The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(70)

“If he’s so minor,” Reyna said, “why do you look so scared?”

A bit of my old Olympian haughtiness surged through me. Mortals. They could never understand.

“Ptolemaic gods are awful,” I said. “They’re unpredictable, temperamental, dangerous, insecure—”

“Like a normal god, then,” Meg said.

“I hate you,” I said.

“I thought you loved me.”

“I’m multitasking. Roses were this god’s symbol. I—I don’t remember why. A connection to Venus? He was in charge of secrets. In the old days, if leaders hung a rose from the ceiling of a conference room, it meant everybody in that conversation was sworn to secrecy. They called it sub rosa, under the rose.”

“So you know all that,” Reyna said, “but you don’t know the god’s name?”

“I—He’s—” A frustrated growl rose from my throat. “I almost have it. I should have it. But I haven’t thought about this god in millennia. He’s very obscure. It’s like asking me to remember the name of a particular backup singer I worked with during the Renaissance. Perhaps if you hadn’t kicked me in the head—”

“After that story about Koronis?” Reyna said. “You deserved it.”

“You did,” Meg agreed.

I sighed. “You two are horrible influences on each other.”

Without taking their eyes off me, Reyna and Meg gave each other a silent high five.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Maybe the Arrow of Dodona can help jog my memory. At least he insults me in flowery Shakespearean language.”

I drew the arrow from my quiver. “O prophetic missile, I need your guidance!”

There was no answer.

I wondered if the arrow had been lulled to sleep by the magic surrounding the storage container. Then I realized there was a simpler explanation. I returned the arrow to my quiver and pulled out a different one.

“You chose the wrong arrow, didn’t you?” Meg guessed.

“No!” I snapped. “You just don’t understand my process. I’m going back into the sphere of silence now.”

“But—”

I marched away before Meg could finish.

Only when I was I surrounded by cold silence again did it occur to me that it might be hard to carry on a conversation with the arrow if I couldn’t talk.

No matter. I was too proud to retreat. If the arrow and I couldn’t communicate telepathically, I would just pretend to have an intelligent conversation while Reyna and Meg looked on.

“O prophetic missile!” I tried again. My vocal cords vibrated, though no sound came out—a disturbing sensation I can only compare to drowning. “I need your guidance!”

CONGRATULATIONS, said the arrow. Its voice resonated in my head—more tactile than audible—rattling my eyeballs.

“Thanks,” I said. “Wait. Congratulations for what?”

THOU HAST FOUND THY GROOVE. AT LEAST THE BEGINNINGS OF THY GROOVE. I SUSPECTED THIS WOULD BE SO, GIVEN TIME. CONGRATULATIONS ARE MERITED.

“Oh.” I stared at the arrow’s point, waiting for a but. None came. I was so surprised, I could only stutter, “Th-thanks.”

THOU ART MOST WELCOME.

“Did we just have a polite exchange?”

AYE, the arrow mused. MOST TROUBLING. BY THE BY, WHAT “PROCESS” WERT THOU SPEAKING OF TO YON MAIDENS? THOU HAST NO PROCESS SAVE FUMBLING.

“Here we go,” I muttered. “Please, my memory needs a jump start. This soundless god…he’s that guy from Egypt, isn’t he?”

WELL-REASONED, SIRRAH, the arrow said. THOU HAST NARROWED IT DOWN TO ALL THE GUYS IN EGYPT.

“You know what I mean. There was that—that one Ptolemaic god. The strange dude. He was a god of silence and secrets. But he wasn’t, exactly. If you can just give me his name, I think the rest of my memories will shake loose.”

IS MY WISDOM SO CHEAPLY BOUGHT? DOST THOU EXPECT TO WIN HIS NAME WITH NO EFFORT?

“What do you call climbing Sutro Tower?” I demanded. “Getting slashed to pieces by ravens, kicked in the face, and forced to sing like Dean Martin?”

AMUSING.

I may have yelled a few choice words, but the sphere of silence censored them, so you will have to use your imagination.

“Fine,” I said. “Can you at least give me a hint?”

VERILY, THE NAME DOTH BEGIN WITH AN H.

“Hephaestus…Hermes…Hera…A lot of gods’ names begin with H!”

HERA? ART THOU SERIOUS?

“I’m just brainstorming. H, you say….”

THINK OF THY FAVORITE PHYSICIAN.

“Me. Wait. My son Asclepius.”

The arrow’s sigh rattled my entire skeleton. YOUR FAVORITE MORTAL PHYSICIAN.

“Doctor Kildare. Doctor Doom. Doctor House. Doctor—Oh! You mean Hippocrates. But he’s not a Ptolemaic god.”

THOU ART KILLING ME, the arrow complained. “HIPPOCRATES” IS THY HINT. THE NAME THOU SEEKEST IS MOST LIKE IT. THOU NEEDEST BUT CHANGE TWO LETTERS.

“Which two?” I felt petulant, but I’d never enjoyed word puzzles, even before my horrific experience in the Burning Maze.

I SHALL GIVE THEE ONE LAST HINT, said the arrow. THINK OF THY FAVORITE MARX BROTHER.