Chapter 6
Carver could only thank whatever crooked fisherman had supplied King Eryx’s usual daytime throne-room guard with a catch that gave them all food poisoning because it put his entire unit inside the heart of the castle for the first time since he’d joined up.
He prowled the perimeter of the great, marble-columned hall, Eryx in his sights and Bel on his mind. The sooner she burned the son of a Cyclops to the ground, the better. The man kept Cleito on a leash . For the moment, Carver was sticking to the edges of the room because every time he walked closer to Cleito and Eryx, he growled.
The oracle had barely looked up all day, muttering to herself and jolting every so often as if struck by some foresight she couldn’t escape. She was just a young woman—probably younger than he was—and terrified, constantly curled in on her own body as if that would protect her from the next slap, kick, or vision. Eryx hit her more than once, roaring at Cleito to say something useful, spittle flying from his mouth, and Carver had a serious internal debate about tossing it all to the Underworld and just doing the necessary to get the poor woman away from the king.
He stopped himself. It was hard, but he held back. He didn’t want the oracle to suffer, but this was bigger than one person. Bigger than Cleito. Bigger than him or Bel. This was a kingdom hanging in the balance, with all the potential for positive change new leadership could bring. This was a War of Gods in the making—a possible total upheaval of everything they knew—and while Zeus’s mostly absent rule left a lot to be desired, a vengeful god hiding in the shadows and willing to use anyone and their suffering to further a power-hungry agenda wasn’t acceptable, either. And that was what he’d witnessed in Thalyria. It had almost broken the strongest people he knew, had almost wrecked his family. People he loved had almost died, and that was it for him. Cold halt. End of discussion.
Worry for those he’d left behind twitched through him. He shook it off, thinking they were probably in a better place than he was right now, and paced down the throne room again. He wasn’t watching the entrances or the activity in the room aside from what was going on right around Cleito. He didn’t care if something happened here. Good riddance to Eryx if someone, or something, attacked him. Carver could only hope that whatever was stealing kids from their beds would come and shred him to pieces. Unfortunately, it was unlikely. If the kidnappers were harpies, as they suspected, or something else, they were taking children, and Eryx didn’t have any. He probably thought himself invincible anyway.
Eryx fancied himself almost a god, which was right in line with Atlantis’s previous rulers. Carver couldn’t think of much worse than giving a man like him magic. Maybe Zeus was right to prolong Punishment when people like Eryx always managed to sit on the throne.
Half-lost in his thoughts, Carver turned down the darker, western side of the throne room. As opposed to the other three sides with several big, arching windows giving stunning views over the island and ocean basin, this solid wall helped thwart the heat of the afternoon sun. He reached the panel of scrolls he’d passed three times already and slowed just as he had the previous times, trying to discreetly scan the titles written up the sides. They seemed to be mostly maps and historical documents. Eryx’s family tree was the only scroll open and on display for whoever wanted to read it. His family had ruled for generations—since well before Punishment. Carver leaned in, peering at the parchment. Tiny, largely faded elemental symbols he hadn’t noticed earlier in the dim light had been sketched next to everyone’s name until Zeus eliminated magic from Atlantis. He stopped, his eyes narrowing. Most were water symbols. A few air. No fire. Eryx’s family was full of elemental mages, and they mostly controlled liquids and could pull water from thin air.
The implications set in, further darkening his mood. Bel wasn’t bad with a sword—and more skilled with knives—but he needed to make her better. If she brought magic back to Atlantis and gave Eryx the same water powers most of his ancestors had possessed, her fire might not be enough to beat him. They’d cancel each other out and be left in a physical clash.
Eryx was neither old nor out of shape. The king was in his prime and trained daily, mostly to show off his skills and muscles to his nobles, men and women alike, who decorated the castle gardens and common rooms every day like useless, cut flowers that would eventually fade and get replaced. Bel had real-life battle experience and fought to get the job done, not to show off. She’d also been using her magic—and using it under pressure—for years, while Eryx had never once felt his power simmering in his veins or learned how to wield it. Those advantages weren’t negligible, but would they be enough? The question haunted him as his gaze swept over the multiple water symbols again.
Dexios caught up to him at the ornate and worrisome family tree. Stopping to peruse the open scroll, his friend struck a relaxed pose, but Carver wasn’t fooled. They were all on edge this close to Eryx. The king was mean and volatile. He wasn’t known for bothering his soldiers, though. Eryx was more of a pick-on-the-weak type, and these days, Cleito was his target.
“Brushing up on your history?” Dex asked. “Or, if you can’t read, I’ll help. It says, Why are you frowning like that when we’re finally inside and out of the burning-hot sun? ”
Carver cracked a humorless smile. “Because now I have to look at Eryx. And Cleito.”
Dex glanced at the center of the north wall where the throne dais put Atlantis’s king right in line with Mount Olympus in the distance, albeit a little lower. The teasing grin slipped off his face. “She’s in bad shape.”
That was what they’d been hearing. And it was the gods-damned truth.
Carver started walking again, unable to stop himself from sliding a sidelong look at the king and his seer. He clenched his hands into fists. “If he kills her, that’s the end of his oracle.” And theirs. On top of that, Eryx had dragged her around with him all day, showing off his cruelty and allowing his nobles and advisors to poke, prod, and sneer at Cleito almost as often as he did. One moment they would mock her for her incoherent mutterings and dazedness and the next they would harass her for the clear and precise answers they all so desperately wanted. How was Carver ever going to get close enough to question her about the Shard of Olympus? And even if he did, would she talk to him?
“He won’t kill her.” Walking beside him, Dex shrugged. “He hasn’t yet.”
“‘Hasn’t yet’ is a poor guarantee,” Carver ground out harshly.
Dex flicked a look toward the throne dais, frowning. “It’s hard seeing someone so mistreated. Maybe the hot sun was better. I’d rather sweat myself than sweat for someone else.”
Carver huffed. He didn’t think burying his head in the sand was the right solution, but he agreed with Dex on one thing: this was hard to watch. “I could always take the heat, but just one day of this seems unbearable.”
Nodding his agreement, Dex murmured, “And who knows how long the new assignment will last.”
Carver nearly groaned aloud. He was finally where he needed to be, and it was awful. At least his whole unit had moved, which kept him and Dex together. They’d gravitated toward each other because, without making it too obvious, neither of them had seemed to buy into the Atlantis around them. At first, Carver had feared a trap. Test the loyalty of the new guy with a false friend. He got it. For the gods’ sakes, he’d done it himself. But as time went by, he’d started to trust Dex. And Dex had introduced him to Silas. Right now, the older man patrolled the far side of the room. The three of them would eventually end up together. They always did.
Making friends had changed a lot for him. Atlantis hadn’t seemed as lonely after that, and constantly fighting with Bel hadn’t rubbed him so raw. He liked Bel’s friends, too, the little family she’d let slip under her skin at Spiro’s. He was amazed at how quickly she’d adapted to them.
As for him, Carver was aware enough to know he missed having brothers. And a father. Dex and Silas couldn’t replace the people he’d left behind, but spending his life bitter about his losses and alone despite the people surrounding him seemed to have lost its appeal somewhere along the line. He’d tried bitter and alone and hated that version of himself. Sometimes it still reared its ugly head, though.
“What’s on your mind?” Dex looked at him from under lowered brows as they prowled the perimeter. “Something’s wrong. I can tell. Is it your wife? Trouble at home?”
Carver’s pulse surged like a rogue wave crashing up the shore. “Why would there be trouble with Bel?”
Dex hesitated. “Well…she doesn’t exactly strike me as easy.”
“Is easy better ?” he snapped.
Dex’s brows shot up. “No, it’s just…easier.”
“And boring.” Carver chewed up and swallowed anything else he might want to say. Anger always bubbled too close to the surface, and getting into a fight with one of his only friends over what felt like an insult to his fake wife seemed like something he should avoid, especially in the throne room.
“Something else, then?” Dex either ignored or didn’t notice how Carver had locked down every muscle, his jaw tight and hard.
Carver corralled his irritation and used the opportunity of Dex questioning him to take the conversation in another direction. Now that the key had a name, they might as well use it. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking about something someone said. Have you ever heard of the Shard of Olympus?”
Dex’s brow wrinkled. He shook his head. “It sounds like a weapon.”
“Maybe,” Carver said as offhandedly as he could. “I don’t know.”
“We could ask Silas,” the other man suggested. “He’s been around a lot longer than either of us.”
Carver grunted a laugh. They liked to tease Silas about his fifty-odd years, but the truth was, the man was as strong as a bull and as fit as either of them. He hesitated, torn between wanting to protect Silas from any traitorous behavior and needing to take advantage of whatever knowledge he might have. “Maybe later. Let’s leave it for now.”
Dex shot him a curious look. “Can I ask about it? I mean this in the best possible way, but you and your wife are the strangest people. You’re always being mysterious, disappearing on your days off, or saying odd things out of the blue and then dropping them just as fast.”
Wife. That relentless zap coursed through Carver’s veins again. “It’s probably nothing. I heard an old crone outside the Temple of Zeus muttering something about the Shard of Olympus and Punishment.” Lying to his friend didn’t sit well with him. He only had two—besides Bel. He couldn’t exactly tell Dex the truth, though, so he added, “I’m sure it was nonsense. She didn’t seem in her right mind.”
Dex glanced toward Cleito as they passed a large, open window and walked through a splash of sunlight, their long shadows falling into the room. A frown pulled at his mouth again. “Maybe she’s another seer?”
“Let’s not tell Eryx about her, then,” Carver said with utter sincerity. The last thing anyone on this island needed was the magic-obsessed king on a witch hunt for an imaginary old crone.
Dex hmphed. His gaze strayed back to Cleito, darkening.
They walked in silence as their patrol around the room brought them closer to the dais. Carver was careful not to stare at Cleito, but Eryx still caught his eye as they approached. Carver was relatively new to the castle’s soldiers, which was likely what snagged Eryx’s attention. Eryx knew most of his guards by name, which Carver would’ve found admirable in a king if he didn’t know for a fact it was only to better leverage the soldiers’ families against them—the women of their households, in particular. He’d have been terrified to be in Eryx’s sights if Bel wasn’t such a force to be reckoned with.
A chill still snaked down his spine as the king pointedly watched him, holding his gaze with cold, hard eyes that veered toward Magoi green. It was Eryx’s potential for water magic that worried Carver. Without it, Bel would wipe the floor with this man. With it, Eryx might have more of a chance than they wanted to admit.
Carver broke eye contact. It was his job to be the servant here, and he did his best to seem nonthreatening when he wanted to pounce at the man, blades bared. Eryx’s Magoi eyes still haunted him. The clearest, brightest green gaze he’d ever seen was Cat’s—his brother Griffin’s wife and the gods-chosen queen of Thalyria. Bel’s eyes were more of an aquamarine, the green shining through the blue when her magic sizzled to life. Eryx’s were a darker forest green, but Carver would bet they could spark magic-bright if Punishment ended.
His sword hand tingled. Gods, he wished he could kill the man and be done with it.
Eryx suddenly snapped to draw Carver’s attention again. He beckoned with one finger, and Carver’s heart gave a hard thump against his ribs.
The king called, and he had no choice but to answer even though every muscle in his body resisted giving in to the man’s demand. He forced an easy smile. “Your Highness?” Carver moved closer. Dex stayed where he was.
“You’re new.” Eryx’s statement didn’t seem to invite a response, but Carver knew better than to ignore him.
He nodded. “It’s been six full moons since I joined the guard.”
“You’re too old to be straight from the new entries.” The king cocked his head. “Have I seen you in the training yard?”
At twenty-eight, Carver had never thought to consider himself old. But it was true that he was well beyond the age when Atlantians went from their minimal schooling to whatever vocation they’d have. “It’s likely, Your Highness.” Though he was always careful to hold back and hide his true skill with a sword. “I moved to Atlantapol from the southwest not long ago.”
Eryx’s miniscule smile dripped with contempt. “The farming life wasn’t for you?”
“I had a taste for soldiering, Your Highness.”
“And your wife?”
Carver paused, his pulse moving faster than anything else in the room. He wore a ring, just like Bel. It was part of the game. “Had a taste for the city life. So here we are.”
“Ah. What men will do for their wives.” Eryx’s cruel smile told Carver that the king himself wasn’t included in those men. Luckily, Eryx didn’t have a wife.
Carver simply inclined his head.
“Come.” Eryx stepped off the throne dais and drew his sword—a leaf-shaped blade that looked far sharper and shinier than the ones the royal armory supplied. “Let’s see what my training masters can teach a farm boy in six months.”
Carver stared. He swallowed. Gods damn it. He’d have to hold back. And lose .
Wishing he had his Thalyrian blade that was stashed at home, Carver drew his army-supplied sword as he dutifully approached the king under the north-facing windows. His own shiny, leaf-shaped, perfectly balanced blade would’ve stuck out like a beacon of wealth against his simple soldier’s gear. “I’ve learned much. Your training masters are highly skilled.” The words rolled out like the gods-honest truth. It wasn’t far from that, even though Carver had to hold back with the trainers, too. He had to hold back with everyone in his unit except Dex and Silas, which was probably another reason they’d become friends. He could still beat them in a sword fight anytime he truly wanted to, but at least sparring was a challenge and fun.
With Eryx, sparring wouldn’t be fun.
His stomach tensed at the questions of how to play this and what to reveal. Should he be good? Mediocre? Bad? Bad would reflect poorly on everyone, mediocre galled him, and good was only okay until he failed.
Despite facing off with a “farm boy,” Eryx wasn’t ready to risk injury and called for a thick leather breastplate to cover his torso and vambraces to protect his arms. Finally ready, the king cleared a space around his throne with a quick flick of his fingers, leaving Cleito cowering on the marble dais and sending his nobles and advisors toward the wall. This was the closest Carver had gotten to Cleito, and now that he could see her better, her wraith-thin body covered in new bruises and old scars left an even angrier rattle in his bones. Her orange hair—unusual for Atlantis—fell in long, tangled hanks and somehow made her bowed head look like lava pouring down her arms.
Carver forced his gaze away from Atlantis’s oracle. Her obvious suffering made him readier than ever to pound on Eryx—and more worried about faking a loss. It was never as easy as it sounded, especially when he wanted to run the bastard through. Twice.
Squaring off, they raised their swords. In comparison to Eryx’s, Carver’s blade looked short and dull. “Do you often spar with your soldiers, Your Highness?” In the training courtyard, he’d only seen the king spar with his most skilled and high-ranking guards.
“It happens.” Eryx began to circle, light on his feet and sinewy strong. “I haven’t had a chance to get to the training yard today, and sparring is my preferred form of exercise.”
That—and tossing sacrificial women over the wall between the high, main square and the rock-lined harbor below. Some put up a fight, especially at the last second, and he had to overpower them.
Carver roped in his rage and waited for Eryx to make the first move. When it finally came, it was a quick jab that might’ve caught a lot of people off guard and left a hole in their torso if the king leaned into it even a little too hard. It was the kind of strike Griffin had led with a thousand times, and Carver parried on reflex, moving fast as years of training kicked in.
Eryx’s jaw hardened. His mossy eyes flicked over Carver, taking him in more carefully. Knowing he’d already revealed too much, Carver somehow loosed a sheepish smile and a shrug, as if to say dumb luck . It took a torturously long time for Eryx’s expression to smooth out.
When it finally did, Carver raised his sword again, having leaned into the ruse by lowering his guard. You’re just a soldier like any other. Act like it. It was true, after all. It wasn’t him who’d been chosen by gods.
They both sank into their centers of balance and tested each other with a series of moves. Carver matched the king’s attacks strike for strike while trying not to outdo him. Eryx needed to feel superior, but Carver also needed to perform well enough to earn whatever respect this man was capable of giving and gain some personal insight into Eryx’s fighting skills. It would help Bel.
As the minutes wore on, and the constant, ringing hits grew harder and more aggressive, Carver realized that Eryx was more competent than he’d anticipated. He found himself breathing hard and having trouble balancing how to defend himself while still holding back and not ending the match. His aching ribs didn’t help, but at least shots of pain and sore bones and skin kept his grimaces real during the rest of this farce.
Eryx nearly sliced him across the chest, and Carver leaped away, wincing. He ground his molars. When he had a good opponent, it doubled his desire to win, and knowing he had to lose went against every competitive hair on his head.
Steel clashed. Bootsteps squeaked across the polished floor. They both moved with quick efficiency, coiled strength, and bursts of power. Cleito whimpered when they got too close, and Carver did his best to steer the fight away from her.
“The farm boy seems to be a natural.” Eryx’s grated-out words didn’t sound like a compliment, and Carver subtly eased back, faltering on purpose before recovering just as fast. There was a fine line between maintaining Eryx’s interest and not giving away that he’d fought more battles than he could count against men and monsters alike. The line blurred sometimes, and Carver snuck in sloppy hits and heavy footwork as a reminder that he’d only been holding a sword for six months instead of his entire life.
Eryx suddenly went on a clear offensive, probably ready to end the lengthy sparring match he wasn’t losing but wasn’t quite winning, either. In his surge of aggression, Eryx slipped up. Carver saw the opening to disarm his opponent, and instinct took over before his brain caught up. Too late to pull out of the move, he dropped his sword as soon as the blades hit. It clattered to the floor, shockingly loud in the hushed room.
The king smirked. “Looks like there’s still some training to go, farm boy .”
Fury exploded inside Carver. If only he could leave an Eryx-shaped body print on the pristine marble and be done with at least one of the charades he was living in this place.
Instead, he nodded as calmly as he could. The tacked-on moniker rankled because of Eryx’s snide tone and not because of any shame in farming. “I can only hope to match your skill someday, Your Highness.” At least several years of faking things made it easier to say words that stuck in his throat.
Eryx looked pleased. His shoulders drew back. “This guard unit is in my throne room from now on,” he announced loudly. “And you”—he looked straight at Carver—“have earned the right to guard my dog while I attend to some matters in private.” He picked up Cleito’s leash and handed it to Carver.
Carver gripped the rope, willing his knuckles not to turn white. “I’m honored, Your Highness.” His blood thundered in his veins. Every agonizing second of that sparring match just became worth it, especially losing. This was what he’d been working toward since setting foot in Atlantis.
Eryx didn’t respond or look back at either Carver or his seer. As the king walked away, Carver vowed to help Bel make the son of a Cyclops’s death so memorable the story of it would span centuries and worlds.
As soon as Eryx left and all the other guards, including Dex and Silas, were out of earshot, Carver turned to Cleito. Low and fast, he said, “Please, can you answer some questions for me? I need information—information that could change everything.” The oracle didn’t look up. The urgency in his voice didn’t seem to reach her. “The Shard of Olympus,” Carver whispered. “Have you heard of it? What is it? Where?”
Still looking at the floor, she started muttering words he couldn’t understand. It was all jumbled up and too quiet to distinguish.
“Cleito? The key? The key to bringing back magic. Is it the Shard of Olympus?”
Her words became clearer, though she still didn’t look up. “Fire in the sky. Broken temple.”
“Broken how?” Carver asked. “When? Where? Is the shard in it?”
“Broken temple. Sacrificial virgin.”
He frowned. “What virgin?”
“Her blood. Her blood is burning.”
“Who’s blood?” Bel’s? This virgin’s? Apprehension knotted Carver’s middle. A trio of guards moved within earshot, and he had to wait until they circled past to question Cleito. She stopped muttering, and he was afraid he’d lost her attention by the time he could talk to her again. “Where’s the key? What’s the Shard of Olympus?”
“Fire in the sky. Broken temple.”
Gods , oracles were impossible. Carver nearly growled in frustration but didn’t want to alarm her. “Cleito, please help me. Help Bel. Where’s the key? Can you see it?”
She finally looked up, and Carver’s pulse shot off like a lightning bolt straight from Zeus’s mountaintop. “Fire in the sky.” Cleito focused on him, her swirling, worlds-deep, golden-eyed gaze terrifying and infinite.
Great, mighty Olympus. Cleito wasn’t just a seer. She was a Chaos Wizard—and Zeus’s prophet.
“Broken temple.” She stared, seeming to see straight through him. “Her blood is burning. And you’re the flame.”