Shadows on the Aegean (13 page)

Carefully she chewed a laurel leaf, throwing her head back as she felt the night embrace her. She turned her back to the fire,
knowing her body was limned with light. Raising her voice, she began to sing, moving her body slowly, praising Kela’s wisdom
for forming woman. The steps that had once come thoughtlessly seemed slow and awkward tonight, and her mind felt uneasy within
itself.
I’m definitely going to take dance lessons next chance I get
, she heard her mind say.

Others joined in. Naked women: old, young, pregnant, withered. With wine in their veins and joy in their souls they sought
a spiritual freedom in dance. More women came from the shadows, more voices joined, each singing her own song, the resulting
dissonance a dimension of beauty unquestioned and accepted.

Slowly they moved around the fire, passing the wineskin, reveling in the sensations. The dance grew faster, moving in a tighter
circle, their fluid movements becoming one. Sibylla felt an arm around her waist and gripped the shoulders of the woman next
to her as they moved in a flurry of sweat and scent, celebrating the mystery of themselves.

Closest to the fire the young bride danced alone, learning her body, teaching herself to recognize the sensuality within her.
Her elders watched as she practiced a seduction of her new husband. Amid laughter and suggestive comments, the matrons demonstrated
alluring looks and sensuous gestures. Sibylla laughed, thriving on the feeling of community, the sense of belonging. Yet she
was confused. She had danced like this almost every moon of her life. Why did it feel so sacred tonight? Why did it seem so
rare?

The circle grew slower as the bride’s dancing grew more frenzied. As she was approaching completion, her mother and grandmother
stepped forward, soothing her, stopping her. Now she would have no fear of marriage, no terror of what the night would bring.
Indeed, it would be a feat to keep her from rushing the young groom! She had learned how to conjure passion, a sacred gift.

The hills were darkly gray and the moon small when the group fell asleep on the ground. Sibylla huddled beside the dying fire,
staring up at the mass of stars, aching. Something significant and internal was missing. She hugged herself in the night,
wondering for what or whom she grieved.

“Mistress?”

An old woman stood above her. Age had not been kind or gracious to her body or face, but her eyes were soft in the predawn
darkness. “You are lost,” the woman said, awkwardly sitting down beside Sibylla. Her words touched the oracle, and Sibylla
began to weep. Old arms wrapped a cloak around her and pulled her close, rocking her gently, speaking nonsensical words of
comfort. Sibylla cried all the harder. She hadn’t felt the nurturing love of another woman in so long.
It was almost like having Mimi again
, her mind said. Before Sibylla could ask who Mimi was, a flood of sorrow submerged her and she grieved in a grandmother’s
arms.

AZTLAN

D
ION BLINKED, FOCUSING ON THE RING OF WOMEN
. It had grown very dark; the sun would soon rise. Still they were dancing and laughing, wine and herbs in their veins. They
were his cousins, his sisters, his lovers, the mothers of his children, and the mothers of whom he’d been robbed.

All cavorted naked in the darkness. All save Irmentis, who never removed her tunic, no matter the weather or the dance. Even
in the midst of these hundreds of women she was alone. A young nymph had been by her side all night, and Dion had seen them
share more than one chaste kiss. He smiled at the thought of telling Ileana her dark daughter enjoyed the lips of women, but
he would spare Irmentis Ileana’s wrath. Anyone could see her with Phoebus and know she enjoyed men also.

Dion leaned against a tree. The haze of drugs was clearing as the night grew cooler, and Dion knew it was up to him to make
them all go home. Somewhere behind him a stick cracked. A subtle sound, a stealthy one.

He saw Irmentis raise her head. Her eyes were dark holes in her pale face, and she turned unerringly toward the sound. Slowly
she got to her feet, smoothing the cheek of the nymph and stepping away. She uncorked the vial that hung at her waist, drained
it, and tucked it back into the cording.

Dion watched her lean figure step toward the treeline, alone. Setting a trap for the interloper? A few cubits away, a young
girl stepped too close to the fire. With a shout Dion raced to her, momentarily forgetting Irmentis as he pulled the intoxicated
child to safety. Cradling her against his chest, he looked for Irmentis. She was gone.

He handed the child to a young nymph, who kissed him passionately in gratitude. Extricating himself from her embrace, he walked
to where he’d last seen Irmentis. He froze at the sound of hounds baying in the distance. Irmentis’ dogs combed these hills
and forests. He cocked his head, listening intently.

A shout, a scuffle… a horrified shriek.

Dion looked back at the women. A few still clustered before the fire, but most were asleep on a rug of leaves and pine needles.
Another shout… a man’s cry of agony. Dion raced into the clump of trees, his night-adjusted eyes helping him to navigate the
uneven terrain, the jumble of fallen branches and large stones.

He smelled blood before he arrived.

In a small copse of trees bodies littered the ground. Irmentis’ rangy, long-nosed hounds sniffed at the remains: four deer
and one man, his body bleeding black blood into the silver ground. Dion turned, looking for his clan sister. He recoiled when
he saw her.

Hunched over a dead deer, her body poised like a feeding lion, Irmentis licked her fingers. They were dark with blood. The
rumors were true, then: Irmentis feasted on fresh blood, yet only the man was bleeding.

Kneeling beside him, Dion realized the man had begun his final journey. “What is your name?” he asked. “What clan?”

He was a young man; what was left of his throat bubbled with blood. “Acteon,” the man whispered. “The deer … are dying all
ov—” Blood spilled from his lips, and Dion bade him farewell.

Dion approached his clan sister warily. She was more than a huntress tonight; she was a predator. “What happened here?”

“My hounds smelled the deer, he interfered,” she said. It took Dion a moment to realize she was crying, her tears falling
on the head of the stag she cradled in her lap. “This whole group is dead. Why, Dion?”

He surveyed the four fallen stags. None had wounds that he could see, and they all lay on their sides, as though they had
died in their sleep. Nor could they have been dead long, for rot hadn’t set in. Something internal had killed them.

“Have you seen this before?” he asked Irmentis, touching the face of a stag. No marks, nothing.

“Recently. Deer are dying in the dozens. Look at this.” Irmentis walked to the other three, checking the same thing.

Dion saw patches of fur rubbed bare, as though the animal had repeatedly scratched or been scratched. “These aren’t fatal,”
he said. “Scratching isn’t deadly.”

“They all have it, the same marks.”

“Did the others?” he asked, kneeling beside Acteon. The sky was growing brighter. “Dawn comes,” he said gently.

“I do not know,” she said, rising gracefully. He avoided looking at her bloodstained hands and mouth. “I will check the pelts.”
They walked quickly back to the bonfire. Irmentis feared the sun; it burned her pale skin horribly. Rousing those who would
journey across the water with them, Dion led a dazed, staggering crew toward the beach. The sun was just peeking over the
horizon when a wave of earth moved beneath their feet.

A heaving, tearing sound filled Dion’s ears, drowning out the screams of the women. He dropped to his knees as the ground
quivered like a terrified animal. Dion whirled, facing the direction of the Cult of the Bull’s Mount Krion. No fire; they
were safe.

“The sea!” he shouted to the naked women. They stumbled down the hillside, the ground still rumbling with aftershocks. The
startled cry of one woman gave way to a loud, dying shriek. Dion drew to a halt, then ran back to the dark gash in the earth.

The woman was gone.

The crevice ran down to the shoreline. He followed the white figure of Irmentis, herding the dazed women along. He looked
toward Kallistae and wondered if they too had felt the earthwaves. The vessel was filled with terrified, shivering women.
Irmentis had already curled into herself, covering her body with a densely woven cloak.

After seeing his uncle Nekros suffer, Dion knew that the sun would still manage to burn her, even through the cloth. Casting
off into the rough waters, he rowed hard, his body streaked with sweat and dust. The Aztlan pyramid’s flat top shone with
the rising sun.

His head throbbed as he pulled the boat across the roiling sea, thinking of the night, the deer, dying from scratches. What
had precipitated the earthwave? Had Irmentis taken sustenance from the dying man? Finally the boat slid into the tunnel beneath
Aztlan Island, beneath the Labyrinth—whose name was never said—which housed the few criminals the clans produced.

The women were taken by the waiting serfs, and Dion rowed to his small cove, tying his boat and climbing the treacherous stairwell
to his apartments. Naked and filthy, he was once again grateful for this secret entrance, which allowed him to come and go
unobserved. He leaned against the door, exhausted.

The dark-haired nymph who was his dresser, his serf, and privy to most all his secrets met him with outstretched arms. In
her he buried his fears and doubts, the lingering sense of loss that permeated his world. He ran his fingers through her curls
and slowly turned her around.

In this manner, he could forget.

EGYPT

I
MHOTEP WATCHED HIS PATIENT
. Fever gripped the man and he tossed and muttered in his sleep. The hemp rope that kept him from harming himself was cutting
grooves into his wrists and ankles. Without the restraints, Imhotep feared the patient’s thrashing about would loosen the
wrappings and he could possibly damage himself more. Imhotep was determined the man would not die.

Imhotep had a wager to win.

The patient cried out incoherently, desperately, then subsided into a fitful rest. At least the coma, the feared sleep of
death, had broken. The man was still burning with fever, and despite the patient’s improvements, Imhotep felt a growing sense
of failure as he watched the increasingly hot body. Only the victim’s face, bandaged according to custom, and groin were unmarked.

If he survived, this man would owe Ptah, god of mud and spreader of manure, a huge offering of beer and bread. Manure had
cushioned the weight of cattle running across him. Still, three cracked ribs, two broken fingers, a fractured ankle, and internal
bleeding were grave injuries.

The man’s
ka
caused Imhotep the greatest concern. The mage sensed the man wanted to die: his
ka
was embracing the
ukhedu
. His body had grown hot and still hotter, so hot that Imhotep had shaved him, ridding the nonpriest of his heavy black hair
and the matting on his chest and legs. The fever continued to rise.

They had washed his body, flushed him through with emetics; still the fever rose.

Imhotep walked around the room, trying to see through the rising incense. He completely blocked out the priests’ droning prayers
for healing or death. For reasons he didn’t fully understand, Imhotep wanted to know who this man was and how he had reached
the bowels of the temple undetected.

He wanted answers. The man must reach consciousness. Imhotep turned to the slaves, priests, and women. “Begone!” They fled
his ugly face and rattling teeth.

With deft gestures Imhotep drew out the packet he kept close to his body at all times. One of the mysteries of Aztlan. The
power of his forebears. Quickly he scooped up ash from the brazier and spread it on the ground, forming a circle that was
as wide as the
w’rer
-priest’s couch on which the man lay.

With his index finger Imhotep inscribed the symbols for fire, water, earth, and wind. Then he wrote the figures, the letter
numbers that gave Aztlan their power. Using the side of his hand as a straightedge, he formed the angles, intersecting them
as he had been taught to by the Spiralmaster of the Scholomance himself.