The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(94)

Floating on the surface of the ichor were large stone tiles, each about five feet square, making columns and rows that had no logical patterns.

‘It’s a crossword,’ Grover said.

Of course he was right. Unfortunately, none of the stone bridges connected with our little balcony. Nor did any of them lead to the opposite side of the room, where the Sibyl of Erythraea sat forlornly on her stone platform. Her home wasn’t any better than a solitary-confinement cell. She’d been provided with a bed, a table and a toilet. (And, yes, even immortal Sibyls need to use the toilet. Some of their best prophecies come to them … Never mind.)

My heart ached to see Herophile in such conditions. She looked exactly as I remembered her: a young woman with braided auburn hair and pale skin, her solid athletic build a tribute to her hardy naiad mother and her stout shepherd father. The Sibyl’s white robes were stained with smoke and spotted with cinder burns. She was intently watching an entrance on the wall to her left, so she didn’t seem to notice us.

‘That’s her?’ Meg whispered.

‘Unless you see another Oracle,’ I said.

‘Well, then talk to her.’

I wasn’t sure why I had to do all the work, but I cleared my throat and yelled across the boiling lake of ichor, ‘Herophile!’

The Sibyl jumped to her feet. Only then did I notice the chains – molten links, just as I’d seen in my visions, shackled to her wrists and ankles, anchoring her to the platform and allowing her just enough room to move from one side to the other. Oh, the indignity!

‘Apollo!’

I’d been hoping her face might light up with joy when she saw me. Instead, she looked mostly shocked.

‘I thought you would come through the other …’ Her voice seized up. She grimaced with concentration, then blurted out, ‘Seven letters, ends in Y.’

‘Doorway?’ Grover guessed.

Across the surface of the lake, stone tiles ground and shifted formation. One block wedged itself against our little platform. Half a dozen more stacked up beyond it, making a seven-tile bridge extending into the room. Glowing golden letters appeared along the tiles, starting with a Y at our feet: DOORWAY.

Herophile clapped excitedly, jangling her molten chains. ‘Well done! Hurry!’

I was not anxious to test my weight on a stone raft floating over a burning lake of ichor, but Meg strode right out, so Grover and I followed.

‘No offence, Miss Lady,’ Meg called to the Sibyl, ‘but we already almost fell into one lava fire thingie. Could you just make a bridge from here to there without more puzzles?’

‘I wish I could!’ said Herophile. ‘This is my curse! It’s either talk like this or stay completely –’ She gagged. ‘Nine letters. Fifth letter is D.’

‘Quiet!’ Grover yelled.

Our raft rumbled and rocked. Grover windmilled his arms and might have fallen off had Meg not caught him. Thank goodness for short people. They have low centres of gravity.

‘Not quiet!’ I yelped. ‘That is not our final answer! That would be idiotic, since quiet is only five letters and doesn’t even have a D.’ I glared at the satyr.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I got excited.’

Meg studied the tiles. In the frames of her glasses, her rhinestones glinted red. ‘Quietude?’ she suggested. ‘That’s nine letters.’

‘First of all,’ I said, ‘I’m impressed you know that word. Second, context. “Stay completely quietude” doesn’t make sense. Also, the D would be in the wrong place.’

‘Then what’s the answer, smarty-god?’ she demanded. ‘And don’t get it wrong this time.’

Such unfairness! I tried to come up with synonyms for quiet. I couldn’t think of many. I liked music and poetry. Silence really wasn’t my thing.

‘Soundless,’ I said at last. ‘That’s got to be it.’

The tiles rewarded us by forming a second bridge – nine across, SOUNDLESS, connecting to the first bridge by the D. Unfortunately, since the new bridge led sideways, it got us no closer to the Oracle’s platform.

‘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.’