Shadows on the Aegean (24 page)

Phoebus, his head buried beneath a pillow, lay quiet. “Send you where?” he asked as the words penetrated.

“Dion wanted to go, but Spiralmaster persuaded him that he could make more progress with his air-sailing device if he didn’t
take time away from it.”

The Rising Golden sat up, pulling the linen over him. Niko sat on the end of the bed, his violet eyes ringed with kohl, his
white hair braided and twisted. “Did I miss a feast?” Phoebus asked.

“Aye,” Niko said. “Spiralmaster would like me to leave on the next tide.”

The sexual haze vanished. “Next tide? You mean tonight?”

Niko shook his head, delighted.

“This is madness!”

“Phoebus, Spiralmaster believes if we get these stones, we can ask this god how to help our people. He can give Spiralmaster
the missing ingredient the elixir needs.”

“You crazed scholars!” Phoebus said. “You read an ancient, nonsensical myth in one decrepit tablet that no one has ever heard
of, and decide an unknown god will aid us? How? He will tell the mountains to throw themselves into the sea? This is a legend,
my friend! A story! We are the only gods in these lands; tales of our daring will become a religion!”

“Phoebus, if he exists, he was the one who founded Aztlan. That being the case, we have forsaken him. Daily we use these gifts
he’s given us. We forgot who the gift giver is.”

Phoebus studied his friend carefully. “You are quite serious about this, are you not?”

“Knowledge is my deity, this you know. However, I feel we need to try, to reason and reacquaint ourselves with Iavan’s god.
I know seeking the god is the right answer. It is the only answer to this question.”

“You, who claim we cannot truly know anything? You know what you are doing is right?”

Niko’s gaze focused inward. “I hear a call, a cry in my
psyche
, Phoebus. I must follow it. Only once before have I known such a passion….”

“You are a brilliant fool!” Phoebus shouted.

Niko’s smile was wistful. “Perhaps only fools are foolish enough to understand truth.”

“Truth is what we make it.” Phoebus frowned, pleating the linen sheet. “Who travels with you?”

“Three Mariners. Even Spiralmaster doesn’t trust my ability to take care of myself,” Niko grumbled. He gripped Phoebus’ wrist.
“I will be back before you miss me.”

You cannot leave me, Phoebus thought. You are my dearest friend, reared since birth to be my mage. But the words would not
come. This could not be happening. “Do you follow the directions on the map? Are there any landmarks still? How long will
it take?”

Niko smiled. “You sound like a clan mother.” His gaze turned solemn. “Until my eyes hold you again, Phoebus.”

The men embraced, and Niko left, closing the double doors behind him.

AZTLAN

M
OUNT
C
ALLIOPE BURNED WITH RAGE
. She was smaller, her channels shallower and weaker, than her brother Krion to the south. Unaware of the danger, people scaled
up her sides, living in two-, three- and four-story houses, planting small gardens of herbs and vegetables, orchards of fruit.
This was the Clan of the Muse, whose main industry was cloth.

Cloth from Delos, the Clan of the Muse, was exported all over the empire and her vassals. The clanspeople were famous for
sails, whose interlacing woven strips could hold the wind, tightly controlling the direction of the ship. They fashioned fabric,
some made from Egyptian flax, some from local wool, and others from the fine stuff traded in Caphtor and Kos, into garments.

A village of blue-tiled houses clustered within the narrow, winding streets of Delos’s main city, Arachne. The stench that
rose from this section of town was carried away by a saltwater river that poured directly into the sea. The dyers who lived
here were instantly recognizable. They alone of all Aztlantu did not bear the tattoo of their clan. They wore its brand.

Each man’s, woman’s, and child’s hands were purple-blue, a color painstakingly extracted from the murex shell. In its deepest
hue, it was the color of Theros Sea. The color was so intense, it made one’s eyes ache, and so eerily beautiful that it was
impossible to look away.

In normal strength, it was the color of lupine flowers that grew in scattered clumps across the mountains. Tinted, it was
a blue between Egyptian lapis and turquoise, most often used as a pottery glaze. At its lightest, the color was so pale and
pure, it was reserved exclusively for children, a color so fragile that a bird’s eggshell looked weighty by comparison.

Because of the stink and markings, those who worked the Azure married only among themselves. They birthed children and waited
impatiently until the firstborn was weaned, and then set him or her to work, staining young hands with the badge of blue.

Beneath the cobbled and dirt-packed streets of Arachne, beneath the smoking vats of color and the looms of linen and wool,
the mountain heated. Within its lava chambers, molten rock bulged against the weight of stone, soil, person, and beast.

In the fields, the sheep bleated unceasingly, and the dogs and donkeys that lived alongside them grew panicked. Birds flew
nervously in wide circles, wary of perching.

Neotne stood in the shadow of the mountain at the wharf. The sun had pierced the gray clouds. She tugged at her belled skirt,
clenching it in her blue-nailed fists. Saltwater spray spattered her face and body, and she wondered about her clan brother
Y’carus, a Mariner sailing far beyond the Breakwater.

His last message said he was for Knossos, on Caphtor. She’d never been to Caphtor, never even been to Aztlan Island. He was
seeing the world. She was always bidding him farewell, until her eyes held him again. Whenever he returned to his bloodparents,
her clansmen, he brought tales of exotic ports, little gifts from places she would never see. She would love to sail anywhere,
if he were at her side.

She touched one of the earrings from Alayshiya that dangled against her cheeks, wondering where he was. Did he get frightened
when no land was in sight? With a prayer to Kela for his safety, she turned back to the town. Goat cheese was on her list,
in addition to cucumbers and Caphtori honey. Clan sister Sela was expecting her firstborn, and after much prompting from the
Kela-Tenata, she had finally taken to her couch. The whole Azure community waited in joyful impatience for another to join
their numbers.

When a low rumble shook the earth, Neotne dropped into a crouch. The Earthshaker’s dance had become so frequent, it was commonplace.
The ground stilled, and Neotne walked through the market. Banners of finest cloth advertised the skill of the weavers in Arachne.
Paintings on the sides of houses, children at play, swallows over lilies, the courtship of a young man and woman, indicated
the interests and talents of the artisans within. The market tables glittered with jewelry. Perfume bottled in exquisite alabaster
vials tempted the buyer to try and buy. Neotne exchanged greetings with the
parfumier
and uncorked one.

A strong draft of rotten eggs blew over her.
“Okh!”

“That odor is not my perfume!” the woman protested.

“Then what is it, mistress?” Neotne asked. The perfume stank. The stink still filled the air. She looked at the other shoppers.
Everyone had stopped; many had pinched their noses, frowning at the stench. Maybe it wasn’t the perfume, but what could cause
such a horrid smell? Neotne left the market and walked uphill to the temple. She would pick up some fresh fish for the noonday
meal and go home. The rest of her list could be purchased later.

The red-columned building was empty of buyers, and Neotne sighed in relief. She hated to wait. Inside, the Shell Seekers had
laid out the day’s catch—fish, shrimp, and octopus. Fresh vegetables and fruits from the Clan of the Vine and spiced meat
from the Clan of the Horn were attractively arranged in baskets.

The earth moved again, and Neotne caught herself against a table. She watched as a pomegranate crashed to the ground, splitting
and spilling seeds the color of blood.
Please Kela, let that not be an omen!
The shudder continued, and pieces of whitewashed ceiling fell. Neotne raised her arm, shielding herself. Beneath the roar
of the Earthshaker, she heard human cries. She tried to look up, but a fog of white powder hung in the room. Crouched next
to a column, she felt a crack begin beneath her palm. The column would fall. She would be crushed!

Dodging and jumping pieces of building falling around her, Neotne ran in the direction of the door. The temple steps had cracked
down the middle; this was the worst Earthshaker had ever been.

A burning powder fell, stinging her bare breasts and face. The smell of sulfur was strong in the air, and panicked people
ran through the streets to the harbor. Caught up in the mass, Neotne was pushed along. Sela, she thought, what about Sela?
Her clan sister could scarcely move, she was so full of child.

People shoved at her back, and Neotne shoved at the people ahead of her. What she had thought was a powder were tiny, hot,
stinging pellets, falling from the sky. Neotne couldn’t turn, couldn’t break from the crowd. On all sides she saw broken buildings
and fires. Bright pieces of fresco lay shattered on the ground, quickly being covered by gray. A weaver’s house had fallen
in on itself, the cloth still on the loom scarlet as a splash of blood.

What was happening?

The sound struck like a blow, and Neotne was felled, people beneath her and atop her. She felt the ground shudder as though
it longed to birth, and Neotne struggled away, terrified.

With strength prompted by fear, she wrestled out of the group and got to her feet. They were at the harbor, except the sea
had vanished! Ships and boats sat mired in sand. A crack seemed to rip from behind her, a deafening sound that threw her to
her knees. Neotne turned and saw fire shoot from Apis’ Nostril.

The Bull roared!

Only a few people still stood. Buildings had fallen, bodies lay in the mucky seabed like swathes of drying linen. She watched
as streaks of red and green and orange shot into the sky. Lightning glowed in the gathering darkness, and Neotne knew that
Arachne was doomed. Sela, could she get to Sela?

She turned to the sea. Where were the waves? Was there no escape? A low sound, like hordes of buzzing bees, grew louder, closer.
Mount Calliope began to bleed, red and black smoke billowing from the smoking Nostril. The blood moved fast, and Neotne jumped
off the pier, onto the wet sand. A tiny boat listed to one side, stranded on the sand but small enough for her to push. Neotne
grabbed at it and it moved.

A little.

The blood had reached the outer edge of Arachne. The beautiful nobles’ homes built high on the cliff’s edge were swept under
in the blink of an eye. Neotne got in front of the boat and pulled. It moved more.

Other people moved and screamed and ran, but Neotne felt as though she alone faced the fury of the Bull. What had they done
that Apis would destroy them? The boat slid farther out. Neotne grabbed the anchor rope and twisted it around her wrist, granting
more leverage to her pull, tossing the anchor end inside the boat.

People’s screams tore through the air, and Neotne ran, the hot breath of Apis on her back. The boat dragged behind her as
the sand grew wetter and it grew harder to gain footing. Beached octopus and fish lay dead all around her. Darkness approached,
and the falling ash seemed to gouge her everywhere it touched.

A crack of wood sounded behind her, and Neotne turned, watching the Bull’s blood crush the wooden pier. She saw people vanish
under its deadly wave. Arachne was gone. Sela, the child, her clan, her family. The Bull despised them! She felt the heat
of its power but could no longer move. A rush behind her made her turn again.

The sea!

A wave higher than Arachne’s cliffs approached. Neotne looked at the fiery blood about to embrace her and then at the churning
white waves. She dove into the sand as the sea crashed into the lava, jerking Neotne with violent force.

It ripped her blue-stained hand off her arm like the snap of a thread.