Shadows on the Aegean (52 page)

The distance was closing, and Chloe hadn’t felt her heels hit the earth in forty paces. She flicked one foot back, then the
other.

In her mind’s eye she saw the Road Runner’s legs in a flurry of motion.

There! Just ahead. Ileana was wasting precious energy weaving, and Chloe ran taller, passing Ileana and crashing into the
line of nymphs first.

Their hands pushed her, and Chloe dazedly realized it was a maze. Art, think artwork! She didn’t ask how it came to be here
or what the whole point was, she jogged through. It wasn’t a Greek key, it wasn’t a spiral. She turned another corner, and
they cheered her.

Ileana crashed into her, jabbing her knee into Chloe’s thigh, and Chloe staggered, catching her balance.

It was moments too late.

Ileana had won!

Dazed, on a dread high almost like a car accident or IRS audit, Chloe could only stare. Ileana’s pupils were huge in the darkness
as she magnanimously thanked Kela for selecting her again. She curtly reminded Chloe to be in her chambers at tomorrow’s dawn
to learn about her position as inheritor.

Above them, on the pyramid just tinted with light, Minos cupped his hands and cried out, “Kela-Ileana, consort of
Hreesos!”

Chloe wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. Ileana had cheated. How could she win? She stood silent, gazing over the land bridge.
She had never failed, not really. Almost anything was attainable if she worked hard enough. Atenis touched her elbow. “She
has yet to get with child. There might still be hope.”

She hugged Atenis. “My sorrow. I tried, dear Kela, I tried.”

“She is a viper; she has always won.” The chieftain’s gray eyes were sympathetic. “You didn’t race like she did. No one is
more vicious than a cornered predator.”

“What did they mean by ‘inheritor to the consort of
Hreesos!”

Chloe asked, striving for calm, coming to grips with losing. No wonder Sibylla had been so quiet. Chloe had been manipulated,
and she had lost to a cheat.

Atenis stepped back, looking at her strangely. “She won the right to be mother-goddess. If, after thirty days of mating, Ileana
is not pregnant, you will be Queen of Heaven.”

If Sibylla still existed, Chloe would kill her. “Meaning exactly what?”

“The sacred marriage. You will bear
Hreesos’
children, be his wife. Sib, you are acting oddly. Are you well?”

Chloe couldn’t quite take it in. She’d run this race, she’d almost killed herself, to oust Ileana. That she knew. She’d lost.
She knew that, too. That she could still become Kela, the mother-goddess in every last way, was news. This is what I get for
leaping before I look, Chloe thought.

For the first time she considered how nice it would be to live in her own body for a change.

Without Cheftu?

T
HE DAY OF THE BULL DANCE ARRIVED
in a haze of beauty. Colored tents contrasted with the sea and sky, flaunting their clan emblems. The chieftains would conclude
the meetings of the Council. Then, Phoebus alone would undergo the rituals of Becoming Golden.

He stood silent as attendants dressed him in the elaborate ceremonial robes of the Clan Olimpi. He would ascend the Pyramid
of Days and emerge a changed man: no longer only the firstborn son of Bull Zelos, but the embodiment and incarnation of a
god. A ruler in his own right, able to convene with the Council. But first the Bull Dance, the ritual, the sacrifice. Then
one moon cycle with Ileana—his skin crept at the thought—and he would be the supreme ruler of the thalassocracy.

What a threshold in which to assume his throne. A plague was killing off the Aztlantu elders, two clans had been all but obliterated.
It was a good thing he was moving against Egypt and the eastern mainland. Aztlan would soon need their food, men, and resources.

He exhaled as his dresser laced a red leather corselet around his waist. The man deftly tucked the edge of the loincloth under
the corselet and called for the ceremonial kilt. It wrapped low on Phoebus’ hips, the elaborately patterned cloth swathing
him and then falling into a waterfall of fabric that reached his sandals in the front. Phoebus held out his arms as bands
of gold were strapped on his biceps and forearms. The heavy pendant of the clan of the Triton, Clan Olimpi, was laid around
his neck. He clenched his teeth as he submitted to the formal twisting and binding of his waist-length hair. His eyes were
lined with gray kohl, and golden earrings pierced his ears.

“Phoebus?” Her low voice sent a shudder throughout his body. He snapped the dresser away before turning. Instead of her tunic,
she wore the attire of a highborn Aztlantu woman: a tiered skirt and fitted jacket, which covered her shoulders and arms,
then tied tightly around her waist, leaving her white breasts with their painted nipples free.

He heard the low whine of her hounds in the corridor. Would that he could be her dog! “Irmentis,” he said, coughing, “I welcome
you, sister. My gratitude for coming.”

“You know I hate court, but I could not miss your Becoming. How do you fare?” Though the question was courteous, her blue
eyes seemed to see deep inside him, and he knew that she alone really cared.

“Nervous,” Phoebus said, crossing his arms so he wouldn’t reach for her. “It is odd to realize that in this twenty-four decans
I will make earth-shaking decisions, choices that will craft me into another person.”

“Your life will no longer be yours. You will belong to Aztlan.”

I want to belong to you, he thought. “Aye. My days of mingling freely with the clansmen are finished.” Phoebus flexed his
jaw.

Irmentis walked to the window, looked out, then over to his dressing table. “I cannot stay for all of the ceremony,” she said.
“The sun, you understand.”

“Aye. Nekros tendered his apology as well.”

They stood in awkward silence, and Phoebus wanted to weep. Until recently there had never been tension or discomfort between
them. He crossed to a woven chest and pulled out an alabaster vial he’d filled for her. A wrapped parcel lay next to it, and
he gave both to Irmentis.

She ripped the fabric away from the honeycomb, and he watched as her trembling hands poured some of the opaque green liquid
over it. As if it were the finest of delicacies, she bit the comb—the honey and artemisia mingling in her mouth and veins.
Phoebus watched in sweet agony as she licked her fingers, sucking the honey from her nails.

“I have some news,” he said, unable to look away.

“Aye?”

“Ileana has won the race.”

Irmentis froze for a moment, then continued to clean her hands. “It is no more than we expected.”

“You could race her anytime you chose, Irmentis. Only you can beat her. We could be together.” The words came in a rush. She
stood perfectly motionless, not looking at him. The vial and honeycomb lay before her. She’d eaten almost half. Was Niko right
that she was becoming dependent on it? He stepped forward. “Irmentis, my sister, we can wed. You can easily beat Kela-Ileana.
All of our dreams can come true! The race isn’t even in daylight.” He saw her smile for just an eyeblink; still she would
not look at him. Gently, as though approaching a fawn, he stepped to her. He pulled her chin up. “Irmentis, this is what we
have always wanted, my sister, my love. We can be together! We can mix our blood—”

She jerked her chin from his grasp. “I came to tell you I am leaving, Phoebus.”

“What?”

“There is an islet off Nios.
Pateeras
has gifted me with it, and I am going there. It is well wooded, and I will have my nymphs for companions.…”

Phoebus shook her in rage, ignoring the warning growls he heard from her hounds. “Leaving? I have offered you my crown and
couch! You tell me you are leaving?”

“I cannot marry you, Phoebus. I have told you that as many times as there are stars in the heavens. Dreams are not real.”

“You mean you
will
not marry me.” Phoebus dropped his hands. He heard her snap her fingers, and the dogs sat, watching him but silent. She didn’t
move; neither did he.

Finally she raised her gaze, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Nay, my brother, I cannot.” Her words were slow, enunciated
carefully.

“I am sick beyond bearing of hearing that, Irmentis!”

“I am sick beyond bearing of your selfishness!” she screamed. The dogs’ low growls underscored her ire. “Never have you asked
me, consulted with me, about the future you so easily create! You simply choose your path and expect me to chase behind you.
I will not continue this, Phoebus! I cannot marry you! Should you wish to know why, should you ever
listen
to me, Ileana can tell you!”

Phoebus felt stricken. Her breasts moved with her agitated breathing. “Ileana?” he repeated.

Irmentis turned away, staring into the brightly sunlit day of which she could have no part. “Wed whom you must,” she said
in monotone. “Leave me to my peace.”

Desperate, Phoebus pulled her to him, plundering her mouth with a hard kiss. He pressed her jaw until her mouth opened and
thrust his tongue in, savagely searching for a response.

A dead octopus was more passionate.

He pulled away, immediately contrite. Irmentis’ lips were bruised, the light color she’d painted them was now smeared across
her face. Red marks showed on her white breasts where he had handled her. Her eyes were flat, and Phoebus felt a wave of shame.
The dogs were on their feet, snarling, showing their teeth. Phoebus half wished they’d fall on him, end this misery. What
had he done? “My sorrow,” he whispered, straightening her jacket and rubbing ineffectually at the smudges on her face.

Someone knocked at the door. “My master! Time grows short!”

“Please do not leave me,” Phoebus begged. “Not like this, Irmentis. Please.”

“There is nothing more,” she said. “We cannot go forward or back.”

“Please. We can find some compromise, we can walk a joint path. Please, Irmentis. …”

She pulled her hands from his and smiled softly. “We cannot.” With a gentle hand she traced his lips, and Phoebus felt his
breath catching. “Wed another, my love,” she whispered.

Phoebus stared at her, lost in her gaze, her touch. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Phoebus whirled away—he couldn’t seem to control his anger now that it was out. “Tomorrow? This is all the farewell I get?
When were you going to tell me? Or would you simply leave and let me wonder if some animal devoured you?”

“Phoebus, don’t be a child. I will only be a day’s sail away. It is no time. I was going to tell you, I just had not decided
when. I had to stay a while, though, to know that you—”

“Will survive?” he asked bitterly. “What difference will it make to you?”

She dropped her gaze at his words, and Phoebus stepped into the path of sunlight, looking blindly toward the sea. After tonight
he would no longer live two lives, one in the day as the Rising Golden and one in the night as Irmentis’ fellow shade. Could
he give up the night? The silvery moon? The cool quiet of wind through the trees, the heavy fragrance of night flowers? The
golden glitter of a wolf’s eyes, the shriek of the bats? The warmth of Irmentis’ body beside his as they ran over hills and
through valleys, their bows beneath their arms?

He had never spent more than a week away from her. She was his friend, his partner, his dream lover. To her he could confess
his fears as prince. To her he could entrust the details of his experiments. To her he could rage over the precarious state
of Aztlan’s bloated chieftains and bickering clans and discuss his new plans to resurrect his empire. With her he could plot
revenge against Ileana.

Could he survive?

He turned to her, her frail figure clad in clothing abhorrent to her yet worn for his sake. Where were her tunic and sandals?
Where was the silver circlet that held back her long, curly hair? Would he train her like a hound? Was that what marriage
would do to her? She was a wild thing—was it fair to tame her?

He read the answer in her eyes.

Let me be free
.

She edged around a patch of sunlight on the floor and then stepped into the dark corridor. Phoebus watched as his heart, his
dreams, his reason, walked away.