The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)

‘Herophile,’ I called, ‘I appreciate your predicament. But is there any way you can manipulate the length of the answers? Perhaps the next one can be a really long, really easy word that leads to your platform?’

‘You know I cannot, Apollo.’ She clasped her hands. ‘But, please, you must hurry if you wish to stop Caligula from becoming a …’ She gagged. ‘Three letters, middle letter is O.’

‘God,’ I said unhappily.

A third bridge formed – three tiles, connecting to the O in soundless, which brought us only one tile closer to our goal. Meg, Grover and I crowded together on the G tile. The room felt even hotter, as if Helios’s ichor was working itself into a fury the closer we got to Herophile. Grover and Meg sweated profusely. My own arctic camouflage was sopping wet. I had not been so uncomfortable in a group hug since the Rolling Stones’ first 1969 show at Madison Square Garden. (Tip: as tempting as it might be, don’t throw your arms around Mick Jagger and Keith Richards during their encore set. Those men can sweat.)

Herophile sighed. ‘I’m sorry, my friends. I’ll try again. Some days, I wish prophecy was a present I had never –’ She winced in pain. ‘Six letters. Last letter is a D.’

Grover shuffled around. ‘Wait. What? The D is back there.’

The heat made my eyes feel like shish-kebab onions, but I tried to survey the rows and columns so far.

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘this new clue is another vertical word, branching off the D in soundless?’

Herophile’s eyes gleamed with encouragement.

Meg wiped her sweaty forehead. ‘Well, then why did we bother with god? It doesn’t lead anywhere.’

‘Oh, no,’ Grover moaned. ‘We’re still forming the prophecy, aren’t we? Doorway, soundless, god? What does that mean?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ I admitted, my brain cells simmering in my skull like chicken soup noodles. ‘Let’s get some more words. Herophile said she wishes prophecy was a present she’d never … what?’

‘Gotten doesn’t work,’ Meg muttered.

‘Received?’ Grover offered. ‘No. Too many letters.’

‘Perhaps a metaphor,’ I suggested. ‘A present she’d never … opened?’

Grover gulped. ‘Is that our final answer?’

He and Meg both looked down at the burning ichor, then back at me. Their faith in my abilities was not heartwarming.

‘Yes,’ I decided. ‘Herophile, the answer is opened.’

The Sibyl sighed with relief as a new bridge extended from the D in soundless, leading us across the lake. Crowded together on the O tile, we were now only about five feet from the Sibyl’s platform.

‘Should we jump?’ Meg asked.

Herophile shrieked, then clamped her hands over her mouth.

‘I’m guessing a jump would be unwise,’ I said. ‘We have to complete the puzzle. Herophile, perhaps one more very small word going forward?’

The Sibyl curled her fingers, then said slowly and carefully, ‘Small word, across. Starts with Y. Small word down. Near or next to.’

‘A double play!’ I looked at my friends. ‘I believe we are looking for yo across, and by down. That should allow us to reach the platform.’

Grover peered over the side of the tile, where the lake of ichor was now bubbling white hot. ‘I’d hate to fail now. Is yo an acceptable word?’

‘I don’t have the Scrabble rule book in front of me,’ I admitted, ‘but I think so.’

I was glad this wasn’t Scrabble. Athena won every time with her insufferable vocabulary. One time she played abaxial on a triple and Zeus lightning-bolted the top off Mount Parnassus in his rage.

‘That’s our answer, Sibyl,’ I said. ‘Yo and by.’

Another two tiles clicked into place, connecting our bridge to Herophile’s platform. We ran across, and Herophile clapped and wept for joy. She held out her arms to hug me, then seemed to remember she was shackled with blazing-hot chains.

Meg looked back at the path of answers in our wake. ‘Okay, so if that’s the end of the prophecy, what does it mean? Doorway soundless god opened yo by?’

Herophile started to say something, then thought better of it. She looked at me hopefully.

‘Let’s assume some small words again,’ I ventured. ‘If we combine the first part of the maze, we have Apollo faces death in Tarquin’s tomb unless … uh, the doorway … to?’ I glanced at Herophile, who nodded encouragement. ‘The doorway to the soundless god … Hmm. I don’t know who that is. Unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by –’

‘You forgot the yo,’ Grover said.

‘I think we can bypass the yo since it was a double play.’

Grover tugged his singed goatee. ‘This is why I don’t play Scrabble. Also, I tend to eat the tiles.’

I consulted Herophile. ‘So Apollo – me – I face death in the tomb of Tarquin, unless the doorway to the soundless god is opened by … what? Meg’s right. There’s got to be more to the prophecy.’

Somewhere off to my left, a familiar voice called, ‘Not necessarily.’

On a ledge in the middle of the left-hand wall stood the sorceress Medea, looking very much alive and delighted to see us. Behind her, two pandos guards held a chained and beaten prisoner – our friend Crest.

‘Hello, my dears.’ Medea smiled. ‘You see, there doesn’t have to be an end to the prophecy, because you’re all going to die now anyway!’





41


Meg sings. It’s over.

Everybody just go home

We are so roasted





Meg struck first.

With quick, sure moves, she severed the chains that bound the Sibyl, then glared at Medea as if to say, Ha-ha! I have unleashed my attack Oracle!

The shackles fell from Herophile’s wrists and ankles, revealing ugly red burn rings. Herophile stumbled back, clutching her hands to her chest. She looked more horror-struck than grateful. ‘Meg McCaffrey, no! You shouldn’t have –’

Whatever clue she was going to give, across or down, it didn’t matter. The chains and shackles snapped back together, fully mended. Then they leaped like striking rattlesnakes – at me, not Herophile. They lashed themselves around my wrists and ankles. The pain was so intense it felt cool and pleasant at first. Then I screamed.

Meg hacked at the molten links once again, but now they repelled her blades. With each blow, the chains tightened, pulling me down until I was forced to crouch. With all my insignificant strength, I struggled against the bonds, but I quickly learned this was a bad idea. Tugging against the manacles was like pressing my wrists against red-hot griddles. The agony almost made me pass out, and the smell … oh, gods, I did not enjoy the smell of deep-fried Lester. Only by staying perfectly neutral, allowing the manacles to take me where they wished, could I keep the pain at a level that was merely excruciating.

Medea laughed, clearly enjoying my contortions. ‘Well done, Meg McCaffrey! I was going to chain up Apollo myself, but you saved me a spell.’

I fell to my knees. ‘Meg, Grover – get the Sibyl out of here. Leave me!’

Another brave, self-sacrificing gesture. I hope you’re keeping count.

Alas, my suggestion was futile. Medea snapped her fingers. The stone tiles shifted across the surface of the ichor, leaving the Sibyl’s platform cut off from any exit.

Behind the sorceress, her two guards shoved Crest to the floor. He slid down, his back to the wall, his hands shackled but still stubbornly holding my combat ukulele. The pandos’s left eye was swollen shut. His lips were split. Two fingers on his right hand were bent at a funny angle. He met my eyes, his expression full of shame. I wanted to reassure him that he had not failed. We should never have left him alone on guard duty. He would still be able to do amazing fingerpicking, even with two broken fingers!

But I could barely think straight, much less console my young music student.

The two guards spread their giant ears. They sailed across the room, letting hot updraughts carry them to separate tiles near the corners of our platform. They drew their khanda blades and waited, just in case we were foolish enough to try leaping across.

‘You killed Timbre,’ one hissed.

‘You killed Peak,’ said the other.