AZTLAN
DION BLINKED, FOCUSING ON THE RING OF WOMEN. It had grown very dark; the sun would soon rise. Still they were dancing and laughing, wine and herbs in their veins. They were his cousins, his sisters, his lovers, the mothers of his children, and the mothers of whom he’d been robbed.
All cavorted naked in the darkness. All save Irmentis, who never removed her tunic, no matter the weather or the dance. Even in the midst of these hundreds of women she was alone. A young nymph had been by her side all night, and Dion had seen them share more than one chaste kiss. He smiled at the thought of telling Ileana her dark daughter enjoyed the lips of women, but he would spare Irmentis Ileana’s wrath. Anyone could see her with Phoebus and know she enjoyed men also.
Dion leaned against a tree. The haze of drugs was clearing as the night grew cooler, and Dion knew it was up to him to make them all go home. Somewhere behind him a stick cracked. A subtle sound, a stealthy one.
He saw Irmentis raise her head. Her eyes were dark holes in her pale face, and she turned unerringly toward the sound. Slowly she got to her feet, smoothing the cheek of the nymph and stepping away. She uncorked the vial that hung at her waist, drained it, and tucked it back into the cording.
Dion watched her lean figure step toward the treeline, alone. Setting a trap for the interloper? A few cubits away, a young girl stepped too close to the fire. With a shout Dion raced to her, momentarily forgetting Irmentis as he pulled the intoxicated child to safety. Cradling her against his chest, he looked for Irmentis. She was gone.
He handed the child to a young nymph, who kissed him passionately in gratitude. Extricating himself from her embrace, he walked to where he’d last seen Irmentis. He froze at the sound of hounds baying in the distance. Irmentis’ dogs combed these hills and forests. He cocked his head, listening intently.
A shout, a scuffle… a horrified shriek.
Dion looked back at the women. A few still clustered before the fire, but most were asleep on a rug of leaves and pine needles. Another shout… a man’s cry of agony. Dion raced into the clump of trees, his night-adjusted eyes helping him to navigate the uneven terrain, the jumble of fallen branches and large stones.
He smelled blood before he arrived.
In a small copse of trees bodies littered the ground. Irmentis’ rangy, long-nosed hounds sniffed at the remains: four deer and one man, his body bleeding black blood into the silver ground. Dion turned, looking for his clan sister. He recoiled when he saw her.
Hunched over a dead deer, her body poised like a feeding lion, Irmentis licked her fingers. They were dark with blood. The rumors were true, then: Irmentis feasted on fresh blood, yet only the man was bleeding.
Kneeling beside him, Dion realized the man had begun his final journey. “What is your name?” he asked. “What clan?”
He was a young man; what was left of his throat bubbled with blood. “Acteon,” the man whispered. “The deer … are dying all ov—” Blood spilled from his lips, and Dion bade him farewell.
Dion approached his clan sister warily. She was more than a huntress tonight; she was a predator. “What happened here?”
“My hounds smelled the deer, he interfered,” she said. It took Dion a moment to realize she was crying, her tears falling on the head of the stag she cradled in her lap. “This whole group is dead. Why, Dion?”
He surveyed the four fallen stags. None had wounds that he could see, and they all lay on their sides, as though they had died in their sleep. Nor could they have been dead long, for rot hadn’t set in. Something internal had killed them.
“Have you seen this before?” he asked Irmentis, touching the face of a stag. No marks, nothing.
“Recently. Deer are dying in the dozens. Look at this.” Irmentis walked to the other three, checking the same thing.
Dion saw patches of fur rubbed bare, as though the animal had repeatedly scratched or been scratched. “These aren’t fatal,” he said. “Scratching isn’t deadly.”
“They all have it, the same marks.”
“Did the others?” he asked, kneeling beside Acteon. The sky was growing brighter. “Dawn comes,” he said gently.
“I do not know,” she said, rising gracefully. He avoided looking at her bloodstained hands and mouth. “I will check the pelts.” They walked quickly back to the bonfire. Irmentis feared the sun; it burned her pale skin horribly. Rousing those who would journey across the water with them, Dion led a dazed, staggering crew toward the beach. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when a wave of earth moved beneath their feet.
A heaving, tearing sound filled Dion’s ears, drowning out the screams of the women. He dropped to his knees as the ground quivered like a terrified animal. Dion whirled, facing the direction of the Cult of the Bull’s Mount Krion. No fire; they were safe.
“The sea!” he shouted to the naked women. They stumbled down the hillside, the ground still rumbling with aftershocks. The startled cry of one woman gave way to a loud, dying shriek. Dion drew to a halt, then ran back to the dark gash in the earth.
The woman was gone.
The crevice ran down to the shoreline. He followed the white figure of Irmentis, herding the dazed women along. He looked toward Kallistae and wondered if they too had felt the earthwaves. The vessel was filled with terrified, shivering women. Irmentis had already curled into herself, covering her body with a densely woven cloak.
After seeing his uncle Nekros suffer, Dion knew that the sun would still manage to burn her, even through the cloth. Casting off into the rough waters, he rowed hard, his body streaked with sweat and dust. The Aztlan pyramid’s flat top shone with the rising sun.
His head throbbed as he pulled the boat across the roiling sea, thinking of the night, the deer, dying from scratches. What had precipitated the earthwave? Had Irmentis taken sustenance from the dying man? Finally the boat slid into the tunnel beneath Aztlan Island, beneath the Labyrinth—whose name was never said—which housed the few criminals the clans produced.
The women were taken by the waiting serfs, and Dion rowed to his small cove, tying his boat and climbing the treacherous stairwell to his apartments. Naked and filthy, he was once again grateful for this secret entrance, which allowed him to come and go unobserved. He leaned against the door, exhausted.
The dark-haired nymph who was his dresser, his serf, and privy to most all his secrets met him with outstretched arms. In her he buried his fears and doubts, the lingering sense of loss that permeated his world. He ran his fingers through her curls and slowly turned her around.
In this manner, he could forget.
EGYPT
IMHOTEP WATCHED HIS PATIENT. Fever gripped the man and he tossed and muttered in his sleep. The hemp rope that kept him from harming himself was cutting grooves into his wrists and ankles. Without the restraints, Imhotep feared the patient’s thrashing about would loosen the wrappings and he could possibly damage himself more. Imhotep was determined the man would not die.
Imhotep had a wager to win.
The patient cried out incoherently, desperately, then subsided into a fitful rest. At least the coma, the feared sleep of death, had broken. The man was still burning with fever, and despite the patient’s improvements, Imhotep felt a growing sense of failure as he watched the increasingly hot body. Only the victim’s face, bandaged according to custom, and groin were unmarked.
If he survived, this man would owe Ptah, god of mud and spreader of manure, a huge offering of beer and bread. Manure had cushioned the weight of cattle running across him. Still, three cracked ribs, two broken fingers, a fractured ankle, and internal bleeding were grave injuries.
The man’s ka caused Imhotep the greatest concern. The mage sensed the man wanted to die: his ka was embracing the ukhedu. His body had grown hot and still hotter, so hot that Imhotep had shaved him, ridding the nonpriest of his heavy black hair and the matting on his chest and legs. The fever continued to rise.
They had washed his body, flushed him through with emetics;
still the fever rose.
Imhotep walked around the room, trying to see through the rising incense. He completely blocked out the priests’ droning prayers for healing or death. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, Imhotep wanted to know who this man was and how he had reached the bowels of the temple undetected.
He wanted answers. The man must reach consciousness. Imhotep turned to the slaves, priests, and women. “Begone!” They fled his ugly face and rattling teeth.
With deft gestures Imhotep drew out the packet he kept close to his body at all times. One of the mysteries of Aztlan. The power of his forebears. Quickly he scooped up ash from the brazier and spread it on the ground, forming a circle that was as wide as the w’rer -priest’s couch on which the man lay.
With his index finger Imhotep inscribed the symbols for fire, water, earth, and wind. Then he wrote the figures, the letter numbers that gave Aztlan their power. Using the side of his hand as a straightedge, he formed the angles, intersecting them as he had been taught to by the Spiralmaster of the Scholomance himself.
Another quick glance over his shoulder and Imhotep brought out his inheritance from his grandfather, also Imhotep. A golden pyramid filled the palm of his hand, topped by a tiny jewel, the Seed of Creation, which refracted the dim light to all corners of the room. Imhotep laid the pyramid onto the ash, its magical dimensions filling the circles, then took out a sliver of mirror.
Within a few moments the penetrating light of the stone was centered between the wounded man’s eyes, the invisible third eye of understanding. With infinitesimal movements, Imhotep woke the man’s mind. “Why are you here?”
“I am a tool,” the unconscious one answered mentally.
“A tool of whom?”
“The highest God.”
Imhotep faltered for a moment. “Fight this death around you,” he commanded.
“Why?” the man asked.
“What is your greatest wish?” Imhotep asked.
“To love her forever.”
“Who?”
No response.
“Who?” But the moment was gone; the purity of emotion and thought had been defiled. At least now he knew what to say, Imhotep thought. Carefully he gathered his tools and scattered the ash. This man would live. It was deceitful, but Imhotep would force him to live.
He put his mouth next to the man’s ear. “She is in danger,” he said. “Grave danger. I fear it may be too late. She has no one but you. Can you help her?”
Coldly he watched the man press his lips together in grief. The patient was very ill; even manipulation would take a while. Imhotep pulled a stool to the couch’s edge. “She is in danger,” he repeated. “Grave danger.…”
CAPHTOR
SHE WAS IN DANGER OF BREAKING AN ANKLE, Chloe realized. How did these women run on the rough ground around here? Unlike training grounds in her time, this track was just a well-worn goat path, complete with stones and potholes. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of Adidas, Chloe thought.
I should be grateful I haven’t had a cigarette in over a year, otherwise I wouldn’t be running. Period. Though outwardly she was Sibylla—she’d stepped into her skin and zipped it on like Spandex—Chloe knew she was in her own body. Her own lungs, muscles, strengths, and weaknesses had to be harnessed to run this race.
Shielding her eyes with her hand, she watched her teammate round the curve. The young woman, a Shell Seeker, ran hard, arms and legs pumping, breasts bouncing, ribbon-tied braids streaming behind her. I really hate running, Chloe thought.
She tensed her body, her hand outstretched for the woman’s palm. The force of the slap made Chloe’s wrist ache, then she was off, running barefoot, dividing her energy between holding her bare breasts with one arm and dodging the holes and stones. The faint shouts of encouragement faded away as she turned into a small valley, a stream running beside her. Chloe’s breath was loud in her ears and she could feel her lungs starting to burn.
A moment’s hesitation, then she was across the stream, cutting through the small copse of trees…. ouch, ouch, pine needles, ouch! She hopped on one foot, then was back onto the goat path. Sweat was dripping down her back and she could once again see the waiting women. I hate running, Chloe thought, then took off.
She hated running, but she hated losing worse.
Wincing from the stony path, she focused on her waiting teammate, forcing her legs to move faster, struggling for breath. She slapped the girl’s hand and jogged off to the side, bent over and breathing hard. Her muscles trembled and she felt dizzy.
“Sibylla, you will never qualify,” a well-meaning voice chided. “On all other fronts you are the strongest contender, but if you can’t catch Kela-Ileana, it doesn’t matter.”
Trying to catch her breath, Chloe asked, “Has my time improved?”
“From the last Season of the Bull, aye, it has.” The woman chuckled and clicked her tongue. Chloe raised her head and looked at her. Despite her short hair, tunic, and kohl makeup, she was every inch a coach. Visions of field hockey danced in Chloe’s head. Apparently Sibylla wasn’t a good runner, either.
“What is Kela-Ileana’s time?”
“About three times the speed of yours.”
Chloe didn’t ask how this woman kept track without a stopwatch or even a concept of seconds. Three times faster was unbeatable. So she didn’t qualify. Big deal. She was here for disasters, not for track and field.
Right?
In her mind she peeked at Sibylla. The woman refused to believe she was there, as if ignoring Chloe would work. “I must beat Ileana,” her host-body wailed. “This is my only chance. If not, we’ll all still be ruled by her! Each summer she grows worse, people mean even less to her, she hurts and maims more freely!”
“I thought the Golden ruled,” Chloe said.
“Aye. She rules through him, however,” Sibylla responded. “Nay! I cannot speak to myself! I am not going mad!”
“’Behind every strong man is a stronger woman’?” Chloe asked. Sibylla ignored her. “She’s moved beyond self-centeredness. She is a killer. We’re all in danger.”
“What can she really do?” Chloe asked, scoffing.
“She is Kela-Ileana, she can destroy Aztlan if she chooses.”
“If those visions don’t get you first,” Chloe reminded Sibylla.
The coach had walked off, and Chloe saw the other runners leaving in twos and threes. The January wind cut through her light tunic, and she shivered. The feeling of loneliness surrounded her again, and she walked slowly back to the palace complex. If only Cheftu were there.
Well, this race wasn’t Chloe’s problem. In her mind Sibylla was repeating, “I must win, I must win. We’ll all be in danger. I must win. We’re in danger….”
EGYPT
THE WORDS POUNDED THROUGH HIS BRAIN. “She is in danger, she is in danger, she is in danger sheisindangersheisindanger,” running together into a litany of fear that drilled through his aching, weary mind and poked the place where the real man slept, wrapped in grief and sorrow, unwilling to awaken. As sharp and deadly delicate as the blade of a rapier, it pierced—“Sheisindangersheisindangersheisindanger”— the man within, on the remotest possibility that the “she” was his she, forced his mind forward.
Up through the tunnel of blissful forgetfulness and into the pain of his body: legs that were swollen, a chest that ached, and breathing that caught and rasped on each exhalation. “She is in danger She is in danger…” the words became more precise as his mind stepped into the harness of consciousness. A lightness glowed around him, and he opened his eyes. His lashes made whispery sounds as he blinked, and he realized his eyes were bandaged.
A deep breath caught in his chest, and he doubled over, coughing. Hands quickly removed the linen from his eyes, a voice cried out, and he blinked, clearing sudden tears. Incense stung his nostrils and throat. Through the grayish smoke he saw vibrant paintings on the walls; Osiris and Thoth and Ma’at… The door opened and a bald man rushed into the roo
m.
His clean-shaven pate identified him as a priest. He was of medium height, his shoulders stooped like a scribe. Gold hung from his ears and wrapped around his scrawny upper arms. As he stepped to the couch, the patient flinched and withdrew. “You are stronger now?” the priest asked.
The man blinked. The language felt … awkward. He licked dry lips and nodded. “Aye, my lord.” His voice was ragged, as though his vocal cords had rotted from inactivity. The priest clapped, and the young boy who’d unbandaged the man left and returned with a tray. The boy was skeletally thin: the man could count his ribs.
“You are in Noph,” the priest said. “Take this and eat….”
“Take and eat, take and eat…” Another litany, but one that brought a sense of welcome, salvation, rapture. The man picked up the dish and put the mixture of grain and fish into his mouth. The meat was stringy and dry. Had the man not been starving, he would have thrown away such swill. Did Pharaoh, living forever! know what the priests were eating? Or not eating, the man thought, watching as the young boy’s eyes followed his every movement. He set down the dish, searching for a finger bowl. How uncivilized this temple was! “What is the date, my lord?” the man asked.
The priest looked surprised, then pleased. “The second month of per-t, third summer of Many-Teared Inundation.”
For some reason, the man felt panicked. “Many-Teared Inundation?”
“Aye, my lord,” the priest responded, frowning slightly. “The famine is under control, though, administered by Vizier Ipiankhu himself for Pharaoh, living forever!.”
The man felt his heart race. Sweat broke out on his forehead and back. He was suddenly chilled and shaking. The priest stepped closer, tucking a linen sheet tightly around the man’s body. Expertly the priest checked his temperature and the swelling. The man relaxed as the pressure around his chest eased.
“You are healing well, my lord, I shall call the hemu neter,” the priest said, his eyes bloodshot from keeping vigil. “First, may I ask a question, er… my lord?”
Shadows on the Aegean Page 9