Andromeda Jackson

Andy

If the entry hall was cold, the throne room is like a meat locker.

Mist hangs in the air. I shiver, and my breath steams. Along the walls, purple tapestries show scenes of snowy forests, barren mountains, and glaciers. High above, ribbons of colored light—the aurora borealis—pulse along the ceiling. A layer of snow covers the floor, so I have to step carefully. All around the room stand 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 I think they're sculptures. Then Jason tries to step between two Greek spearmen, and they move with surprising speed, their joints cracking and spraying ice crystals as they cross their javelins to block Jason's path.

From the far end of the hall, a man's voice rings out in a language that sounds like French. The room is so long and misty, I can't see the other end; but I can sense it. It's like I can feel the mist in the room, and it's telling me where things are. I can feel the god at the end of the hall, but it's unnerving that I can't see him. Whatever he says, the ice guards uncross their javelins.

"It's fine," Khione says. "My father has ordered them not to kill you just yet."

"Super," I say.

Zethes prods Jason in the back with his sword. "Keep moving, Jason Junior."

"Please don't call me that."

"My father is not a patient man," Zethes warns, "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 grumbles.

We keep walking, and the mist parts to reveal a man on an ice throne. He's sturdily built, dressed in a stylish white suit that seems woven from snow, with dark purple wings that spread out to either side. His long hair and shaggy beard are encrusted with icicles, so I can't tell if his hair is gray or just white with frost. His arched eyebrows make him look angry, but his eyes twinkle more warmly than his daughter's—as if he might have a sense of humor buried somewhere under that permafrost. I hope so.

"Bienvenu," the king says. "Je suis Boreas le Roi. Et vous?"

Khione the snow goddess is about to speak, but Piper steps forward and curtsies.

"Votre Majesté," she says, "je suis Piper McLean. Et c'est Jason, fils de Zeus."

The king smiles with pleasant surprise. "Vous parlez français? Très bien!"

"Piper, you speak French?" Jason asks.

Piper frowns. "No. Why?"

"You just spoke French." I tell her.

Piper blinks. "I did?"

The king says something else, and Piper nods. "Oui, Votre Majesté."

The king laughs and claps his hands, obviously delighted. He says a few more sentences, then sweeps his hand toward his daughter as if shooing her away.

Khione looks miffed. "The king says—"

"He says I'm a daughter of Aphrodite," Piper interrupts, "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 us, Zethes snorts, and Khione shoots him a murderous look. She bows stiffly to her father and takes a step back.

The king sizes us up, and I decide it's a good idea to bow. Jason follows my lead."Your Majesty, I'm Jason Grace. Thank you for, um, not killing us. May I ask...why does a Greek god speak French?"

Piper has another exchange with the king.

"He speaks the language of his host country," Piper translates. "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 says something else, and Piper turns pale.

"The king says..." She falters. "He says—"

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

I tense. The king is still smiling amiably, like he's just delivered great news.

"Kill us?" I say. "Why?"

"Because," the king says, in heavily accented English, "my lord Aeolus has commanded it."

Boreas rises. He steps down from his throne and furls his wings against his back. As he approaches, Khione and Zethes bow. Jason, Piper, and I follow their example.

"I shall deign to speak your language," Boreas says, "as Piper McLean has honored me in mine. Toujours, I have had a fondness for the children of Aphrodite." He turns to me, "and I have heard many tales of Andromeda Jackson, the daughter of Poseidon who helped defeat Kronos and Hyperion, and stopped the Titans from destroying the gods. As for you, Jason Grace, my master Aeolus would not expect me to kill a son of Lord Zeus...without first hearing you out."

My fingers wrap around my pen again. If we're forced to fight, I don't like our chances. Me, Jason, and Piper against a god, two of his kids, and an army of freeze-dried warriors doesn't sound like a good plan.

"Aeolus is the master of the winds, right?" Jason asks. "Why would he want us dead?"

"You are demigods," Boreas says, which is the usual explanation. "Aeolus's job is to contain the winds, and demigods have always caused him many headaches. They ask him for favors. They unleash winds and cause chaos. But the final insult was the battle with Typhon last summer...."

Boreas waves his hand, and a sheet of ice like a flat-screen TV appears in the air. Images of a battle flicker across the surface—Typhon wrapped in storm clouds, wading across a river toward the Manhattan skyline. The gods swarm around him like angry wasps, pounding the monster with lightning and fire. Finally the river erupts in a massive whirlpool, and the smoky form sinks beneath the waves and disappears.

"The storm giant, Typhon," I explain, everything clicking into place. I remember a story Chiron told me, long ago, when I was still a student in his Latin class. "The first time the gods defeated him, a gazillion years ago, he didn't die quietly. His death released a bunch of storm spirits. It was Aeolus's job to track them all down and trap them in his fortress. The other gods—they probably didn't help. They probably didn't even apologize for the inconvenience."

Boreas nods, examining me as if he's reevaluating my merits. "It took Aeolus centuries to track down all the storm spirits, and naturally this irritated him. Then, last summer, Typhon was defeated again—"

"And his death released another wave of venti," Jason guesses. "Which made Aeolus even angrier."

"C'est vrai," Boreas agrees.

"But, Your Majesty," Piper says, "the gods had no choice but to battle Typhon. He was going to destroy Olympus! Besides, why punish demigods for that?"

The king shrugs. "Aeolus cannot take out his anger on the gods. They are his bosses, and very powerful. So he gets even with the demigods who helped them in the war. He issued orders to us: demigods who come to us for aid are no longer to be tolerated. We are to crush your little mortal faces."

There's an uncomfortable silence.

"That sounds...extreme," I venture. "But you're not going to crush our faces yet, right? You're going to listen to us first, 'cause once you hear about our quest—"

"Yes, yes," the king agrees. "You see, Aeolus also said that a son of Zeus might seek my aid, and if this happened, I should listen to you before destroying you, as you might—how did he put it?—make all our lives very interesting. I am only obligated to listen, however. After that, I am free to pass judgment as I see fit. But I will listen first. Khione wishes this also. It may be that we will not kill you."

I feel like I can almost breathe again. "Great. Thanks."

"Do not thank me." Boreas smiles. "There are many ways you could make our lives interesting. Sometimes we keep demigods for our amusement, as you can see."

He gestures around the room to the various ice statues.

Piper makes a strangled noise. "You mean—they're all demigods? Frozen demigods? They're alive?"

"An interesting question," Boreas concedes, as if it never occurred to him before. "They do not move unless they are obeying my orders. The rest of the time, they are merely frozen. Unless they were to melt, I suppose, which would be very messy."

Khione steps behind Jason and puts her cold fingers on his neck. "My father gives me such lovely presents," she murmurs in his ear. "Join our court. Perhaps I'll let your friends go."

"What?" Zethes breaks in. "If Khione gets this one, then I deserve the girls. Khione always gets more presents!"

"Now, children," Boreas says sternly. "Our guests will think you are spoiled! Besides, you moved too fast. We have not even heard the demigod's story yet. Then we will decide what to do with them. Please, Jason Grace, entertain us."

Jason looks like he's panicking, and I can't blame him. My dad sent us here and now we're going to die—or worse, we'll be amusements for Boreas's children and end up frozen forever in this throne room, slowly corroding from freezer burn.

Khione purrs and strokes Jason's neck. I don't think he plans it, but electricity sparks along his skin. There's a loud pop, and Khione flies backward, skidding across the floor.

Zethes laughs. "That is good! I'm glad you did that, even though I have to kill you now."

For a moment, Khione is too stunned to react. Then the air around her begins to swirl with a micro-blizzard. "You dare—"

"Nuh uh." I point and concentrate, and her blizzard falls apart, falling to the ground around her feet in one big heap. Ice is a lot harder for me than water is, but I've done it before. I'm just glad I was able to do it again, or that would've been embarrassing.