The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)

Nevertheless, I lifted the ancient pair of caligae we’d retrieved from the yachts. ‘At least we have these. Jason gave his life for us to have a chance at stopping Caligula’s plans. Tomorrow, I’ll wear these into the Burning Maze. I’ll find a way to free the Oracle and stop the fires of Helios.’

I thought that was a pretty good pep talk – designed to restore confidence and reassure my friends. I left out the part about not having a clue how to accomplish any of it.

Prickly Pear bristled, which she did with consummate skill. ‘You’re in no shape to do anything. Besides, Caligula will know what you’re planning. He’ll be waiting and ready this time.’

‘She’s right,’ Crest said from his niche.

The dryads frowned at him.

‘Why is he even here?’ Cholla demanded.

‘Music lessons,’ I said.

That earned me several dozen confused looks.

‘Long story,’ I said. ‘But Crest risked his life for us on the yachts. He saved Meg. We can trust him.’ I looked at the young pandos and hoped my assessment was correct. ‘Crest, is there anything you can tell us that might help?’

Crest wrinkled his fuzzy white nose (which did not at all make him look cute or make me want to cuddle him). ‘You cannot use the main entrance downtown. They will be waiting.’

‘We got past you,’ Meg said.

Crest’s giant ears turned pink around the edges. ‘That was different,’ he muttered. ‘My uncle was punishing me. It was the lunch shift. No one ever attacks during the lunch shift.’

He glared at me like I should’ve known this. ‘They will have more fighters now. And traps. The horse might even be there. He can move very fast. Just one phone call and he can arrive.’

I remembered how quickly Incitatus had shown up at Macro’s Military Madness, and how viciously he’d fought aboard the shoe ship. I was not anxious to face him again.

‘Is there another way in?’ I asked. ‘Something, I don’t know, less dangerous and conveniently close to the Oracle’s room?’

Crest hugged his ukulele (my ukulele) tighter. ‘There is one. I know it. Others don’t.’

Grover tilted his head. ‘I have to say, that sounds a little too convenient.’

Crest made a sour face. ‘I like exploring. Nobody else does. Uncle Amax – he always said I was a daydreamer. But when you explore you find things.’

I couldn’t argue with that. When I explored, I tended to find dangerous things that wanted to kill me. I doubted tomorrow would be any different.

‘Could you lead us to this secret entrance?’ I asked.

Crest nodded. ‘Then you will have a chance. You can sneak in, get to the Oracle before the guards find you. Then you can come out and give me music lessons.’

The dryads stared at me, their expressions unhelpfully blank, as if thinking, Hey, we can’t tell you how to die. That’s your choice.

‘We’ll do it,’ Meg decided for me. ‘Grover, you in?’

Grover sighed. ‘Of course. But first you two need sleep.’

‘And healing,’ Aloe added.

‘And enchiladas?’ I requested. ‘For breakfast?’

On that point, we reached consensus.

So, having enchiladas to look forward to – and also a likely fatal trip through the Burning Maze – I curled up in my sleeping bag and passed out.





36


A suspended fourth

The kind of chord you play just

Before suddenly –





I woke covered in goo and with aloe spikes (yet again) in my nostrils.

On the bright side, my ribs no longer felt like they were filled with lava. My chest had healed, leaving only a puckered scar where I’d impaled myself. I’d never had a scar before. I wished I could see it as a badge of honour. Instead, I feared that now, whenever I looked down, I would remember the worst night of my life.

At least I had slept deeply with no dreams. That aloe vera was good stuff.

The sun blazed directly above. The Cistern was empty except for me and Crest, who snored in his niche, clutching his ukulele teddy bear. Someone, probably hours ago, had left a breakfast enchilada plate with a Big Hombre soda next to my sleeping bag. The food had cooled to lukewarm. The ice in the soda had melted. I didn’t care. I ate and drank ravenously. I was grateful for the hot salsa that cleared the smell of burning yachts out of my sinuses.

Once I de-slimed myself and washed in the pond, I dressed in a fresh set of Macro’s camouflage – arctic white, because there was such a demand for that in the Mojave Desert.

I shouldered my quiver and bow. I tied Caligula’s shoes to my belt. I considered trying to take the ukulele from Crest but decided to let him keep it for now, since I did not want to get my hands bitten off.

Finally, I climbed into the oppressive Palm Springs heat.

Judging from the angle of the sun, it must have been about three in the afternoon. I wondered why Meg had let me sleep so late. I scanned the hillside and saw no one. For a guilty moment, I imagined that Meg and Grover had been unable to wake me and had gone by themselves to take care of the maze.

Darn it! I could say when they returned. Sorry, guys! And I was all ready too!

But no. Caligula’s sandals dangled from my belt. They wouldn’t have left without those. I also doubted they’d have forgotten Crest, since he was the only one who knew the super-secret entrance to the maze.

I caught a flicker of movement – two shadows moving behind the nearest greenhouse. I approached and heard voices in earnest conversation: Meg and Joshua.

I wasn’t sure whether to let them be or to march over and shout, Meg, this is no time to flirt with your yucca boyfriend!

Then I realized they were talking about climates and growing seasons. Ugh. I stepped into view and found them studying a line of seven young saplings that had sprouted from the rocky soil … in the exact spots where Meg had planted her seeds only yesterday.

Joshua spied me immediately, a sure sign that my arctic camouflage was working.

‘Well. He’s alive.’ He didn’t sound particularly thrilled about this. ‘We were just discussing the new arrivals.’

Each sapling rose about three feet high, its branches white, its leaves pale-green diamonds that looked much too delicate for the desert heat.

‘Those are ash trees,’ I said, dumbfounded.

I knew a lot about ash trees … Well, more than I knew about most trees, anyway. Long ago, I had been called Apollo Meliai, Apollo of the Ash Trees, because of a sacred grove I owned in … oh, where was it? Back then I had so many vacation properties I couldn’t keep them all straight.

My mind began to whirl. The word meliai meant something besides just ash trees. It had special significance. Despite being planted in a completely hostile climate, these young plants radiated strength and energy even I could sense. They’d grown overnight into healthy saplings. I wondered what they might look like tomorrow.

Meliai … I turned the word over in my mind. What had Caligula said? Blood-born. Silver wives.

Meg frowned. She looked much better this morning – back in her traffic-light-coloured clothes that had been miraculously patched and laundered. (I suspected the dryads, who are great with fabrics.) Her cat-eye glasses had been repaired with blue electrical tape. The scars on her arms and face had faded into faint white streaks like meteor trails across the sky.

‘I still don’t get it,’ she said. ‘Ash trees don’t grow in the desert. Why was my dad experimenting with ash?’

‘The Meliai,’ I said.

Joshua’s eyes glittered. ‘That was my thought, too.’

‘The who?’ Meg asked.

‘I believe,’ I said, ‘that your father was doing more than simply researching a new, hardy plant strain. He was trying to re-create … or rather reincarnate an ancient species of dryad.’

Was it my imagination, or did the young trees rustle? I restrained the urge to step back and run away. They were only saplings, I reminded myself. Nice, harmless baby plants that did not have any intention of murdering me.

Joshua knelt. In his khaki safari clothes, with his tousled grey-green hair, he looked like a wild-animal expert who was about to point out some deadly species of scorpion for the TV audience. Instead he touched the branches of the nearest sapling, then quickly removed his hand.