Air! Nestor breathed deeply in the darkness, smelling the slightly mildewed odor of the pottery shell, the briny scent of the sea. Rubbing his face, he readied himself to go back down.
He dove beneath the lip, holding the bag close to his side. Swimming cautiously, avoiding the jutting coral that could shred him, keeping his eyes open for those creatures of the deep that were dangerous, he moved toward the caves. They would be to his right, he recalled.
Dion swam in the distance, a paler, larger-limbed figure than the surrounding fish. Had he found these mythical crabs?
The water was darker closer to the caves, and Nestor angled the mirror, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the sea. Fish scurried away as Nestor forced himself farther. He felt a pull against his legs and moved cautiously.
A cavern! After swimming rapidly back to the shell, he got a good gulp of air and then swam quickly back to the site. Cautiously he floated toward the cavern’s mouth. The darkness was complete, and he blinked a few times before the glowing brilliance of the vegetation came clear. In utter darkness he saw orange, pink, green, and yellow so bright, he felt his pupils dilate. They moved, like specters, in the unseen currents.
Nothing purple.
He swam back to the shell, breathing shallowly to save air. Another deep dive and he was in the sea again. Not that cave, he thought, and turned his head slowly, searching for the glowing purple decapod crab. Within the crab’s body was a component that gave the crab the ability to renew itself perpetually. The decapod crab could regrow any part of its body. It was most rare—a creature that had eternal youth and life.
Okh, the crab wasn’t here. Another cave, but first he needed air. He backed out of the cave and felt something flick the back of his neck.
Turning as fast as he could, he saw the huge shape swimming away from him. A flat, gray thing, its tail a whip, lashing the water side to side. Nestor swam on, wondering how much of a decan had elapsed.
Three caves later he found them. The luminescence of the crabs brightened the entire cave, flickering off the sides of fish, blinding among the glowing corals, seaweed, and plankton. The creatures must be alive to be most effective. He tucked three into his bag and moved to the diving shell. He gulped for breath, and again. The air was thin, and Nestor’s head began to ache.
What was the next step? Weights, remove the weights, he told himself, ducking beneath the level of water and fumbling for the weight’s wires. He could barely feel their shapes in his tingling hands.
He needed to wait at each step of his ascent, take time for his body to regain itself or suffer. His air depleting rapidly, Nestor forced himself to breathe slowly. He could see nothing save the fading purple glow that lit up the water before him.
Finally he broke the surface of the water and heard the cheers. Arms trembling, he crawled into the boat. Dion stood in the first rays of sunrise, holding aloft his woven bag full of crabs.
“You did well,” Dion said, draping him with a sheet. Nestor shook his head. He’d survived. Man should not live in water; it wasn’t natural. The world beneath the waves was eerie and fantastic, but he preferred air.
The men uncorked a flagon of wine and passed it around. “We give these to Spiralmaster, and then we celebrate tonight,” Dion shouted. The Mariners lifted the sail and they tacked around the edge of Kallistae and back into the lagoon of Aztlan.
SHE WAS TOO LATE, Chloe knew it in her bones. Had the clanspeople of Naxos paid any attention to her messenger bird? She’d been horrified at how much time it took to extricate herself from Knossos. Apparently no one, not even clan chieftains, bailed when the mood suited them.
Despite her warnings of major disaster, evil portents, the whole nine yards, the Caphtori had hung on to her like leeches, her ship, and her men. They didn’t want the oracle to leave, they wanted her blessings on the new crops. We’re too late, Chloe thought. Please don’t let us be too late! Last night they sailed through the gateway to Aztlan, the ship’s horn-embroidered sails working as effectively as a diplomatic passport in Saudi. Mist was heavy on the sea this morning, and Chloe wondered, though she didn’t dare ask, how they could see to get through it.
Ash from the eruption still coated the water in places. Chloe’s skin prickled at the thoughts of what a volcanic eruption must be like. Very few of her clanspeople were actually up to talking with her, so she didn’t ask. The Mariners were scrupulously polite, but everyone watched her as though she were a madwoman.
You share a body with an oracular priestess who doesn’t believe her own words and see how you feel!
It was cold this morning, and her sense of dread multiplied with every hard-won henti. Out of the mist, two ships converged on them. Drawing on part of Sibylla’s knowledge that she had swiped, Chloe recognized the triton on the sails and breathed a sigh of relief.
She also shuddered; Zelos Olimpi was sailing toward Naxos, too. Her fears were justified. Eee, those poor people, Chloe thought. What had happened? Her vision had faded rapidly, leaving only a feeling of doom. She gestured to the ship’s commander to allow Zelos’ ship first. The azure-and-goldenrod sails filled with wind, and Zelos’ ship streaked out before them.
Chloe chewed her lip, thinking about relief programming. Food, water, shelter, clothing. Her Sibylla-snatched memory told her whom to contact on each of Naxos’s neighboring islands. “Bring me some messenger birds and a scribe,” she commanded. While Sibylla herself might not arrive momentarily, help certainly would in the form of other clanspeople.
CHEFTU WAS ON DECK FOR THE FIRST SIGHTING of the Breakwater. Islets arching from one side of the empire’s islands to the other formed a natural barrier, the skeleton of a greater landmass. In some areas they were but a dark stain in the water, but high enough to rip hulls from unsuspecting ships. Cheftu just stared. He’d seen many of the wonders of the ancient world; surely this was the unknown Eighth? Atop the islets, rising from the sea to a height twenty cubits above the ship, was the gateway to Aztlan. They approached an entryway, and Cheftu was staggered.
Two enormous pylons topped with carved griffins guarded the archway that Mariners in green swarmed across. Y’carus ordered the sails down, and the rowers’ pace slowed. They halted before the entrance, where several other Mariners came on board who talked to Y’carus, went below decks, and finally granted approval. The ship moved beneath the stone arch, Mariners on either side saluting. Then they were through and in the bluest, most vibrant water Cheftu had ever seen.
His head was swimming; who were these people? Where was this land?
“This is the beginning of the sea that becomes the lagoon around Aztlan,” Y’carus said beside him. He handed Cheftu a roll of bread with a vegetable paste inside it. “It is called Theros Sea. In Aztlantu, ‘Theros’ means summertime.” Y’carus made a production of wiping his brow. “Regardless of the weather elsewhere, sailing is always hot. The sun boils us on the water.”
Islands began to smudge the horizon. With evident pride, Y’carus pointed out the various clans. “East, you see Kallistae. Mount Apollo is that mountain on the edge of the island, one of the sites for Apis’ temple. To your west”—he pointed with his chin—“that is Folegandros.” Cheftu nodded, then corrected himself and shook his head in agreement. Y’carus pointed straight ahead of them. “See that glimmer on the horizon? That is the Pyramid of Days, on Aztlan.”
Cheftu was almost choking. “Pyramid?”
“Aye, where do you think you Egyptians learned to build them?”
“Just so,” Cheftu said slowly. “What is over there?” He pointed to the horizon, where the sky was gray.
“That was Delos, the city of Arachne, the Clan of the Muse,” Y’carus whispered.
“Your family?”
“Aye, and my beloved. She was killed.”
Cheftu bowed his head in sympathy. “My sorrow for you,” he said in Aztlantu.
Y’carus stared at the sea. “There was no warning,” he murmured.
“It is most painful whe
n you cannot say good-bye.”
Y’carus turned and looked at him. “You sound as though you know …?”
“My wife,” Cheftu said shortly.
“Then the Sibylla … ?”
Cheftu clenched his jaw. He couldn’t regret his actions; still, he was ashamed of them. “She bears a striking resemblance.”
“Your wife was very beautiful, then.”
“Aye, and strong, and intelligent and passionate and vibran—” His voice broke. “However, I was able to bid her farewell.” Cheftu looked away, muttering in Egyptian, “Then, in a cruel jest, I thought we’d been given another chance to be together, only to have my hopes trampled. Literally.”
Y’carus ignored him, staring out at the water. “In Aztlan, we don’t bid farewell, but rather Kalo taxidi, Good journey. As the dead travel and submit to trials, they are strong because they know they are loved.” It was silent on the sea, only the rush of waves around them.
“We are now entering the current that will carry us into the lagoon of Kallistae, surrounding Aztlan Island.”
“I am confused,” Cheftu said, grateful for something to think about other than Chloe and how he had betrayed her with Sibylla. His body tightened—don’t think about Sibylla at all. “How is Aztlan governed?”
“By clans. Each one has a chieftain, and the chieftains assemble in Council every nine summers. There they discuss and debate, negotiating policies for goods and services that will stay in place for the next nine summers.”
“Do men and women rule?”
Y’carus shook his head. “In the eyes of the clan, there are no gender differences. Each gender has his or her own god, each is born and given to their clan—”
“Born and given to their clan?”
“Aye.” Y’carus drew a deep breath. “You really know nothing about us, do you? Just so. Aztlan is built not on blood connections, but on birth order.”
“Aye?” Cheftu said, prompting him.
“The firstborn, male or female, inherits the clan position of the parents. The second-born joins the defense clans: mining, or as a Mariner, or an engineer. Also, there are those who supply weapons, armor. They are the Clans of the Stone, the Wave, or the Flame.”
“Just so.”
“Third-born go to the cults. We have the Cult of the Bull, Apis. Or the Cult of the Snake with Kela, the earth goddess. She is the patron of women.”
“She was the one honored …”
“Aye.” Y’carus grinned. “You worshiped her in Knossos.”
Adultery and idolatry, Cheftu thought. He was going to be in purgatory for a very long time.
“Within the priesthood are many different factions. The Apis priesthood are the builders. They make the stones and pave the walkways. The Kela priesthood are the fishers, the Shell Seekers. In fact, it is against the law to fish without permission from the cult.”
“Why is that?”
“You deprive them of their labor.” He grinned. “We find great satisfaction in our work. Our clans are everything to us: our family, our occupations, our identities.”
“Your beloved was … ?”
“My clan sister. I was second-born, destined for the sea in defense. My bloodparents were dyers in the Clan of the Muse.” He swallowed. “Neotne came to foster with my family at age five. I was ten the summer before I left to foster. I knew even then, as soon as I saw her. …” They stood, the salty breeze blowing over them. “Just so,” Y’carus said, his voice thick. “The fourth-born go to the land. Olives, fruits, vegetables, vines, they keep the empire green.”
“Those would be the clan of … ?”
“Clan of the Vine. If it grows, they nurture it. The Clan of the Horn raises animals, both for food and products. Fifth-born are the artisans. We are—were—proud of our creative skills: textiles, ceramics, painting. They are the Clan of the Muse.”
“Arachne was the city there? The city that was destroyed?”
“Aye. Arachne was. I grew up there; it was my home.”
“What of the Scholomance?”
“Eee. It is for the brightest minds, regardless of their birth order. Parents bring their children to foster with the greatest intellects of Aztlan. They learn everything—medicine, arts, science, architecture, mathematics, astronomy, and astrology. They guide us. Are you going to the Scholomance?”
“I know not.” Though if that was where the medical arts were headquartered, Cheftu guessed he’d be there. “My gratitude for your helpful words,” he said, stumbling a little. “Where are your magi?”
“In Aztlan?” Y’carus shrugged. “The medical skills are administered by our Kela-Tenata priestesses.”
Women in medicine? In Egypt women were healers only in small, poor villages. In France? Cheftu almost laughed. “I know not this word.”
“Kela, the goddess, and Tenata, her working arm. Each village and town has its own temple, with Shell Seekers—”
“For fish.”
“Aye and Kela-Tenata—”
“For medical care.”
“You learn quickly. Also Coil Dancers.”
Cheftu blinked. “State-regulated … ?”
“Temple prostitutes.” Y’carus frowned. “I forget how restrained you Egyptians are. Aye, each village has temple prostitutes. Marriage is a sacred undertaking here, since the clans are woven so tightly together. The Coil Dancers ease the needs of men and women, so that they approach Kela’s altar with the intention of being forever unified.”
Cheftu thought back to his own world, the facades of marriage and the promiscuity that was still such a vivid memory. Marriage was a business contract. Once an heir was born, both parties, provided they were discreet, were free to take lovers. “So once people are wed, they no longer go to the Coil Dancers?”
“Nay!” Y’carus laughed. “Nay, a man or woman may visit anytime they need to. Men do so often when their wives are with child. However, it is only a release of the body. A worship act to Kela.”
“No attachment of the heart, then?”
“With a Coil Dancer?” Y’carus sounded appalled. “They are sworn to Kela! She is their husband.”
“They never marry?”
“Their initiation is marriage to her.” Y’carus pointed. “Behold! The beginning of the lagoon!”
They were moving rapidly now, the timekeeper singing a bawdy tune that made Cheftu blush even though he understood only one or two words in every line. He was reminded uncomfortably of the green-eyed priestess.
“We come to the mouth of Theros lagoon and Aztlan Island,” Y’carus shouted over the rising noise. They entered a narrow canyon whose walls grew steeper with every cubit. The sound of rushing water was deafening now, and Y’carus gestured for Cheftu to tie himself to the boat with one of the embroidered straps. They were moving rapidly through part of a massive river.
The cliffs surrounding them were striated and so high that the sun had yet to touch the water. Like an ancient legend, the city rose from the sea, perched above on colored cliffs. Houses and villas in white, red, black, and yellow, intricately designed and painted, hung over the cerulean water. Beyond was the glint of gold, topping everything. Terraces covered the hillsides. “That is the city of Hyacinth!” Y’carus shouted.
Cheftu glanced at the sun and saw they were coming in from the southwest. Two arms of land embraced them, well populated and verdant. Cheftu saw bustling ports, tiny in comparison with the striated cliffs.
They reached a curve where the islands, the bridges, and the harbor were visible. Aztlan Island towered above the islands that surrounded it. Atop the mountain sat a jewel-toned pyramid. It was smaller than an Egyptian one, sans capstone, but identifiably a pyramid. The flat gold top blinded them, even at this distance, with the sun’s reflection.
The currents pushed and pulled as they passed beneath the first bridge that attached Aztlan Island to Kallistae. “That bridge will take you to Hyacinth. On the other side of the land bridge is another crossing that will take you into the mai
n street of Echo.”
The harbor was filled with brilliantly patterned boats. A mixture of languages rose on the midmorning air. Astonished at how quickly they had arrived, Cheftu stepped out of the way as the Mariners lowered the sails, hauled in the lines, and dropped anchor.
On to Aztlan.
CHAPTER 9
PAROS
ZELOS AND HIS BROTHERS NEKROS AND POSIDIOS stood in the torchlit darkness. On the island of Paros, where Nekros was chieftain, many of the dwellings and buildings were underground. Huge caverns for both clan administration and citizens’ housing alternated between quarries on this island where most men and women worked beneath the earth.
Nekros’ white skin glowed unnaturally in the shrouded chamber. Zelos, still slightly dizzy from the quick journey, looked around the cavern. The walls were damp—indeed, the whole place was cool, like a winter night without the wind. He wondered with a shudder where the bodies were interred. In addition to being the maintenance clan for the many caves and coves throughout the empire, quarrying, mining for precious stones and metals, Paros was also the land of the dead.
While most chieftains had luxurious estates or commanded the best views, Nekros lived alone on this islet Antiparos, journeying out only at night and spending his days ruling the clan from this dank room.
Nekros’ belongings were scarce and elementary. Zelos imagined his brother had even less female company than he had possessions. Who would want the cold hands of the lord of the dead on her body?
Posidios was studying the map laid on a flat-topped stalagmite, its carved markings faint in the torchlight.
“What is left of Naxos?” Zelos asked.
Nekros leaned back against another stalagmite. “Not much. My clanspeople are seeking out the dead, to bring them here and inter them with all other generations on Paros. Thus far the account is no survivors.”
Zelos closed his eyes in pain. “Chieftain Bacchi?”
“The clan chieftain is dead. His body has been found.”
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