by Diana Tyler
My stomach growls in response. Somehow the task of escaping the desert and reuniting with Tycho had distracted me from hunger, but now, all I can focus on is my body’s need for rest and a solid meal. But first…
“Where are the others? General Titus and the Centaur?” I ask.
The high priest and Tycho look at one another, trying to determine which of them should answer.
“The Centaur isn’t permitted on the Temple grounds, I’m afraid,” Anatolius says. “Not yet, at least. With Duna’s help, things will be changing here, but it will take some time.”
The attendant enters from the eastern door carrying a plate of bread and meat and melon. Anatolius motions for me to sit in the chair at the center of the Chamber, the only chair in the room.
“That is your seat, sir,” I say, lowering myself onto the stone ground.
“Nonsense. Tycho help her up,” Anatolius insists, his eyes twinkling as though he is partaking in some sort of outlawed mischief. But I suppose he is. “I told you things will be changing. Making it permissible for a hungry orphaned woman to be served supper in Duna’s house while sitting in a proper chair is at the top of the list,” he smiles as Tycho pulls me to my feet, the serpent tattoo peeking out of his sleeve.
I pause for a few seconds more, then proceed to sit in the chair where the attendant is waiting for me. He hands me the platter and then exits the way he came, into the light and music.
My mouth waters just holding the warm plate from which the smell of wheat arises, an expensive grain that even Acheron only demanded when he was especially inebriated. I want so much to lower my head until it is within mere inches of it and, without reserve, shamelessly break it apart and devour it one fistful at a time. But instead, I struggle to slow down my jaws, savor each bite as best I can, and wait patiently for someone to speak candidly about the status of the others.
“Between the Guardians and Diokles’s men, the Centaur has only enemies here,” says Tycho. “The general did not want to abandon him in the agora. They’ve gone somewhere where it is safe for him.”
“Diokles ordered that the Centaur be left unharmed,” I say, remembering how curious it was – and is – to me that Diokles would let him live, and live painlessly at that.
“Ah, of course,” sighs Anatolius. “Because of Apollo. He and the other cultists respect the Centaurs– begrudgingly so – because they believe Apollo fathered the very first, Centaurus. But nevertheless, the Guardians will not be so tolerant. Having Petrodian Centaurs running loose during Therismos doesn’t make things easy for them. Better for the city to be as calm as possible so that they can keep a closer eye on us, hmm?”
“Wait,” I say, nodding thanks to the attendant who returns with a cup of water for me. “Go back to Apollo. Is it true what he thinks? Did the Centaur race descend from Apollo?”
“Apollo…Python…yes. Those are different names for the same person, the Evil One who rebelled against Duna in the primordial ages before us. The one whose expulsion from Duna’s presence created the indigo void between Petros and heaven, chaos and cosmos,” explains the high priest, his eyes scanning the indigo veil as though they are watching Duna’s hands now laying it heavily between our realms, spreading it out tautly from east to west, separating this cursed rock, this petros, from his glory.
“The dark ones who fell with him created hybrid beings, beasts like the Harpies and sphinxes. Creatures remarkably strong and full of hatred that would be able to defeat Duna’s son. Python has known his destiny all along, and all along he has been plotting to change it, using the hybrids to terrorize and intimidate, Alphas to tyrannize and dispirit, and even our own people to deceive and confuse.”
“Even I was swept into his strategy,” Tycho says. “First by taking the tattoo of Python, and then the scar of the Soukinoi.” We each turn over our right hands and examine the dagger’s line drawn across it.
“When you told me at Ourania that you had been serving someone who claimed to have all the power in the world, you were speaking of Diokles, weren’t you?” I ask.
Tycho nods. “Yes. The power is from Python. As Anatolius has said, the Evil One is energizing both the Pythonians and the Soukinoi, though neither one realizes it, as I never realized it.”
“And what about my power?” I ask. “I suppose Python wanted that, too.”
“You’re speaking of the doma you possess,” answers Anatolius. “The Ashers’ gifts are extremely valuable to Python, and by extension, to Diokles. If the doma is not protected, not entrusted to Duna to nurture and direct, the Asher becomes easy prey for evil to take hold of.”
“It took hold of my aunt, Corinna,” I say. “She had the gift of flight, and today she is the Gryphon. I’ve watched her tear apart holy men like yourself without hesitation. Her thirst for blood is never satisfied.” My eyes fill with tears and I set down my plate.
“I am sorry, Iris,” says Anatolius, his voice tender with sympathy. “Python’s forces have always promised Ashers the world in return for their gifts. And for a time, many of them experience wealth and pleasure beyond their wildest dreams. Some, much like your aunt it sounds to me, suffer immediately; their corruptor doesn’t bother masquerading as a beneficent emissary or selfless tutor. Either way, the outcome is the same: Python’s plans are carried out, and the Asher…”
He doesn’t need to finish his explanation. I know what happens to the Asher who surrenders his doma to Python. I’ve seen it for myself, inside the hollow, vitreous eyes of my aunt who has not an inkling that I am her sister’s daughter, and, if Diokles succeeds, her next victim.
“It’s good you are here, Iris,” Anatolius continues. “It’s been our prayer, since Tycho arrived, that your power might be placed in Duna’s hands, while there is still time.”
“Time? Time until what?” I ask, my hands so cold and my heart so heavy that I wonder if the doma is still with me.
My mind flashes back to the morning I discovered Niobe lying dead on Acheron’s floor. I couldn’t use the doma to devastate his home and deliver a warning; the harder I tried, the weaker I felt. Could it be that Duna was restraining it, protecting me from moving one step closer to a fate like Corinna’s? But hadn’t my fate been to join the Soukinoi and avenge my brother? Now I’m not so sure…
“Time until the Soukinoi or Pythonians, or maybe both, converge here,” Anatolius says, his gaze drifting out the door. “At any hour. That is what the Oracles foresaw.”
“Diokles told me they were planning an attack here,” I say, my words sounding weak, garbled, and far away, as if I’m speaking from the bottom of the bathing place or the farthest reaches of an Ēlektōr cave. “To destroy the Guardians.”
“No, Iris,” Tycho says, coming near to me. “They want to destroy us. Acheron, the Python worshipers, the Soukinoi... They all want to obliterate Eirene to make way for their peace-bringing ruler. They want to stamp out any trace of Phos and his disciples, starting here. Starting with us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TESTIMONY
Outside in the Eusebian Court, everybody dances and twirls to the sound of pipes, drums, and tambourines. The children wave purple banners over their heads and hop up and down and side to side when they can’t keep the rhythm. Daring entertainers do back flips, juggle fruit then flaming torches, stealing the breath of both young and old - but all I see in the spectacle is a shadow of Enochos…the five burning pyres and the smoke of their slaughter.
Tycho and I sit together just outside the Chamber door and stare in silence at the florescent euphoria pulsing around us like a sky designed by children’s dreams. The colors, the music, the dancing and jubilation…the longer I watch, the more heartsick I feel. They are all ignorant of the darkness buried far below the surface of the Alphas’ hubris, their disgust with Eusebian piety, the darkness that transcends even the indigo chasm cut between Duna and Petros, and the rivers of catastrophes still flowing from it. I have only heard the faintest whispers of the Evil One’s plan, and thi
s limited knowledge alone makes me shudder.
Perhaps it is best that they don’t know, I think. Yes. If I were here with my parents and with Jasper, all of us healthy and unharmed, I would prefer not to know of doom and destruction and malevolent plans. And even if I was told or heard rumors in the air, I would probably keep on dancing.
My gaze shifts to Anatolius making his way across the court toward the nearby Maqor Spring, carrying a golden flask at his chest. When he returns, there will be a libation of water and a prayer for rain as the people recite the words:
“We draw water from your wells of mercy, sip life from your springs of salvation.
We give thanks for the rainfall in dry, desert places, the harvest amid desolation …”
“How do you know Anatolius?” I ask Tycho, my mind trying to distract itself from the ominous verse of the Oracles.
“I was told to come here and find him, before I met you at Okeanos with Lysander.” Tycho begins, his eyes watching the priest’s white robes disappear down the steps of the western gate.
“Who told you to find him? Carya? I know she told you to go with Lysander that night, even though you had already recanted your vows to Diokles in your heart.”
Tycho runs his hand through his hair, something he does when he’s nervous or unsure.
“Tell me, Tycho. Why can’t you trust me? I followed you here, didn’t I?”
I loosen the pouch on my girdle and pull out the emerald stone.
“Look,” I say, spreading my palm for him to see the resplendent gem. “Carya instructed the general to give this to me only if I forgave him for executing my brother. She said it symbolizes a new beginning for me. I want to find the new beginning, Tycho.”
Tycho lowers his hand from his head and places it on mine. The warmth of our fingers interlocking surges up my arm and into my cheeks; I turn my face away from him.
“The prayers of your family go before you, Iris. They’ve led you all this way because Duna heard them and he honored them – he honors them still.”
I turn my face back toward his and smile as a gentle wind blows against us.
“And I do trust you,” Tycho continues. “But the answer to your question…I’m not sure you will believe it.”
I frown and slip my hand away from his. I’ve seen so much; how can he think that I am a skeptic now?
“Phos appeared to me, Iris. Days before I met you, I was traveling to Enochos intent on killing the ‘weak ones,’ as Diokles called them – any Eusebians who were followers of the Hodos, who believed that Phos was Duna’s anointed son. I was being used by the Evil One, yet again, to destroy my own people, one mission at a time. That is how much he hates us.”
My mind swarms with questions, but the first flies out of my mouth like an angry wasp:
“Acheron killed followers of the Hodos. He murdered my brother. Diokles kills them, too?! You killed them, too?!”
You can’t trust anyone, Iris. Not even Tycho, the voice inside me hisses, the voice that speaks for the unrelenting side of myself still dominated by wrath.
I start to stand, but Tycho gently grasps my arm.
“Please, Iris. It is true, and I am sorry, but you must understand that Diokles does this because he is deceived, as I was deceived. He schemes and kills and terrorizes because he is a servant of the Evil One; he believes Apollo will soon reveal himself and reward him for his faithfulness in the coming age. The Hodos stand in the way.”
“How can a few religious Eusebians stop an immortal god from claiming dominion?” I scoff, watching Anatolius’s attendant pick up a fair-haired toddler and spin her around, again and again, a dandelion floating buoyantly in the stream of a summer breeze.
“It isn’t our beliefs that can stop him. It’s our oneness with Duna because of Phos. Because we have accepted that his sacrifice has cleansed us, we carry the power that raised him within us. And that is what the Evil One fears. He trembles every time we assert that power, every time we speak with the authority of Phos. I could feel the darkness inside me shrinking in panic when I heard his voice that night…”
“When you heard Phos, who died seven years ago?” I ask, unable to bridle my mordant mood.
Tycho takes a deep sigh.
“I thought Phos was dead, too. But he isn’t, Iris. That is something we must all believe by faith.”
“Faith? He appeared to you! If he’s so powerful, why doesn’t he appear in the agora or here at the Temple and show us he’s alive himself?!”
My emotions will not allow me to sit here a second longer. I get up and storm into the Chamber, glad to find it empty and silent, save for the whispering indigo veil undulating in the vault above me. I stand beneath it, close my eyes, and calm my breathing.
Acheron. Find Acheron!
The voice is growing louder.
You didn’t escape from your master and come all this way to be softened by some sanctimonious proselyte! You are stronger than this!
I look up into the veil, now a sheet of midnight sky in the dreary absence of sunlight. Just this morning, I felt as though I was one of the exultant birds singing around me, a bunting perched on her limb, eagerly coaxing the dawn out of its slumber, a dawn promised to bring the culmination of my mission. But now, in the surreal stillness of this Chamber, I feel like a much lowlier animal, an ant perhaps. A resourceful, obdurate creature that collects, carries, and constructs, spellbound by its own skill, enamored by its brawn, impelled by its own shortsighted ambition.
The ant is “its own best counselor, its own god”… The words of Titus silence the vociferous demands of the inner voice.
“I’m not a Soukina,” I say aloud, just as I said it to Titus earlier today.
“Then what are you?” I can hear him reply, the thought of it almost audible.
“Iris.”
It’s Tycho, but I keep my back to him and stare at the Chamber’s west-facing door, resisting the voice in my head commanding me to barge through it and do what I came here to do.
“Iris, please listen to me. You asked why Phos doesn’t appear to us all, and the fact is I don’t know,” Tycho says. “What I do know is that Duna chose to place him in my path, the path of a man who scourged and murdered innocent men, imprisoned their wives and children, and sold many of them as slaves to the Guardians simply because of their faith.
“For three days I saw nothing but darkness because the light in which he appeared to me was too brilliant for human eyes. It struck me with death and life all at once. I felt what it is like to be separated from Duna for eternity, and it is something I would never in a million years wish on my worst enemy. It was unbearable, unescapable. I saw the blackness of the world with neither physical nor spiritual sight. That a man such as I could be touched and changed seems sufficient proof that Phos is he who claimed to be, does it not?”
“Anatolius trusts you. I find that in itself to be miraculous,” I admit.
“Yes. Reluctantly,” Tycho laughs a little. “Phos told him I would come here. It was he who laid his hands on me the night I regained my vision. I was reborn that night.”
I vividly remember the night Jasper came home, “reborn.” He hadn’t been intercepted on the road by Phos as Tycho was, or healed by one of Duna’s messengers like I was. He had merely been eating lunch on a hillside not far from the Temple when a man began to testify to the circles of families and friends gathered on the grass.
This man had once been called the Striks, named so after the savage owl of Alpha myth that disemboweled its victims and relished the blood of infants. The ghost story circulated that this Striks had incarnated itself into a deranged Eusebian man who noiselessly stalked the streets of Eirene, picking up the scent of the most unsuspecting souls, mewing at their doors like a neglected cat, and then cutting them down with sharp, sadistic claws before they could glimpse his face. Just before dusk, he’d return to the tombs outside the city where he would cut himself with stones, sniveling and shrieking through the daylight hours until he co
uld hunt again.
The Striks said that one day he saw Phos a great distance away, and the evil inside of him thrust him out of the tombs, took control of his limbs, and sent him running full speed in his direction.
“What are you doing here, Phos, son of almighty Duna? I beg you, do not torment me!” the Striks whimpered.
“What is your name?” Phos asked not the Striks, but the force that possessed him.
“My name is Phalanx,” boasted the Striks. “For we are many. We are an army that has claimed this body!”
“But the army of evil within me was no match for the power Phos carried,” reported the man, no longer a monster, but an honest blacksmith, a husband and father.
“Had it not been for the scars that covered his body,” Jasper said, “no one would have believed that he was the same man. Phos won the victory over Python in that man’s life, Iris. I believe he has won such victory for all of us.”
And so Jasper’s life was changed forever because he had faith to take this man at his word, to believe that he truly had been delivered by Duna’s son. And as I stand here, listening to the story of yet another transformed Pythonian, I know that I must make a choice, not just to believe, but to accept.
But before I can utter a word to Tycho, a trumpet blasts from the Temple pinnacle overlooking the city. Ten quick, reverberating bursts: a call to arms, a call to retreat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
INVASION
Go…that way!” Tycho shouts, pointing at the western door. I turn and run across the Chamber, push the door open with a grunt, and stand paralyzed by the sight of hundreds of Eusebians fleeing the Temple and flooding the broad street below toward the agora.
“Come on!” Tycho pulls on my arm and heads north along the edge of the colonnade in which he found me. He sheds his white robes as he walks, revealing his plain, brown, threadbare tunic and the conspicuous serpent tattoo.