The Lost Hero (The Heroes of Olympus #1)(56)

She stirred the air with her finger, and a miniature blizzard swirled around her—big, fluffy flakes as soft as cotton.

“Now, come,” Khione said. The oaken doors blew open, and cold blue light spilled out of the room. “Hopefully you will survive your little talk.”

IF THE ENTRY HALL HAD BEEN COLD, the throne room was like a meat locker.

Mist hung in the air. Jason shivered, and his breath steamed. Along the walls, purple tapestries showed scenes of snowy forests, barren mountains, and glaciers. High above, ribbons of colored light—the aurora borealis—pulsed along the ceiling. A layer of snow covered the floor, so Jason had to step carefully. All around the room stood life-size ice sculpture warriors—some in Greek armor, some medieval, some in modern camouflage—all frozen in various attack positions, swords raised, guns locked and loaded.

At least Jason thought they were sculptures. Then he tried to step between two Greek spearmen, and they moved with surprising speed, their joints cracking and spraying ice crystals as they crossed their javelins to block Jason’s path.

From the far end of the hall, a man’s voice rang out in a language that sounded like French. The room was so long and misty, Jason couldn’t see the other end; but whatever the man said, the ice guards uncrossed their javelins.

“It’s fine,” Khione said. “My father has ordered them not to kill you just yet.”

“Super,” Jason said.

Zethes prodded him in the back with his sword. “Keep moving, Jason Junior.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“My father is not a patient man,” Zethes warned, “and the beautiful Piper, sadly, is losing her magic hairdo very fast. Later, perhaps, I can lend her something from my wide assortment of hair products.”

“Thanks,” Piper grumbled.

They kept walking, and the mist parted to reveal a man on an ice throne. He was sturdily built, dressed in a stylish white suit that seemed woven from snow, with dark purple wings that spread out to either side. His long hair and shaggy beard were encrusted with icicles, so Jason couldn’t tell if his hair was gray or just white with frost. His arched eyebrows made him look angry, but his eyes twinkled more warmly than his daughter’s—as if he might have a sense of humor buried somewhere under that permafrost. Jason hoped so.

“Bienvenu,” the king said. “Je suis Boreas le Roi. Et vous?”

Khione the snow goddess was about to speak, but Piper stepped forward and curtsied.

“Votre Majesté,” she said, “ je suis Piper McLean. Et c’est Jason, fils de Zeus.”

The king smiled with pleasant surprise. “Vous parlez français? Très bien!”

“Piper, you speak French?” Jason asked. Piper frowned. “No. Why?” “You just spoke French.” Piper blinked. “I did?” The king said something else, and Piper nodded. “Oui,

Votre Majesté.”

The king laughed and clapped his hands, obviously delighted. He said a few more sentences then swept his hand toward his daughter as if shooing her away.

Khione looked miffed. “The king says—”

“He says I’m a daughter of Aphrodite,” Piper interrupted, “so naturally I can speak French, which is the language of love. I had no idea. His Majesty says Khione won’t have to translate now.”

Behind them, Zethes snorted, and Khione shot him a murderous look. She bowed stiffly to her father and took a step back.

The king sized up Jason, and Jason decided it would be a good idea to bow. “Your Majesty, I’m Jason Grace. Thank you for, um, not killing us. May I ask … why does a Greek god speak French?”

Piper had another exchange with the king.

“He speaks the language of his host country,” Piper translated. “He says all gods do this. Most Greek gods speak English, as they now reside in the United States, but Boreas was never welcomed in their realm. His domain was always far to the north. These days he likes Quebec, so he speaks French.”

The king said something else, and Piper turned pale.

“The king says …” She faltered. “He says—”

“Oh, allow me,” Khione said. “My father says he has orders to kill you. Did I not mention that earlier?”

Jason tensed. The king was still smiling amiably, like he’d just delivered great news.

“Kill us?” Jason said. “Why?”

“Because,” the king said, in heavily accented English, “my lord Aeolus has commanded it.”

Boreas rose. He stepped down from his throne and furled his wings against his back. As he approached, Khione and Zethes bowed. Jason and Piper followed their example.

“I shall deign to speak your language,” Boreas said, “as Piper McLean has honored me in mine. Toujours, I have had a fondness for the children of Aphrodite. As for you, Jason Grace, my master Aeolus would not expect me to kill a son of Lord Zeus … without first hearing you out.”

Jason’s gold coin seemed to grow heavy in his pocket. If he were forced to fight, he didn’t like his chances. Two seconds at least to summon his blade. Then he’d be facing a god, two of his children, and an army of freeze-dried warriors.

“Aeolus is the master of the winds, right?” Jason asked. “Why would he want us dead?”