This was for Phoebus. He could do anything for Phoebus, suffer any indignity, endure any trial. “What do you want me to do?” His voice sounded strange in his ears, and he felt his body stiffening as more and more of her white skin was revealed. He hated her for making him feel this way, hot and unfocused.
“Worship me, Niko.”
PHOEBUS KNELT BY EUMELOS’ COUCH. His fingers trembled as he brushed the boy’s hair from his face. Where was Niko? What of his promise? His vow? “It will be well, son,” he said. “You will be fine. Niko has sworn it. Niko has never broken his word to me, you will be well.”
Eumelos’ blue eyes were stark with fear, and his breath was rasping and rough. How many decans had passed? What illness could strike so suddenly? Surely it wasn’t the plague. The boy was not in Zelos’ cabinet, so how could he have gotten it? “When this is over we will go on the air sail,” he said. “Remember Dion’s air sail?” He waited for Eumelos’ jerking head shake. “We will sail over the island and you can see all of Aztlan and Kallistae, the pyramid so small it looks like your plaything! Won’t that be fun, Eumelos? Won’t you enjoy that?” Again the boy jerked, the tremors seizing his body until Phoebus half laid on him just to still the motion. He pulled back, trying not to weep. His son was getting sicker. The fits were coming on faster, more frequently. Where was Niko? “You must get well, though, Eumelos. You must be healthy before we do that. Can you get well?”
Tears raced down the boy’s tanned cheeks as he opened his mouth, trying to speak. The clicking of his throat and tongue terrified Phoebus, who lifted him up, setting him on his leg, trying to ease his breathing. Eumelos was limp, his body sagged and jerked, his mouth worked, but no sound issued forth.
“Niko is bringing a physic, son,” Phoebus said. He was sure Niko would return with the elixir that had saved him. “Niko will be here soon, just wait for him. Just wait.” He held the boy’s frail body to his chest, rocking him back and forth. “Remember the potion Niko gave me? He is going to give it to you. You will be better, Eumelos. Never again will you get sick. You will be athanati.” He smiled through his tears. Even if he had to shatter the foundations of Aztlan itself, Eumelos would rule next.
For his son, he could give his life.
Eumelos began to make gagging sounds, his clawed hands scratched at Phoebus, his eyes darted, terrified. When his face turned blue Phoebus shouted for help, for the Spiralmaster, trying to hold Eumelos’ head up, to get air into him. The boy was thrashing and wheezing, fighting for breath, his body jerking, his eyes on Phoebus. You promised, they seemed to say. You promised and you are foresworn,
Serfs helped Phoebus hold Eumelos still, but he hadn’t gotten a breath in moments, his eyes were glazing. “Nay! Nay!” Phoebus shouted, opening Eumelos’ mouth, arching his throat. No sound, no air.
His son went limp, his fluttering heart stilled, his eyes saw a different horizon.
His journey was begun.
CHEFTU MET NESTOR IN THE HALLWAY, and together they ran for the Golden’s chambers. The sound of weeping met them before they turned the corner, and Cheftu saw the doors open, the hallway filled with nymphs in blue.
The color of mourning.
Entering the room, he learned that Phoebus was already gone no one knew where. Hreesos’ face had been ravaged beyond recognition, a dreadful sight to behold. Nestor crossed to the couch, and he and Cheftu exchanged glances. The child was dead.
“Kalo taxidi,” Nestor said, closing the boy’s staring eyes. “Has he been bathed?”
“Nay, my master. Hreesos refused,” the priest said. “He said that Eumelos would not die.”
Cheftu looked at the still, twisted body. Another one; the sun was not yet at its zenith, and already five more had died. He felt an ache that permeated beyond body into spirit. There was no way to win, there was no way to save them. He was living with corpses; he was a corpse, just waiting for the time to lie down.
“Call Nekros,” he told a serf.
“Chieftain Nekros began his journey this dawn,” the serf replied. Again, Cheftu’s gaze met Nestor’s. They both looked away and began to arrange the body.
NIKO COULD NOT RECALL when the hardship had become pleasure, he couldn’t think. But sometime, lost within Ileana’s scent and taste, some buried part of him came forward. He was cruel, pounding into her; she begged for more. His reason had fled, the world had been reduced to the parameters of his sex. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her breasts, her knees were locked tightly, he could feel the muscles of her calves on his neck.
The shout shook him; it didn’t sound like Ileana, and he was silent in his task. Pain ripped through his back and he arched deeply as Ileana climaxed, her screams of pleasure mingling with his cries of pain. White fire burned through his body as he was wrenched around, sent spiraling into a table, then crashed against a wall.
Glass vials and noxious fluids crunched beneath him as Niko rose, swaying, his mind perceiving what his heart could not. Phoebus, his features wreathed with hatred, his hand gripped tightly around the same knife he had sworn on just weeks before.
Blood dripped from the knife, the same blood that even now was sliding over Niko’s sweaty body.
“Betrayer!” Phoebus hissed.
Suddenly Niko realized Phoebus didn’t understand. “Nay,” he wheezed. “It was for the eli—” Phoebus’ hands were around his throat, squeezing, his words flying like spittle on Niko’s face.
“He died, just like this. Coughing, gasping, wheezing. I promised he would be athanati, and he died.’ Niko fought his dearest friend’s stony fingers, his sinewy wrists. Niko’s vision began to purple. “I trusted you with my son’s life and you betrayed me. With a whore!” The grasp was tighter; Niko couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he thought he heard popping—his own bones? “You killed my son, you apostate! You killed him!”
THE LAST WORDS WERE LOST on Niko, as was Phoebus’ final blow. Niko was insensible, the stones of prophecy in his pocket, the elixir in his pouch.
“He was doing it for you,” Ileana said. Hreesos turned on her, and she scrambled backward. She’d never seen Phoebus like this. She was a fool to have reminded him she was here.
“You skeela,” he cried, then ran toward her. Ileana swung off the table, ducking behind it as Phoebus crashed into it. Weapon, she needed a weapon. He threw the table aside and she scurried on hands and knees to another, picking up a broken vial. He charged after her, treading on glass in his bare feet. She backed up, drawing him closer. His hands reached for her, and she swiped at him with the jagged edges of the glass.
Phoebus stumbled back, tripped over Niko’s motionless leg, and fell, catching himself on his elbows. Ileana leapt at him, plunging the glass through his stomach with all her strength. His hands flexed in agony as he rose upward, a twisted imitation of a lover’s surrender.
Turning on his side, he crawled after her. Ileana ran, fell, and ran again. His hand grabbed her ankle, and she tried to kick free. Blood covered everything, so slippery she couldn’t get a grip. Groping for another weapon, she landed on the ground.
Phoebus had stopped moving. She tried to slide away, only to have him drag her over his body. Throwing her runner’s muscles behind it, she waited until her knee was even with his chin, then rammed upward.
His howl surrounded her, and his grasp weakened enough for her to get away. Ileana ran to the door and closed it, breathing, listening for any sounds. The crash of more glass—he’d turned over another table—the thud of wood on wood … then silence.
She looked at herself. Naked, coated in blood and seed. Glancing at the door, she saw that her handprints were everywhere. On the other side were the bodies of Hreesos and Niko. Okh Kela, what had she done? She’d killed the Golden One? I had no choice, she told herself. He would have killed me.
The Council would not care; they wouldn’t listen to her side. Her life would be forfeit: death or the Labyrinth. Hades, where Irmentis, Sibylla, and countless others awaited her. They would te
ar at her, kill her. Ileana swallowed, trying to calm herself.
If there were no bodies, no one would know what had become of Hreesos and Niko. Get rid of the bodies. She had to get rid of the bodies. Cautiously she opened the door, peering into the torchlit room. It was worse than she had thought.
Total silence, blood everywhere, broken glass and overturned tables littering the room. Could she ever clean up this mess? Maybe just leave, let whoever found them assume that Phoebus had attacked Niko and killed him? It was the truth; no one would know she’d ever been here. Her gaze went to the bloodstained door, where delicate crimson handprints made a stark pattern on the wood.
She stepped over Hreesos’ body. A pool had formed beneath him, and she saw another piece of glass had pierced his throat. Not allowing for thought, Ileana ripped at his kilt, sopped it in blood, and painted over her handmarks on the floor, the table, and the door.
Hesitantly she walked back to Niko.
His body was not there.
Ileana took a breath to scream, but a metallic-tasting hand silenced her. “You killed Phoebus, whore.”
She went numb, limp; then fear seized her and she fought. Niko hung on tightly, swearing as she kicked and struggled. When she finally tired, she opened her eyes. “I was defending you!”
“You were protecting yourself,” he said in his hate-filled voice. “You will die for killing him.”
“He wanted to kill you!” she said, his arm around her waist as he walked her backward.
“It was his right. He didn’t understand. Every thrust of my body was a betrayal. I deserved to die.” Niko turned to look at Phoebus, his grasp suddenly looser. Ileana reached out and grabbed a curved shard of glass. She brought it back, in between her waist and arm, and plunged it into his belly.
He dropped to his knees, his hands flying to his wound. Ileana pulled free and grabbed a spare torch in a metal cone leaned against the wall. Coming from his side, out of the reach of his grasping arms, Ileana swung it at his head.
He collapsed like a drunk, finally still.
She could see nothing except shades of red. There was too much blood now, she had to get rid of him. He’d not even bothered to undress fully, just entered her as though she were a Coil Dancer! At the time it had been arousing, but now it infuriated her.
A slight sewage stink wafted through this lower level of the palace, and Ileana’s stomach clenched. Niko was not dead; his blood was still warm. He had been a powerful mage, a perfect lover. She didn’t need to kill him, just get rid of him. She walked down the hallway. The stench grew worse; some older latrines were here.
Running back to her victim, Ileana approached carefully, wary of Niko attacking again. She tried to pull him, but he was too heavy, too slippery to get a good grasp. She crossed to the back of Spiralmaster’s lab, looking around frantically. There! Beneath a pile of dried skins was a wooden cart. After tugging it free, Ileana pulled it to the doorway, where Niko was yet motionless.
Grasping his body under his arms, she pulled upward, backing onto the low cart. Half of his body dragged, but she could still maneuver the cart forward. A streak of blood pointed like an arrow to the latrine, and she realized with a grimace she would probably have to clean it.
Choking at the stench, she pulled off the wooden seating and a breeze rushed up, stirring her hair and making her gag with the smell. The opening was wide enough for him, but high off the ground. How would she lift him so far? Carefully she untied the sash, then Ileana picked up his legs and dangled them in the hole that fell straight into the channel beneath the island.
She pulled and yanked his heavy body upward onto the latrine seat. He wasn’t going! Once she had tied his sash tight around his chest and under his arms, Ileana climbed on the stone support, straddling the hole. Standing on the ledge, she had to duck because of the torch burning above. His legs were down the aperture, his torso falling backward—all she need do was move him forward and nature’s force would tug him down.
Pulling on the sash, she leaned his body forward, still not enough. Ileana crouched, grasping him around the waist, scooting him.
Niko’s hands tangled in her hair as he laughed, a rasping, wicked cackle. “You go with me, Ileana. I will finally prove my devotion to Phoebus.”
In the eyeblink she had, Ileana kicked his back, hitting the shallow knife wound Phoebus had made. Niko’s scream deafened her, and she stepped back, leaping from the stone to the ground. He teetered moment, then slid downward with a grunt.
Shaking, Ileana looked inside the latrine hole. Fingers clenched the side, elegant, blood-caked fingers. Then a hand appeared and she heard him groaning to pull himself up. The same hand that had held her breasts, cupped her sex, now sought to kill her.
She grabbed the torch from above and brought it down on his hands. His scream echoed in the shaft, but he didn’t let go. His purple eyes were black with hatred as he pulled himself higher, his white blond hair swirling over his shoulders. “You skeela,” he hissed.
Ileana stretched out the torch, touching the locks of his moon-light-colored hair, igniting the young body that had served her. “My passion has set you afire,” she whispered as the flame took hold. Niko swatted as his eyebrows caught fire, losing his grip.
His agonized scream stayed in the air long after his burning body fell.
The scent of his burned flesh stayed in the air even longer.
PLASTER WAS RAINING DOWN ON CHLOE’S HEAD, chalk rising from her running feet. Hacking and coughing, she ran down a corridor that seemed alive. Aztlan must be having another earthquake! She wasn’t looking and tripped, her shriek bouncing around her as she slid down a well, Ping-Ponging from wall to wall, and landing in a heap on the ground. The still ground.
Thank God.
Rising, checking that all parts moved, Chloe looked up. For the first time she could see. This must be the very bottom, she thought. Hopefully she was far away from Irmentis. Chloe couldn’t even voice what she thought of the huntress. The ground shook again, but it was a faint tremor, and Chloe ignored it. She must be on the outside rim of the Labyrinth. The only way she’d ever followed mazes was from the center out. From the outside in, she always got confused.
She could see up the chalk-white passageways that opened suddenly and spat the unfortunates down here. She looked around, wondering what she could set afire if she found tinder. Cammy always said that Twinkies made great torches. Chloe had told that one to the guys in her outfit, and once they’d stopped laughing and set a few afire, they’d taken her words a bit more seriously.
Her stomach growled, and Chloe realized if she had Twinkies, it would be a hard choice between lighting them and eating them.
Since Aztlan was running short on Twinkies, how could she get light? How would she know which way she’d come?
A memory of hunting in East Texas hit Chloe powerfully. Her grandmother Mimi’s second husband (she’d lost the first one when she was very young) was a strapping oilman named Jack. He’d adored Mimi, spoiled her children like his own. Aside from Mimi, his other passion was hunting. Chloe, as she had gotten older, had never understood how such a gentle man could be so bloodthirsty. Jack had hunted and fished all over the world: safaris in Africa, expeditions to Canada and Australia, even China. One day he’d taken his little granddaughter out on his ranch to share the finer points of how man outwitted beast.
He’d probably get on really well with Irmentis.
Chloe had liked getting to see the animals. Up close, not like a zoo. But pencil on paper had made too much noise for a deer’s sensitive ear, so she’d had to sit motionless and quiet. It had been torture for a seven-year-old, until she’d realized that if she paid a lot of attention, she could draw them from memory later.
So after Jack had taught her how to find animals at their watering holes, he’d showed her how to track. Scat told the tale.
It was a disgusting option, Chloe thought. But it would answer both questions: one, she would know where she’d gone, and two,
if she could light it, it would burn.
My Mimi is rolling in her grave, Chloe thought, blushing despite it all.
Irmentis would also be able to find her, but then again, she’d had no difficulty finding Chloe before, so leaving a more visible trail would hardly matter. Was she starting to chew on my fingers when… Chloe shuddered and walked to the first spot she needed to mark.
For the first time in her life, Chloe wished she were male. She could use the aim. If she could point, this would be easy. No wonder females never marked territory!
Walking from one end of the tunnel to the other, she marked and marked. I feel like a torn in heat! Immediately it was useful, since she backtracked on herself twice. It was amazing how the acrid scent was instantly identifiable, especially in this darkness. Okh, what levels have I sunk to?
Survival of the fittest was a grim, gross thing.
The next question was, how to get up to the other layers of the maze?
The earthquake threw her across the room, showering chalk and rock on her body, silencing her questions.
AZTLAN’S LAND BRIDGE ALWAYS PROVOKED QUESTIONS: How was it created? How could it stay? The answers were buried within the earth’s history. The two islands had been one, and as the lagoon shaped, it eroded the connecting land to such a degree that a suspension-style bridge was formed.
Today, far beneath the earth, the Aegean microplate subducted at an angle to the African plate. For a few moments the whole Aegean plate twisted on a bias, tearing the earth and sending panicky fissures throughout the landmass from which these islands rose.
On Aztlan and Kallistae, the stable legs of the land bridge shifted, and a massive crack appeared on a diagonal from northwest to southeast. The two man-made footbridges fell first, casting the few hardy souls who were crossing them into the gorge between the islands.
Some citizens were crossing the land bridge to the island of Aztlan, hoping to wait in the pyramid, certain that Apis would protect them from his wrath.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 43