I inform Maxinia of what has happened. In her stalwart manner she takes the news in stride, but from her pensive expression I can tell her mind is already working out what she needs to tend to during Iole’s absence. Without a second thought she reaches for a shield-sized book of maps. The garden in Eury’s letter is nowhere to be found.
“I advise you to go here,” she says pointing to the southeast portion of Osteria. “It’s uncharted land. If the garden isn’t mapped out in the other regions, it would have to be here. We need to get you kitted up. Take two horses, one for yourself, the other for supplies. Food, weapons of course, but also a burlap bag for the tree's roots.” She stops. “What sort of tree did you say?”
“A fruit tree. For his garden, I assume.”
“Not an apple tree, is it?”
“No,” I lie. “The letter doesn't say.”
In truth, Eury’s letter expressly commands that I tell no one in Portaceae what I’m after. The message instructs me to find a tree that bears apples of gold and that I may take as long as I need to find it. My initial assumption for the secrecy is that Eury doesn't want the people of the polis—who are desperate to see food on their tables and their homes repaired—to know he possesses a tree that produces gold. But Maxinia’s direct question sends a chill through me. Eury’s desire to own this tree surely has another motive behind it than just the profitable fruit the tree might bear.
Still, I can’t raise her suspicions any further. I won’t be thwarted or delayed from this task regardless of the consequences or benefits it brings Eury. There is no option; I have to get the tree to keep Iole and Iolalus from more danger than I have already put them in. Even if this tree does have some special significance that Maxinia’s question hints at, I must get it to keep them alive.
“Well,” she says eying me suspiciously, “leave any apple tree, especially if its fruit shows even a hint of gold. I'll alert the kitchens to prepare your food. You get your gear in order. You'll want to get as early a start tomorrow as possible.”
“I intend to leave tonight.”
“It's already sunset. The gates will close in an hour.”
“Then we should hurry.”
Once I’ve gathered my gear, I return to Iolalus who now has five Herene medics tending to him. I don’t fail to notice they happen to be five of the youngest and prettiest medics in the hospital wing.
As much as I want his company on this journey, I don't have time to wait for Iolalus to convalesce. Not with Iole in Eury's hands. I fear leaving Iolalus in Portaceae. If Eury is willing to imprison a Herene, there’s no reason he won’t take Iolalus again. Still, he needs rest or the damage done will give him agony for all his days—of which I can now only guess how many there’ll be left.
Why have I not realized Eury’s treachery before now? Iole had it figured out ages ago. Why haven't I noticed? Loyalty. Duty. What have they earned me but death and threats to those who care for me?
The medics notice me approaching the bed and skitter away trying to cover their giggling smiles with their hands.
“You'll need to stay here,” I say to Iolalus and explain to him the task and Maxinia’s instructions.
“I want to go.” Iolalus, possibly emboldened by pain medication or the women’s attention, tries to push himself up but a stout nurse pushes him back down. “It's too far to go alone.”
If Maxinia’s guess is correct, he’s right.
My task will require me to travel to the edge of Osteria. Far south and east to the foothills of the mountains where the Middish dwell. Few Osterians ever travel so far. The Middish are wild. Some say they breed with animals to become like them, others said they’re related to the mutants of the Maisland that live in the plains beyond the Middish Mountains. Whatever they are, they’re dangerous. More likely to send a spear through your gut than to run and hide.
A hole is growing in the pit of my stomach from the thought that I will fail this task. For the first time since facing the lion, I fear I won’t succeed. And what then? What then? I will lose two more loved ones. And, despite my betrayal of her with Lyta, I do love Iole. I’d been swayed by the idea of escape, by the hope for power, and by the temptation of passion, but now that I’ve returned, now that Lyta is no more, now that I am awake to Eury’s vileness, I must return to my duty to do what is best for this polis and those I care for.
“I only have to go to the edge of the Middish range. We’ve all taken our turn serving out there and the vigiles have always been able to handle themselves against the Middish. They're sneaky and tough, but I'll have the chestnut and the lion skin. I'll be well-protected.”
“What does he want with a damn tree anyway?” He sucks in breath through his teeth as one of the pretty medics, her face filled with apology, dabs at the wounds circling his ankles. “He could buy one from any grower in the Illamos Valley or Cedonia.”
“He says this one can bring him gold,” I say vaguely.
“Gold I'm certain will be spent on himself or his wife, not Portaceae.” Iolalus grimaces when the nurse places a healing compress on his ankle.
Cecilia appears and hands Iolalus a cup.
“We're going to have to reset your shoulders,” she says brusquely. “You'll want to be well asleep for it.”
Iolalus drains the cup and pulls a bitter expression at the contents. Before he can complain, his eyes are already drooping. I turn to go but he grips my hand.
“When this is done we really should get rid of him,” his words slur as he tries to hold his lids open. “We'd make terrific leaders.” His eyes close and his breathing takes on the deep rhythm of sleep.
I pat his hand. “You'd make a great leader,” I say quietly before ducking out to gather my weapons and the pelt.
I can't even protect the people I care about.
The ever-practical Maxinia must have organized the kitchen and stables herself. By the time I leave the hospital wing, traveling packs stuffed with food are mounted on Iolalus's black steed and my chestnut has been saddled. The great woman nods with approval and holds my bridle as I mount my horse.
“Here.” She hands me up a slip of paper.
“Eury sent a travel permit?”
“No, but I've seen enough of them to draw up a fair copy. It’s not a train pass, only a permit to travel. As long as no one looks closely, you'll be fine. Stick to unmanned border crossings, that shouldn't be hard where you're going.” I thank her as I tuck the pass into my pouch. “And no apple trees. Understand?”
To reach the uncharted lands on Maxinia’s map requires several days of hard riding. I consider trying to sneak aboard a train, but with two horses I would be too conspicuous. Instead, I let the horses run as fast as they desire. Left to their own, the immortal steeds can move with more speed than a gale wind without tiring. It isn't as comfortable as a train, but it’s certainly a faster mode of travel.
Moving south through Portaceae, I’m able to pass into the Illamos Valley polis without trouble. The border guard throws a quick glance at my pass and waves me through. From the valley, I ride east through a little used pass of the Great Mountains and gallop past an unmanned border station into the polis of Bendria. When I try to leave Bendria to enter into the vast stretch of Osterian lands that are neither polis nor kingdom, I’m halted at the border’s check point.
The border man who resembles the quarter giants that make up Eury’s Solonian Guard not only looks at my pass when I present it, but snatches it from my hand and takes it into his booth for closer inspection. Several moments later he comes back out, circles the horses assessing them with a critical eye, and then tells me to dismount.
“What’s your purpose in Bendria?” he demands.
“No purpose. It just happens to be between Portaceae and my destination.”
“Are you trying to be smart?”
“Not at all,” I say with as much deference as I can muster. Gods, how I wish Iolalus was the one doing the talking. “I only meant this was the more direct route.”
“To where?”
This is a question I’ve already planned for. In truth, it’s the first place I would flee to if I ever need to get Iole and Iolalus out of Portaceae City.
“To Minoa. Minos is a close friend.” This is stretching the truth, but I hope it will, if not impress, at least mollify the guard.
He looks at the pass again.
“Travel passes for unlimited amounts of time are hard to come by.”
Not when you have a crafty and clever Herene to help.
“As I said, Minos is a close friend.”
The guard again takes the pass into his booth where I can’t see what he’s up to. How long can it take to look over a small piece of parchment? It’s so long before he steps back out I begin to think perhaps the warmth of the afternoon has put him to sleep. After long days and nights of hard travel during which I’ve taken little sleep myself, I lean up against the chestnut and start to doze.
I’m jolted awake when the door of the booth bangs shut. The guard scrutinizes me, his face so stern I wonder if he has lost the muscles to form a smile. I hold his gaze waiting for him to tell me to turn back or to arrest me. If he reaches for the cuffs dangling from his belt, I will run. In a heartbeat I can be on the chestnut’s back and clear half the distance to the Middens before this hulk ever mounts his own steed that is tethered in the field behind the station.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” he says. His hand reaches to his belt and my body tenses. He thrusts his arm out toward me. My legs twitch ready to leap, but instead of cuffs, he offers the pass back to me. “Good journey.”
I take the pass and stuff it in my waist pouch. Throwing my leg over the chestnut, I urge the horse to a gallop before the guard can change his mind.
It’s late afternoon on my fourth day of hard riding that I see three eagles circling overhead. Large eagles at least three times the size of any I've observed hunting for fish along the Illamos River. One swoops down behind an outcrop of rock, disappears from view, and then soars again dangling a piece of meat from its beak. As I near the outcrop another eagle dives. This time I hear a scream before the bird flies again with its own chunk of flesh. I slow the horses to a walk and, worrying that the birds may decide to attack, slip on the lion’s pelt before riding around to the hidden side of the rock.
There, a huge man, at least the size of the Herene Maxinia, is chained by his hands and wrists to rings set into the rock. He breathes with the harsh ragged gasps of pain, but I can see no wound. Another eagle swoops down. The man thrashes as if he can frighten it off, but the bird plunges in feet first, talons extended. It pauses, sticking horizontally from the man’s body as he wails in agony. The pony-sized bird flaps its wings and, as it pulls itself back into flight, tears a gaping hole in the man's abdomen.
I dismount and run to him, my bow and quiver bouncing against my back. It’s only a short distance—four to five strides at the most—but by the time I get to him the wound has healed.
He lolls his head to look at me. His expression more annoyed than agonized.
“A bit of help?”
An eagle heads toward him and he grits his teeth ready for the attack. Without thought I ready my bow, notch an arrow, follow the descending bird, and fire. The eagle drops to the man’s feet. He lets out a sigh of relief, then looks up.
“There's a couple more targets, if you don't mind,” he says as if indicating tea and cookies are ready on the table.
With two rapid shots I take down his tormentors.
“And if you wouldn't mind?” He rattles the chains that bind him to the rock.
I eye him. Although sweat-stained and disheveled he doesn't have the wild look of the Middish. He’s also much too large to be one of the diminutive mountain people, but neither does he have the undersized head of a full giant. Still, he must have committed some crime to be left in such a manner.
“I played a trick on Zeus,” he says in answer to my hesitation. “A stupid trick nothing to be uptight about, but, well, that's Zeus for you. No sense of humor and worse than Hera when it comes to forgiving and forgetting. At least she's rumored to have forgiven someone. Once. I think. But Zeus? No, very stubborn, so obviously a youngest child. Now, a bit of help?”
I can't say why, but I immediately like the man. He clearly wants free—who wouldn’t?—but gives the impression that he won't hold it against me if I walk away. I slip my sword from the scabbard, raise it with both hands and hack at the chain binding his right wrist.
“Good gods, man, a bit of warning before you do that.”
“There'll be three more coming. Unless you prefer to stay that way.”
“No, apologies for the complaint. Chop away.”
Three more swings and he’s free. He makes a great show of stretching his massive arms, arching his muscular back, twisting his bronzed torso, and kicking his redwood-thick legs.
“You don't know how good that feels.”
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Couldn't say precisely, but I believe it's been about sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours. Not that I've been counting, mind you. Now you’ll be wondering who I am.” I give a quick nod of my head. “Let's see if you can guess.” His steel grey eyes glint with mischievous amusement. “Over some roast eagle perhaps?”
He has to be joking. There’s nothing in this rocky, dry landscape to burn. Not even a patch of grass grows in the hard-packed ground.
The man claps his hands together.
“Any guesses yet?” he asks.
“Not yet,” I respond. I’m amused, but also cautious. This could be some ruse to distract my attention, and with his size, I would stand little chance against him.
He slowly moves his hands apart. “I hope this still works. It's been a while, you know? About sixty-four years, four months, six days, and just a tad over ten hours to be exact.”
Once his palms are about a hand's width apart, a ball of flame appears. He settles the flame onto a flat rock. As he moves his hands apart, the flame grows until it’s an arm's length wide. He then teases his hands above it bringing the flame higher. My heart pounds with recognition of who is before me.