“I fear the chaos of these ten years will leak from this decade to stain the centuries to come. I fear Pandora’s box has opened. I fear Gold division,” I say instead. It is true enough at any rate. “I fear that this unity, so hard in coming, will last only so long as the threat to your people exists. I fear we will forget this moment and—”
A few dozen of the Rim Knights turn their heads to look back toward the city. A smudge appears in the distance. It seems to be a lone man flying our way at breakneck pace. How did he pass through the Gray cordon without molestation?
I clear my throat. “I fear—”
More knights are turning now. Not just turning, murmuring to one another. Furious at the ritual’s interruption, Gaia signals two of her enforcers. They bellow for silence. No one listens. Some of the knights go so far as to stand and point. The onrushing man is close enough now to see the color of his flapping cloak and armor.
They are gray. Storm gray.
My Core Knights frown in confusion and finally turn to follow the gaze of the Rim Knights.
Shouts of, “Storm! Storm!” come from the Rim Knights. Soon they are not alone. My own knights of the Core join the rising chorus as the man flies over their ranks. They rise with a roar.
It is Diomedes.
I can barely believe my eyes. His black and gold hair streams behind him in the wind. His broad face is pale and hard. He’s survived! Somehow his escape pod made it through. He’s alive. My heart swells with relief and joy.
“By Jove. He’s alive,” Cicero crows. “The mad bastard survived Kalyke somehow!”
The knights, solemn and fixed on the battle to come only moments ago, erupt into mania as Diomedes lands in their ranks. The Ganymedeans and Ionians swarm him with so many kisses and embraces that Diomedes has to shove his way through the throng. Only Gaia remains on her knee. She stays there until Diomedes trudges up. He glances at me with a hard smile, and then back to his grandmother. His eyes soften when he sees she is sobbing. He falls to his knees and wraps his big arms around the old woman. Together the two weep and I stand there elated, but wondering.
I am at a loss for words.
“Smile, man,” Cicero says and jostles me. “Look at the Rim. Their champion’s back. They’ll fight like dauntless gods.”
“Yes,” Pallas says from his side, far more thoughtful. “Smile, Lysander.”
I wait for Diomedes to pull back from his grandmother’s embrace. He doesn’t seem eager to do so. It’s the old woman who finally pulls away. Cupping his face in her hands, she kisses him on the brow. “You live. My darling. My little storm.”
“Thanks entirely to Lysander,” Diomedes says and nods to me.
I return the nod, still baffled.
He lifts his voice so the commanders can hear him. “Apologies. I am late. I answered Lune’s summons with all haste. I did not want to miss the battle.”
He turns to me, stern, and shakes my hand. His armor is standard Dominion kit and, like his cloak, recently painted gray. “Salve, Lysander. I thought you dead at Kalyke.”
“And I you. Your pod made it through the battle. A miracle.”
“Apparently we’re both hard men to kill,” he says.
“How did you survive?” I ask, and realize our stories will not match up. Those discrepancies may prove troublesome.
“Impacted on a hull. Floated in space. Nearly froze to death. Enslaved by scavengers. Chased by Obsidian. Boring stuff until I saw your broadcast,” he says. “Grandmother, I wish we had more time, but battle is near and I don’t wish to slow the army.” He grips my arm. “Something is wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Your kit. You saved my life. You have kept your word and protected the Garter. When you fight our foe, you should be carrying the Shield of Akari.” He grins. I am stunned. “Come.”
* * *
—
My Praetorians follow along as Diomedes and I fly east of Plutus. He touches down in the high gardens etched into the side of a dormant volcano. I land next to him in the grass before a discreet door in the stone. He removes his helmet and breathes in the air. It still smells of smoke, but notes of cherry blossoms and citrus cut through the lingering stench of battle.
We head for the shrine and my Praetorians follow. He turns with a frown. “Only Golds are allowed inside.”
“Of course. Kyber, Markus. Wait here.”
Kyber obeys, but Markus’s eyes narrow.
I fall in with Diomedes. “I feared many of your relics would be stolen in the sack of Io,” I say.
“It is not always good to draw attention to precious things,” he replies and spits on the door. He smiles at my expression. The door does not open, but another one does ten meters to the right. I follow Diomedes through.
The sanctum is cold and lit with green globes. Somewhere water rushes. Diomedes leads me through an antechamber and down a stairwell. “I did not think it proper to ask for the shield until after the threat was gone,” I say, growing a little uneasy.
“Lysander, I have always treated you with respect. Do me that same courtesy,” he says.
I stop on the stairs. Diomedes has played me. “The shield is not here.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he replies. He has stopped as well, beneath me on the stairs, but has not turned around. I have my razor. I could strike him down.
“Whatever you heard, I didn’t know about Kalyke. About any of this,” I say.
“Any of what?” he asks softly.
“Diomedes—”
“Say his name.”
“Atlas.”
“You know how I knew it was him, in the end? Back on Mercury. When he met us at the theater. He couldn’t resist mocking us. ‘Had I a moonBreaker in my palm, I’d shake even the devil’s hand with a grin.’ He is only a mortal man, Lysander. He errs, too.” He looks up at me. His eyes glint in the low light, measuring me. “I know you came out here for unity. That much is clear. You honored our alliance, and you had no knowledge of my uncle’s attack on the Dustmaker. After Kalyke it must have been either Atlas’s version of unity or death. If it was not you, he would hand the Morning Chair to Atalantia. I believe I understand why you chose what you chose.”
I feel ashamed, but there’s some relief in his words. The incisive fairness.
“It’s not what you would have chosen,” I say.
He smiles. “I would never have been given that choice. I’m not known as a man to compromise. I am working on that.”
“Have you told anyone else?” I ask.
“No. It can remain that way. It depends on the outcome of this conversation.” He walks on down. I frown, not understanding. “Honor does not mean I am absent discretion.”
I could run. I am very fast, but so is Diomedes. I doubt he would chase me, even then. He does not need to. He knows I have to follow, so I do. The stairs even lead out to a subterranean garden. Shafts of sunlight lance through the gloom and gather on strange chunks of stone which glow to spread the light evenly. The room pulses with a bluish white light. Several indigo rose trees reach for the nearest shafts. The air is fragrant, kind. In the center of the garden lies a stone shrine.
“You’ve had my back. Now I have yours,” Diomedes says and motions me to lead into the shrine. I walk up the steps. He follows. The walls of the shrine are composed of ionic columns and open. Passing through them into the dimmer light of the shrine I become aware of a scent. It is a heavy scent. A nostalgic scent. Wet fur. I’m taken back to that night on the Palatine when I saw a wolf floating outside my window. I step backward. Diomedes forms a wall behind me. Gently, he pushes me forward. Then I see the shrine’s lone occupant sitting on a bench by a white rose tree with a twirling trunk that spears its way through the shrine’s roof. Light lances in from many directions.