Shadows on the Aegean (62 page)

C
HEFTU BARELY HAD ENOUGH TIME
to throw himself over Chloe, shield her from the small landslide of rocks and dirt that rained from the upper path. When
it was silent again he lay still, panting, reassured by her breathing.

He felt the cuts and bruises on his back and legs and rolled away gingerly. Chloe leapt up, brushing pebbles from her skin.
“Was that an eruption?” she asked, searching the peak for signs of lava.

“Nay, just a cloud of gas.” He winced. “It loosened the rocks.”

“If it loosened the rocks here …” Chloe trailed off.

“Hreesos,”
Cheftu whispered, and they took off, hiking quickly up the path, crossing over rock slides and stepping carefully around
the edges. Nothing was sturdy here. The screams were faint but audible. Chloe and Cheftu pulled up onto the plain and halted.

What had been green grass before was now scorched earth. The skeletal remains of the traveling chair were visible in the distance,
with carbonized figures beside it. … “The carriers,” Chloe whispered. They ran to the west of the scorched flank, where the
flower-dotted grass still waved, untouched.

“Your gas cloud is capricious,” Chloe shouted.

“Is not nature always?”

They walked through the field; the cries were growing softer. “Here, Cheftu!” Chloe shouted, kneeling. Niko was holding his
dying friend in his arms, sobbing. What wasn’t burned was bleeding, and Chloe didn’t have to be a medic to realize
Hreesos
would not last the night. A little boy stood to the side, trying not to cry as he looked down on the blond-haired man.

Cheftu’s hands were gentle as he cataloged the ruler’s wounds. “Broken leg, bleeding ear, possibly deaf; back burns and”—he
paused when he saw the broken tree limb, spearing Phoebus as effectively as a blade—“belly wound.” His gaze met Chloe’s, and
he winced.
Hreesos
was losing blood rapidly.

Of the thirty men who had accompanied
Hreesos
, only four survived. Another Minos was dead. They met Nestor on the way down, then gathered the others. A few citizens had
been wounded in landslides; even more of them were drunk. Those in the regatta had watched in shock as the mountain had plumed
gray smoke. Very few had waited the unlikely return of
Hreesos
and instead had sailed quickly for Aztlan.

The gods were against them.

Phoebus awoke once, screaming for Irmentis. Dion shared his opium gum to ease the Golden’s pain. Birds were sent to all the
clans and to Irmentis’ small island. Niko held his cousin’s hand as the timekeeper quadrupled the pace for the rowers. Night
was falling, and the long shadows of the canyon walls clutched the Aztlantu, pulling them into the growing darkness.

P
HOEBUS WOKE BY ROLLING ON HIS SIDE
. He was hot, cold, lonely, and hurting. The new moon glowed outside, reminding him he lived still. He knew his breathing
was growing shallow, too shallow. This is not like the pyramid, he said to himself. I won’t wake up in three days, unharmed.

Irmentis!
his soul cried.
Please, let me see you just once more, just once!
He felt his body gaining weight, heavier and heavier, as his
psyche
rose to leave. He sealed his lips, squeezed shut his eyes. He must stay alive, just to see Irmentis. He could not die without
looking on her face once more.

Mustering all his concentration, he pulled his spirit back, focusing on the pain, connecting mind and body with shackles of
blood and agony.

N
IKO REFUSED TO LOOK AT THE BLOODSTAINED BODY
of the Golden Bull. His heartbeat was dreadfully slow, the cloths wrapped around him were saturated in blood. The jolting
of landing and carrying had loosened the tree limb that had served as an admirable plug to the wound. The ship had cast everyone
off except a skeleton crew and the Egyptian physician. A strong wind had easily swept them back to the island.

Just in time for Phoebus to die on Aztlan.

Irmentis’ shrieks filled the air. She was forcibly restrained by two burly Mariners. Her dogs were leashed, held by a scared
nymph. Irmentis’ face was blotched with tears. “Save him!” she cried. “Take me! But save him!”

If Niko knew a way to take her life in place of the Golden’s, he would have done it in an eyeblink. The upstart Spiralmaster
observed all, and when their gazes met, Niko knew the Egyptian had resigned himself to Phoebus’ death.

Niko’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured for the Mariners to take Irmentis and her hounds away. He would meet with her in her
Megaron
momentarily. First he would see
Hreesos
stabilized.

He gestured to the Egyptian.

Irmentis’ fists were clenched as she turned to the Spiralmaster. “He is dying! Surely with your foreign ways you can do something?”
Her hounds were seated behind her, their pleading eyes fixed on the Egyptian.

The Egyptian sighed. “His loss of blood is too great. His wounds are too severe. He might not even be able to walk.”

“What about the elixir?”

“The elixir?”

Niko smothered a smile. Two things the Egyptian didn’t know. But Niko did, and Irmentis was right, they could give Phoebus
the elixir.

“Who will be
Hreesos
if you let Phoebus die?” Irmentis’ voice was wheedling, hints of Ileana’s temper in her intonation. “Nestor isn’t man enough
to lead Aztlan, the chieftains will fight against him. It could mean civil war, Spiralmaster. You are sworn to protect the
empire. Phoebus
is
the empire!”

Niko considered her words as the Egyptian thought. As if the comment needed thought! The glory that had taken centuries to
develop and mature was falling like ash on their heads. Nestor was a nice boy, but not the stuff of rulers. The chieftains
would pull against him.

“If he needs blood, give him mine,” she said.

Cheftu paled.

Irmentis stared at him. “I know it is thought that I am ill, but aside from … a few things, I am healthy as a young calf.
I am pure blooded, Spiralmaster. Both Ileana and Zelos are my sires. It would be pure blood of the Clan Olimpi.”

“You speak nonsense, nymph,” Spiralmaster said without conviction. “There is no way.”

“There is,” Niko said in a rush, stepping closer. “I know of experiments. I know you can take blood from one creature and
put it in another.” Irmentis knelt before Cheftu, her lithe body etched with muscle and sinew, tinted with the blue of her
veins. She took his Egyptian hands into her own, scarred from sun exposure.

Spiralmaster looked from one of them to the other. “What if he should take on your aversion to the sun? This is an empire
in the sun, how could he rule? Will your clansmen trust a Golden king who can’t abide the light of day?”

“Nekros rules his clan easily in the dark,” Niko said. “Irmentis lives there peaceably.”

She clenched his hands, staring with wide, black-lashed eyes up into his face. “Better a ruler in the dark than no ruler at
all, Spiral-master. But you must act! Phoebus begins his journey as we speak.”

The man sighed. “I do not know this procedure of taking blood and replacing it.” He looked at Niko, beseeching.

Niko turned to Irmentis. “We will use your blood, see if we can restore
Hreesos.”

She rose. “And the elixir?”

“Nay! Nothing unknown!” the Spiralmaster said. Niko sent her a silencing glare.

Irmentis turned on her heel, calling her hounds and snapping for serfs. She gave them low-voiced commands and turned back
to Niko. “The sun is setting on Phoebus. Hurry!”

When we give him the elixir, Niko thought, he will have forever.

Cheftu watched as Niko checked the Golden’s temperature. Phoebus’ harsh breathing filled the room, and Cheftu could see black
blood rising in the belly wound. Cheftu’s every instinct said that
Hreesos
of Aztlan would die.

Death might be preferable to living in that wreck of a body, Cheftu thought, looking at the man’s burns, the damage to his
left leg.

The door burst open and he looked up. Irmentis’ face was unnaturally flushed, and her gaze skittered around the room. At least
she’d left her hounds elsewhere. Her left hand pressed a cork down on the vial tucked in her sash. What was this?

She strode to Phoebus’ side, her gaze caressing his face, his body. “Niko has a remedy.”

“A remedy?” Cheftu snorted. “Phoebus has been near gutted, mistress! Only direct intervention of the gods will save him. Even
they cannot restore him to fullness.”

“The gods,” she repeated softly, her eyes on her brother. “Zelos has Become a god. He is
athanati
. Are you watching him,
Pateeras?
Will you allow your Golden son to die before his
Megaloshana’a?”
She spoke in a monotone, and Cheftu began to fear she would fall into a fit.

“Spiralmaster Cheftu?”

Nestor stood in the doorway, a line of serfs behind him holding all manner of objects.

“This is a sickroom,” Cheftu said in exasperation. “My patient needs prayers and peace, not a thoroughfare of people in his
chambers!”

“This is the method of transferring blood,” Niko said, stepping into the room and directing the serfs. “It will take only
moments, Egyptian, to set up. If we are disturbing you, please step into the corridor.”

Cheftu looked at Nestor, who was setting the objects down in the room: coils of fine wiring, bandages, needles, and vials
of wax. Swallowing his fury, Cheftu bowed curtly and stepped into the corridor. A group carrying a low bed passed him, then
a few Kela-Tenata. He ran down the stairs, spotted Dion, and grabbed his arm. “Do you know of this?”

“The transfusion. Aye.”

“Has it been done before?”

Dion sighed, clapping his hand over Cheftu’s. Cheftu withdrew his in confusion. “Aye. Done before.”

“Did the patient live?”

Dion looked away. “Aye. It did,”

“I cannot be part of this,” Cheftu said stiffly. “I neither know nor have heard of such a practice.”

“So learn,” Dion said equably.

“It is unconscionable to experiment on … on … a human being!”

“Better a man than a corpse,” Dion said.