Shadows on the Aegean by Suzanne Frank

off. There was nothing he could say; the boy wouldn’t rule. There was nothing he could do. Tearing his gaze from Eumelos’
     questioning blue
eyes
, Phoebus asked him how he had spent his day.
    “Scholomance was boring! I would rather be with you! Learning to fight!”
    “An Olimpi clansman must have a mind as sharp and agile as his body,” Phoebus said, reciting the words he’d heard so often.
     “Conflict is rarely profitable. It is better to compromise and profit from tribute.”
    “Like Caphtor pays tribute?”
    “Aye, very like Caphtor.”
    Together they mounted the sweeping staircase, bowing briefly at the inset altar of horns, honoring Kela. For luck they plucked
     the two-headed ax out of its resting place and turned it. The double-edged blade represented the two sides of Kela, a giver
     and taker, for the goddess cut both ways. If your fortune was bad, you turned the ax to improve it. Likewise, if your fortune
     was good, you turned the ax, surprising bad fortune and thus diminishing it. Better to turn the ax yourself than to have your
     enemy do it.
    Geometric patterns of red, gold, and black crept across the ceiling, floors, and walls. The bright floor tiles were warmed
     by an enormous fireplace in the center of each room, the expansive roofs supported by red columns that tapered down to the
     floor. In this room, one of a thousand in the palace of Aztlantu, nobles mingled with commoners, all seeking out their clansmen
     in these last days before the Season of the Bull, this growing season, and the meeting of the Council.
    For just a moment fear rode Phoebus. After that meeting he would dance with the Apis bull. How he acquitted himself there
     would decide whether he was worthy of entering the Pyramid of Days and undergoing the tests of the Rising Golden. He dismissed
     the fear as Eumelos’ nonstop commentaries continued. “Niko!” Phoebus called.
    The violet-eyed man looked up, yanked from his world of words and formulae into the chatter of the palace. Niko blinked twice,
     his gaze finally focusing on them. Despite his brilliance, he often had trouble remembering the commonplace—food, women, bathing.
    “Practice is over already?” his friend asked, running his hand over his tangled, waist-length white blond hair.
    “Aye. The sun has moved three times in the sky.” Phoebus’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Did Irmentis come?” he asked, despising
     himself for his weakness.
    Niko shook his head. “Aye. I spoke to her, as you bade me.” He fumbled, gathering his scrolls. “I think she loves you, Phoebus.
     However, her love is not
eros.”
    Phoebus’ cheeks burned that his best friend would know the woman whom Phoebus desired did not want him. Even if her love was
pothos
, if she desired him as an ambition, a goal, an end to accomplish, that would be something. But pure
agape
, only with her heart… Phoebus lifted his gaze to his friend’s. “Did she say more?”
    “Only that she despised Ileana and would not challenge her. She seeks another kind of justice.”
    “The only justice is for that
skeela
to have a knife through her heart,” Phoebus whispered.
    “Treason, my friend,” Niko said, rising from the wave-backed stone bench. “Irmentis also asked for more of her drink.” His
     voice was tight with disapproval.
    Phoebus ignored him. “When I am ki—”
    Niko turned to the boy. “So, Eumelos, what wisdom did the Spiralmaster share today?”
    “He said we were all silent and blind and wouldn’t recognize the hands of the gods if they pinched us on our—”
    “Okh
, really?” Niko said, lifting Eumelos onto his shoulders. “You need to talk to Spiralmaster,” Niko said, frowning at Phoebus.
     “He seems to grow more disrespectful and more erratic by the day.”
    Phoebus watched as Niko hoisted Eumelos’ wiry body high in the air, pretending to fly the length of the decorated room. In
     every slash of turquoise paint Phoebus saw the feral gaze of his stepmother,