The Petros Chronicles Boxset

by Diana Tyler

  But something was undeniably different. A gnawing feeling in his gut was urging him to survive, an unexpected burst of adrenaline rousing the instincts he’d repressed for so long. He wanted to live. He needed to live.

  For once in his unfortunate existence, he wasn’t going to let death win.

  “I choose to live,” he said, carefully articulating every syllable so Hades couldn’t misunderstand.

  Hades grunted and tightened his grip around Orpheus’s throat. He pulled the poet closer to him, a blue vein bulging down the broad center of his forehead as he whispered, “I look forward to watching your blood fall when they pierce you with the needle and suck your life away.” Then he twisted fiercely and threw Orpheus at Apollo’s feet. “Any final words for your son, brother?”

  Apollo peered down at Orpheus with an unfeeling scowl. “The All-Powerful took your Eurydice. Not I.” His words were tinged with both hatred and discomfiture, as if he were admitting a weakness. “It is impossible for you to get her back. Tell me, why torture yourself by continuing to try?”

  Orpheus coughed and felt his neck where Hades’ hand had squeezed. “I was born for torture, was I not?” he rasped.

  After a few steady breaths, he stood, squared his shoulders, and searched Apollo’s face. Could this man—this monster—truly be his father? He could see no resemblance in his marble face, no trace of himself in the arrogant way he walked or in the merciless manner with which he devised lie after lie, scheme after scheme. The only similarity between them was their mutual love for music.

  “What being,” said Orpheus, “with your blood running through him, is not destined for anguish all his eternal days?”

  The glowing centers of Apollo’s eyes flared wide as he stiffened his neck, chin tightening as Orpheus waited for him to speak, or run a sword through his heart. This could be Orpheus’s last opportunity to speak to his father; he wouldn’t hold anything back.

  “Is that why you’ve always defied the All-Powerful?” Orpheus asked. “Why you’ve made Petros forget him? Because his disciples served him willingly and rejoiced over him, and yours are trapped and chained?”

  Orpheus paused as the clearest of epiphanies whispered within his heart. “So that’s why you loathe me so,” he said, “and detest the mere thought of our reunion—because Eurydice chose to follow the All-Powerful before her death. Everything I’ve seen of her—the mission to retrieve her from hell, the vision in the Vale, the brood of vipers in her cell—was all an illusion, a perverse ruse meant to satisfy your sadistic need to see me suffer.”

  Orpheus’s heart beat powerfully, freely, emboldened by the truth of the words ringing within his veins. “You will drink the bitter cup of justice, Father. The All-Powerful will see to it soon enough.”

  Apollo’s eyes blazed obsidian as thin red capillaries traversed his face, masking it with fury. He grasped the ivory hilt of his sword, sorely tempted to ignore Hades’ judgment and decapitate him now, then feed his head to the fire. “And what do you know of the All-Powerful?” he said behind clenched teeth.

  Orpheus stepped forward and regarded his father with a wry smile. “Only that you fear him. And that you fear the Vessel and his plan for her.”

  “I fear nothing.” Apollo’s chest was heaving. “It is you who should be fearful. I would gladly cut your throat this second if it weren’t for the anticipation of your blood draining onto the altar from whatever unmarked hole they throw you in.”

  “Does a man fear death again after he has already tasted it?” Orpheus asked. “Is it any more bitter a second time?” He felt his face softening, his smile fading as the revelation alighted upon him, like a lark landing gently on his shoulder. “I don’t fear you, neither do I fear Hades and his vile ritual. If it’s my destiny to be dismembered now or become entangled later within a bloody haze of spirits, so be it. I only fear not finding out why the All-Powerful has led me this far.”

  “The All-Powerful is dead!” Apollo screamed, unsheathing his sword.

  A strange peace settled on Orpheus, wrapping around him like a cloak, clinging tightly, comforting him as he caught his reflection in the bronze blade. A draft of cool air spiraled down from the ceiling’s pointed pendants, carrying with it a faint ting sound. It was completely foreign at first, but as the sword was lifted, the sounds became a song, dulcet notes floating on the air, soft as butterfly wings. It was his ode to Eurydice, sung on his happiest days as well as his darkest.

  And then he knew. He would be with her again.

  “No he isn’t, he is very much alive,” Orpheus whispered. “And Eurydice with him.”

  With one swift thrust of the sword, the song faded, and blinding light consumed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ASPHODEL

  Chloe held her breath as Hermes shifted his weight forward until their bodies were parallel to the ground. He pointed down at the silvery meadow rising toward them and a slow-moving sea of people.

  “The Fields of Asphodel,” he said, his voice falling through the windless air, alerting only a handful of curious souls. “Your new home.”

  When they were still a few feet from the grass, he pulled her toward him and shoved her onto a hillside, knocking the air out of her.

  She flipped onto her back, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come, then scooted backwards as fast as she could as Hermes weaved his wand in a figure of eight above her, turning her clothes into a sleeveless, coarse brown bag. He held a hand over his mouth, snickering at her as she wheezed and slowly stood up.

  This can’t be happening, she thought. She’d eaten the other walnut and forgotten about it. That was the only explanation. She would get home—or wake up—just like last time; she just had to know how.

  “Where’s Carya?” she said at last. “The girl who gave me the walnuts.”

  Hermes tapped his chin with his wand and lowered himself to the ground. “Carya, you say?”

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t expect him—whomever he was—to tell her the truth. And for all she knew, Carya was never on her side to begin with.

  “Never mind,” she said. “At least tell me why I’m here.”

  “I take orders from no mortal.” Hermes bent over and plucked a white flower from the parched earth, then began twirling it in his fingers.

  “You told me you’d answer all my ‘useless’ questions, remember?” She looked around at the people nearby, who were all dressed in sackcloth as they picked flowers and dropped them into wicker baskets on their arms. They couldn’t have seemed less interested in the girl who’d just dropped from the sky.

  He placed the flower stem between his teeth and crossed his arms, eyeing her with disgust. “You’re far too gullible, my dear.” He spit out the flower and tucked the wand into his belt. “No matter. Even if you had your questions answered, they would do you no good here, I’m afraid.”

  “So why won’t you tell me if doing so won’t help me anyway?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What if you’re holding back because you’re afraid you’ll reveal something I can use?”

  Hermes’ nostrils flared and his fingers twitched around the wand. “What if you’re a fool, trapped in the belly of hell, still holding onto the moronic notion that escape is possible? You’re helpless here. Is your feeble, mortal mind incapable of grasping that?”

  “So I’m not dead, then,” Chloe said, placing a proud hand on her hip. “You just answered one of my questions. Stick around any longer, Hermes, and you might be in danger of answering more.”

  “What’s better? To be dead in hell, or alive in hell knowing that when time runs its course your heart will stop and your spirit will reenter the Styx a second time and be flown here once again?” He shook his head in mock pity of her.

  Pretending to ignore his question, Chloe noticed an old man and woman leaning against a dead olive tree, asleep, their baskets overflowing with flowers. She began walking toward them.

  “Go ahead,” said Hermes. “See if they can help you.”
/>
  Chloe slowed her pace and turned toward him.

  He howled with laughter as he rocketed into the sunless sky in the direction they’d come from. “Farewell, Vessel!”

  Refusing to let tears form, Chloe filled her lungs with the dry, stale air and continued toward the resting couple, though she had a sickening hunch that Hermes was right and they wouldn’t be able to help her.

  The man’s eyes fluttered open as he heard her footsteps. He yanked his basket toward him, guarding it as though it were filled with gold.

  Chloe lifted her hands. “I’m not going to steal from you, sir. I just wanted to talk to you.” From his blank look, Chloe knew he didn’t understand a word she was saying.

  “He doesn’t speak Petrodian.”

  Chloe turned to the old woman, her small brown eyes like pits stuck inside a shriveled date. “My name is Chloe Zacharias,” she said.

  The woman tapped the man’s arm reassuringly and glanced at Chloe as she said something in Próta. “I’m Anastasia,” she said to Chloe, “and this is my friend Calix.”

  “How do you know Próta?”

  “Most of us speak both languages. We’ve been here long enough to learn them.” She nudged Calix’s elbow. “This one’s never been much for conversation. I’m the only one he lets keep him company. Zeus knows why.”

  The old man hacked and spit carelessly into the grass, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

  “May I?” asked Chloe, motioning to the ground. Anastasia nodded and moved her basket, making room for Chloe to sit beside her. “I like your flowers. What kind are they?”

  “I don’t know.” Anastasia took a handful, arranging them into a small bouquet. “They’re all that grows here, though. They’re very precious to us.”

  Chloe forced herself to smile, still fighting the thick feeling of imminent tears tugging at the back of her throat. “They’re beautiful.”

  Anastasia held the flowers to her faintly whiskered chin and breathed them in. “No fragrance, really. But sometimes my nose makes one up, and I smell…” She frowned and laid the bouquet on her lap. “I don’t know what I smell, probably just nonsense. That’s all we speak, anyway.”

  “Do you know anything about Hermes?”

  Anastasia cocked her head sideways and began fiddling with the frayed ends of her frizzy white hair. “Hermes?”

  “The man who flies.” Chloe pointed to the sky. “He just brought me here.”

  The old woman’s eyes widened with understanding. “Ah, the Free One. That’s our name for him. He carried all of us here. Never someone as young as you, though.”

  Anastasia paused a moment, her wrinkled mouth agape as she examined Chloe’s face. She reached out with her knobby hand and stroked the side of Chloe’s head, then smiled and touched her cheek.

  Chloe winced at the cold palm on her skin.

  Anastasia pulled away and tugged on Calix’s collar, speaking again in the old language. Then she whipped back around to face Chloe.

  “Why are you warm-blooded? You’re hot like…like…” she stammered, waiting for the word.

  “Like fire?” said Chloe. “Because I’m not dead.” She paused, unsure how that revelation would be received. But when Anastasia closed both her hands around one of Chloe’s, she continued. “Hermes called me ‘the Vessel.’ Do you have any idea what that means?”

  The old man smacked his lips and muttered, his beady gray eyes boring into Chloe’s.

  Anastasia translated for Calix, and his tan face washed white as his basket fell from his hands, toppling onto the ground.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Chloe asked. If it weren’t for the fact that he was already dead, she’d swear he was having a heart attack.

  Anastasia’s joints popped as she turned and crawled closer to him. “Speak up, Calix,” she said gruffly. “What’s troubling you now?”

  Calix pointed a bony branch of a finger at Chloe, his eyes shifting to Anastasia. “Asher,” he whispered.

  Chloe placed a hand to her chest. “Chloe,” she said. “My name is Chloe.”

  Frustrated, Calix shook his head and latched onto Anastasia’s shoulder, using it to struggle to his feet. He pulled the old woman up after him and dragged her backwards, out of Chloe’s earshot.

  “It’s not like I can understand you anyway,” Chloe uttered under her breath. She leaned against the rough, denuded tree and held her stomach as it rumbled. The last thing she’d eaten had been the cup of vanilla ice cream with Orpheus.

  Her appetite vanished at the thought of him. It was his fault she was here, his fault for thinking domas were toys to be played with. But deep down she knew it was her fault, too.

  How stupid she’d been to trust him, to blindly follow him to Psychro Cave and then to Lake Thyra. Chloe had always wondered why the Fantásmata required that all strange sightings be kept secret and reported, but now she knew. It was because they led to hell. For all she knew, Orpheus would be joining her any second—if he hadn’t already been arrested for questioning regarding her whereabouts.

  Chloe jumped away from the tree at the touch of Anastasia’s cold hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Calix digging on hands and knees in the hard, cracked soil beneath the tree.

  “What’s he doing?” Chloe asked.

  “Chloe, Calix seems to think that you’re an Asher,” said Anastasia.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “You don’t know what an Asher is?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe Calix is a little, you know…” Her finger did circles around her head. “Senile, maybe?”

  “He said you have something called a ‘doma.’” Anastasia rubbed her colorless lips together as she peered down at Calix, still digging like a madman. “Normally, I’d say that he’s speaking nonsense, but all nonsense here comes from what we know and remember. And we remember nothing of life or the world we came from. I’ve even forgotten the name of the world.” Her voice cracked as she stared up at the bare, desiccated branches.

  “Petros,” Chloe said.

  Anastasia’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Petros, yes. Our own names are all our minds have retained.”

  “What happened?”

  Anastasia lowered her head, eyes anxiously scanning the dirt as she wrung her hands. “The river,” she grimaced, as if the word tasted sour. “The second we drank from the river, our minds, our memories, were erased.”

  Chloe gazed toward the horizon, then spun in a circle. She didn’t see a river, only endless hills that appeared snow-covered in flowers. “What river?”

  Anastasia took Chloe by the hand and led her up the hill. When they reached the top, she pointed to a large gully, at least fifty feet wide, cutting through a hill directly across from them.

  “It fills up with water four times a day.” Anastasia grabbed Chloe by the shoulders and shook her hard, her long nails stabbing her. “You mustn’t drink from it. You mustn’t.”

  Chloe didn’t have to ask her why. Anastasia had stated the answer plainly. One drop of it would mean the closest thing to bodily death. What could possibly be worse than existing as a veritable shell of your former self, devoid of memories, passions, secrets and dreams, without even the slightest idea where smells come from, what fire is, with no remembrance of your family…

  “I won’t.” Chloe knew she would have to die before allowing the faces of her parents, and Damian, to be ripped from her mind. What about her parents? Were they imprisoned down here, too? Would they know her if she saw them? Did they even know one another?

  Hunched over and huffing up the hill, Calix made his way toward them, his bald speckled head facing the ground as he held a hand to his ribs.

  “He must have found what he was looking for,” said Anastasia. Then she went to him and put his arm over her shoulder, helping him along.

  Chloe noticed a silver object protruding from Calix’s skeletal fist. He babbled something to Anastasia and placed the item in her hand.

  “He says this is for y
ou,” Anastasia said, “from a messenger by the name of Carya.”

  “Carya?” Chloe’s heart skipped a beat as hope gripped it like a vise. She held out her hand. “May I see it?”

  Calix spoke again, much more rapidly than before, repeating the words “Asher” and “doma” as Anastasia scrunched her brow, trying to keep up.

  Anastasia gave him a wide grin, revealing black gaps where teeth used to be. “The messenger was sent by the All-Powerful, he says. She entrusted him to be its keeper until you arrived. A wise woman, this Carya, for choosing the soul who has but one friend.” She handed the cylinder to Chloe.

  Chloe flipped open the cylinder’s sandy lid with her thumb and slid out a crisp, off-white scroll. She hastily unrolled it, only to find that not a single word had been written on it. “Is this some sort of joke?” she said, incipient tears stinging her eyes.

  Calix cleared his throat to get her attention then tugged on his earlobes. Chloe shrugged helplessly, sure by now that he was nuts. But then the sound of a soft inhale ruffled the scroll’s edges and lifted its center, as if breathing it to life, and a girl’s familiar voice began to speak.

  The realm you stand in as I speak was never meant to be,

  The brothers who rule it changed forever the course of history.

  Their pride rose up against Duna, seeds of sin made them scream, “More!”

  With their free will they chose a path of treason and cosmic war.

  Petrodians were tempted, polluted and deceived,

  They fled the All-Powerful’s shelter, and a new plan was conceived.

  Asher was the first to write the oracles down,

  Prophecies pointing to a savior king who never wore a crown.

  Phos, his name, for he was light, sent from Duna’s throne,

  Battled Apollo in the heart of the sea, where he bled and died alone.

  Though it seemed that all was lost, his death marked victory,