Of Poseidon (29 page)

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I turn to the rustling sound beside me. Rayna is wrestling 0—

with the airbag like it has attacked her instead of saved her life.

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“What is this thing?” she wails, pushing it out of her way and opening the door.

One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . .

“Well, are you just going to sit there? We have a long walk home. You’re not hurt are you? Because I can’t carry you.” Three Mississippi . . . four Mississippi . . .

“What are those fl ashing blue lights down there?”

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22

IT’S ALMOST a straight shot from the Jersey Shore to the Cave of Memories, where the Archives live. Galen reaches it within hours. Above him, the thick Arctic ice serves as a fi rst defense against the prying eyes of the humans.

For centuries stacked on centuries, the miles- thick layers of frozen past was the only defense needed. Now, though, humans have fi gured out how to send down their robotic cameras. Many of the ancient Syrena relics, which once sat out on the seafl oor in plain view, were moved to chambers of the cave. Which is a shame, since access to the cave is restricted to Royals and Archives.

He passes a site where huge Roman columns used to loom over Syrena visitors, as if in welcome. Now it’s just an aban-

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doned plot of ocean fl oor, gray and cold for more reasons than 0—

the temperature. Galen shakes his head. Humans really do ruin

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everything. No, he tells himself. Most humans ruin everything.

Not all.

He reaches the portal of the cavern. Two Syrena trackers allow him entry without question. No doubt they sensed him before he even made it as far as Greenland. The narrow portal opens into a wide corridor that looks like a giant jaw full of thin, sharp teeth. The rocks growing down from the top almost touch the growths from the bottom. Galen hopes that if humans ever do infi ltrate this site, they’ll feel like a meal.

Even if they dared to travel past the mouth and into the belly, they’d be hard- pressed to fi nd anything foreign that hadn’t been a natural part of this place for thousands of years. The Cave of Memories spans for hundreds of miles, a maze of passages and tunnels and chambers. Some are too narrow for even an eel to slip through. Others could accommodate an army of humans.

The relics, the history of Galen’s kind, are hidden away in the deepest parts, through the most complicated passageways. Finding the way out would be impossible, even with the most advanced human technology.

But the Syrena have a natural tool to guide them: sensing.

The Archives no longer need sensing in the cave; having exercised and stretched their memories to full capacity, they can fi nd their way without it. Galen grins, thinking of Emma’s irritated expression at learning Syrena have photographic memories, according to Dr. Milligan. She’d almost fallen out of her chair when Galen scored higher than her on their fi rst calculus test.

As he rounds a narrow bend, Galen picks up on Romul’s

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pulse and follows it through another convoluted mess of passages.

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Romul is waiting for him in the ceremony chamber, the place where mating rec ords are kept. Galen has never found Romul here before. He wonders if it might have something to do with Paca’s lineage . Is he trying to prove she has royal blood?

Romul bows before Galen, but it’s Galen who feels humble.

“Ah, my favorite of the Royals,” Romul says. “How do things go with you, young Galen?”

“I’m well, Romul. Thank you.”

“What brings you to this distant part of existence, my prince?

More importantly, how may I be of ser vice to you?”

“I need some information about the humans again, Romul,” Galen says without hesitation. He’s still wary of Romul’s involvement in Grom’s search for Paca, but asking about the humans is one of Galen’s most common requests. Romul isn’t likely to suspect anything unusual, especially since Galen is ambassador to the humans.

Romul smiles and nods, his black hair long and wispy. “Of course, my prince. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to view the Tartessos remains. I have questions about the Half Breeds.”

Romul raises a surprised brow. “As you wish, young prince.

This way, please.”

Galen follows his mentor deeper into the cave. They pass the Scroll Room, which is an inaccurate title for what’s contained there. The fragile papyrus scrolls of mankind’s lost civi-lizations have long since disintegrated, but the freezing waters

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of the Arctic keep the other records— tablets, pottery, jewelry, 0—

and sometimes whole walls of hieroglyphics—well- preserved.

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The freezing temperatures also keep the Tomb Chamber—

the giant catacomb of Syrena dead— intact. Galen has never been in the tomb himself, but Rayna used to visit their mother in the fi rst few years after she died. The tomb ensures that Syrena remains will never fall into human hands. Galen shudders as he thinks of the worldwide search that would surely ensue if a Syrena body— or even a bone— were to wash up on a beach somewhere.

They reach the Civic Chamber, the biggest of all the chambers where the ruins of cities are kept. Galen has been here before, many times, but never with a human eye, so to speak. Or rather, the eye of a half breed. Emma could get lost in here for days, maybe months. And he’d love to bring her here to do just that.

Romul leads him past the large remnants of Alexandria, Egypt, and artifacts from Cleopatra’s quarters. Past some ancient temples of Thailand, painstakingly removed from their underwater site and rebuilt here in the Cave of Memories. Past a towering pyramid deconstructed centuries ago off the coast of the island called Japan and reestablished here for a well- deserved eternity. Finally, they reach Tartessos, perhaps the most important of all the cities here, because of its connection to their kind.

Out of them all, Tartessos is the most intact city. Built like an enormous target, the metropolis would have been circular, with streets curving around the central structures. Romul and Galen cross the fi rst salvaged bridge, whose water now fl ows

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over it instead of under it. They swim past statue after statue of

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Poseidon himself— or at least, the humans’ version of him. Even fractured and chipped, missing pieces of tails and parts of his trident, the statues are striking.

The Syrena commissioned for the task of re- creating the roads proved meticulous in placing each recovered cobblestone paver into a perfect sphere of winding paths leading to the palace in the middle. Though gliding through the water above it, Galen and Romul follow the fragmented road as they pass build-ings and fountains and public baths. Galen can easily imagine an ancient population bringing life to this desolate, inanimate place, exchanging their abundance of gold, silver, and copper for food, clothing, and ser vices. But what about people who look like Emma?

Galen gets his answer as they round the last bend to the palace. His breath catches as they approach a wall he’s seen a thousand times before but never really looked at. Images of humans sacrifi cing large bulls in honor of Poseidon. Most of them have black hair, olive skin, violet eyes. Rigid lines are drawn on their torsos, probably to emphasize their physiques. But in the corner of the panorama, there are other humans. Humans he’s never noticed before because their outlines almost blend in with the wall. White skin. White hair. Violet eyes. Humans who look like Emma.

Galen clears his throat. “These humans here,” he says, running his fi nger over one whose soft curves remind him of her.

“Who are they?”

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“My prince, none of the images on this wall are of humans.

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These are our Syrena brethren in their human forms. And these,”

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he says, his voice fi lled with disdain, “are the Half Breeds. These in par tic u lar, sired of Poseidon himself.” Galen stiff ens against the bitterness in Romul’s tone.

“Right. I think you mentioned them before. Something about abominations . . . I can’t remember exactly. Why were they hated?” Romul shakes his head. “They themselves were not hated.

No, my young friend. In fact, Poseidon loved his half- human off spring very much. That was part of the problem. Many of our brethren sacrifi ced themselves for their human mates.”

“Sacrifi ced themselves? What do you mean?”

“It is in our collective memory that many of our ancestors chose to spend most of their time on land,” another voice calls from behind them. Galen and Romul turn to see Atta, an archive of the house of Poseidon.

Romul smiles warmly at her. In the Cave of Memories, there is no division of houses. “Atta, welcome.” He turns back to Galen.

“Yes, she is correct, young friend.”

“But what’s wrong with that? Spending time on land?” Galen wishes he would have phrased the question better; it sounds a little like questioning the law. Like treason.

“Our bodies are not suited for land, my prince,” Atta says, skimming her small hand along the wall in a sort of reverential way. “The . . . heaviness . . . on land makes our bodies work harder than they do in the water. It makes us age faster.”

“Heaviness?” Galen says, mulling over what she could mean.

He turns to Romul. “Is she talking about gravity?” Of course.

That’s why he’s so tired at the end of a school day. It takes more

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energy to move his body around on land than fl oating, almost

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weightless, in the water. Much more energy. A small fl ick of his fi n gets him triple the distance than using the same eff ort to move his human legs.

Romul nods. “Yes, gravity, very good, Galen. The Syrena population began to decrease very rapidly, because many of our brethren chose to stay on land with their human mates and die a human death. Triton knew if that continued, our kind would eventually disappear.”

It makes us age faster. Galen remembers what Dr. Milligan said about heart rates. The faster the heart rate, the shorter the life.

During this last visit, Dr. Milligan had said Galen’s heart rate was faster than when he’d checked it just months before. Because I’ve been spending so much time on land.

His throat constricts. “These Half Breeds. What were they like?”

Atta and Romul exchange a look. Romul says, “I’m afraid we don’t understand the question, my prince.”

“What I mean is, were they able to change into Syrena form?

Did any of Poseidon’s half- human off spring inherit his gift?” Romul knits his brows. Atta folds her hands in front of her.

She says, “Not that we recall, Highness. It is our shared understanding that the Half Breeds were never able to change into form. It is thought that none inherited Poseidon’s Gift.”

“It’s thought? You’re not sure?” Galen says, his frustration growing.