by Rick Riordan
Grover was more courteous. He climbed down the wall and dropped to the floor with goat-worthy dexterity. He smelled like a burnt wool blanket. His face was badly sunburned. His cap had fallen into the fire, revealing the tips of his horns, which steamed like miniature volcanoes. Meg had somehow come through just fine. She’d even managed to retract her sword from the wall before falling. She pulled her canteen from her supply belt, drank most of the water, and handed the rest to Grover.
“Thanks,” I grumbled.
“You beat the heat,” she noted. “Good job. Finally had a godly burst of power?”
“Er…I think it was more about Helios deciding to give us a pass. He wants out of this maze as much as we want him out. He wants us to kill Medea.”
Grover gulped. “So…she’s down here? She didn’t die on that yacht?”
“Figures.” Meg squinted down the steaming corridor. “Did Helios promise not to burn us if you mess up any more answers?”
“I—That wasn’t my fault!”
“Yeah,” Meg said.
“Kinda was,” Grover agreed.
Honestly. I fall into a blazing pit, negotiate a truce with a Titan, and flush a firestorm out of the room to save my friends, and they still want to talk about how I can’t recall instructions from the Farmer’s Almanac.
“I don’t think we can count on Helios never to burn us,” I said, “any more than we can expect Herophile not to use word puzzles. It’s just their nature. This was a onetime get-out-of-the-flames-free card.”
Grover smothered the tips of his horns. “Well, then, let’s not waste it.”
“Right.” I hitched up my slightly toasted camouflage pants and tried to recapture that confident tone I’d had the first time I addressed my sun horses. “Follow me. I’m sure it’ll be fine!”
FINE, in this case, meant fine if you enjoy lava, chains, and evil magic.
The corridor led straight to the chamber of the Oracle, which on the one hand…hooray! On the other hand, not so wonderful. The room was a rectangle the size of a basketball court. Lining the walls were half a dozen entrances—each a simple stone doorway with a small landing that overhung the pool of lava I’d seen in my visions. Now, though, I realized the bubbling and shimmering substance was not lava. It was the divine ichor of Helios—hotter than lava, more powerful than rocket fuel, impossible to get out if you spilled it on your clothes (I could tell you from personal experience). We had reached the very center of the maze—the holding tank for Helios’s power.
Floating on the surface of the ichor were large stone tiles, each about five feet square, making columns and rows that had no logical patterns.
“It’s a crossword,” Grover said.
Of course he was right. Unfortunately, none of the stone bridges connected with our little balcony. Nor did any of them lead to the opposite side of the room, where the Sibyl of Erythraea sat forlornly on her stone platform. Her home wasn’t any better than a solitary-confinement cell. She’d been provided with a cot, a table, and a toilet. (And, yes, even immortal Sibyls need to use the toilet. Some of their best prophecies come to them…Never mind.)
My heart ached to see Herophile in such conditions. She looked exactly as I remembered her: a young woman with braided auburn hair and pale skin, her solid athletic build a tribute to her hardy naiad mother and her stout shepherd father. The Sibyl’s white robes were stained with smoke and spotted with cinder burns. She was intently watching an entrance on the wall to her left, so she didn’t seem to notice us.
“That’s her?” Meg whispered.
“Unless you see another Oracle,” I said.
“Well, then talk to her.”
I wasn’t sure why I had to do all the work, but I cleared my throat and yelled across the boiling lake of ichor, “Herophile!”
The Sibyl jumped to her feet. Only then did I notice the chains—molten links, just as I’d seen in my visions, shackled to her wrists and ankles, anchoring her to the platform and allowing her just enough room to move from one side to the other. Oh, the indignity!
“Apollo!”
I’d been hoping her face might light up with joy when she saw me. Instead, she looked mostly shocked.
“I thought you would come through the other…” Her voice seized up. She grimaced with concentration, then blurted out, “Seven letters, ends in Y.”
“Doorway?” Grover guessed.
Across the surface of the lake, stone tiles ground and shifted formation. One block wedged itself against our little platform. Half a dozen more stacked up beyond it, making a seven-tile bridge extending into the room. Glowing golden letters appeared along the tiles, starting with a Y at our feet: DOORWAY.
Herophile clapped excitedly, jangling her molten chains. “Well done! Hurry!”
I was not anxious to test my weight on a stone raft floating over a burning lake of ichor, but Meg strode right out, so Grover and I followed.
“No offense, Miss Lady,” Meg called to the Sibyl, “but we already almost fell into one lava fire thingie. Could you just make a bridge from here to there without more puzzles?”
“I wish I could!” said Herophile. “This is my curse! It’s either talk like this or stay completely—” She gagged. “Nine letters. Fifth letter is D.”
“Quiet!” Grover yelled.
Our raft rumbled and rocked. Grover windmilled his arms and might have fallen off had Meg not caught him. Thank goodness for short people. They have low centers of gravity.
“Not quiet!” I yelped. “That is not our final answer! That would be idiotic, since quiet is only five letters and doesn’t even have a D.” I glared at the satyr.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I got excited.”
Meg studied the tiles. In the frames of her glasses, her rhinestones glinted red. “Quietude?” she suggested. “That’s nine letters.”
“First of all,” I said, “I’m impressed you know that word. Second, context. ‘Stay completely quietude’ doesn’t make sense. Also, the D would be in the wrong place.”
“Then what’s the answer, smarty-god?” she demanded. “And don’t get it wrong this time.”
Such unfairness! I tried to come up with synonyms for quiet. I couldn’t think of many. I liked music and poetry. Silence really wasn’t my thing.
“Soundless,” I said at last. “That’s got to be it.”
The tiles rewarded us by forming a second bridge—nine across, SOUNDLESS, connecting to the first bridge by the D. Unfortunately, since the new bridge led sideways, it got us no closer to the Oracle’s platform.
“Herophile,” I called, “I appreciate your predicament. But is there any way you can manipulate the length of the answers? Perhaps the next one can be a really long, really easy word that leads to your platform?”
“You know I cannot, Apollo.” She clasped her hands. “But, please, you must hurry if you wish to stop Caligula from becoming a…” She gagged. “Three letters, middle letter is O.”
“God,” I said unhappily.
A third bridge formed—three tiles, connecting to the O in soundless, which brought us only one tile closer to our goal. Meg, Grover, and I crowded together on the G tile. The room felt even hotter, as if Helios’s ichor was working itself into a fury the closer we got to Herophile. Grover and Meg sweated profusely. My own arctic camouflage was sopping wet. I had not been so uncomfortable in a group hug since the Rolling Stones’ first 1969 show at Madison Square Garden. (Tip: As tempting as it might be, don’t throw your arms around Mick Jagger and Keith Richards during their encore set. Those men can sweat.)
Herophile sighed. “I’m sorry, my friends. I’ll try again. Some days, I wish prophecy was a present I had never—” She winced in pain. “Six letters. Last letter is a D.”
Grover shuffled around. “Wait. What? The D is back there.”
The heat made my eyes feel like shish-kebab onions, but I tried to survey the rows and columns so far.
“Perhaps,” I said, “this new clue is another vertical wor
d, branching off the D in soundless?”
Herophile’s eyes gleamed with encouragement.
Meg wiped her sweaty forehead. “Well, then why did we bother with god? It doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“Oh, no,” Grover moaned. “We’re still forming the prophecy, aren’t we? Doorway, soundless, god? What does that mean?”
“I—I don’t know,” I admitted, my brain cells simmering in my skull like chicken soup noodles. “Let’s get some more words. Herophile said she wishes prophecy was a present she’d never…what?”
“Gotten doesn’t work,” Meg muttered.
“Received?” Grover offered. “No. Too many letters.”
“Perhaps a metaphor,” I suggested. “A present she’d never…opened?”
Grover gulped. “Is that our final answer?”
He and Meg both looked down at the burning ichor, then back at me. Their faith in my abilities was not heartwarming.
“Yes,” I decided. “Herophile, the answer is opened.”
The Sibyl sighed with relief as a new bridge extended from the D in soundless, leading us across the lake. Crowded together on the O tile, we were now only about five feet from the Sibyl’s platform.
“Should we jump?” Meg asked.
Herophile shrieked, then clamped her hands over her mouth.
“I’m guessing a jump would be unwise,” I said. “We have to complete the puzzle. Herophile, perhaps one more very small word going forward?”
The Sibyl curled her fingers, then said slowly and carefully, “Small word, across. Starts with Y. Small word down. Near or next to.”
“A double play!” I looked at my friends. “I believe we are looking for yo across, and by down. That should allow us to reach the platform.”
Grover peered over the side of the tile, where the lake of ichor was now bubbling white hot. “I’d hate to fail now. Is yo an acceptable word?”
“I don’t have the Scrabble rule book in front of me,” I admitted, “but I think so.”
I was glad this wasn’t Scrabble. Athena won every time with her insufferable vocabulary. One time she played abaxial on a triple and Zeus lightning-bolted the top off Mount Parnassus in his rage.
“That’s our answer, Sibyl,” I said. “Yo and by.”
Another two tiles clicked into place, connecting our bridge to Herophile’s platform. We ran across, and Herophile clapped and wept for joy. She held out her arms to hug me, then seemed to remember she was shackled with blazing-hot chains.
Meg looked back at the path of answers in our wake. “Okay, so if that’s the end of the prophecy, what does it mean? Doorway soundless god opened yo by?”
Herophile started to say something, then thought better of it. She looked at me hopefully.
“Let’s assume some small words again,” I ventured. “If we combine the first part of the maze, we have Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless…uh, the doorway…to?” I glanced at Herophile, who nodded encouragement. “The doorway to the soundless god…Hmm. I don’t know who that is. Unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by—”
“You forgot the yo,” Grover said.
“I think we can bypass the yo since it was a double play.”
Grover tugged his singed goatee. “This is why I don’t play Scrabble. Also, I tend to eat the tiles.”
I consulted Herophile. “So Apollo—me—I face death in the tomb of Tarquin, unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by…what? Meg’s right. There’s got to be more to the prophecy.”
Somewhere off to my left, a familiar voice called, “Not necessarily.”
On a ledge in the middle of the left-hand wall stood the sorceress Medea, looking very much alive and delighted to see us. Behind her, two pandos guards held a chained and beaten prisoner—our friend Crest.
“Hello, my dears.” Medea smiled. “You see, there doesn’t have to be an end to the prophecy, because you’re all going to die now anyway!”
MEG struck first.
With quick, sure moves, she severed the chains that bound the Sibyl, then glared at Medea as if to say Ha-ha! I have unleashed my attack Oracle!
The shackles fell from Herophile’s wrists and ankles, revealing ugly red burn rings. Herophile stumbled back, clutching her hands to her chest. She looked more horror-struck than grateful. “Meg McCaffrey, no! You shouldn’t have—”
Whatever clue she was going to give, across or down, it didn’t matter. The chains and shackles snapped back together, fully mended. Then they leaped like striking rattlesnakes—at me, not Herophile. They lashed themselves around my wrists and ankles. The pain was so intense it felt cool and pleasant at first. Then I screamed.
Meg hacked at the molten links once again, but now they repelled her blades. With each blow, the chains tightened, pulling me down until I was forced to crouch. With all my insignificant strength, I struggled against the bonds, but I quickly learned this was a bad idea. Tugging against the manacles was like pressing my wrists against red-hot griddles. The agony almost made me pass out, and the smell…oh, gods, I did not enjoy the smell of deep-fried Lester. Only by staying perfectly neutral, allowing the manacles to take me where they wished, could I keep the pain at a level that was merely excruciating.
Medea laughed, clearly enjoying my contortions. “Well done, Meg McCaffrey! I was going to chain up Apollo myself, but you saved me a spell.”
I fell to my knees. “Meg, Grover—get the Sibyl out of here. Leave me!”
Another brave, self-sacrificing gesture. I hope you’re keeping count.
Alas, my suggestion was futile. Medea snapped her fingers. The stone tiles shifted across the surface of the ichor, leaving the Sibyl’s platform cut off from any exit.
Behind the sorceress, her two guards shoved Crest to the floor. He slid down, his back to the wall, his hands shackled but still stubbornly holding my combat ukulele. The pandos’s left eye was swollen shut. His lips were split. Two fingers on his right hand were bent at a funny angle. He met my eyes, his expression full of shame. I wanted to reassure him that he had not failed. We should never have left him alone on guard duty. He would still be able to do amazing fingerpicking, even with two broken fingers!
But I could barely think straight, much less console my young music student.
The two guards spread their giant ears. They sailed across the room, letting hot updrafts carry them to separate tiles near the corners of our platform. They drew their khanda blades and waited, just in case we were foolish enough to try leaping across.
“You killed Timbre,” one hissed.
“You killed Peak,” said the other.
On her landing, Medea chuckled. “You see, Apollo, I picked a couple of highly motivated volunteers! The rest were clamoring to accompany me down here, but—”
“There’s more outside?” Meg asked. I couldn’t tell if she found this idea helpful (Hooray, fewer to kill now!) or depressing (Boo, more to kill later!).
“Absolutely, my dear,” Medea said. “Even if you had some foolish idea about getting past us, it wouldn’t matter. Not that Flutter and Decibel will let that happen. Eh, boys?”
“I’m Flutter,” said Flutter.
“I’m Decibel,” said Decibel. “May we kill them now?”
“Not just yet,” Medea said. “Apollo is right where I need him, ready to be dissolved. As for the rest of you, just relax. If you try to interfere, I will have Flutter and Decibel kill you. Then your blood might spill into the ichor, which would mess up the purity of the mixture.” She spread her hands. “You understand. We can’t have tainted ichor. I only need Apollo’s essence for this recipe.”
I did not like the way she talked about me as if I were already dead—just one more ingredient, no more important than toad’s eye or sassafras.
“I will not be dissolved,” I growled.
“Oh, Lester,” she said. “You kind of will.”
The chains tightened further, forcing me to all fours. I couldn’t understand how Herophile had endure
d this pain for so long. Then again, she was still immortal. I was not.
“Let it begin!” Medea cried.
She began to chant.
The ichor glowed a pure white, bleaching the color from the room. Miniature stone tiles with sharp edges seemed to shift under my skin, flaying away my mortal form, rearranging me into a new kind of puzzle in which none of the answers was Apollo. I screamed. I spluttered. I might have begged for my life. Fortunately for what little dignity I had left, I couldn’t form the words.
Out of the corner of my eye, in the hazy depths of my agony, I was dimly aware of my friends backing away, terrified by the steam and fire now erupting from cracks in my body.
I didn’t blame them. What could they do? At the moment, I was more likely to explode than Macro’s family-fun grenade packs, and my wrapping was not nearly as tamper-resistant.
“Meg,” Grover said, fumbling with his panpipe, “I’m going to do a nature song. See if I can disrupt that chanting, maybe summon help.”
Meg gripped her blades. “In this heat? Underground?”
“Nature’s all we’ve got!” he said. “Cover me!”
He began to play. Meg stood guard, her swords raised. Even Herophile helped, balling her fists, ready to show the pandai how Sibyls dealt with ruffians back in Erythraea.
The pandai didn’t seem to know how to react. They winced at the noise of the pipes, curling their ears around their heads like turbans, but they didn’t attack. Medea had told them not to. And as shaky as Grover’s music was, they seemed unsure as to whether or not it constituted an act of aggression.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying not to be flayed into nothingness. Every bit of my willpower bent instinctively to keeping myself in one piece. I was Apollo, wasn’t I? I…I was beautiful and people loved me. The world needed me!
Medea’s chant undermined my resolve. Her ancient Colchian lyrics wormed their way into my mind. Who needed old gods? Who cared about Apollo? Caligula was much more interesting! He was better suited to this modern world. He fit. I did not. Why didn’t I just let go? Then I could be at peace.
Pain is an interesting thing. You think you have reached your limit and you can’t possibly feel more tortured. Then you discover there is still another level of agony. And another level after that. The stone tiles under my skin cut and shifted and ripped. Fires burst like sun flares across my pathetic mortal body, blasting straight through Macro’s cheap discount arctic camouflage. I lost track of who I was, why I was fighting to stay alive. I wanted so badly to give up, just so the pain would stop.