Son of Zeus Page 5

  AND SO Dak went at it, spilling everything in a torrent of information that barely left him time to take proper breaths. About the Great Breaks, Aristotle’s belief that they needed to be corrected, his belief in eventual time travel, how the Hystorians came into existence because of his vision, the SQ . . . everything. After he’d told the story of the far future and how he and his friends had been sent back in time to set things right — and to find his missing parents — he quickly went through the list of the Breaks they’d conquered so far. And then it was time for the kicker. The final task.

  “In three weeks,” Dak said, “an assassin is going to kill King Philip and his son Alexander the Third.” The look of complete horror that transformed Aristotle’s face made Dak stop before he went any further.

  The man appeared as if he might cry. His lip trembled, his eyes grew dark, his entire body seemed to shrink.

  “This can’t be,” he said, his steady, regal voice cracking for the first time. “I taught the boy, practically raised him through the better part — the most important part — of his youth. He’s . . . destined to do great, great things. Change the world. I know it, in my heart, without any doubt. This . . . this can’t be.”

  Dak had expected the philosopher to be troubled, but the reaction went far beyond his wildest expectations. Aristotle looked like a man who’d just been told his son had been killed. Which, evidently, was for all intents and purposes what had happened. The man was visibly traumatized.

  But then he composed himself, the stately leader and teacher regaining his footing. He stood tall, brushed at his robes, then sat back down again, ramrod straight, looking as if he’d never been bothered at all. Dak’s admiration grew.

  “Your words ring true,” Aristotle said, “and if this truly did . . . or does . . . happen, then my reaction is exactly as your Hystorians have taught you. Such a thing would devastate me, indeed, and I’d do anything to reverse that course.” He paused. “We’ve had trouble lately. Strangers appearing, wreaking havoc. Strangers who are nothing like Greeks or Macedonians at all.”

  Dak and his friends exchanged looks. The dude at the fountain. Tilda was up to something, no doubt.

  “It’s why my guards have been so vigilant,” Aristotle continued. “So vicious. I ordered them to be so. I wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of the League and our plans for this great nation and the world.” His eyes found Sera’s. “Can you show me the device? Your words do ring true, but it would be foolish for me not to have the proof of it.”

  Sera was digging through her satchel before he’d even finished his last sentence. Dak found he couldn’t wait for the philosopher to hold a piece of the future, right there in his hands.

  The Ring was dented but shiny, and it glowed with an inner light. Dak knew there could be no doubt such a thing came from a distant future. Aristotle held the device, turning it over and over, studying it with a look of pure wonder.

  “Oh, that my master was still here with us,” the philosopher said. “If Plato could have seen this, he and I would have spent a year and a day talking over it. I miss the man. I miss him like my own father.” He finally — almost reluctantly — gave it back to Sera. “Tell me more of what you know about Alexander’s death. If the only thing you’ve come here to ask of me today is to prevent my student from being murdered . . . Well, you could have saved your breath about all the rest. I would do anything for that boy. Though he’s a man now, I suppose. A man grown, and a great one at that.”

  A rush of excitement had started to fill Dak’s bones. They were on the cusp now — the cusp of finishing what they’d started for the Hystorians. It was right here for the taking. With Aristotle’s help, stopping the assassin should be relatively easy. If nothing else, the philosopher could just tell his former student to stay hidden in the wings, to avoid seeing his father for a while.

  They could do this. They could really do this! Prevent the Cataclysm. One look at Sera and the light in her eyes showed she was thinking the same thing.

  Riq spoke up. “Like Dak said, it’s supposed to happen in about three weeks. The assassin, Pausanius, plans to kill King Philip with poison, right there in his big ol’ tent where he and his army are camped, preparing for their huge assault on Asia Minor. The oopsie part is that Alexander will be there, on a surprise visit, and Pausanius will end up killing them both.”

  “Now, wait a moment,” Aristotle said, leaning forward with a look of worry on his face. “Two concerns. One, Pausanius seems an unlikely man for the job. He’s been a loyal bodyguard for Philip for years. He must be manipulated by someone else. And I would wager every minute I ever spent with Plato that Attalas is the man behind the murder. He’s been ambitious from day one for his grandson, Karanos, to become the hegemon some day. And it would do him no good unless he killed both Philip and Alexander.”

  “Which is exactly what happens,” Riq rebutted.

  “Yes, but you said that Pausanius didn’t know — doesn’t know I should say — that Alexander will be there. If this is about installing Karanos as king, I highly doubt the conspirators would plan the attack unless they knew for sure that both father and son would fall together. I can promise you that they would never have another opportunity after one murder or the other done alone.”

  Dak was itching — almost literally — to take over from there, but with some spark of kindness dredged up from the bottom of his depths, he let Riq have the fun.

  “That’s the key, sir,” Riq said. “According to our history books, everyone agrees with you and thinks that Attalas is behind the murder, but it’s a cover-up. The true mastermind is Olympias.”

  “The boy’s mother?” Aristotle asked in a rage, almost as if he’d been accused himself.

  Riq nodded, and so did Dak when the philosopher looked at him for confirmation of the shocking news.

  “She was even more ambitious than Attalas,” Sera added. “She wanted Alexander to be king, and she wanted it immediately. She didn’t want to wait for Philip to die or be killed. The plan obviously backfires.”

  Dak felt like he had to throw something out there. “As for Pausanius, it’s true he is the king’s bodyguard, but a lot of people will do anything for the right money. Or for power. We’ve learned that the hard way.”

  Aristotle scratched his beard. “My heart can scarcely bear it. I love Olympias as well. She is a sweet, sweet woman, who thinks the world of her son.”

  “Sounds like a Shakespeare play,” Dak mused. “Mother arranges for her son to be king, but her schemes end up killing him.”

  “Shakespeare?” Aristotle repeated.

  “Never mind.”

  Sera rubbed her hands together. “So . . . you probably have a lot of influence with Alexander still. Right? All we need to do is make sure you keep him away from his father and away from Pausanius.”

  “Yeah,” Dak said. “Easy-peasy.” He wasn’t sure that translated too well because the philosopher’s eyes wrinkled up in confusion.

  But then the man let out a huge breath and leaned back in his stool once again. “So be it. As I’ve said, I’ll do anything to prevent this murder. I didn’t spend all those years teaching Alexander just to have him poisoned by a traitor’s hand. I’ll have my people contact him first thing in —”

  The door to the balcony burst open, slamming against the wall and rebounding to knock a man almost clear off his feet. He had black hair and a studious face, which was now lit with something close to terror. His skin was milky pale. Recovering his composure — only slightly — he more gently pushed the door all the way open, then stared at Aristotle expectantly. The philosopher had stood up, and Dak saw a bit of worry bleeding through the man’s normally graceful demeanor.

  “Python,” Aristotle said. “The last time you so interrupted me upon a balcony, it was for great news. Something tells me the winds blow a different and darker direction today.”

  The newcomer looked even graver than when he’d first burst in. “Teacher, I’m afraid
I have horrible, horrible tidings.” He gave a wary look at the three young strangers sitting in the balcony chairs.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Aristotle urged. “Just spit it out, now. What’s happened?”

  Python’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Your former student Alexander. Alexander the Third. Son of our great hegemon —”

  “Yes, I know who he is!” the philosopher snapped. “Is he in danger?”

  Python swallowed and his eyes fell to the floor. “He’s been murdered. Killed by a woman with hair of flames and lips of tar.”

  SERA HAD never felt so stunned by someone’s words. She sat in her chair and stared at the man named Python, wondering if she had heard him correctly. More like, hoping she hadn’t. They were supposed to have three weeks to prevent the Prime Break from happening. And the woman with hair of flames . . .

  “You’re certain of this?” Aristotle asked his servant, after what felt like a very long silence.

  Python nodded, grim-faced. He obviously didn’t enjoy being the one to relay such an awful message.

  Aristotle slumped back onto his stool, every ounce of blood having drained from his face. Even his beard seemed to sag and wilt, along with the rest of his countenance. “How certain, Python? I must know.”

  “They have his body, my master. There can be no doubt.”

  “Then leave us.”

  Sera expected the man to be thrilled to get out of there, but, impossibly, he looked even sadder. “Yes, teacher. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.” Python bowed and left, closing the door as he went.

  “He’s been so good to me,” Aristotle whispered, staring at the stone of the balcony floor. “Been with me for so many years. I should treat him with more kindness.”

  It seemed like an odd thing to say, but Sera felt a little disoriented herself. She knew they had a billion things to talk about now, but she couldn’t find one word to utter. In fact, no one spoke for a good long while.

  “What’re we going to do?” Riq finally asked, a simple enough question. The answer, not so much.

  “Need I ask the obvious?” Aristotle responded. “You came here, told me of an elaborate future wrought with difficulty, and showed me a device that my own eyes are wise enough to tell me is not a ruse. I believe that you three are from another time and place. And yet, you sat there and told me the details of a murder that was to happen three weeks from now. You’ve thrown my mind into a cloud of doubt and mistrust, I must say.” He looked apologetic as he said it, as if he didn’t want to disappoint them. But Sera knew he had every right to think them a bunch of liars now. For all he knew, they were in league with Alexander’s murderer.

  “It’s Tilda,” Dak said. Sera and Riq had been thinking it — what else could they think — but Dak was the first to throw it out there. “We all know it. She came back and took care of business herself before we could even have a chance to fix it. I swear I’m gonna rip every red hair off that woman’s head next time I see her.”

  “That’ll teach her,” Riq muttered under his breath.

  “Tell me of this Tilda,” Aristotle said. “Tell me everything.”

  For once, Dak didn’t seem too eager to spew any information from his over-clogged head, but he did so anyway.

  “Tilda is also a time traveler,” he said. “But she’s with the SQ — the bad guys. She wants the Breaks to happen, because each and every one leads to a future where she’s rich and powerful, never mind the consequences. Alexander’s death is the event that leads to the creation of the SQ. She made sure it happened before any of us would expect it. She beat us at our own game!”

  “And what does that mean for us?” Aristotle asked.

  Sera answered, unable to prevent her mind from picturing the Remnants of her parents, and thinking how the chance of ever seeing them again — of ever getting to know them — might have just been squandered.

  “It means despite our best efforts, the fabric of time and reality has just been . . . ripped, torn. Broken. Tilda has set off a chain reaction that will one day be too much for physics to handle anymore.”

  “And then comes the Cataclysm,” Dak added.

  “Yep,” Sera agreed sadly. “The end of the world.”

  Aristotle was studying them intently as they spoke. “But you were able to fix these other Breaks, correct?”

  Sera nodded.

  “Then maybe having just one go wrong won’t be too much. Maybe . . . Oh, what am I saying. Right now my heart doesn’t care a bit about all of that. I’ve lost one of the most precious people I’ve ever known.”

  And then, shocking everyone, Aristotle — the great and majestic philosopher, master of ethics, teacher, scientist, poet — broke down and started bawling, chest hitching with sobs, tears streaming down his face into that famous beard.

  Sera didn’t know what else to do. She got up and pulled the man into a hug. He certainly didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either. The episode lasted for just a minute or two and then he regained his composure. Sera went back to her chair and sat down, looking at Dak, then Riq. They had to decide what to do, but in everything they’d been through so far, no matter how awful, at least they’d had Hystorians and clues and guides as to what to do next.

  Not so now. They were at the end of the line, and all bets were off. Like never before, Sera and her friends were totally, completely on their own.

  “You know what we have to do, right?” Dak asked.

  Sera did, but the very thought terrified her. “You want to go back in time again. Stop Tilda before she can kill Alexander. But it throws all our plans off — how do we know we won’t alter history even worse? Or set reality up to break a thousand more times? This is uncharted territory.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Riq agreed. “But what else are we going to do? Say ‘Oh, well’ and just go back to the future, hang out on the back porch until our house falls into a river of exploding lava?”

  Sera sighed. “Of course not. I’m just saying it’s scary and we have no idea what to expect. This isn’t a video game we can just reset.”

  “Why are you being so negative?” Dak shot back. In all the years of their friendship, she thought it might be the first time he’d ever truly hurt her feelings. She felt his words like a dagger. “We all know there’s no choice here. Alexander is dead, and Aristotle told us” — he eyed the philosopher with a You-know-what-I-mean glance — “that his dying is the first Break. The Prime Break. The Break that started it all. So nothing else matters. There’s no decision to make. We go back and we save him. Boom, that’s it.”

  Sera wanted to strangle him for sounding so arrogant. The only problem was that her best friend was totally right. What else could they do?

  “Well?” Dak pushed.

  “Quit acting like you just found the cure for cancer,” Riq muttered. “We all know that’s what we have to do.”

  Sera nodded, refusing to let her pride get in the way. She knew that part of her problem was worrying about her parents and the Remnants. It scared her to death to stray from the plan that had seemed to be leading her to an actual reunion with them in the future. But she was being stupid. If the Hystorians were right, then Alexander’s death presented a much bigger problem. It had to be undone, no matter what the cost.

  Dak seemed to sense he’d been a little forceful. “What do you think we should do, Sera?”

  “Go back. Stop Tilda. You’re right.” There, she said it. And the way he nodded in response saved her from any more wounded pride.

  Riq clapped his hands once, loudly, then stood up. “Then let’s get on it.”

  Aristotle rose as well, very slowly, looking back and forth between the other three with a very uncertain expression. “Are we . . . sure about this?”

  Sera and her two friends nodded immediately.

  The philosopher straightened and appeared much more confident. “Then I’m going with you. And I don’t want to hear any argument about it. I’m going and that’s that.”

&
nbsp; Dak blew a loud breath through his lips. “Why would we argue? We need your help, dude.”

  The translator didn’t like that last word so much — it sounded more like a burp.

  Aristotle started walking toward the balcony door. “We’ll find out everything we need to know from Python, and then off we go. I just hope that toy of yours actually works.”

  If Dak could’ve chosen anyone to go on a time-traveling adventure with, it was a no-brainer that it’d be Abraham Lincoln. But Aristotle was a pretty good second choice. After talking to Python for an hour or so and learning everything they possibly could about the details of what had happened, Dak, Sera, Riq, and the philosopher were ready to go back in time — they’d decided on three days to be safe — and stop Tilda.

  The lady with hair of flames and lips of tar.

  It made Dak think of Medusa, who was almost as bad as Tilda.

  They stood on a patch of dirt behind the official stables of the League of Corinth. The sun had started to set in the west, and Aristotle said that he highly doubted there’d be anyone around.

  In the waning light of day, the philosopher stared at the Infinity Ring as Sera pulled it out. “I’ve programmed in the time and the location,” she said.

  Olympias’s palace, Dak thought. The home of Alexander and his mom. Back when this had all begun, if he’d made a list of one million places they might have to visit throughout history, that one probably wouldn’t have made the list.

  “Is this going to hurt?” the philosopher asked as he put his hand on the cool metal of the Ring.

  “No,” Sera answered simply. Dak didn’t know if that was the most honest answer ever, but it seemed to make their famous friend feel better.

  They stood in a circle, the sky above them fading from orange to purple, four right hands clinging to the Infinity Ring in the middle of their group. Sera ignited the device into action and sparkles of light flashed in the air.

  Just before they were swept away, something happened that made Dak’s stomach almost leap through his throat and out of his mouth. About twenty feet away from where they stood, four people suddenly appeared, almost as if they were falling out of the sky, their images flashing into existence just long enough for Dak to see who they were.