The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  It takes several minutes for the hellish sounds of a viper’s nest to hush and for the riled waves to ebb again. When they do, Diokles motions to his two guards. They swoop down on Tycho like eagles, grab him by his underarms, and then lean back, planting their feet firmly as though dragging him up out of the water will require all their strength.

  But Tycho needn’t be forced. He calmly helps himself onto the edge, stands, shakes his sandals, takes his place between the guards, and looks out into every eye he can find to connect with. He’s clearly not ashamed, and curiously, not afraid. I hear the sentries grunt, expressing their displeasure in finding that their prisoner hasn’t got any fight in him. At least not anymore.

  “A peacemaker is what he may prefer you to call him!” resumes Diokles. “But again, we would be flattering this man, this once-fearless warrior, by granting him such a…diplomatic title. We shall call him what he truly is, what he was all along: a worthless, spineless parasite.” Diokles spits on Tycho’s toes. “For he has, to this moment, used impressive cunning to feed off of a false allegiance to both Python and the Soukinoi!”

  Tycho’s lips remain closed, his gaze set steadfastly upon his accuser.

  Has he gone deaf?! Why doesn’t he defend himself? I think.

  But I think again: What good would it do if he did…

  “Each of you!” Diokles shouts. “Hold out your right hand.”

  The sound of whishing water fills the space as each of us pulls our hand fast out of the pool and wait, like servants, for further instruction.

  “Turn it over and look down at the line drawn across it. No matter how faint or fresh it is, no matter if you received it one year ago or yesterday, that is the scar that commemorates the day you swore your oath here, the day you heard me speak these words:

  “‘The man who holds contempt for the judge or for the priest who stands ministering to Duna shall be put to death.’”

  I unwrap the bandage from around my palm and see that an ugly scab has formed. Soon the wound will scar and I too will bear a permanent mark of loyalty, just like the rest of the Soukinoi. Just like Tycho, just like the Centaur. The only difference between the Soukinoi and Pythonian emblems is that the former is forged with a knife and a little blood, the latter with dye and a sharpened stick.

  As I stare at my hand I remind myself that the oath I made in that pagan temple is a means to an end. A necessary rite. The reason I am here is not to get involved in quarrels about war, religion, or politics, but to stay sharp, act brave, and keep out of Diokles’s way until I am led to Acheron.

  You cannot let Tycho die as you let Ireneus! A voice inside me – my conscience? – startles me. My eyes jump back to Diokles and the man who saved my life.

  “This man Tycho is guilty of breaking his oath. He will be stoned at the temple steps at dusk,” Diokles says in such a matter-of-fact fashion that I am almost reminded of…

  No, not Acheron. Acheron kills without just cause! I reason.

  It isn’t just to let your friend die, a voice says again.

  I feel my soul warring against itself, one side rallying my wits to hold back and play dumb, the other appealing to my heart, something I wish I couldn’t feel.

  The voice is soft but clear, subtle but undeniable as it reminds me of Carya’s prophecy to Aspasia:

  “…it shall be your turn to speak up for his life.”

  My heart jumps into my throat, followed by a stream of words that I can’t possibly suppress a moment longer.

  “Wait! Diokles! Wait!” I climb out of the pool and run to our leader’s side before anyone can stop me.

  “Iris!” I hear Alexa gasp as the rest of the Soukinoi look on in astonishment.

  “Diokles, forgive me, but Tycho is the one who saved me from Lysander. He is the reason I am here. If I have not proven myself a worthy recruit, then please, take his life. And punish me as you see fit for what I know you consider unforgivable brazenness and – ”

  “Stop this!” shouts Diokles. His echo repeats the command several times as he turns his back to the Soukinoi and walks slowly closer to me, his hands interlaced behind his back, his teeth clenched together as he whispers:

  “You don’t know anything about me. But know this. I will not tolerate having my authority publicly undermined by a woman who thinks herself Duna’s gift to us just because she survived a single mission!”

  I cannot keep my eyes on his, and look down as I mutter a pathetic apology and try to hold back my tears like a scorned child.

  “Look at me, Soukina,” Diokles says with a softened tone. “I think you are very brave. But do not forget your place. There is a fine line between courage and stupidity.”

  Diokles turns back to the crowd who has begun to dry themselves off and wring out the water from their garments. I glance over at Tycho but his eyes are closed, his lips moving.

  “Tycho showed mercy for our sister, Iris,” Diokles says. “I too will show mercy and allow him to live here and render to us his knowledge and skills as a warrior and strategist.”

  The Soukinoi mumble, and I see Alexa’s eyes widen with incredulity.

  “But!” continues Diokles. “Should he retaliate, try to flee, or should he speak one word of peacemaking or voice one dissenting opinion about our operations here, he will be stoned.”

  Diokles returns to my side and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “And she will die in the same manner as her first target, the priest Ireneus.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RENEGADE

  I looked for Tycho in the tavern at breakfast, but he was nowhere to be found. I spent the morning ascending the mountain, and by noon I was still wandering about the plateau, ducking into the dwellings hidden between the walls, bothering the blacksmiths as they stoked their fires with billows and beat their hammers against metal. I didn’t care if I was intruding into their homes or disrupting their work – I have to find Tycho, and I’m not even sure why. To thank him for saving my life? Maybe. But I know deep down what draws me to him is utterly indefinable: it’s the mystery concealed in the sun-streaked pools of his eyes, the serpent tattoo now symbolizing his worst regret, the peace he possessed as Diokles pronounced his death sentence, the way my veins stir with a different kind – a pleasant and benign kind – of heat when I think of him for too long…

  “I don’t know where he is, but I wish he were in Hades!” was one man’s gruff reply at breakfast.

  The mere mention of Tycho makes most people’s lips curl in disgust before they spit or curse his name. Others shrug their shoulders insouciantly and go about their business; even if they had seen him, I’m sure they wouldn’t tell me.

  Finally, I arrive at a small, abandoned-looking assembly place located at the southernmost end of the fortress and spot Tycho kneeling there along the highest tier of plastered benches. His eyes are closed, head slightly bowed, still as a clay statue left to dry in the sun.

  “Tycho!” I call out to him. But he doesn’t move. “Tycho!” I repeat. This time, all I hear in response is the distant, hungry howl of the Gryphon.

  Instantly, Ireneus and the three picked-apart, blood-drained bodies of his disciples flash before my mind’s eye. I race up the tiers toward Tycho, hoping the exertion will circumvent the formation of another haunting image, that of vibrant red ribbons of torn-apart flesh falling from the Gryphon’s beak: the remnants of my mangled body, dissected at the order of Diokles.

  “You must be starved!” I shout at him, wondering if he’ll remember causing me to jump with those words the day he surprised me at the Port of Ourania.

  Tycho doesn’t jump. He’s heard me calling. He opens his eyes after a few seconds and acknowledges my presence with a tired smile.

  “And you must have found the work you were looking for. As a tanner, if I recall correctly?”

  His smile struggles to linger a while longer, but soon disappears, replaced by a heaviness that fills his eyes; it’s as though each one contains an anchor connected to
the deepest layer of his soul, and he is unable to cut them loose and sail beyond them.

  “I almost began assisting a tanner,” I start to explain. “In Limén.”

  Tycho turns to me and searches my eyes, and all he can say is, “My lady…”

  Those words crawl over my skin like a scared spider. I am no more a lady than Alexa, a girl who thrives on mischief, and with a bloodlust to rival the Gryphon’s.

  “Why didn’t you stay there?” Tycho manages, his question sounding more like a plea for me to travel back in time to Gennadius’s tannery, stay put in the shadows until the time comes to defend myself – and only myself – and forget the Soukinoi altogether.

  “The girl who appeared to you gave a message to the tanner’s wife. She told me I would come here. And that – that I would speak up for your life like you did for mine. Did I have a choice?”

  “We all have a choice,” he says, anger welling in his voice. “Duna sees your heart. He knows what losing your family and serving Acheron have done to it...”

  Tycho clenches his jaw, then looks to the sky. I follow his eyes and watch the white puffs of clouds floating above us, like giant breaths caught in a clear, cold day.

  “He is outside the clouds, Iris. He is beyond the Moonbow, beyond time,” he continues, his anger carried away into the clouds. “The prophecy didn’t send you here. Duna knew you would follow your heart.”

  “Your desert journey shall be paved with stones of black desire,” I say, slowly repeating the verse of Aspasia’s prophecy as it moves forward from memory to mouth.

  “The tanner’s wife told you that, I suppose?”

  I nod.

  “You would have been safe there. The prophecy could have been different,” says Tycho, standing and dusting the sand from his knees.

  “I don’t want to be safe!” I say as Tycho makes his way down the shallow tiers. “Where are you going?!”

  “You want your brother to have vengeance. You want to kill Acheron. I know, Iris. And I know it is foolishness. I’m going to Eirene, and you are welcome to come with me.”

  “Now who is foolish?!” I yell as I run after him. “Did you hear Diokles this morning, or were you still under water? You will be stoned and I will be eaten alive by the Gryphon if we try to run away!”

  Tycho stops and turns to me, then waits for a moment as if deciding whether to say:

  “I want to show you something.”

  He continues walking around the limestone wall until we come upon one of Diokles’s chief guards slumped against it. His ghost-pale skin and half-opened eyes indicate that he isn’t napping. And when I see the dark red spot soaked into his thigh, I know without question that he is dead.

  My eyes grow wide. My heart flutters as I battle the impulse to flee and report the murderer or stay and hear him out. I take a deep breath. I decide to stay.

  “I prayed that he would spend his last minutes repenting before Duna. Sometimes the moments preceding death are the only ones men take to think on things that matter…” Tycho says, bearing the same look of compassion that he had at Okeanos when he described Jasper’s death to Lysander and the outlaws...as he saved my life…

  “Why did you have to kill him?” I demand, frustration squelching any feelings of affection and causing my voice to quiver.

  “Diokles sent him, Iris. He wanted me to kill him.”

  “What? You’re not any making sense!” I say, feeling my muscles warm with exasperation.

  “Mercy was never his intention. He wants me dead, but not now; now he has another idea in mind.”

  “And what idea is that?”

  “He wants to prove to the rest of his followers that he was right about me and that you were wrong….that I am a traitor, a Eusebian-killer…”

  “You were defending yourself,” I say, putting the pieces together in my mind.

  Tycho doesn’t answer, but instead leans over the soldier and gently closes his eyes with the palm of his hand.

  “Be in peace,” Tycho whispers to him.

  “Diokles sacrificed one of his own sentries just to set you up?” I ask, wanting to be told differently. But I know that I am right, and Tycho knows I don’t really need an answer.

  “His men will find him within the hour, and then they will arrest me and make a public spectacle of me, an example of what becomes of renegades.”

  I wait for Tycho to continue and surmise what they will do with me. But he only looks out over the wall in silence.

  “And me?” I ask, a tear rolling down my cheek into the corner of my mouth. The saltiness, the unmistakable taste of vulnerability and brokenness, signals more tears to fall. “I will be like Prometheus, and Ireneus, men who never brought harm to anyone!” I finally admit, collapsing to my knees as hot tears flood my eyes and burn my face with fear.

  “If you are truly a Soukina, then you shouldn’t feel guilty about what happened to Ireneus. Just as Diokles won’t shed a single tear over the loss of one of his most trusted and loyal soldiers, a man who died a senseless death because his leader covets men’s respect to the point of obsession.”

  “Diokles understands the value of sacrifice,” I say, but the sentence feels foreign on my tongue; I quickly realize I am quoting Alexa’s words to me as we rode through the desert on the back of the Centaur, when she reproved me for not risking death to kill Acheron. To her, and the rest of her brother’s army, an unfinished task is far better than a task left untried.

  “A high price must be paid if we ever want to be free from the Alphas,” I say, wiping my tears and crawling into a narrow net of shade being cast from the wall. “I don’t deny that it is often hard to accept, but – ”

  “Iris,” Tycho says softly. “Do you really believe that a thousand angry Eusebians can so much as puncture a hole in the armor of the Alphas?”

  “You did,” I answer, my curiosity piquing. “What happened to you?”

  Tycho takes a deep breath and rakes his fingers through his hair.

  “I wish I had time to tell you,” he says. “But we aren’t safe here.”

  “You aren’t safe here,” I correct him. “I will tell Diokles that you’ve killed his man and deserted us, that I found the body but you were already gone.”

  Clap… Clap… Clap…

  Tycho and I spin around like startled sheep to face whatever wolf has cornered us. There, looming over me, with a hand on his sword and a smile on his lips, is the general Titus.

  “A clever plan, young Soukina,” he says to me. “If only it would work…”

  Watching my red, tear-stung eyes fill up again, he turns his attention to Tycho.

  “Tycho, good to see you, old friend!”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think him genuinely pleased to see his conscripted comrade.

  “I regret that I missed your induction this morning. I was pleased to hear that you’ve lived to see another day,” says Titus.

  “And you,” Tycho says, extending his hand.

  Titus removes his hand from his sword and shakes Tycho’s hand.

  “Poor Patroclus,” he says, regarding the dead soldier.

  Then he looks at me with a loud sigh, like a father ready to chide his recalcitrant child. But he doesn’t ask me anything.

  “Go, Tycho. The young Soukina will stay with me now.”

  Tycho walks over to me and lifts me to my feet and lightly pulls me out of the shadow. He places my hair behind my ear and whispers into it, “You will be all right.”

  Though there is no breeze, I feel chills rising on the back of my neck. My mouth opens, my lips begin to move, but my mind is void of a response.

  “Trust me.”

  With those words, Tycho squeezes my hand, brings his cloak over his head, and begins his escape from Ēlektōr.

  And suddenly, I have words to say, my first prayer since the day my brother died:

  “Duna, please…watch over him.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EXECUTIONER

  I feel s
trangely subdued as Titus turns my shoulders to the north and leads me in silence toward the summit’s gates. Surely Tycho would not save my life twice only to leave it in enemy hands...

  What do you know, Tycho? What makes you trust the general?

  “Trust me,” is the fruitless reply I receive again and again as I mull over the few things I’ve learned about Tycho and Titus, two men who have shown me inexplicable kindness amid a people who consider such a virtue to be anathema, a deplorable stain in the fabric of their uniquely Soukinoi ideals.

  Tycho was once a Pythonian servant, and once a valuable Soukinoi soldier. Now, it is made plain by his constant prayers and a baffling concern for me, a bullheaded, blood-spilling orphan, that he is an unabashed follower of Duna, and one who has come to view a Eusebian revolt of vengeance and terror as a sinful, and indeed a futile enterprise.

  It is much more difficult trying to decipher exactly where Titus’s loyalty lies.

  The enigmatic eyes of the general couldn’t stop my soul from feeling an unexplainable connection to his own the moment I met him. His advice to me in the tavern to eat as much breakfast as I could seemed a cryptic allusion to my forthcoming mission. And his last words to me, “you’ll find that Soukinoi life is a continuous stream of surprises,” were perhaps the most mysterious of all.

  “You’re making me suspicious, Soukina,” Titus says as we begin our descent down the mountain.

  Just then, the Gryphon begins her wailing demand for supper, and I am happy to be distracted by an opportunity for conversation.

  “I’m making you suspicious?” I ask with a laugh. Has it not crossed his mind that it’s quite possible I have found his actions of late to be a bit peculiar?

  “You’ve been following me, docile as a pony, for nearly an hour and haven’t whinnied a word,” he says, turning and looking at me with a charming half smile.

  “I know better than to be anything but docile, sir,” I say. “You needn’t be suspicious. You can even confiscate my dagger if it would make you feel better.”