Journey Into Nyx Read online

  Cymede sat up. There was dried blood on the back of her head, but she felt strangely satisfied. Keranos had sent the vision to her eyes alone. To the rest of the mortals, the sky had only revealed incomprehensible splashes of color and pinpoints of light. She started back down the path for the gorge.

  So some gods, like Keranos, were cheating the Silence. That surprised her not at all.

  Xenagos had restored Skola Valley after Nylea’s fury. Since the Silence, the emerald grass had grown over the bare dirt of the revel ground, and the stream was flowing through the heart of Xenagos’s domain. He’d repaired the rift in the ground to hide the caverns where his forges burned constantly. These were no mundane forges built to make bronze swords or iron ploughshares. These were divine forges constructed by Petros, the kidnapped artisan of Purphoros. A Nyxborn man, Petros himself had been created in the image of the God of the Forge, and he knew all the secrets of divine creation.

  And now Petros was owned by Xenagos.

  Xenagos clucked his tongue in mock pity as he watched his stolen artisan. He didn’t actually feel sorry for Petros. The satyr never felt pity for anyone, nor did he feel remorse or sympathy. Even before his spark ignited, Xenagos had little emotion when it came to the welfare of things other than himself. If someone was in pain, well, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. He could pretend, though. He was very good at making people think he cared. He knew the value of a sympathetic arm around a troubled “friend.” He excelled at loud protestations about the injustice of the world. Xenagos skillfully created a shell of deceit around himself, and even without magic it worked ridiculously well. He was beloved by the satyrs in the Skola, which was crucial when you needed someone to do something for you.

  “You don’t have friends, do you?” he asked Petros. “You don’t feel anything but the heat of that forge.”

  In response, Petros hit the anvil in precise rhythm, again and again. An unfriendly creation, but Xenagos couldn’t argue with his work ethic.

  “I’m going to bring the world to its knees,” Xenagos said. He wanted to impress someone. The satyrs of the valley wandered around gilt headed after the constant reveling. At this point, they were impressed by a shiny rock.

  “The Great Revel is nearly upon us,” Xenagos told him. “It will make your master weep.”

  Clang. Clang. Clang. Petros’s hammer never missed a beat.

  “As an artist you know that things don’t turn out perfectly every time,” Xenagos said. “I’m sure you’ve seen Purphoros toss many beautiful works into the fires because they just weren’t exquisite enough. I consider my past endeavors useful … but merely practice for what’s to come.”

  There was a momentary silence as Petros adjusted the slab of bronze. Then the rhythmic clanging began again.

  Xenagos wasn’t going to win Petros over, but it didn’t matter. Everyone else was going to be mesmerized by him. The satyr’s mystically charged revels had amassed intense power—enough to alter the fundamental nature of Nyx. He’d created gaping voids in the god’s domains and the sight of the oracles. Then, incredibly, the gods had shipped themselves off to Nyx with very little interference from him. It was all so ideal, except that business with the strange woman and Purphoros’s Sword. He knew her name, but he just didn’t like to use it. He thumped his chest on the raw skin that had healed over Nylea’s arrowhead. Pain reverberated through his body. As it subsided, he felt as hyperaware as if he’d created the world and knew every inch of it intimately. He liked that he kept a piece of Nylea inside of him. It was proof that he was better than her. Better than all of the gods. They tried to kill him, and couldn’t.

  “Petros, I must say you are one of the most faultless things I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Xenagos said. He might as well try to flatter the hammer as the Nyxborn man, but sometimes he missed the days before he’d amassed so much power. These days, he could simply make someone do what he wanted with very little effort or expenditure of his ever-growing mystical resources. Constructing the web of lies, the false friendships, the well-placed rumors, made him feel superior in a way that blatant mind-altering magic didn’t. He missed the old days of simple tongue-twisting manipulation.

  “Petros, you’ve recreated Purphoros’s forge perfectly,” Xenagos said. “Having seen Purphoros’s forge, the two are exact in every way. I could easily forget myself and believe that I am standing in his mountain. You are a master of masters. But your star field fades before my eyes. Why are you so miserable here in my lovely valley?”

  The artisan’s silence was irritating, and Xenagos was tired of being ignored. The satyr stretched his arms and tipped to his left and right to stretch his spine. He tried to remember life before his spark ignited. Had he been able to lose himself in the pleasure of the moment? From above the ground, he could hear the first strains of the pipes as a new revel began. But the celebrations had a raw, frantic quality to them. And there had been too many casualties. It was definitely time for a new strategy.

  “Ah, Petros, no one understands what I endure,” Xenagos said. “I’ve given them all they desire. They came here seeking euphoria. They worship it. I am that, I am the essence of the revel. And yet, I cannot feel the joy myself.”

  Petros stopped. He laid down his hammer and faced the satyr. Xenagos’s horns barely reached the man’s chin, and the satyr didn’t like to feel smaller than one of his slaves. Maybe he’d have the Nyxborn lopped off at the knees. Petros didn’t say anything, but Xenagos sensed defiance in him.

  “You’re my grasshopper, collecting stores for winter,” Xenagos sneered. “Just a few thousand more, and I’ll send you back to your maker.”

  Petros’s enigmatic eyes looked past the satyr into the depths of the cavern where the fruits of his labor were stored. Silent lines of Nyxborn minotaurs waited in the firelit cavern beneath the Skola Valley. He’d forged rows upon rows of the hulking creatures, and they didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. Staring ahead with vacant eyes, their essence was more star field than flesh, and they had no will of their own.

  “Nyxborn isn’t the right name for my minotaurs,” Xenagos mused. “Let’s call them revel ’taurs. Or perhaps horned revelers. What do you think, Petros?”

  He couldn’t honestly call them Nyxborn, after all. These minotaurs weren’t born of Nyx. They were born of his valley. They were born of him, King Stranger. They were as easy to control as drunken satyrs and waited mindlessly for the revel that would give them life. It was a pleasant irony. A minotaur would have nothing to do with a satyr’s revel. It would eat a satyr’s heart rather than participate in such festivities. But these were parodies of minotaurs … yes, that was the truth of any Nyxborn creature. They were just shades of the ideal. And contrary to the god’s sense of self-importance, only mortals could truly be ideal. Just look how Xenagos had perverted the so-called divine order and created his very own Nyxborn—an army of the parodies—in his happy little valley.

  So much for the dominion of the gods.

  “King?” a satyr attendant asked from the doorway of the forge. He carried a large rusty knife. “Does it need to be done today?”

  “Of course,” Xenagos said. He stopped in front of a perfect specimen of a minotaur with stupid, unblinking cow eyes. “But I’m in the mood for escalation. I want the heads of a dozen of my revel ’taurs skewered on the gates of Akros. Let’s see what that does for the atmosphere.”

  The attendant nodded. He was a competent mage, and his hands crackled with red energy. The celebration must be in full swing above. Everyone could feel the energy generated by the mass euphoria—but no one was able to harness it the way Xenagos could. Not everyone could turn mental oblivion into something useful.

  “Petros, I hate to disturb your work,” Xenagos lied, “but how is my other project going?”

  Petros laid his hammer down again. He limped across the forge to the far corner where a small object, concealed by a silk cloth, stood on a pedestal.

  Xenagos ripped off the silk with a flouris
h, revealing the bronze head and shoulders of a young woman. Elspeth, the outsider, had slaughtered the hydra and lodged herself in Meletis as a chosen of Heliod. The hydra had served no real purpose to Xenagos. He’d been an amusing distraction and useful for stirring up old animosities between the gods. He didn’t really begrudge Elspeth for killing the creature. No, that’s not why she captured his attention. He studied the curve of her jaw, her flawless eyes, her smooth forehead. There was a sense of dismay in her expression, almost as if the statue itself couldn’t believe its current predicament.

  “You really are the finest artisan who ever lived,” Xenagos said. “This is an absolute marvel. A perfect representation of her. I can see why Purphoros misses you so.”

  Xenagos took a step backward and continued his scrutiny. The satyr’s fist began to glow with molten heat. Elspeth was unique, and Heliod was clever to have claimed her. But Xenagos, having stepped outside the sphere of the world, had a perspective even the gods did not have. He knew another planeswalker when he saw one. With a casual motion, he grabbed the bronze face. His palm smothered her chiseled mouth, and his fingers jabbed into her eye sockets.

  “She wields a sword that is too great for any mortal,” Xenagos told Petros. “Do you know what that makes her?”

  He watched with no delight as the exquisite bronze work features melted into oblivion.

  “Too much like me,” he told Petros. “Make another. Until I can ruin her myself.”

  YOU ARE THE DIVINE PROTECTOR IN HELIOD’S ABSENCE. YOU ALONE CAN WIELD HIS WEAPON. YOU ARE DESTINED TO BE THE HERO OF THEROS.

  Daxos had written the words on a slip of paper and slid it under Elspeth’s door at some point in the night. It was now early morning, hours after the ink had dried. She hadn’t heard him in the corridor outside her room in the night or she would have opened her door for him. Elspeth crumbled the note in her fist. It had a sense of finality, as if she might never see him again and these were the last words he wanted to say.

  Elspeth glanced at the rosy sky on the eastern horizon where the sun was rising. She’d been living in Heliod’s vast temple complex in Meletis since the day they’d killed the hydra. Training with Daxos in the hours before dawn had become a daily ritual. They usually met in the courtyard of the grand stoa, but today he never showed up—he just left the cryptic note and vanished. He wasn’t in his rooms—she’d checked. Elspeth continued waiting for him even after the appointed time passed. The dawn’s rays warmed her skin, but both she and her blade cast a long shadow across the immaculate flagstones.

  Daxos’s absence made her feel hollow. They’d argued the day before, and it felt as if something that had existed between them had been destroyed abruptly. Daxos was a hard man to get to know, but he was charismatic, too. People seemed drawn to his intensity even though he made little effort to encourage friendships. But despite his emotional distance, he made huge efforts to help her get settled in Meletis. It had been Daxos who had found her a room where she could live inside the walls of Heliod’s temple complex. Although Ephara was technically the patron god of Meletis, Heliod’s complex, which included his main temple, was the largest in the city. The main structure of Heliod’s temple was impressive—a mighty rectangular structure with a perimeter of limestone columns that were each a hundred feet high. The sprawling grounds boasted dozens of limestone buildings connected by a maze of covered walkways.

  Daxos showed her Heliod’s grand library, which contained thousands of scroll boxes, and they spent hours reading Heliod’s teachings, which had been transcribed by oracles and priests. They would walk down to the white sand beach where he would tell her Heliod’s god-stories and tales of the mysterious archons who once ruled with an iron fist over the land. He had a flawless memory, almost as though the words were etched forever into his mind. But while he would recite for her any story or teaching of the Sun God, he refused to discuss them. When she asked about the nature of destiny, he would recite Heliod’s words and politely change the subject. It was probably what he was expected to do as an oracle, but Elspeth wanted to know what he thought, not just what he’d been taught.

  In particular, she wanted to know what he thought about the Silence now that the gods were absent from the mortal realm and lodged in Nyx. Everyone else in Meletis acted shocked and overwhelmed by the novelty of it. Elspeth didn’t have much personal contact with the other priests in Heliod’s temple, but she overheard many conversations concerning the nature of the Silence and what it meant for the future. One morning when they were training, Elspeth pushed Daxos about the consequences of the Silence, and he was dismissive about its true effect.

  “The priests’ lives have changed very little,” Daxos said. “For them, it was always rare to directly encounter a god.”

  “How is it different for you?” Elspeth said.

  Daxos just shrugged and swung the training sword at her. She parried easily and let the conversation go.

  Several weeks passed, the days grew shorter, and she kept expecting him to leave her on her own more and more. But he didn’t. They began to visit the sick and elderly, a practice that was expected of all who lived in Heliod’s temple. She loved the idea that good works were an aspect of worship. Priests of both Heliod and Ephara made daily forays into the streets to help anyone in need. There was little poverty or violence in the city. These “healing” visits were a tradition before the Silence and continued unabated when the gods withdrew to Nyx. As she and Daxos worked together, Elspeth had a growing respect for the God of the Sun, even in his absence.

  During training, Daxos taught her the distinct fighting style of the Meletian Army. He demanded more and more of her—as if time was so short, there wasn’t a second to spare. They were preparing for something, but he wouldn’t tell her what. Elspeth began to lay awake at night, just thinking about the enigmatic oracle and his intentions.

  “What is all of this for?” she finally asked. “All the training and the hours in the library?”

  “I thought that’s what you wanted,” he said.

  “But to what end?” Elspeth asked. “What am I expected to do?”

  “You’re Heliod’s Champion,” he said. “There are things you need to know before he returns.”

  “But why?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

  He heard the confusion in her voice, and he frowned. “You’ll be his vessel in the mortal realm. You’ll protect his domain from those who would destroy it.”

  “How can I be his vessel if I can’t hear the gods the way you can?”

  “A champion doesn’t need to be an oracle,” he said. “You just have to have the heart of a hero.”

  “I’m not a child,” she said angrily. “And I wasn’t raised on my knees in front of Heliod’s altar. Stop talking to me in platitudes. Just tell me the truth.”

  “You wanted to be a hero,” Daxos retorted. “Why did you take up Heliod’s challenge to bring his spear-blade to Meletis? Why did you slay the hydra?”

  “Because it was going to destroy the city!” Elspeth said. “What was I supposed to do? Nothing? And it’s my sword! Or spear-blade or whatever you call it. In my mind, it will always be my sword.”

  “You shouldn’t say that,” Daxos said. “Heliod claimed that weapon. You’re wielding it for him.”

  “And I’m trying to understand what that means!” Elspeth cried. “Does that mean that I can keep this world safe? Am I’m responsible for his people in his absence? Does that mean I’m not allowed to think for myself—like you?”

  She hadn’t actually meant to say the last sentence, but it came tumbling out. Daxos looked pained.

  “You don’t know what my life was like before the Silence,” he said.

  “Then tell me!” Elspeth said. “I want to know. But don’t try to indoctrinate me with lies.”

  “I’m not a liar,” Daxos said. He looked furious. She’d never seen him show any emotion at all except an occasional smile when she’d bested him on the training ground. His fury was s
o intense it felt like a tangible thing, and Elspeth inadvertently took a step back.

  “I didn’t say that …” Elspeth said

  “You expect Heliod to make your life perfect,” Daxos said. “You’re selfish. You want comfort and peace—but just for yourself.”

  “That’s not true,” Elspeth said.

  “You just want a home where nothing can touch you,” Daxos said. “As long as you’re happy, you don’t care about others. What makes you think you’re so important? Why do you deserve a life without suffering?”

  “I want that for everyone, not just myself,” she said. His words hurt her physically. The one friend she’d made on this world, and he suddenly despised her. “I thought the gods made this world safe. But now they’re gone …”

  “They’re not gone!” he practically shouted. “This is like the eye of the storm. And I don’t have very long before the storm comes and …”

  He stopped. His body was trembling. Elspeth wanted to reach out and comfort him, but she stopped herself.

  “And what?” she asked.

  “And I’m dead,” he said. “A sphinx told me, Elspeth. He said: ‘At the feet of the untouched city. By the hand of someone I love.’ ”

  “What sphinx? What are you talking about?” Elspeth asked. She hated this moment. She wished the floor would open up so she could disappear. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut and that the two of them were sitting on the couches in the library reading yet another exploit of Heliod meddling in the mortal realm.

  “You’re destined to be a hero …” Daxos began. Elspeth didn’t want to hear any more of his half-truths, so she turned on her heel and walked away from him. As she stalked out of the complex and down to the beach alone, she wondered if she should leave Theros. But where would she go? She liked this placid, sun-kissed polis. It was the first place she felt safe since Bant.