Shadows on the Aegean (64 page)

The Kela-Tenata believed Irmentis had killed Phoebus. Ultimately Irmentis would wander in the punishment of the Labyrinth.

Niko knew the truth: He had misused his gifts and murdered his friend. His just punishment was to live without Phoebus.

AZTLAN

P
HOEBUS WOKE WITH A SUDDENNESS
that was shaking.

He felt well-being flow through his body; his sense of smell, hearing, and sight had never seemed so strong. He realized that
something heavy was across his face, but he didn’t have the energy to move yet. He smelled fear and death and something, an
aroma so tantalizing that his mouth filled with liquid. Not saliva. It was a virulent bile that burned his tongue and throat,
ate at his teeth.

Slowly he opened his eyes. His lashes rubbed against metal, and he carefully removed the mask from over his face. A death
mask? He looked around, wondering where he was. He knew it was cold, but he didn’t feel it. There was no decoration on the
walls; indeed it seemed more of a cave than a room. Why was he in a cave? His brain flitted in his head, seeking a solution
for this madness.

Shakily he sat up, clutching with both hands the leather-strip stretcher he lay on. The floor was dirt, cold, and powdery—like
a cave. He rose to his feet, strength and power flowing through the strange quietness of his body.

Spying a jug, he walked to it, lifting it with ease as he poured it into a shallow bowl. Sloshing water over his face, he
wondered what to do. Was this some unknown trial for the throne?

He glanced down, then braced himself against the wall. Dizziness and disorientation engulfed him. Phoebus closed his eyes
as he fought what had to be sheer exhaustion. Opening them, he gazed into the depths of the water. Water that always, his
entire life, without fail, returned his blue-eyed, golden-haired appearance.

Nothing.

It reflected back the ceiling well enough. He moved a jar right beside the water. The edge of the jar was visible. He dropped
a comb in the water, and it caught the reflection before it rippled away. But
he
was not there.

Swallowing, wincing at the bile he tasted, Phoebus turned away.

Eumelos lay asleep on the chalk floor, curled tightly into himself. Phoebus stepped to his son, blindsided by the hunger that
suddenly arced through him. A smell filled his nostrils, and he felt a seductive beating inside his head. He sank back on
his heels. “Eumelos? Son?” He shook the boy’s bony shoulder and flinched when Eumelos screamed.

Then his son was in his embrace, crying like the child he was, and Phoebus’ arms were around him, feeling his bones beneath
his hands, the pounding of his small heart as he sobbed. “You’re alive! They said you were dead! I didn’t believe them, but
they said it, they did, they did!”

“Son,” Phoebus said, keeping his voice steady. “Who said I was dead?”

Eumelos’ blue eyes were glistening with tears. “The new Spiral-master and Dion. They brought you down from the mountain, you
were all bloody and dirty.”

Faint images of fire and pain floated in his head. “But I lived?”

“They traded your blood with
Theea
Irmentis’ and something went wrong. There was a lot of shouting—” Eumelos was getting too excited, his breath was raspy,
and Phoebus held his son tight, soothing him. Why would Dion and Cheftu tell such falsehoods? Why would they terrify his son?

“Where was Nestor?”

“He cried a lot and they made him go away. They wanted to make me go, too, but I wouldn’t, not even when Nekros came. He made
a mask and left it on you.” The boy’s sobs were getting softer, and Phoebus changed position, his legs were sore.

“As you can see, Eumelos, I am well.” Then he looked down at his legs. Strong legs that were supporting him. Hadn’t they been
hurt? Yet both ankles worked; Phoebus inhaled deeply, then moved his hand from Eumelos’ back to his own belly. Only a faint
scar remained where a stake of wood had impaled him.

“How … how many sunrises has it been?” he asked Eumelos, setting the boy on his bent knee.

“I do not know.” Eumelos wiped his nose, smearing it across his face. Phoebus smiled at the gesture. By the gods, he loved
this child! “Maybe five?”

Phoebus felt his arms begin to tremble, and he grabbed Eumelos close, this time to comfort himself. He remembered it in patches.
More images, Irmentis—her ultimate rejection. His whole lifetime he had hoped she would turn to him, but in that shaded glen
of her mind her
psyche
had forsaken him. Phoebus moved past his fury, the love that was mutating into hate, to his next memory. Blood and a fire
that had roared through Phoebus’ veins when Niko poured something on him.

The elixir?

The boy coughed, and Phoebus touched his forehead. He was hot, though to Phoebus everything felt hot. “I need you to do something
for me, Eumelos. I think someone wants my throne, do you understand?”

“They want to be Golden?”

“Just so.” Phoebus’ heart ached when he thought that Eumelos would never inherit the throne. It would be worth the self-sacrifice
just to see this bright child rule Aztlan. Far preferable to any whelp Ileana would birth. He shuddered. “Go to the pyramid
and ask for the Minos. Do not leave until you bring him back here.” He looked around. “Where am I?”

“In the caves beneath Kela’s temple.”

“Tell only the Minos that I am well, Eumelos. No one else. Swear to me?”

“He died,
Pateeras.”

He died and I live, Phoebus thought. “Just so, tell whoever is wearing the Minos mask.” Surely the inheritor had stepped into
his position in five days? “Swear.”

They linked their smallest fingers and swore; blood was too much for a boy this young. But it was never too early to learn
the concept of honor and keeping one’s word. Phoebus kissed his son’s head, assuring him he was fine, and lay back down on
the stretcher, touching the shallow scars that covered wounds that should still be seeping.

What was in the elixir?

H
UNDREDS OF LUNCHING CITIZENS
were scattered about the hillsides of Aztlan and Kallistae. Sunlight glinted off the Pyramid of Days, and the deep blue of
Theros Sea was capped with white waves. Chloe relaxed in the sunshine on her balcony, feeling its heat steal over her bared
body. She’d been in meetings all morning, and between the lingo she didn’t understand about cattle and the gnawing lust she
felt from just seeing Cheftu across the room, it had been both stressful and frustrating.

Hreesos’
demise was a carefully guarded secret, and her husband was sequestered until further notice. The populace knew nothing officially,
though she was certain rumors were flying thick and fast. The eruption of Mount Krion had been visible from Aztlan, and the
consequences were hard to hide.

The death of the Minos was on everyone’s lips.

In the beauty of the sun, it was hard to imagine widespread destruction. A breeze across her skin offered relief from the
heat, and Chloe imagined how wonderful it would be were Cheftu beside her. She smiled while dozing.

Suddenly all over the island, birds flew up screaming as they fought for airspace. Then she heard it, a dull rumble that seemed
to reverberate deep in her breastbone like a bass guitar. She ran to the balcony’s edge, looking out toward the land bridge
and the adjoining island.

“The Bull roars!” she heard someone shout. She saw citizens running for the sea, leaping in from hundreds of cubits above
the water, racing down the zigzag path, pushing into boats so full they capsized almost immediately.

She crouched and fought a wave of nausea as the balcony trembled beneath her. The air was thick with cries, and Chloe hunkered
down, her hands flat against the colored stone. The rumbling grew louder, deafening, and she raised her head.

Across the churning waters, on the island of Kallistae, the cliff’s edge seemed to shudder, and one section, dense with people,
fell crashing into the sea. A human avalanche.

Then it was still.

“Citizens!” A voice rose on the wind.

Chloe turned, shielding her eyes, looking toward the pyramid. A white-cloaked figure stood at the Calling Place, his arms
wide. “Fear not,” he cried. “The Bull has rumbled his last!”

Around her she heard the caustic comments: “What assurance is that?” “Shut up, you old fool,” “Tell that to the dead.” Chloe
watched as the robed figure made a sign, a blessing or a curse, she didn’t know, and turned slowly in a circle, showing himself
to all.
Hreesos!

“I am
Hreesos!”
he whispered … a soft declaration that grew and swelled like a tidal wave.

“He’s dead!” some brave soul shouted.

The white-robed figure pointed. “I have become
athanati
, and yet I will rule. I have faced Apis and I won. Join me, citizens! Eat of the flesh of Apis and rejoice in his strength.
In my strength.”

From the bottom of the pyramid priests led out dozens of bulls. Some were black Apis bulls, some were just cattle. An altar
was set up, and as Chloe watched, a bull was sacrificed. She looked toward the sea, where nothing seemed changed—as if those
lives hadn’t even rippled the surface of the water. Did no one realize it would take more than a bull snack to save them?

Hreesos
continued to speak, telling of his triumph over Apis Earth-shaker.

How was this possible? How was it that he swept down the stairs and handed out bloody bits of bull to the cautious few who
grouped before the pyramid? Five days he’d been dead! At least, that was what rumor said.

Was this like a soap opera—don’t believe the dead are actually dead unless you pinch them in an open casket? Chloe shook her
head, watching as
pithoi
of wine, then baskets of bread, were brought out. What was
Hreesos
doing?

“My mistress?”

She turned to the unknown serf.
“Eee?”

“The Kela-Ileana requests you present yourself in her
Megaron
as you are bid. The serfs will bring your belongings.”