Shadows on the Aegean (18 page)

“So, we eliminate your contenders.”

Ileana sat up. “I cannot murder every qualifying cousin.” She rubbed her neck. “I may be the Queen of Heaven, but I am not
above the Council. Not in this.”

The Kela-Ata smiled. “Not murder. Elimination need not be so extreme.”

Ileana’s gaze narrowed. “It’s a race, first.”

“Whom do you fear most, my mistress?”

“Vena. Sibylla. Selena.”

Embla’s jaw tightened, a ripple running through her multiple chins. “Selena is the inheritor for Kela-Ata. She is very qualified.”

“There are others, but those three are my strongest competition.”

“They are all powerful with the spirit of Kela, my mistress.”

“Surely not more powerful than you?”

“Nay, nay,” Embla said, a little too quickly, Ileana thought. “I will consult my tablets, see what can be done.”

“Do this first. Prevent all other women from competing. These three I will race at the midsummer fest. Just assure me that
there will be no surprises.”

Embla smiled. “Chieftain Sibylla runs in a festival next week. Shall her competition lose?”

“Aye, my Kela-Ata. Give her a sense of speed and agility that is faulty. Build her up, so I can enjoy breaking her down.”

“Would a broken ankle be too much?”

Ileana picked up one of Embla’s shrimp. “I think it would be perfect.”

P
HOEBUS RAN, DUCKING THE SWINGING BAR
, feinting to the left of the knee-length blade, and vaulting tightly over the shoulder-height spikes. He rolled and turned.

“Too late,” said Garu, his trainer.

Phoebus turned. “Why!”

“He gored your abdomen while you were turning.”

Grudgingly Phoebus shook his head in agreement. The twelve-year-old boy smiled. “It is easy for you,” Phoebus said. “You barely
reach my chest. I have a lot more length to protect.”

“Truth, my master. However, you need do this only once.” The boy looked away, instructing the attendants to move the obstacles
into new positions. Aye, Phoebus thought. I do this once, you do this until you die. Bull dancing had been so much easier
as a child—jumping, dodging, riding.

Phoebus stood and walked back to his mark. It was mere moons before Becoming Golden. In this, as in each aspect of his life,
he must prove himself superior to every other man in Aztlan. Sound of body, agile of mind and limb. His birthright demanded
that he be as limber as a twelve-year-old with the mind of a Scholomancer. Every facet of his personality would be tested.
Then self-control: a year-long test.

He grimaced and knelt.

“Now!”

Phoebus jumped over the bar leveled at his knees, then rolled under the one swinging at his shoulders. Spikes came from both
left and right, and he froze as they passed within a finger’s width of him. Alerted by a roar, he propelled himself forward,
curling tightly between the fake bulls’ horns. He was thrown and rolled. Phoebus knew he was dead.

Garu called a halt and knelt beside him. The Rising Golden was breathing hard, sweat gluing his hair to his back.

“You have one main flaw,” his trainer offered. “You do not tumble quickly enough.”

“Aye. But how can I improve?”

“Think of your limbs as liquid, each muscle moving into the other with no stress, no strain. Your movements must flow like
a wave. As the bull approaches, throw your bulk forward, and pull the rest of your liquid body in a curving arc. Think of
this as you practice, my master.” Garu faced him, his somber expression disconcerting in his boyish face. “You have neglected
this practicing. If you do not improve, you will be buried and mourned the day you should be crowned.”

Phoebus didn’t need to hear that his name would also be reviled as the first Olimpi who had failed. How had the weeks and
moons passed so quickly? “When may I meet the Apis?”

“They are due from Egypt, my master. You will know of their arrival before I do.” The trainer rose to his feet. “Practice,
Golden One. There is no other way to avoid death, save practice.” Gesturing to the rest of the serfs, he left Phoebus standing
alone.

Garu had not answered his question.

Scowling, Phoebus approached the hanging rings. He pulled himself up, then brought his knees to his chin. A wave, he was a
wave. He turned in a ball, then straightened. Too slow.

He straightened, pulled tight, and turned again. In his mind he saw the sea churn into curving shapes, then flatten out again.
Phoebus straightened, then pulled tight and turned.
A wave
. And again.
The sea
. By the stones of Apis, he had done this perfectly before and would do so again! He pulled his legs up and turned.

Straight. Turn. Straight, Turn,
Waves coiling and flattening on the shore
.

Sweat ran down his arms, slick on the soft leather handles. Straight, turn, straight, turn… He felt his movements begin to
slide into each other. With each try, the motions became smoother, one flowing into another.
I will become the Golden One
. He refused to think of missing Zelos, of the dark mystery of the day. He would rule. He would Become
Hreesos
.

It was his destiny, just as certain as the tides.

T
HE
S
PIRALMASTER OPENED THE INSCRIBED RECORD
. The language written on these leather pages was in his native tongue, Egyptian. His grandfather had translated the contents
of this tablet from an earlier account written by the hand and in the language of the founders of Aztlan.

The Clan Olimpi had stepped into power only a hundred summers ago, but the founders of these islands had lived here time before
mind. When the earth had been one sea, a man and his wife had come to this land. The man’s grandfather, Noach, had walked
with a sole god, who had given him some mystical stones. Noach passed these stones to Iapheth, and Iapheth passed them to
his son Iavan, who settled on these isles.

These stones had offered direct communication with their one god. In his protection, the people thrived: the god showed them
where the springs were, taught them about the plants, the sea, and the stones. Spiralmaster’s trembling hand followed the
text roughly.

“In justice and mercy the One God spoke. Light illuminated our way, and we were guided by the clicking of the stones.”

The stones. All the references he’d found claimed they were connected to this one god. Spasms racked Spiralmaster’s body,
and he dropped the tablet. The leather fell to the ground, and Spiralmaster cursed; how was he supposed to get it? He could
barely walk, and bending was impossible!

Narrowing his gaze, he studied the fallen tablet. Each missive was made of inscribed leather, two pieces fitted together and
sewn, then attached to the next section in reversing folds. Something was hidden between the two sections.

Adrenaline raced through his old body, and he fumbled for a stick, clumsily dragging the leather folder closer. Two specters
appeared before him.
Skia
. Both were tall, to appearances male. One appeared limned in light, radiating warmth and compassion. The other seemed dark,
forbidding and solemn. Words whispered through his mind, a language he didn’t know but intonation he recognized. Then they
were gone, and the tablet was in his hands.

Though his movements were awkward, Spiralmaster managed to extract the narrow piece of papyrus from between the leaves of
leather. Egyptian hieroglyphs, mixed with the strange scratchings of Aztlan’s first language, crossed the page, right to left.
He read quickly, his lips pressed together tightly lest he accidentally whisper some word and give it life. Like Egyptian
spells, the articulation was left out of the original language—a protection against anyone save the initiated speaking this
magic.

The fold of papyrus fluttered to his feet as pain beat against his skull. Iavan’s stone-borne warning was explicit: “Three
times will Aztlan be raised up. She will wound herself, then maim herself, then destroy herself.” Was this the first time?
or the third? Spiralmaster wondered through his agony. He called for help, his vision clouding as an adept carried him to
his couch. I cannot die, he thought fiercely. There is much to be done. Oh gods, help me.

EGYPT

T
HE MAGE WALKED SLOWLY
, easing his weight onto a cane. His light eyes reflected more than they revealed. His body, though scarred from his recent
encounter with the Apis bull, showed no telltale signs of famine: loose teeth, hair loss, flaccidity, dull skin. He looked
as though he’d stepped into court from the Egypt of three Inundations ago. Deadly Inundations, Ipiankhu thought. The mage
moved stiffly, regally, his jaw set.

Imhotep said he’d virtually refused to speak, to explain anything, which made both Ipiankhu and Imhotep nervous. Cheftu was
deeply angry, grieving. Telling him about the body of the woman had unleashed a monster who had destroyed a room and sent
slaves cowering. To let such a man close to Pharaoh was grossly irresponsible, yet even they could not disobey a direct command.
Who could have guessed that Pharaoh would demand this surgery? Senwosret’s advisers’ pleas had gone unheard. Ipiankhu sighed
heavily.

Pharaoh was immobile, his open eyes unseeing. Ipiankhu held his breath along with the rest of the court. Had the dream been
right? Was this golden-eyed man the cat Pharaoh had seen heal him?

“It is as I feared,” the mage said slowly. “The scales are in his eyes.”

Imhotep’s glance touched Ipiankhu before moving to the mage. “Can you heal him?”

Incredibly, the man shrugged. “I can try. Only God heals.”

Ipiankhu felt a touch of fire trace through his body. “God,” spoken in the singular. Did this man refer to Amun-Ra? Yet his
tone … Ipiankhu swallowed and stepped closer.

“Do it now!” Senwosret commanded. Ipiankhu watched emotions cross the mage’s face, then he inclined his head and turned to
Imhotep, whispering and gesturing. Tools, implements, Ipiankhu guessed, were presented to the mage. Slaves passed among the
company, offering wine and beer, honey cakes and sickly fruit. The crowd pressed closer until the mage turned and glared at
them.

“This is not a wrestling match. I need complete silence in order to perform this procedure. You would serve Pharaoh, living
forever! and Egypt best by leaving.” Ipiankhu motioned to a guard, who ushered out the protesting courtiers and ladies. The
mage picked up a bronze blade. Ipiankhu flinched and wondered again if this were the only, the best, alternative. With his
hand bandaged could the man even manage surgery?