The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(92)

‘Well done, brave satyr!’ I cried. ‘Pull us up!’

Grover’s eyes bugged. His face dripped with sweat. He made a whimpering sound that seemed to indicate he didn’t have the strength to pull all three of us out of the pit.

If I survived and became a god again, I would have to talk to the Council of Cloven Elders about adding more physical education classes to satyr school.

I clawed at the wall, hoping to find a convenient rail or emergency exit. There was nothing.

Below me, Meg yelled, ‘REALLY, Apollo? You water hyacinths thoroughly UNLESS you are transplanting them!’

‘How was I supposed to know that?’ I protested.

‘You CREATED hyacinths!’

Ugh. Mortal logic. Just because a god creates something doesn’t mean he understands it. Otherwise, Prometheus would know everything about humans, and I assure you, he does not. I created hyacinths, so I’m supposed to know how to plant and water them?

‘Help!’ Grover squeaked.

His hooves shifted on the tiny crevices. His fingers trembled, his arms shaking as if he were holding the weight of two extra people, which … oh, actually, he was.

The heat from below made it difficult to think. If you’ve ever stood near a barbecue fire, or had your face too close to an open oven, you can imagine that feeling increased a hundredfold. My eyes dried up. My mouth became parched. A few more breaths of scalding air and I would probably lose consciousness.

The fires below seemed to be sweeping across a stone floor. The drop itself would not be fatal. If only there were a way to turn off the fires …

An idea came to me – a very bad idea, which I blamed on my boiling brain. Those flames were fuelled by the essence of Helios. If some small bit of his consciousness remained … it was theoretically possible that I could communicate with him. Perhaps, if I touched the fires directly, I could convince him that we were not the enemy and he should let us live. I would probably have a luxurious three nanoseconds to accomplish this before dying in agony. Besides, if I fell, my friends might stand a chance of climbing out. After all, I was the heaviest person in our party, thanks to Zeus’s cruel curse of flab.

Terrible, terrible idea. I would never have had the courage to try it had I not thought of Jason Grace, and what he had done to save me.

‘Meg,’ I said, ‘can you attach yourself to the wall?’

‘Do I look like Spider-Man?’ she yelled back.

Very few people look as good in tights as Spider-Man. Meg was certainly not one of them.

‘Use your swords!’ I called.

Holding my ankle with just one hand, she summoned a scimitar. She stabbed at the wall – once, twice. The curve of the blade did not make her job easy. On the third strike, however, the point sank deep into the rock. She gripped the hilt and let go of my ankle, holding herself above the flames with only her sword. ‘What now?’

‘Stay put!’

‘I can do that!’

‘Grover!’ I yelled up. ‘You can drop me now, but don’t worry. I have a –’

Grover dropped me.

Honestly, what sort of protector just drops you into a fire when you tell him it’s okay to drop you into a fire? I expected a long argument, during which I would assure him that I had a plan to save myself and them. I expected protests from Grover and Meg (well, maybe not from Meg) about how I shouldn’t sacrifice myself for their sake, how I couldn’t possibly survive the flames, and so on. But nope. He dumped me without a thought.

At least it gave me no time for second-guessing.

I couldn’t torture myself with doubts like What if this doesn’t work? What if I cannot survive the solar fires that used to be second nature to me? What if this lovely prophecy we are piecing together, about me dying in the tomb of Tarquin, does NOT automatically mean that I will not die today, in this horrible Burning Maze?

I don’t remember hitting the floor.

My soul seemed to detach from my body. I found myself thousands of years back in time, on the very first morning I became the god of the sun.

Overnight, Helios had vanished. I didn’t know what final prayer to me as the god of the sun had finally tipped the balance – banishing the old Titan to oblivion while promoting me to his spot – but here I was at the Palace of the Sun.

Terrified and nervous, I pushed open the doors of the throne room. The air burned. The light blinded me.

Helios’s oversize golden throne stood empty, his cloak draped over the armrest. His helm, whip and gilded shoes sat on the dais, ready for their master. But the Titan himself was simply gone.

I am a god, I told myself. I can do this.

I strode towards the throne, willing myself not to combust. If I ran out of the palace screaming with my toga on fire the very first day on the job, I would never hear the end of it.

Slowly, the fires receded before me. By force of will, I grew in size until I could comfortably wear the helm and cloak of my predecessor.

I didn’t try out the throne, though. I had a job to do, and very little time.

I glanced at the whip. Some trainers say you should never show kindness with a new team of horses. They will see you as weak. But I decided to leave the whip. I would not start my new position as a harsh taskmaster.

I strode into the stable. The sun chariot’s beauty brought tears to my eyes. The four sun horses stood already harnessed, their hooves polished gold, their manes rippling fire, their eyes molten ingots.