Shadows on the Aegean (66 page)

The Labyrinth, Hades, was a maze by definition. There were no light sources. She’d fallen down, way down. Or at least it had
felt that way. But not far enough to break anything.

She was expected to die.

Bad thought, Chloe
.

She put her head on her knees.
Think! The maze you beat before was art—a design motif. Maybe this is the same? How can I know when it’s too dark to see?

She’d pretend she was Helen Keller.

On her feet again, she took a step and slipped, falling down a vertical shaft, her flailing hands finally catching a ledge.
She scrambled up the sheer chalky sides with bare toes and fingers. Chloe huddled, her breath loud and her heart pounding.

Part of her just wanted to fall off a ledge and be done with it. She was terrified, trapped in a place designed to kill—or
send you round the bend.

Then she thought of Cheftu. They’d been through so much, yet here they were. Together, no less. She still hadn’t drawn his
hands or told him about her family. Or had his children. No, leaving Cheftu was not an option.

Her stomach growled and Chloe realized that her ability to think clearly would be pretty limited. She could survive without
food. Not happily, not in a good mood, but she would live. Water—water was trickier, especially since she was sweating like
a mule.
What I wouldn’t give for a squeeze sport bottle!

On her hands and knees she crawled forward, away from the ledge. Standing carefully, she reached up and touched ceiling. She’d
walk as far as she could, see if she could understand the plan better. There had to be a method. One didn’t just construct
something without a method, a blueprint; it had to make sense to somebody! She just had to guess the right somebody. Swallowing
dryly, Chloe walked forward.

T
HE GODS APPEARED TO LISTEN TO
P
HOEBUS
. In the days that followed his ascension of the pyramid, utter calm descended on Aztlan. Not a tremor shook the earth, not
a wave flickered high on the sea. The wounds that gaped in the soil of the empire became green with growth, and the fire that
had warmed the citizens’ feet in warning, cooled.

The anger of Apis seemed dissipated; no stench of sulfur, no pockets of steam. The sky was blue, swallows fluttered on the
breeze, butterflies lighted on buildings, a blessing of the goddess Kela. The dead had been peaceably interred in the caverns
of Paros. A few clansmen returned to Delos, now two slivers of island, and began to design a newer, better city for the Clan
of the Muse.

From around the empire, citizens came to clean out the burned fields of Naxos. Mariners and engineers from Siros updated the
irrigation system with better aqueducts. Women from Tinos brought seedlings and laid them in the ash-coated earth with love,
honoring the dead and praying to Kela for fertility.

Priests journeyed from Folegandros, set about pouring new
ari-kat
stone for buildings, watchtowers, and walls. Mount Krion slept, not even a puff of smoke emitted from the pointed cone. Priests
monitored Mount Stronghyle and Mount Gaia, but Apis rested. Phoebus had assuaged the gods. He was one of their number now.

Hreesos
was seen everywhere. Always white cloaked, his blue eyes and a flash of gold were the only things visible beneath his hood.
Niko, his mage, was ever at his elbow, as was Eumelos, his firstborn, who trembled when his father left his sight. From the
tip of Hydroussa to the pylons of the Breakwater, the Golden Bull inspected, encouraged, and supported his people.

As proof of his kingship, his worthiness to rule and omen of the bounty he would bring to Aztlan, the Queen of Heaven was
rumored to be with child. Every night they coupled, and every day she was carried from the palace to the sprawling temple
of the snake goddess for the Kela-Tenata to observe her. Though her waist was still tiny, citizens speculated that her breasts
grew heavier and noticed she no longer wore her cincher.

Had Aztlan ever had such a powerful, magnificent ruler? He was
athanati
already; he’d battled the bull god and won. He was everything a ruler should be—fertile, wise, handsome, strong, and mysterious.

His people would do anything for him; Phoebus was a god.

N
IKO SLAMMED THE DOOR
, and Neotne looked up. He dismissed her with a snap and walked to his chest where the stones lay hidden. Phoebus was being
difficult, refusing to believe the peace would end.

The stones had spoken, though Niko hesitated to share their prophecy. The stones were Niko’s secret.

More danger approached. Niko had been trained to see the signs of impending eruption. The priests had quietly informed him
of the newly poisoned water, the activity of the snakes.

With shaky hands Niko pulled out the black and white stones, tossing and throwing, asking mundane questions as he worked up
the courage to ask the difficult ones. He checked what he knew of the language against the chart he’d made. The letters were
confusing, and a single misread mark could change the meaning of the word or sentence.

Phoebus had not mentioned Irmentis, not even asked after her. He had to know she’d been thrown in the Labyrinth. He cared
only for Eumelos.

A child.

He let Niko handle all the questions citizens asked, he just moved through the day, smiling, waving. The clansmen were dazzled,
but Niko alone knew the Golden Bull had lost his energy, his will. Phoebus never spoke to his childhood friend, he just smiled.
It was as though Phoebus had died; being with Eumelos was the one thing that kept him from lying down and embracing the Isles
of the Blessed.

It was clear he no longer cared for Niko. The realization cut him to the quick: first Spiralmaster betraying him, now Phoebus’
passive forsaking him. If only Niko could win back his love, his friendship, his old, easy companionship, he would never ask
the gods for another thing. He questioned the stones. “Will the Scholomance survive?”

“T-h-e-e-s-s-e-n-c-e-w-i-l-l.”

“When will the mountain erupt?”

“T-h-e-S-e-a-s-o-n-o-f-t-h-e-L-i-o-n.”

“Which day?”

Niko felt someone watching him and turned quickly. No one stood behind; it must be his fear, his imagination. He wrapped the
stones in cloth and snapped for a carrying chair. He needed to speak to the Council.

Aztlan was dying.

T
HE GIRL WAITED UNTIL SHE SAW HER PROVIDER’S CHAIR
take him away. She crept into his chambers, looking around for his hiding place. Those stones were talking to him; she could
see the answers in his pale, burning eyes and flushed face.

Neotne wanted some answers.

Her teeth permanently gritted against the ache of her missing hand, Neotne used it as a brace while her right hand sifted
through her benefactor’s possessions. Two squares of silk from Kos were set on opposite sides of his chest. She pulled out
one and recognized the black stone she’d seen over Niko’s shoulder. She unrolled the second and laid it beside.

The stones moved!

Stifling a shriek, Neotne watched as the stones flipped and turned. Faint markings in some mysterious text colored their sides,
and she felt tears prick her eyelids. It was a language she didn’t know.

The stones were twisting and tumbling as though caught in a violent wind. How would she get them back inside? Despair had
almost drowned her until she saw the crude clay tablet. Beside each of the markings from the stone was an Aztlantu translation.

Trembling with fear and anticipation, Neotne picked up the struggling stones in her one hand and tossed them, as she had seen
Niko do. In a voice that was low and rough from weeks of silence—why should she speak if the gods would not heed her—Neotne
asked her question.

“Does Y’carus live?”

The stones flipped three times, and she quickly compared the markings, then again. Elation flowed through her so quickly she
felt dizzy. Aye! Y’carus lived! The next question on her lips was how to find him, yet her eye was drawn to her hand.

From her hand, to her arm, then her marred breasts. She could see through only one eye; grasp with only one fist. Y’carus
lived, and he had loved her. The woman she had been was dead, though. A new creature stood in her place. A being that most
found repulsive; she couldn’t bear to see that pitying, fearful look in Y’carus’ eyes.

She wouldn’t find him. She would leave Aztlan, go far away. Perhaps in summers to come she would find the courage to take
up life again. “What is there for me?” she whispered, blinking away tears. She must be strong; she was alone now. Niko had
treated her well, saving her from a painful, certain death, but he didn’t need her. He tolerated her, but he had no warmth,
no love, in his
psyche
.

The stones slipped from her fingers onto the table. The answer took much longer, as she thrice verified each letter. “B-e-r-e-a-d-y-t-o-s-a-i-l-f-a-r.”

“Who are you?”

“T-h-e-v-o-i-c-e-o-f-I-A-M.”

The stones seemed to burn in her palms as Neotne slipped them into their silken pouches, separating them enough so that they
were still, then putting them inside the box. She had to ready herself to sail. She had to be brave.