The Tyrant's Tomb

by Rick Riordan

  Once we were seated, Reyna spread a parchment scroll across the table. “So, we’ve been working with Ella and Tyson since yesterday, trying to decipher some more lines of prophecy.”

  “We’ve made progress,” Frank added. “We think we’ve found the recipe you were talking about at the senate meeting—the ritual that could summon divine aid to save the camp.”

  “That’s great, right?” Meg reached for the jar of jelly beans but retracted her hand when Aurum and Argentum began growling.

  “Maybe.” Reyna exchanged a worried look with Frank. “The thing is, if we’re reading the lines correctly…the ritual requires a death sacrifice.”

  The fish sticks began sword-fighting with the french fries in my stomach.

  “That can’t be right,” I said. “We gods would never ask you mortals to sacrifice one of your own. We gave that up centuries ago! Or millennia ago, I can’t remember. But I’m sure we gave it up!”

  Frank gripped his armrests. “Yeah, that’s the thing. It’s not a mortal who’s supposed to die.”

  “No.” Reyna locked eyes with me. “It seems this ritual requires the death of a god.”

  O book, what’s my fate?

  What is the secret of life?

  See appendix F

  WHY WAS EVERYBODY LOOKING at me?

  I couldn’t help it if I was the only (ex-)god in the room.

  Reyna leaned over the scroll, tracing her finger across the parchment. “Frank copied these lines from Tyson’s back. As you can probably guess, they read more like an instruction manual than a prophecy….”

  I was about to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to rip the scroll away from Reyna and read the bad news myself. Was my name mentioned? Sacrificing me couldn’t possibly please the gods, could it? If we Olympians started sacrificing one another, that would set a terrible precedent.

  Meg eyed the jar of jelly beans, while the greyhounds eyed her. “Which god dies?”

  “Well, that particular line…” Reyna squinted, then pushed the parchment over to Frank. “What is that word?”

  Frank looked sheepish. “Shattered. Sorry, I was writing fast.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. Your handwriting is better than mine.”

  “Can you please just tell me what it says?” I begged.

  “Right, sorry,” Reyna said. “Well, it’s not exactly poetry, like the sonnet you got in Indianapolis—”

  “Reyna!”

  “Okay, okay. It says: All to be done on the day of greatest need: gather the ingredients for a type-six burnt offering (see appendix B)—”

  “We’re doomed,” I wailed. “We’ll never be able to collect those…whatever they are.”

  “That part’s easy,” Frank assured me. “Ella has the list of ingredients. She says it’s all ordinary stuff.” He gestured for Reyna to continue.

  “Add the last breath of the god who speaks not, once his soul is cut free,” Reyna read aloud, “together with the shattered glass. Then the single-deity summoning prayer (see appendix C) must be uttered through the rainbow.” She took a breath. “We don’t have the actual text of that prayer yet, but Ella is confident she can transcribe it before the battle starts, now that she knows what to look for in appendix C.”

  Frank glanced at me for a reaction. “Does the rest of it make any sense to you?”

  I was so relieved I almost slumped off my three-legged stool. “You got me all worked up. I thought…Well, I’ve been called a lot of things, but never the god who speaks not. It sounds like we must find the soundless god, whom we’ve discussed before, and, er—”

  “Kill him?” Reyna asked. “How would killing a god please the gods?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that. Then again, many prophecies seemed illogical until they played out. Only in retrospect did they appear obvious.

  “Perhaps if I knew which god we’re talking about…” I pounded my fist on my knee. “I feel like I should know, but it’s buried deep. An obscure memory. I don’t suppose you’ve checked your libraries or run a Google search or something?”

  “Of course we looked,” Frank said. “There’s no listing for a Roman or Greek god of silence.”

  Roman or Greek. I felt sure I was missing something—like part of my brain, for instance. Last breath. His soul is cut free. It definitely sounded like instructions for a sacrifice.

  “I have to think on it,” I decided. “As for the rest of the instructions: shattered glass seems like an odd request, but I suppose we can find some easily enough.”

  “We could break the jelly bean jar,” Meg suggested.

  Reyna and Frank politely ignored her.

  “And the single-deity summoning thing?” Frank asked. “I guess that means we won’t be getting a host of gods charging down in their chariots?”

  “Probably not,” I agreed.

  But my pulse quickened. The possibility of being able to speak to even one fellow Olympian after all this time—to summon actual grade AA–quality, jumbo, cage-free, locally sourced divine help…I found the idea both exhilarating and terrifying. Would I get to choose which god I called, or was it predetermined by the prayer? “Nevertheless, even one god can make all the difference.”

  Meg shrugged. “Depends on the god.”

  “That hurt,” I said.

  “What about the last line?” Reyna asked. “The prayer must be uttered through the rainbow.”

  “An Iris-message,” I said, happy I could answer one question at least. “It’s a Greek thing, a way of beseeching Iris, goddess of the rainbow, to carry a message—in this case, a prayer to Mount Olympus. The formula is quite simple.”

  “But…” Frank frowned. “Percy told me about Iris-messages. They don’t work anymore, do they? Not since all our communications went silent.”

  Communications, I thought. Silent. The soundless god.

  I felt as if I’d fallen into the deep end of a very cold pool. “Oh. I am so stupid.”

  Meg giggled, but she resisted the many sarcastic comments that no doubt were filling her mind.

  I, in turn, resisted the urge to push her off her stool. “This soundless god, whoever he is…What if he’s the reason our communications don’t work? What if the Triumvirate has somehow been harnessing his power to prevent us all from talking to one another, and to keep us from beseeching the gods for help?”

  Reyna crossed her arms, blocking out the word FUERTE on her T-shirt. “You’re saying what, this soundless god is in cahoots with the Triumvirate? We have to kill him to open our means of communication? Then we could send an Iris-message, do the ritual, and get divine help? I’m still stuck on the whole killing a god thing.”

  I considered the Erythraean Sibyl, whom we’d rescued from her prison in the Burning Maze. “Perhaps this god isn’t a willing participant. He might have been trapped, or…I don’t know, coerced somehow.”

  “So we free him by killing him?” Frank asked. “Gotta agree with Reyna. That sounds harsh.”

  “One way to find out,” Meg said. “We go to this Sutro place. Can I feed your dogs?”

  Without waiting for permission, she grabbed the jelly bean jar and popped it open.

  Aurum and Argentum, having heard the magic words feed and dogs, did not growl or tear Meg apart. They got up, moved to her side, and sat watching her, their jeweled eyes sending the message Please, please, please.

  Meg doled out a jelly bean for each dog, then ate two herself. Two for the dogs, two for herself. Meg had achieved a major diplomatic breakthrough.

  “Meg’s right. Sutro is the place Tarquin’s minion mentioned,” I recalled. “Presumably we’ll find the soundless god there.”

  “Mount Sutro?” Reyna asked. “Or Sutro Tower? Did he say which?”

  Frank raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it the same place? I always just call that area Sutro Hill.”

  “Actually, the biggest hill is Mount Sutro,” said Reyna. “The giant antenna is on a different hill right next to it. That’s Sutro Tower. I only know this because Au
rum and Argentum like to go hiking over there.”

  The greyhounds turned their heads at the word hiking, then went back to studying Meg’s hand in the jelly bean jar. I tried to imagine Reyna hiking with her dogs just for fun. I wondered if Lavinia knew that was her pastime. Maybe Lavinia was such a dedicated hiker because she was trying to outdo the praetor, the same way she had her thinking spot high above Reyna’s.

  Then I decided that trying to psychoanalyze my pink-haired, tap-dancing, manubalista-wielding friend was probably a losing proposition.

  “Is this Sutro place close?” Meg was slowly depleting all the green jelly beans, which was giving her a different sort of green thumb than usual.

  “It’s across the bay in San Francisco,” Reyna said. “The tower is massive. You can see it from all over the Bay Area.”

  “Weird place to keep someone,” Frank said. “But I guess no weirder than under a carousel.”

  I tried to remember if I’d ever been to Sutro Tower, or any of the other various Sutro-labeled places in that vicinity. Nothing came to mind, but the instructions from the Sibylline Books had left me deeply unsettled. The last breath of a god was not an ingredient most ancient Roman temples kept in their pantries. And cutting a god’s soul free really was not something Romans were supposed to try without adult supervision.

  If the soundless god was part of the Triumvirate’s scheme for control, why would Tarquin have access to him? What had Tarquin meant by “doubling the flock” to guard the god’s location? And what he’d said about the Sibyl—I hope the Sibyl lasts long enough to see you humbled. That may be what finally breaks her. Had he just been messing with my mind? If the Sibyl of Cumae was truly still alive, a captive of Tarquin, I was obligated to help her.

  Help her, the cynical part of my mind responded. Like you helped her before?

  “Wherever the soundless god is,” I said, “he’ll be heavily protected, especially now. Tarquin must know we’ll try to locate the hiding place.”

  “And we have to do so on April eighth,” said Reyna. “The day of greatest need.”

  Frank grunted. “Good thing we don’t have anything else scheduled that day. Like getting invaded on two fronts, for instance.”

  “My gods, Meg,” Reyna said, “you’re going to make yourself sick. I’ll never get all the sugar out of Aurum and Argentum’s gear works.”

  “Fine.” Meg put the jelly bean jar back on the table, but not before grabbing one last fistful for herself and her canine accomplices. “So we have to wait until the day after tomorrow? What’ll we do until then?”

  “Oh, we’ve got plenty to do,” Frank promised. “Planning. Constructing defenses. War games all day tomorrow. We have to run the legion through every possible scenario. Besides…”

  His voice faltered, as if he’d realized he was about to say something aloud that was best left in his head. His hand drifted toward the pouch where he held his firewood.

  I wondered if he’d taken any additional notes from Ella and Tyson—perhaps more harpy ramblings about bridges, fires, and something, something, something. If so, Frank apparently didn’t want to share.

  “Besides,” he started over, “you guys should rest up for the quest. You’ll have to leave for Sutro early on Lester’s birthday.”

  “Can we please not call it that?” I pleaded.

  “Also, who is ‘you guys’?” Reyna asked. “We may need another senate vote to decide who goes on the quest.”

  “Nah,” Frank said. “I mean, we can check with the senators, but this is clearly an extension of the original mission, right? Besides, when we’re at war, you and I have full executive power.”

  Reyna regarded her colleague. “Why, Frank Zhang. You’ve been studying the praetors’ handbook.”

  “Maybe a little.” Frank cleared his throat. “Anyway, we know who needs to go: Apollo, Meg, and you. The doorway to the soundless god has to be opened by Bellona’s daughter, right?”

  “But…” Reyna looked back and forth between us. “I can’t just leave on the day of a major battle. Bellona’s power is all about strength in numbers. I need to lead the troops.”

  “And you will,” Frank promised. “As soon as you get back from San Francisco. In the meantime, I’ll hold down the fort. I’ve got this.”

  Reyna hesitated, but I thought I detected a gleam in her eye. “Are you sure, Frank? I mean, yeah, of course you can do it. I know you can, but—”

  “I’ll be fine.” Frank smiled like he meant it. “Apollo and Meg need you on this quest. Go.”

  Why did Reyna look so excited? How crushing her work must have been, if, after carrying the burden of leadership for so long, she was looking forward to going on an adventure across the bay to kill a god.

  “I suppose,” she said with obviously feigned reluctance.

  “It’s settled, then.” Frank turned to Meg and me. “You guys rest up. Big day tomorrow. We’ll need your help with the war games. I’ve got a special job in mind for each of you.”

  Hamster ball of death

  Spare me your fiery doom

  I’m not feeling it

  OH, BOY, A SPECIAL job!

  The anticipation was killing me. Or maybe that was the poison in my veins.

  As soon as I returned to the coffee shop’s attic, I crashed on my cot.

  Meg huffed, “It’s still light outside. You slept all day.”

  “Not turning into a zombie is hard work.”

  “I know!” she snapped. “I’m sorry!”

  I looked up, surprised by her tone. Meg kicked an old paper latte cup across the room. She plopped onto her cot and glared at the floor.

  “Meg?”

  In her flower box, irises grew with such speed that their flowers crackled open like corn kernels. Just a few minutes ago, Meg had been happily insulting me and gorging on jelly beans. Now…Was she crying?

  “Meg.” I sat up, trying not to wince. “Meg, you’re not responsible for me getting hurt.”

  She twisted the ring on her right hand, then the one on her left, as if they’d become too small for her fingers. “I just thought…if I could kill him…” She wiped her nose. “Like in some stories. You kill the master, and you can free the people he’s turned.”

  It took a moment for her words to sink in. I was pretty sure the dynamic she was describing applied to vampires, not zombies, but I understood what she meant.

  “You’re talking about Tarquin,” I said. “You jumped into the throne room because…you wanted to save me?”

  “Duh,” she muttered, without any heat.

  I put my hand over my bandaged abdomen. I’d been so angry with Meg for her recklessness in the tomb. I’d assumed she was just being impulsive, reacting to Tarquin’s plans to let the Bay Area burn. But she’d leaped into battle for me—with the hope that she could kill Tarquin and erase my curse. That was even before I’d realized how bad my condition was. Meg must have been more worried, or more intuitive, than she’d let on.

  Which certainly took all the fun out of criticizing her.

  “Oh, Meg.” I shook my head. “That was a crazy, senseless stunt, and I love you for it. But don’t beat yourself up. Pranjal’s medicine bought me some extra time. And you did, too, of course, with your cheese-grating skills and your magical chickweed. You’ve done everything you could. When we summon godly help, I can ask for complete healing. I’m sure I’ll be as good as new. Or at least, as good as a Lester can be.”

  Meg tilted her head, making her crooked glasses just about horizontal. “How can you know? Is this god going to give us three wishes or something?”

  I considered that. When my followers called, had I ever shown up and granted them three wishes? LOL, nope. Maybe one wish, if that wish was something I wanted to happen anyway. And if this ritual only allowed me to call one god, who would it be—assuming I could even choose? Perhaps my son Asclepius would be able to heal me, but he couldn’t very well fight the Roman emperors’ forces and the hordes of undead. Mars might grant us su
ccess on the battlefield, but he’d look at my wound and say something like Yeah, rough break. Die bravely!

  Here I was with purple lines of infection snaking down my arms, telling Meg not to worry.

  “I don’t know, Meg,” I confessed. “You’re right. I can’t be sure everything will be okay. But I can promise you I’m not giving up. We’ve come this far. I’m not going to let a belly scratch stop us from defeating the Triumvirate.”

  She had so much mucus dripping from her nostrils, she would’ve made Buster the unicorn proud. She sniffled, wiping her upper lip with her knuckle. “I don’t want to lose somebody else.”

  My mental gears weren’t turning at full speed. I had trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that by “somebody else,” Meg meant me.

  I recalled one of her early memories, which I’d witnessed in my dreams: she’d been forced to gaze upon her father’s lifeless body on the steps of Grand Central Station while Nero, his murderer, hugged her and promised to take care of her.

  I remembered how she’d betrayed me to Nero in the Grove of Dodona out of fear of the Beast, Nero’s dark side, and how horrible she’d felt afterward, when we reunited in Indianapolis. Then she’d taken all her displaced anger and guilt and frustration and projected it onto Caligula (which, to be honest, was a pretty good place to put it). Meg, being unable to lash out at Nero, had wanted so badly to kill Caligula. When Jason died instead, she was devastated.

  Now, aside from all the bad memories the Roman trappings of Camp Jupiter might have triggered for her, she was faced with the prospect of losing me. In a moment of shock, like a unicorn staring me right in the face, I realized that despite all the grief Meg gave me, and the way she ordered me around, she cared for me. For the past three months, I had been her one constant friend, just as she had been mine.

  The only other person who might have come close was Peaches, Meg’s fruit-tree spirit minion, and we hadn’t seen him since Indianapolis. At first, I’d assumed Peaches was just being temperamental about when he decided to appear, like most supernatural creatures. But if he had tried to follow us to Palm Springs, where even the cacti struggled to survive…I didn’t relish a peach tree’s odds of survival there, much less in the Burning Maze.