by Diana Tyler
“Where are we going?” I ask, trying my best to keep up.
“To stop Anatolius from giving the libation. He’ll be the first Diokles comes for.”
“What about Acheron?”
But Tycho doesn’t hear me. Or at least he pretends he doesn’t.
My heart jumps as a flock of doves takes flight from the roof above us, their pounding wings momentarily masking a much more terrifying sound…that of siege engines rolling across the bridge through the golden Chrysos Gate.
“The Soukinoi have battering rams?” I ask.
“Politics is a perplexing thing, a machine unto itself,” is all Tycho says, leaving my mind to wonder if and how Diokles, who allegedly loathes the Alphas as much as I do, is subsidized by the Guardians, by Acheron…
I see Anatolius in the distance, walking unhurriedly through the gate with the flask of freshly drawn water in his hands. The trumpets blast again. The tree trunks swinging from the siege engines slam into the corners of the Temple walls again, and again, and again, the unremitting rhythm replacing the merry flutes and jovial lyres with a dark, portentous refrain.
Children cry until they are scooped up by their families and carried away to safety – wherever “safety” is – but the high priest continues on with even, purposeful steps toward the Temple altar. His attendant who served me supper runs toward us, white sleeves flapping like the wings of the flustered doves that escaped from the Chamber roof moments ago.
“What is it?” Tycho asks the attendant, though his attention is fixed on Anatolius. He slows his pace to listen to his answer, but only slightly.
“Anatolius pleads with you not to come any further. He sends this message:
‘I hold forth the water like the word of life that has been shown to the world and written on our hearts. I rejoice in this day, in knowing that by Duna’s grace I have not run this race in vain. Rejoice with me as my life is poured out as an offering to him, just as your continued service shall be a sweet-smelling sacrifice high above the Moonbow.’”
“Anatolius…no…” whispers Tycho, his eyes closing as the rumbling of the battering rams ceases, and the first wall starts to fall. “Tha – thank you,” Tycho mumbles to the attendant. “Go now. Find your family and take them to the aqueduct. You’ll be safe there.”
The attendant hesitates, but one more look of urgency from Tycho sends him on his way. I watch as he disappears under the portico.
“You should go wit – ” Tycho begins.
“You know I won’t,” I say, my eyes darting back and forth from the Chrysos Gate to the trembling eastern tower presently giving way to the engines’ loud, unyielding blows.
Acheron is here, Iris. Be patient. Be alert! the voice warns.
As I grip my dagger, I feel the doma’s heat returning, flooding my body, then watch as a squadron of at least two hundred war horses trot into the court, their helmeted riders holding either a flaming torch or a steel javelin.
No sound except the jingling of heavy coats of mail and metal-fringed kilts is heard as the cavalry surrounds the inner Court of the Priests on all sides, the Court Anatolius has resolved never to leave.
Tycho and I take off running.
We dash through the portico, duck into a passageway that I assume only a few are privy to, climb up a pitch-black winding staircase, and finally find ourselves on a high rooftop of carved cedar overhanging the Court below. Tycho drops to his knees and elbows and crawls on his belly, grabbing hold of the roof’s spiked edge, tipped with gold.
“Anatolius! Come down from there, you fool! The festival has ended, or haven’t you noticed!”
I join Tycho and peer over the roof to see the horses funneling one by one into the Court and forming dense, impenetrable rows around the altar. At the center of the altar stands Anatolius, the golden flask held steadfast, sparkling in his hands like a tiny beacon beside a stormy sea; I watch Tycho’s eyes yearning to approach the beacon, to save Anatolius, but the sea is unnavigable. There is no way to him.
A man robed in purple dismounts his gray dappled horse and marches up the ramp affixed to the altar. His blond head is crowned with a gilded wreath.
Diokles.
“Anatolius, I do not take pleasure in being ignored!” he shouts.
But Anatolius doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge the would-be king. He approaches a silver cup and begins to pour in the libation.
“When the sun sets, we’re leaving the way we came, before they burn the Temple,” Tycho whispers.
Burn the Temple? That thousands of years of prayer, revelation, worship, and sacrifice could be reduced to dying embers in a single night seems inconceivable. My family has been taken from me, my home is lost, but to my surprise I have felt sincerest comfort in knowing that the place of our traditions and the foundation of our beliefs stands intact. But it seems that even this ancient tabernacle, ordained and designed by Duna himself, is not impervious to Python’s plans.
Where is the god who led our people here, displayed his power, crushed the giants, imparted his wisdom, sent his son, placed the Moonbow in the sky, who has promised to bring our people peace?
“Have you gone deaf, old man?!” Diokles jeers.
“Tycho, we have to do something!” I whisper, twisting my hot hands around the spikes.
“There is nothing to be done now. He is in Duna’s hands,” replies Tycho, placing his hand on mine.
“I can help him with my hands…” I say, jerking my hand from beneath Tycho’s. Flexing every finger, I watch each wrinkle and crack of my palm fade into the flush of fire welling up from them. But as I steady my arm and squint one eye, bringing my target into better focus, Anatolius begins to speak.
“I shall carry out my duties here as long as there is breath in my lungs. I am a humble servant of Phos. It is upon his rock and with his strength that I stand, and I will not be moved!”
My arm goes numb. My enfeebled fingertips fold in. The Soukinoi shout and curse and shake their javelins. Even when Diokles raises his hand to silence them, they do not stop for several minutes.
“I am not afraid of you who can destroy my flesh!” yells Anatolius as the din dies down. “No, I fear the one who can destroy both soul and body in the abyss.”
“It shall be my honor to be the one who sends you there!”
Diokles shoots his right arm up into the air. I hold my breath as two arrows come whizzing down from the opposite tower, straight into the high priest’s chest.
Anatolius falls to his knees and lifts his face toward heaven. A hush falls over the Soukinoi as the priest opens his mouth to speak his final words.
“Behold! The heavens are opened and Phos is standing at Duna’s right side! I wish you all could see!”
The priest’s declaration, robust and full of vigor, repeats itself in piercing echoes throughout the Court. Diokles covers his ears, but I strain to listen as each word penetrates my heart a dozen times, powerful arrows all their own.
As the last syllable fades, Diokles removes his hands from his ears and rushes across the altar, drawing the dagger from his belt. But before he can inflict a final blow, the high priest falls onto his side. Diokles spits, pulls the arrows from the body, and holds them up like trophies for the squadron to celebrate.
As the cavalry cheers, I withdraw from the roof’s edge and wilt against the cold stone door. My useless hands curled into fists, I gaze at the indigo veil of starless sky above me and feel, for the first time, as though I am looking into my own heart – a black, empty, lonely hole that shines only with the light of other spheres, which themselves are but shadows of something far greater…
Tycho crawls backwards toward me and smiles at the sky. “I’ll see you again, my friend,” he says.
“Tycho,” I say. “I want to see him again. I want to see what he saw, as he was dying.”
Without a second’s pause, Tycho whispers loudly, “You can!”
“But how? We have to leave and the Temple is going to be destroyed. I feel
like I’ve become an orphan all over again.” I bury my face in my hands.
This is not a time for self-pity, Iris! You are becoming weak!
“No,” I say aloud to the inner voice. “I’m not!”
“You’re not what?” asks Tycho.
I lift my head, take a deep breath, and before I can talk myself out of it confess:
“I began to hear a voice the day I was assigned to the Gryphon. And another voice, a different voice, the same afternoon. Both nudge me in opposite directions – one towards vengeance and rebellion, the other toward…well…I don’t know…”
Tycho raises an eyebrow as he smiles, “Don’t you?”
I can’t help but smile back. Even as the battering rams resume and streaks of orange flames set fire to the portico, I am in no rush to desert this temporary peak of refuge. What will it benefit me to leave here with my life without settling my soul?
“The other voice nudges me toward Jasper. Toward Anatolius. Toward you,” I say firmly.
Tycho gives a knowing nod.
“One belongs to your flesh. One belongs to the spirit of Duna. It’s his spirit that convicts us of the evil in our hearts and makes us aware of our unworthiness.”
“What do I do, Tycho? I cannot sacrifice an animal or purify myself at the bathing place. I – ”
“Iris,” Tycho stops me as my speech and heart rate quicken together. I take a deep breath and lean my head back against the door.
“You don’t need to do anything,” he says. “Only declare with your mouth that Phos is Duna’s son, and believe in your heart that he conquered the grave. Then you will become a new creation, born again. That other voice you hear will have no right to rule you another second. With the spirit of Duna, you and I can conquer anything. All because of his love.”
I shake my head and squeeze back tears, my mind struggling to find fairness in this foreign dogma, my own spirit leaping to accept it with faith alone, the same faith that Jasper had…
“It’s what the Oracles promised would come and what they longed to see. It’s charis, Iris…grace…an unmerited gift! Phos died to impute to us his righteousness, something we could not earn with an eternity’s worth of sacrifices, rituals, and cleansing.”
The sun has set but the moon shines just as bright, a holy, radiant spirit filling the desperate, indigo heart.
“I believe,” I say, listening as walls both within my heart and around this structure start to crumble. Tycho looks around nervously, but only for a minute; he knows there is nothing more important than hearing these words: “I believe that Phos is the son of Duna. I believe that he rose from the Great Sea. He conquered the grave!”
Tycho has no words. He draws me into his arms and holds me until the destruction comes to an eerie unsettling halt and all we hear are the anguished cries of men and women in torment. We break apart and crawl back to the edge and look down at Diokles watching over three people being flogged by six Soukinoi guards.
Diokles turns around, raises his arms to his sides as if beseeching a god and cries out:
“If the fugitives Iris and Tycho are hiding here, they have two minutes to hand themselves over. That is, of course, if they wish their friends to live!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TREACHERY
Diokles turns his head and mutters something to the guards. They lower their three-thonged whips, wipe their brows, and step aside from the hostages, each one of them collapsed onto their knees, surrounded by a morbid tessellation of their own crimson blood.
Diokles pulls a rod out of one of the guard’s hands and pushes it into the first man’s shoulder as he barks a muffled command. Diokles prods him again.
“Gennadius!” shouts the man. “My name is Gennadius!”
I watch as Tycho’s tanned face turns white as the moon. I feel my blood, deprived of air and frozen instantaneously by fear, run cold. Because there, in the midst of the altar like an unblemished lamb, is the old gray tanner who welcomed me, accepted me, fed me, and warned me of “madness,” madness such as this…
Though we were complete strangers, I felt as though I was family under his roof. But I know full well that his love flowed not from a bond of blood or an austere devotion to Eusebian morays, but from a fount of faith in the god he served. It is because of this faith and a connection with me, an obstinate runaway who cared for no one but herself, that he is facing death as a cultist’s sacrifice.
And Gennadius is not alone. Hesitantly, my eyes move past him to make out the imposing, unmistakable silhouette of Titus. And beside him, the long, raven-dark hair of Aspasia, an orange calendula flower tucked behind her ear.
I shut my eyes, hoping somehow that this is just another nightmare and that when I awake, I will be safe inside the Indigo Chamber with Anatolius and the others, or on the banks of the stream outside Eirene whistling with the birds and watching the Centaur steal the strawberries from the trees.
But not even Phobetor, the ghoulish god of the Alpha’s land of dreams could envisage a phantasm as frightening as this. I know that written in the darkness and the blood, the smoke and the fire are living, indelible, unavoidable lines of prophecy. I know that I am standing in the epicenter of an imminent fulfillment of prophecy that has not yet reached its apogee.
“Your holy city has become a blaze, your altar a den of snakes,
Your holy house, once filled with praise, now in breathless silence quakes.
Your Courts of worship flow with fire, your children do not sing,
No trumpet sounds, nor flute, nor lyre…all is hushed by suffering.”
Opening my eyes, I ask Duna to show me my next step, and for the strength to carry it out. If I am to use the doma, it will be because he commanded it. If I am to suffer, it will be because he has a purpose for it.
“Iris,” says Tycho, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. “Iris, I will go. Follow me down the stairs and then get out of here as fast as you can. Do you understand?”
I shake my head. “No, Tycho. He wants us both.”
Before Tycho can object, I jump up onto my feet and wildly wave my arms over my head.
“I’m up here, Diokles! Don’t hurt them, I’m coming!” I shout at the top of my lungs, my blood thawing as a surge of boldness I’ve never felt rushes through me.
I feel Tycho press his lips to my fingers, and a moment later, he’s standing beside me.
True to his word, Diokles orders the tormenters to return to their stations the instant Tycho and I show ourselves inside the Court. Exhausted from their strenuous efforts, the men hobble down the altar ramp – as if it was they who had been beaten – and fade into the restive crowd of horses and soldiers; its murmuring, snorts, and clinking armor imply its eagerness to watch our fate unfold. Only two guards stay behind - the ones with the largest arms and the meanest eyes.
With two quick twitches of his hand Diokles summons us onto the altar. I immediately go to Aspasia who is struggling to stand erect, but yet her placid smile appears unforced. She reaches out her hand to me and tries to speak, but Diokles grabs her hair and yanks her back.
“This is not a family reunion, you carcass-reeking crone!” he yells. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I will have Ariston cut them off!” The guard nearest Aspasia unsheathes his dagger and spins it in his hand with a barbarous scowl.
“Keep your eye on her,” Diokles orders him. “On all of them!” He then points a finger at Captain Lycus who is seated on horseback below him; he signals to him with a single nod of his head. The captain pounds his chest, kicks his horse’s flanks, and trots off through the rubble of the remaining western wall.
Where is he off to? I wonder. But I’m afraid I know exactly where…
“You said you would let them go,” I say.
“Did I?” answers Diokles, tilting his chin to the sky. “I believe I said I would let them live and not go. You do see the difference…don’t you? Or did I misjudge your intelligence?”
Diokles smiles tauntingly as he
watches my fingers suddenly stiffen with what feels like a jolt of electricity. I hear Tycho exhale a puff of anger from his nostrils. He steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Diokles so none of the soldiers can hear:
“Let’s settle this like civilized people, Diokles. There is no need to further defile Duna’s Temple. Surely we can agree on that.”
“Duna’s Temple?” Diokles spreads his arms and spins around as he shouts, “Duna’s Temple has fallen before your eyes, old friend! The time has come for the golden race to arise, and for the glorious comingling of gods and men. The throne of your jealous Duna has been usurped!”
Diokles drops his arms like clapping wings as a bird-shaped shadow falls over his face.
A bloodcurdling shriek sends a tremor of fear across the Court. The shadow circles us, spiraling down toward us with every revolution; its wings beat faster and faster, louder and louder, creating a cold, cutting wind.
Tycho looks up at the destroyer before I do, then draws me into his side and whispers, “Don’t worry. We are more than conquerors. Our king has not forsaken us.”
I take a breath.
The battering rams roll forward.
I let the breath out.
The last three towers fall.
I say a prayer.
The Gryphon lands before us.
I stare into her eyes, breathing steadily, praying ceaselessly.
“Iris, I believe you have met my most loyal assassin, your aunt Corinna,” Diokles says softly, smiling as he strokes the creature’s charcoal wing, a wing as long as he is tall. “And I believe you and Tycho were both aware of your fate should you choose to betray me.”
Diokles turns to his men. “All of Ēlektōr knew the conditions of our deal! I was merciful. I gave Tycho another chance. I allowed you, a good-for-nothing orphan to publicly challenge my authority. And how did you repay me?! You snuck off after the man who pitied you, the hapless slave girl. You were soft. You are both so disgustingly soft!” Diokles removes his knife and throws it into the silver cup fifteen feet away, sending the priest’s pure libation spilling over the altar’s edge to be choked by blood and ash.