Shadows on the Aegean Page 7

  “Pateeras, Pateeras!”

  Phoebus turned when he heard his firstborn’s call. “Eumelos!” The boy launched himself into Phoebus’ arms, embracing him with the sticky heat of a child. For a few moments the pride Phoebus felt, knowing that this squirming bundle of intelligence and impulsiveness was his, threatened to send him to his knees in gratitude.

  Eumelos belonged to Phoebus, the one thing his stepmother, Ileana, could not claim. He was Phoebus’ greatest joy. Though he would not inherit the throne because he was not born of the mother-goddess, he would sit on the Council someday. Smiling through sudden tears, Phoebus looked at his son. His hair was blond, like Phoebus’, his eyes the same sky blue. At five summers his face was still gently rounded with childhood, but soon he would boast the sharp lines and prominent nose of his clan. He would be the living image of Phoebus.

  Spiralmaster even thought the boy showed oracular potential, a trait gleaned from his aunt Sibylla, Phoebus guessed.

  The boy pulled away. “That last move was really surprising, Pateeras,” he said, imitating Phoebus’ feint and slice. “I have watched for moons and I never saw that before! That should really take them.” Eumelos danced around, his thin body fluid as he dodged and stabbed invisible opponents. “Are you ready to fight the bull?”

  “I dance with the Apis bull, Eumelos. Fighting is only man to man.”

  “I wish I could dance with the bull someday,” Eumelos said wistfully.

  Phoebus dismissed the serfs with a snap of his fingers. “You are destined for great things. Dancing with the bull…” He trailed off. There was nothing he could say; the boy wouldn’t rule. There was nothing he could do. Tearing his gaze from Eumelos’ questioning blue eyes, Phoebus asked him how he had spent his day.

  “Scholomance was boring! I would rather be with you! Learning to fight!”

  “An Olimpi clansman must have a mind as sharp and agile as his body,” Phoebus said, reciting the words he’d heard so often. “Conflict is rarely profitable. It is better to compromise and profit from tribute.”

  “Like Caphtor pays tribute?”

  “Aye, very like Caphtor.”

  Together they mounted the sweeping staircase, bowing briefly at the inset altar of horns, honoring Kela. For luck they plucked the two-headed ax out of its resting place and turned it. The double-edged blade represented the two sides of Kela, a giver and taker, for the goddess cut both ways. If your fortune was bad, you turned the ax to improve it. Likewise, if your fortune was good, you turned the ax, surprising bad fortune and thus diminishing it. Better to turn the ax yourself than to have your enemy do it.

  Geometric patterns of red, gold, and black crept across the ceiling, floors, and walls. The bright floor tiles were warmed by an enormous fireplace in the center of each room, the expansive roofs supported by red columns that tapered down to the floor. In this room, one of a thousand in the palace of Aztlantu, nobles mingled with commoners, all seeking out their clansmen in these last days before the Season of the Bull, this growing season, and the meeting of the Council.

  For just a moment fear rode Phoebus. After that meeting he would dance with the Apis bull. How he acquitted himself there would decide whether he was worthy of entering the Pyramid of Days and undergoing the tests of the Rising Golden. He dismissed the fear as Eumelos’ nonstop commentaries continued. “Niko!” Phoebus called.

  The violet-eyed man looked up, yanked from his world of words and formulae into the chatter of the palace. Niko blinked twice, his gaze finally focusing on them. Despite his brilliance, he often had trouble remembering the commonplace—food, women, bathing.

  “Practice is over already?” his friend asked, running his hand over his tangled, waist-length white blond hair.

  “Aye. The sun has moved three times in the sky.” Phoebus’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Did Irmentis come?” he asked, despising himself for his weakness.

  Niko shook his head. “Aye. I spoke to her, as you bade me.” He fumbled, gathering his scrolls. “I think she loves you, Phoebus. However, her love is not eros.”

  Phoebus’ cheeks burned that his best friend would know the woman whom Phoebus desired did not want him. Even if her love was pothos, if she desired him as an ambition, a goal, an end to accomplish, that would be something. But pure agape, only with her heart… Phoebus lifted his gaze to his friend’s. “Did she say more?”

  “Only that she despised Ileana and would not challenge her. She seeks another kind of justice.”

  “The only justice is for that skeela to have a knife through her heart,” Phoebus whispered.

  “Treason, my friend,” Niko said, rising from the wave-backed stone bench. “Irmentis also asked for more of her drink.” His voice was tight with disapproval.

  Phoebus ignored him. “When I am ki—”

  Niko turned to the boy. “So, Eumelos, what wisdom did the Spiralmaster share today?”

  “He said we were all silent and blind and wouldn’t recognize the hands of the gods if they pinched us on our—”

  “Okh, really?” Niko said, lifting Eumelos onto his shoulders. “You need to talk to Spiralmaster,” Niko said, frowning at Phoebus. “He seems to grow more disrespectful and more erratic by the day.”

  Phoebus watched as Niko hoisted Eumelos’ wiry body high in the air, pretending to fly the length of the decorated room. In every slash of turquoise paint Phoebus saw the feral gaze of his stepmother, Ileana.

  How he would love to sink a knife in her belly.

  “So have we heard about the sea skirmish’s outcome?” Phoebus asked. Niko slid Eumelos off his shoulders, and the boy raced away.

  “Everyone is watching from Myknossos,” he said.

  “What are the odds this time?”

  “Aztlan will be victorious, as always.”

  Phoebus didn’t ask how Niko knew. Despite his seeming removal from the commonplace world, Niko knew everything; he was a fountain of information. “I asked about the odds.”

  “As good as the chances of your becoming Hreesos,” his friend said with a rare smile.

  They walked through the press of people. Women in bright skirts, dark hair curling and kohled eyes flashing, stood in clusters like bunches of flowers. Men in short kilts or long belled skirts mingled with Mariners carrying shields and quivers. Hreesos ’private guards with their cropped hair guarded the far doorway. A school of scribes sat in one corner. Damp clay plates lay before them, over which their fingers moved rapidly, embossing tiles tied to their fingertips and knuckles, pressing into the clay the language of Aztlan in pictographs of men, shells, weapons, and symbols.

  Once outside, Niko looked at him. “Where are we going?”

  Phoebus smiled, squinting at the sunlight shining off the Pyramid of Days. “Dion invited us to view his newest experiment.”

  Niko frowned. “I am supposed to be in the library doing research for Spiralmaster, Phoebus.”

  “I know, but this will take only an afternoon. You can spend all night in the library if you need.” They walked toward the land bridge that attached Aztlan Island to the crescent-shaped Kallistae Island. Mount Apollo rose before them, harsh and forbidding in the winter light, its slopes bare and brown. Two other bridges, designed by the finest mnasons in the priesthood, attached Aztlan to the northern and southern tips of the crescent-shaped island of Kallistae.

  “What are you researching for Spiralmaster?” Phoebus asked as they walked to the north bridge.

  “You remember his elixir?”

  “Aye, his eternal project.” Phoebus smiled at the Scholomance pun for Spiralmaster’s obsession.

  “His eternity project,” Niko corrected. “Aye, well, he is convinced there is a secret ingredient.”

  “That he will find in the library? What is it, dust?”

  Niko’s gaze was solemn. “Nay. Something our forefathers knew and we forgot. I’m looking for it.”

  “That means you are reading every scroll, every tablet?”

  “Aye. Every one.�
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  Phoebus slapped him on the back. “You are too dedicated, my friend.” He stopped. The bridge, carefully wrought from woven metal, cording, and enormous ari-kat stone pylons, stood before them. Narrowing his eyes, Phoebus turned to the left, the edge of the cliff approximately eight hundred cubits above Theros Sea.

  What mischief was Dion up to this time? Then they saw it, a square of white floating in the air between the tip of Kallistae and Aztlan. “By the stones of Apis,” Niko breathed. The men ran, joining a few Scholomancers and one of the head instructors, Daedalus.

  Suspended between heaven and earth in a cradle amidst wings of flax and bone, Dion floated. Niko and Phoebus watched as gusts of wind coming through the channel carried him higher and higher. “How will he get down?” Niko asked. Pretending not to hear or ignoring him, Daedalus laughed as the inheritor to the Clan of the Vine rose upward in his air sail.

  “What do we tell Sibylla if he gets hurt?” Niko whispered.

  Phoebus blanched. Though Sibylla was exquisite and blessed by Kela, her temper rivaled that of Ileana. Sibylla had rescued Dion from a cave of wolves, where Hreesos had hidden him after Ileana had killed his mother. The two were the same age and almost inseparable, though not linked by eros. Sibylla would make them all eat wood if Dion were hurt.

  “Pray the winds are gentle,” Niko said in response to his own question.

  “We checked the omens of the wind priestess,” Daedalus said, twisting his Labyrinth key pendant. “She does not fear for him.”

  Phoebus and Niko exchanged dubious glances.

  A bigger group was gathering on the cliff’s edge. Word had spread that Dion was in the air, and groups of women from all over the two islands clustered for a chance to see him.

  “Phoebus, my master!”

  The Rising Golden turned at the cry and saw a palace serf running to him. Panting with exertion, the serf handed Phoebus a tiny roll of paper. Niko met his glance questioningly. “Nestor. He’s in Egypt,” Phoebus reminded him. Carefully he unrolled the note.

  “Egypt barters. We will win. N”

  “How goes it?” Niko asked quietly.

  “Egypt still seeks to negotiate, but Nestor is certain of victory.”

  “Is it necessary to rule Egypt, too?” Niko asked. His question was not meant personally or as a challenge, Phoebus knew. Niko was a Scholomancer: he viewed every situation from each known angle, then two more.

  “Egypt rules the Nile. They have honored their agreement to stay off the seas, but we need Egyptian grain. The clans cannot continue to support us completely. The soil is losing its strength. We will deplete it if we are not careful.”

  “Caphtor doesn’t provide enough?”

  “Not once she’s fed her own, nay.”

  “So how goes the plan?”

  Phoebus sighed, squinting up to see Dion’s tiny figure, still floating in slow circles. It was rather nauseating to watch. Phoebus was glad he wasn’t floating up there merely on flax and the word of a priestess. “Nestor has threatened invasion if they don’t send a fifty percent tribute on produce, grains, and cattle.”

  “Is not Egypt suffering a famine?”

  Phoebus shrugged. “That is what rumor says, but it is Egypt! They have so much space—”

  “Not much water, Phoebus.”

  “Actually, too much water, from reports I’ve heard. Anyway, those are Nestor’s demands.”

  “What will he settle for?”

  Phoebus looked at his friend. “Bulls.”

  “Aye, your rituals,” Niko said, understanding.

  The wind died suddenly and the craft dropped. The crowd gasped in unison, watching as Dion and his contraption fell below the level of the cliff. A moment before he hit the water, a gust of wind buffeted him upward. As the onlookers peeked over the edge of the cliff, Daedalus commanded the Scholomancers to prepare a launch to retrieve Dion should he land in Theros Sea. The wind pulled Dion back up, and Niko spoke as though nothing had happened.

  “Have we always gotten the Apis bulls from Egypt?”

  “Aye.”

  They watched in silence as Dion floated level with the edge of the cliff, only ten cubits away. “How is it?” Phoebus shouted. Dion’s mouth moved, but his words were torn away by the wind. They were close enough to see each other’s face, and Phoebus smiled as Dion shouted mutely, careening suddenly away from the safety of the islands, above the open sea.

  “But we have always paid for them before?”

  “What?” Phoebus asked. His clan brother’s figure was getting smaller and smaller.

  “The bulls, we’ve always paid before?”

  “Aye. We’ve paid well: gold, animals, Coil Dancers, stones. We offer tokens this time.” Phoebus ran a shaky hand through his blond hair. “Dion seems to be on an unfriendly wind.”

  “You don’t think the wind priestess would be wrong, do you?” Niko focused in the distance where the speck of white floated above the blue sea. “If Sibylla really does have direct communication to Kela, let us hope she is interceding now.” Two water craft, minuscule compared to the expanse of the sea, sailed swiftly after the runaway Dion. “Have you heard rumors of blessed stones?”

  Phoebus watched, his forehead damp, wondering how to get Dion back. Niko’s tendency to change the topic was sometimes bewildering. “Blessed how?”

  “Direct communication with a mighty god.”

  He turned to his friend. “What?”

  Niko shrugged. “I have found oblique references to such stones in some of the older writings.”

  “Is this the thing you are seeking in the library? What do they do?”

  Niko shrugged. “You ask them questions and they speak.”

  “Speaking stones? Niko, you jest. A child’s myth—”

  “Nay. These stones let you talk directly to a powerful god. Just think, you could ask anything and learn the truth. You would know when was a safe time to engage battle, or if a storm were brewing, what fields to leave fallow, who is untruthful… There would be no more guesswork.”

  Phoebus frowned. “We would be as children, always asking the permission of a parent.”

  “Phoebus, Spiralmaster could ask this deity what else belongs in the elixir.”

  Back to the elixir. Spiralmaster was an old man; perhaps his mind was beginning the final journey without him, Phoebus thought.

  “Look!” Niko shouted.

  Dion had caught an updraft and soared above the cliff. The crowd scattered and the vessel twisted, as though in a giant grasp. With a ripping noise that echoed over the cliffs, Dion fell to earth, lost in his flax wings.

  He landed with a thud, and the waiting dozens ran to him. Scholomancers pulled the cloth away and helped him stand. He listed to one side and was instantly supported by a young woman, her painted breasts heaving with excitement. “It worked!” he shouted, and the Scholomancers cheered.

  Phoebus and Niko pushed through the crowd. Dion’s face was alive, his dark eyes purged of ennui. “How did you bring it down?” Niko asked, looking at the mangled sail on the ground.

  “I used a cord, designed to tear the sail enough that I could control descent.” Dion winced as he stepped on his left foot. “Somewhat, anyway.” The nymph was running her hands over his body, checking for damage in places that bore no chance of injury. A path cleared for Daedalus, and Dion pushed the nymph away, embracing his partner in design. Niko knelt on the ground, inspecting the understructure, a cleverly woven basket of bird bones, hewn to be lightweight and fixed with wax.

  The group began to make its way to the palace, Dion in a riding chair carried by the Scholomancers, Daedalus speaking to a group of students that trailed his saffron-and-blue geometric-patterned robes, clinging to his every word.

  Niko and Phoebus walked toward the rear, where the nymphs and young men flirted back and forth. The moment was near perfection, Phoebus thought, a synthesis of all that Aztlan could and should be.

  If only Irmentis could be with him. In the sunligh
t—here—in flesh and spirit. He thought of her, asleep in her dark catacombs. Tonight he would not see her. It was a full moon, and she danced with the women on the hills, and with Dion. He was the only man who dared to learn the women’s mysteries.

  Phoebus made a mental note to send Irmentis more of the potion he had made her. He’d even given it her sacred throne name. Artemisia. At least the green milky fluid could ease the pains that often gripped her. Insensible, yet suffering, she would stare into the distance, frozen like a doe. Did her spirit journey? He thought not; it seemed more likely that she was trapped in the grips of some violent skia.

  Phoebus clenched his teeth. If only he could be close to her, really close. She should be his consort, she should be the Queen of Heaven. Arousal flowed through his veins; deliberately he focused on something else. Lusting after Irmentis was as much an element of his existence as Eumelos was his son. She alone truly knew him. She saw beyond the “Golden” to the shadows that dwelt with him. She knew his fears for Aztlan, his worry that the empire was outgrowing itself.

  She shared his sick sense that the Clan Olimpi had become less than glorious. Only with her could he share the omens he’d seen and heard. She would watch him, with dark, knowing eyes, eyes that made him want to flee into her body and soul, to share that part of herself she kept for the moon alone. He wanted her for his queen. She could easily win against Ileana, why did she not try?

  His eros love was also pothos —Irmentis was for Phoebus the most valuable of prizes. He must win her; he wanted her more than anything, even more than his throne.

  Niko wandered off to the library when they returned to the palace. He offered no farewell, and Phoebus knew his mind was already on the dusty leather-and-gold folded tablets, on scrolls. Greeting cousins and citizens on his way to the Scholomance, Phoebus decided to visit the Spiralmaster.

  The Scholomance was built at right angles to the palace. The rooms for the six thousand students and instructors were constructed along narrow, dark corridors that ended at staircases that also served as light wells. Huge porticos supported with red columns, the walls painted in the fluid style of Aztlan, bordered every side. The largest covered balcony housed the instructors’ suites, each side open to sunlight. The instructors taught from the comfort of their couches or chairs, the students attending them, reciting and repeating the wisdom of Aztlan until it was theirs.