cheftu listened as she explained the tiny animals that could inhabit one’s body through improperly cooked food, a dormant
illness, or even the air. “These germs make you cough and sneeze and run fevers, you say?”

“Aye. The common cold is everywhere. It’s a real peach to land a cold account ‘cause cold, fever, and sniffle relief is responsible
for half the advertising in the U.S.”

He eyed her warily, then spoke. “There is no fever. If this illness was something from outside the body, the body’s defenses
would react.”

“So do an autopsy, see if the insides of the body tell you anything.’

“A what?”

She sat up, her face animated in the lamp’s light, her hair mussed and falling over her shoulders, tangling with his. Cheftu
felt a surge in his groin as he watched her. “In murder mysteries they always do an autopsy when someone dies and no one knows
why. Could this be poison?”

“I am fairly proficient at identifying poisons, but I will inquire. Perhaps they have one here that is unknown to me. Though
I wager Imhotep would have recognized it long before.”

“Just so,” she said, staring at the designs painted on the wall behind him. “Look at that design. It starts out as a square,
then turns into a diamond, then bends into that star shape, and then fills out into a circle. An example of Bronze Age morphing,”
she said, smiling.

He rolled over, pulling her beneath him, sliding inside the tightness of her body. He felt her stiffen and then accept him,
her mouth and hands as hungry and seeking as his own. “You are morphing from medicine man to macho man,” she whispered between
kisses.

He gave himself over to sensation, the silk of her skin, her taste, her feel … and reminded himself to have her explain “morphing”
later.

“I
CAN DO NO MORE, MY FRIEND
,” Phoebus said.

Niko clenched his fists, and Phoebus watched the one-handed girl Neotne duck her head in sympathy. “If the Rising Golden is
helpless, then I am resigned also,” Niko said slowly.

“Cheftu passed the tests. He poured the stone, shaped the rock, he even transformed and survived.”

“I could have passed them also, Phoebus,”

“Niko …” Phoebus swallowed; this would be hard to say. “Spiral-master had many summers to name you his inheritor. He chose
not to, in all that time. He’d been sick for a while, and still he said nothing.

Niko’s white skin flushed. “You say that Spiralmaster intended this all along?”

Phoebus shrugged; the facts spoke for themselves. Niko, his closest and dearest friend, turned his back on Phoebus. For the
first time in his life, Phoebus was being dismissed. He saluted Neotne and left, walking down the long hallways to his own
apartments.

“How did he receive your thoughts?” Dion asked, joining him as he crossed one of the large rooms.

“How would you receive them? Niko never mentioned his aspirations. I didn’t know he wanted to be the Spiralmaster.”

“I think he just assumed he would be. Not an aspiration as such, just an understanding.”

“Apparently Spiralmaster did not have this understanding.”

The two men walked in silence. “Speaking of the Spiralmaster, Cheftu approached me on two counts.”

“What does the interloper want?”

Dion laid a hand on Phoebus’ arm. “Zelos himself has welcomed him. He was tested by the most trying tasks. Spiralmaster instantly
saw something in him that gave him trust in the man. Do you not think you could learn to—”

“He is a usurper,” Phoebus ground out. “No better than Ileana.”

“You are wrong, Phoebus.” Dion’s voice was implacable.

Phoebus sighed. “I want no more conflict today. Niko …”

“He holds you accountable?”

Phoebus shrugged, looking away. “What does Cheftu want?”

Dion refrained from commenting on Phoebus’ deliberate rudeness. “He wants Nestor to work at his side….”

“He is my inheritor! Until Kela-Ileana is full with child, at any rate.”

“Aye, but how would training with Spiralmaster Cheftu interfere with his position? He would still devote most of his time
to you.”

Phoebus wished he were with Eumelos, playing in the garden, far from friends who thought he was all-powerful. “What is the
other request?”

Dion indicated a tree in the garden, and they crossed the pavement and sat beneath it, the shade just touching their feet.
“He wishes to open the body of the most recently deceased
hequetai.”

“Profane the dead?”

“Phoebus, not as a profanity, but to determine why they are dying.”

“He cannot tell from what we know? What kind of mage is he?”

Dion gazed at him. “Spiralmaster did not know why people were dying,” he said dryly.

“Just so,” Phoebus agreed reluctantly. He looked toward Mount Krion on Folegandros, the island of the Cult of the Bull. “I
want you there, Dion. I want you to watch, see this man’s magic and skill.”

“No magic, Phoebus. A lot of skill, though.”

Phoebus rose abruptly. “I must train.”

Walking away, Phoebus felt as though the sky were falling in. He wanted Irmentis. All I must do is wait the twelve decans
till the sun fades and she awakens, he thought. He gritted his teeth. Today he would outwit his trainer in practice. He needed
to win in some arena.

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN
, I
AM NOT PREGNANT
?” Ileana screeched.

Embla shrugged. “My mistress, I cannot root the seed in your body.”

“Then what good are you!” The Queen of Heaven tapped her fingers, for once unconcerned about her frown lines. If these men
didn’t have powerful enough seed, her skin would be the least of her worries.
Ohk
Kela.

“Are you sure your lover is virile?”

“He has children, Embla. However, if he is not impregnating me, then I must find another.”

“What are his children’s ages?”

“Young. The newest not even a year.”

“Take an additional lover,” Embla said. “You do have another selected?”

“Aye,” Ileana answered distractedly.

“Drink this manroot infusion twice daily and more when the moon is upon you.”

“Aye,” Ileana said, grasping the vial as though it were her crown.

“Sleep with this beneath your pillow,” Embla said, giving her a packet of herbs. “Drink a lot of nanny goat’s milk. A strong
nanny with many offspring.”

Ileana grimaced as she stood to leave. She snapped her fingers and three serfs came in, bearing baskets and trays of food.
“My gifts, Embla,” Ileana said.

The priestess fell on the baskets as Ileana closed the door.

Embla had one more chance to make the seed root; Ileana had to get pregnant.

C
HLOE HAD JUST FOUND HER PACE
, that rhythm that lifted her over hills and sent her sailing down them, that quickened when she was in shade and slowed down
in the growing heat of the sun. As best she could figure, the competition would take place midsummer.

July. Running in July. On purpose.

She nodded at herself, then remembered to look up, her hands pumping from her face to her hips, her fingers open. An earth
tremor made her stumble. She was facing east when Mount Apollo coughed for the first time in five hundred years.

The mountain’s top, at one moment stark against the blue sky, was suddenly obscured by a gray cloud. Chloe felt a low rumble
like a train, but this was Aztlan; there were no trains.

She froze while the cloud swirled artfully across the hills, bits of it misting away as the wind caught and diluted it. If
she’d not seen it happen, she’d not have believed it. Now the mountain looked the same.

The puff of smoke?
Ash
had blown away.

Swallowing, she stretched a little and began to run back to where Atenis waited, where her time was now twice as long as usual.

As she ran, Chloe felt the mountain behind her.

That was a warning shot
, it said.

She ran even faster.

T
HE END OF
J
UNE
, the eve of the Season of the Lion, was hot and dry. Grain harvested from Caphtor was sent to Aztlan’s clans. The seed would
be stored during the rainless summer and planted in the fall.

Cheftu put his head down on the tall table. This room, lost in the bowels of the palace, was cool, but the mingled stink of
flesh, blood, and the sewer made his stomach curdle. He had a perpetual headache, and Chloe had chided him for not eating
enough. He was losing weight.

He grinned. Chloe. She had suggested autopsies. Only after he’d opened the first body, moons ago, had she remembered that
he’d have to compare diseased insides with healthy ones. He and Phoebus had almost come to blows regarding his inquiries,
Cheftu petitioning for approval on new methods in doctoring and Phoebus blocking his every move.

Thank the gods the Rising Golden was preoccupied training for the upcoming
Megaloshana’a
rituals. The table shook. Another earth-wave, Cheftu thought wearily. He stood, fighting for balance, and walked to the freshest
corpse.

The first autopsy had made him sick for days, but Chloe was right, he’d built a tolerance. Nestor slammed into the laboratory,
Vena trailing him. Cheftu slipped into the back room. The couple fought constantly. Nestor did not want her to challenge Ileana;
she was training vigorously for the race.