The Ambassador of the Gods

1. The History of Loyalty

-- 1st July 2008 --

Eight months ago Percy had pulled Nico aside into the dining pavilion, and told him Bianca was dead.

Six months ago, Minos had pretended to offhandedly mention a way a soul could be brought back to the land of the living.

Two and a half weeks ago, Percy Jackson blew up Mount Saint Helens, caused an earthquake in Washington, and displaced half a million people.

Three days ago they had won a war for Camp Half-Blood against the forces of the Titan Lord of Time, emerging from the ancient Labyrinth.

Nico had had all the opportunity for a break these past few days, but he still felt hopelessly tired, like he was constantly out of breath. Maybe just this ash, he thought. It was probably better for his health to be taking shallow breaths in the Fields of Punishment anyway.

At the entrance of the Underworld, the spirits had given him a wide berth on the bank of the River Styx. Charon had stopped his boat next to him and none of the souls attempted to board, so Nico took the hint. Charon pushed them together off down the black, polluted water.

"Facilis descensus Averno," the boatman said finally, in a gravelly-sharp voice.

It was faintly familiar. Nico glanced back. "Sorry?"

"The descent into Hell is easy," Charon said. The boatman's eyes bore into his.

Nico had eventually turned back with the slightest chuckle, which was clearly a sign his sense of humour was deteriorating. Most demigods would disagree with anything involving the Underworld being easy; but Nico wasn't most demigods, was he? Every time he reached out to the shadows an internal compass tugged him in its opinion of home. If not for Minos's advice, he might have come here the first time he shadow-travelled.

Terrible opinion, if he had any say. If middle-of-nowhere Westover Hall with a manticore as a teacher hadn't been home, the massive palace of gold-marbled black stone and a garden of jewels and its leagues and leagues of ghost attendants had no chance.

Not that Nico had any idea what his home had looked like. Any further back than arriving at the Lotus Casino, all he could summon was rushing water, flashes of darkness and light, and a nausea that overwhelmed him with the urge to throw up. His only consolation was that if there turned out to be worse things in this place than memory magic, he could go anywhere in the world with shadow-travel. So far, it had just been lies stacked on confusion all wrapped up in a stress sandwich.

Maybe after this war...

Nico stopped. Off the black-paved path he was walking, was a little footpath in the ash with a small white gate at the end, flanked on both sides by grey walls that had been stained dark by the dust.

The lock was made of gold, and it had just popped open for him.

He went to it and touched the lock: like Stygian iron, it was icy cold in the heat of Punishment. Clearly these paths were only for him (what other kind of demigod would take a stroll in the Field of Punishment?), but only some of these gates had been free to pass through. Others were padlocked and chained immovably; even as a son of Hades, he didn't have clearance to those places. So what had just changed for him to suddenly be allowed in here?

The title wrought in an arch over the gate said 'A History of Loyalty' and under it in small block gold letters 'CURATED COLLECTION'.

"Not ominous at all," Nico muttered, as he gripped the strap of his backpack and pushed through the gate.

He didn't expect what he saw inside. Right in the middle of the corridor was a lectern and a thick book laying open to the latest entry: like a visitor's book, but with a column for a name and for a time period, and then one headed 'Room Number'. The pages were filled all the way up to room 85.