merchant. The villa was huge, surrounded by a vineyard flowing
down the terraced hillside to the sea.
Women clustered around the central fireplace, watching the man lying in richly dyed linens. None of them would step close
to the sickbed. “When did this happen?” Spiralmaster asked.
“He has not been himself these past days,” said an older woman Phoebus guessed was the merchant’s wife. “He’s been unable
to eat, unable to sleep. He insisted on going to the harbor, and he collapsed on the pier yesterday. He has been like this
ever since.”
Phoebus knelt, touching the man’s forehead. No fever, no sweat. “Any sign of wounds or bites?” Spiralmaster asked.
“Nothing, my master,” the woman said. “We have bathed him and oiled him.”
They are ready for him to die, Phoebus thought.
The woman continued speaking. “He doesn’t speak, just laughs and stares.” The patient was motionless, his gaze unfocused as
he stared up at the painted ceiling. As they watched, his throat moved convulsively, fighting for air.
“Check his esophagus,” Spiralmaster commanded.
Phoebus knelt, and opened the man’s mouth, turning his head away at the patient’sputrid breath. In a frenzy of motion, the
patient shuddered, kicking blindly, pushing Phoebus away and laughing … a maniacal, eerie sound. Spiralmaster pulled Phoebus
back.
“What did the Kela-Tenata say?” Phoebus asked.
“She gave him an infusion of moonstone and asked us the same questions you ask. My masters, what is wrong?”
“Why isn’t she here?” Phoebus asked Spiralmaster in an undertone. This man was obviously dying, he’d had his lustral bath
to ensure his entry to the Isles of the Blessed, yet his healer had left before doing everything possible?
“She said there was much illness in the city today. Even while here, three messages came for her,” the merchant’s wife said.
Phoebus and the Spiralmaster requested privacy. “Have you seen this before, master?” Phoebus said, expecting the answer to
be nay.
“Aye.”
“What? When?”
Spiralmaster staggered to a carved stone chair, leaning against it as though he couldn’t bend properly to sit. “Something
is affecting
Hreesos
’ cabinet members.”
Phoebus’ skin prickled.
“They are dying like flowers. One day full of health and drooping the next day. Dead on the third.” Spiralmaster gestured
to the prone figure. “Most of them succumb like this, drowning in their own lungs, or starving because they cannot swallow.”
As if on cue, the man began to choke, his face purpling, his eyes pleading. Before they could call his family or medicate
him, he was gone.
“Kalo taxidi,”
Spiralmaster said, closing the man’s staring eyes. “Summon his women to prepare the
kollyva.”
Phoebus, shaken by the suddenness of the man’s demise, stepped into the next room. “Your master requires his meal, he has
begun his journey,” he said carefully.
The women began to cry. For the next nine nights they would prepare his favorite foods, so that as he journeyed through to
the next world he would not hunger. It was the final honor his family gave him.
Phoebus turned to the window, the weak sunlight falling on the street outside, two children playing noisily on the ground.
The Clan Olimpi had a far different, a far more explicit final honor.
The Rising Golden shuddered.
C HAPTER 4
CAPHTOR
T HE MOON WAS WANING , the landscape misted with silver. Firelight flickered over the assembled women and the naked body of the young bride. Painted
wedding designs now covered most of her body, transforming her firm young flesh into the mysterious and divine. Mystic symbols
of crescents, horns, sacral knots, and birds were woven together with labyrinthine patterns.
Sibylla felt the night air on her bare breasts, her hair against her exposed back. With a prayer to Kela she threw the herbs
into the fire, their sweetness and tang carried on sparks into the
down the terraced hillside to the sea.
Women clustered around the central fireplace, watching the man lying in richly dyed linens. None of them would step close
to the sickbed. “When did this happen?” Spiralmaster asked.
“He has not been himself these past days,” said an older woman Phoebus guessed was the merchant’s wife. “He’s been unable
to eat, unable to sleep. He insisted on going to the harbor, and he collapsed on the pier yesterday. He has been like this
ever since.”
Phoebus knelt, touching the man’s forehead. No fever, no sweat. “Any sign of wounds or bites?” Spiralmaster asked.
“Nothing, my master,” the woman said. “We have bathed him and oiled him.”
They are ready for him to die, Phoebus thought.
The woman continued speaking. “He doesn’t speak, just laughs and stares.” The patient was motionless, his gaze unfocused as
he stared up at the painted ceiling. As they watched, his throat moved convulsively, fighting for air.
“Check his esophagus,” Spiralmaster commanded.
Phoebus knelt, and opened the man’s mouth, turning his head away at the patient’sputrid breath. In a frenzy of motion, the
patient shuddered, kicking blindly, pushing Phoebus away and laughing … a maniacal, eerie sound. Spiralmaster pulled Phoebus
back.
“What did the Kela-Tenata say?” Phoebus asked.
“She gave him an infusion of moonstone and asked us the same questions you ask. My masters, what is wrong?”
“Why isn’t she here?” Phoebus asked Spiralmaster in an undertone. This man was obviously dying, he’d had his lustral bath
to ensure his entry to the Isles of the Blessed, yet his healer had left before doing everything possible?
“She said there was much illness in the city today. Even while here, three messages came for her,” the merchant’s wife said.
Phoebus and the Spiralmaster requested privacy. “Have you seen this before, master?” Phoebus said, expecting the answer to
be nay.
“Aye.”
“What? When?”
Spiralmaster staggered to a carved stone chair, leaning against it as though he couldn’t bend properly to sit. “Something
is affecting
Hreesos
’ cabinet members.”
Phoebus’ skin prickled.
“They are dying like flowers. One day full of health and drooping the next day. Dead on the third.” Spiralmaster gestured
to the prone figure. “Most of them succumb like this, drowning in their own lungs, or starving because they cannot swallow.”
As if on cue, the man began to choke, his face purpling, his eyes pleading. Before they could call his family or medicate
him, he was gone.
“Kalo taxidi,”
Spiralmaster said, closing the man’s staring eyes. “Summon his women to prepare the
kollyva.”
Phoebus, shaken by the suddenness of the man’s demise, stepped into the next room. “Your master requires his meal, he has
begun his journey,” he said carefully.
The women began to cry. For the next nine nights they would prepare his favorite foods, so that as he journeyed through to
the next world he would not hunger. It was the final honor his family gave him.
Phoebus turned to the window, the weak sunlight falling on the street outside, two children playing noisily on the ground.
The Clan Olimpi had a far different, a far more explicit final honor.
The Rising Golden shuddered.
C HAPTER 4
CAPHTOR
T HE MOON WAS WANING , the landscape misted with silver. Firelight flickered over the assembled women and the naked body of the young bride. Painted
wedding designs now covered most of her body, transforming her firm young flesh into the mysterious and divine. Mystic symbols
of crescents, horns, sacral knots, and birds were woven together with labyrinthine patterns.
Sibylla felt the night air on her bare breasts, her hair against her exposed back. With a prayer to Kela she threw the herbs
into the fire, their sweetness and tang carried on sparks into the
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