Chapter 19 Eleos
Eleos
Icouldn’t deny the jealousy plastered on Seth’s face was satisfying. Misplaced, but satisfying nonetheless.
Good. Let him squirm. A brother, lover, and friend all filled different roles in a woman’s life. He and I were no different—and not in competition. But this envy might make him realize he needed to grovel at Lady Aethra’s feet before she’d forgive him.
“What are you up to?” Percy’s voice jarred me from my thoughts.
I turned to see him peering at me through his ceremonial hood, where patterned cloth painted a mask across his face, casting a shadow over his gray eyes.
“You look smug about something,” he continued.
“I’m just thinking,” I denied, looking up at the Great Pyramid.
Fascinating. The Merchant Isles didn’t have any architecture like this. Jogging to catch up with Seth’s irritated gait, I fell into stride with him. “You said this city once belonged to another country?”
“Yes,” Seth said, glancing at me. “It fell to the Empty, before it stopped spreading.”
“Does much of their culture remain?”
“Sadly, no. My father had most of their customs scoured and replaced with our own. My mother remembered, of course, but one voice cannot carry it alone.” He looked down. “And she far outlived her people.”
Disappointed, I turned back to the pyramid. There was no time to go searching for clues to the lost past—we had more important work to do.
Maybe we’d survive, the Empty would recede, and the lost truths would be laid bare.
A little library . . . I could cultivate old knowledge, and Aethra could tend a garden of flowers. She deserved someone who could love her properly, but . . .
It was a nice dream.
Adjusting his mantle, Percy skidded in front of us and started walking backward. “Remember—visitors come to pray. Try to look pious.”
“I know Perse.” Seth rolled his eyes. “I live here.”
“Did you ever come to pray?”
Seth looked away. “ . . . No.”
“Thought not.” Pulling his hood down, Percy led us up the impressive—and daunting—set of sand colored stairs leading to one small door propped open by a heavy stone. Holding my breath, I stepped through.
The wonder that greeted us far outstripped the great temple of Brizo in Serifos city.
A larger chamber than I’d ever seen stretched before us, rising toward a looming ceiling far above.
Stone dark as obsidian drenched us in shadows, and slates made of the same material rose in various intervals, supported by winding pillars set with torches.
Ancient murals covered every inch of the walls, depicting the gods in various scenes I’d never read of in scripture. Brilliant colors strained to escape the fade of time, but only a hint of their beauty had survived the years.
One in particular caught my eye: Brizo, holding her signature urn in one hand and gripping a spear in the other. Dressed in golden armor, she strode into battle, crimson toga fluttering behind her.
This was nothing like the Maiden spoken of back home.
“Strange, right?” Seth joined me, arms folded. “That your Maiden is so different.”
“Why?”
“I’m not really sure. In our tales, Brizo is a warrior, on par with Haimyx himself.” Seth eyed the neighboring mural, where a man with crimson eyes and a jagged scythe joined her side.
“Do you actually know your own scripture?” I asked, eyebrow raised.
“Roughly.” Seth folded his arms. “The four were a fellowship of sorts. Together, they wrested control of the Empty and rescued the people. With their duty finished, they passed divinity on to their chosen children and departed for the afterlife.”
“Passed on?” I glanced at the Haimyx mural. “So your father inherited the original Haimyx’s powers?”
“And carried on his purpose,” Seth confirmed. “Psythos, Callesis? They have no such inheritor.”
“Why not?”
“That,” Seth admitted, “I don’t know.” He nudged me. “Come on. We need to pray.”
Strange. In Duath Nun’s tales, Brizo was not responsible for pushing back the Empty.
Percy waited behind us, anxiously gesturing down the room. Nodding, I walked past the slates, trying and failing to read the runes etched on their surfaces. A few people knelt in prayer before them, and I figured we ought to follow suit.
Finding a quiet corner, I dropped to my knees before a slate and peered around it, eyeing the most impressive mural at the back of the room, painted across a wall broader than a throne room.
“There you are,” the Oracle whispered, startling me. She drifted to our side, silken gown flowing around her. “Come. I brought you here for a reason.”
Rising, I followed her to the back wall and drank in the mural. Brizo knelt at the center, and Haimyx gripped her shoulders, looming above her. Blood pooled in her hands, reminiscent of the Maiden’s Bloodstone. Darkness swirled around them, but so too did bright, blue flowers.
Several slates clustered around the mural in an odd pattern, bearing more Duathi runes.
Tilting my head, I noticed a nearly hidden detail in the artwork. The shadows swallowing the painting formed the body of an enormous serpent. Its head, hooded like a cobra, swam in the darkness directly above the pair of gods. Faint pinpricks of red marked its eyes.
“What is this?” I asked.
Seth answered. “The final maiden of Elpis. It’s an old prophecy, but no one can agree upon what it means.”
Cerys interjected. “When the final maiden of Elpis arrives, death shall reign. From her blood, new life shall spring. The under and over, united as one.”
I mulled over the words. They could mean many things. “Aren’t you the Oracle?” I asked.
Sighing, Cerys glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I hear whispers, but I do not know from where they come.” She lifted her gaze, landing on Percy. “We Oracles are tainted for a reason. The voices come only when we are exposed to the Empty.”
Percy’s eyes flared. “I don’t hear any voices.”
“You have not spent as long by its side as I have.”
“But . . .” Percy shook his head. “I thought you died. Faded away, or became corrupted.”
“Not when you cannot expire save from injury,” she breathed, turning back to me. “I do not know what the voices are. Sometimes they are right. I did know you were coming, didn’t I?” She gestured to the mural. “I’m not sure what this means. But Haimyx has found his answer.”
Seth narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember him forming his own interpretation.”
Cerys lowered her arm. “Haimyx believes he is Death. The realm of Duath Nun is the underworld where souls languish, unable to pass. By conjoining his blood with the final Maiden’s, he will be given divine right to bring the living under his care.”
“The living?” Seth echoed. “You mean the Merchant Isles.”
“Under his care?” Percy drummed his fingers on his arm. “Does that mean ‘conquer them?’”
“Yes, Perse,” I answered. “He would kill us all. One battle could sweep the rest of the Isles into the Empty.”
“No. My father’s not stupid.” Seth dropped his arms. “Haimyx must believe he will control the Empty.” His gaze hardened. “How, exactly, does he intend to join their blood?”
“He is chthonic,” Cerys said. “He shall arrive in the Merchant Isles as a savior, wielding her blood to save them. And they shall kneel, or die.”
I closed my eyes. “This is nonsense. Fanatical nonsense.” Opening them, I turned to Cerys, glancing up at the mural once more. “I want to know about these voices—the ones you hear from the Empty.”
Wringing her hands together, Cerys looked away.
Discomfort radiated from her, but also melancholy.
“They whisper, or sing. They sound like women. When their words come, they are not always easy to understand, but when they are? It’s like someone is watching the whole world and has brought its secrets to me.
” She lifted her pale eyes. “They whispered of a girl who met their gaze. A prince in love. And a ship that would soon crash upon their shores.”
She spoke of the scene on the boat: Aethra staring nervously at the siren, Seth distracting himself from their songs by finally giving in to what he desired.
‘A girl who met their gaze . . .’
Whose gaze?
Cerys couldn’t mean the keres, could she?
“Even if you think it’s nonsense,” Cerys said harshly, “our king does not. He will soon learn why you’ve come. And he will do everything to stop you—and take her.”
“And instead of conquest,” Seth murmured, “he’ll snuff everyone’s life out.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s right. Either route must be avoided.”
The Merchant Isles had not fought a proper war in centuries. None of our cities were built to weather an army knocking at their door, and our people would flee before they fought, fearing the Empty’s approach. By the time we rallied a defense, too many lives would be lost.
To speak nothing of the devastation that would follow.
“I already agreed to help you,” Seth said. “You didn’t need to convince me.”
“In part.” She looked between us. “I’d hoped you’d bring insight—tell me an interpretation of its meaning that I’ve overlooked.
Even if you do not believe in the divines, I do.
” Clearing her throat, she stood straight.
“But if not, we should move on to business. We can speak in the back—there’s something I need you to do. ”
“Right.” Seth rubbed the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t have brought us here just to discuss religion.”
Taking a final glance at the painting of Brizo, I turned to follow Cerys, but felt a throb in my head.
Seth felt it, too. He flinched, touching his forehead.
Panic streamed into our thoughts. The faintest cry for help pierced the flurry of fear.
Aethra.
She spoke one word into our minds.
“Seth!”
Seth spun on his heel and sprinted through the temple. Those who knelt in prayer looked up, gasping at the breach of etiquette. Cursing my broken arm, I chased after him, glancing back at Percy to mouth a single word. A word that sent him scrambling after us.
‘Aethra!’