Chapter 42: Center Stage
"Hey! Cyd! Wake up already! Don't just sleep there!"
A small, pale hand made repeated, futile attempts to pinch the cheek of the man slumped in the shadowed corner of the room. Each attempt was neatly batted away by a smaller, quicker hand that emerged from the folds of his cloak.
Exasperated, Medea resorted to yelling.
"Wake! Up!"
From within the shelter of Cyd's arms, Medusa glared balefully at the noisy princess. The effect was lost entirely behind the concealing darkness of her hood.
"Hnnngh… Relax. I'm not going to oversleep," Cyd mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He stretched, a long, lazy motion that made his joints pop. "Dawn's first light puts my body and spirit into perfect harmony. So I'll just… close my eyes for five more minutes." He snuggled back against the wall, pulling Medusa, who nodded in sleepy agreement, closer.
"My room faces west," Medea said, pointing a sharp finger at the narrow window, through which only the deep indigo of pre-dawn was visible. "By the time any sun hits this spot, it'll be noon!"
Silence.
"…Couldn't you, as a princess, have demanded a room with better lighting?"
---
The Arena.
Jason stood alone in the center of the vast, sandy fighting pit. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes closed. To the crowds beginning to fill the stone tiers high above, he looked like a hero in deep meditation, gathering his focus before an impossible task. The truth was closer to a man trying very hard not to throw up from sheer, bowel-watering terror.
High in the royal box, King Aeëtes watched him, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. He rested his chin on a fist, the picture of bored royalty awaiting a predictable, bloody spectacle.
"Where is Medea?" he asked, not turning his head. The question was directed at the wiry, grey-robed man standing attentively at his shoulder—his court mage and chief advisor.
"The princess is on her way, Your Majesty," the mage murmured, his eyes half-lidded as he subtly scanned the arena sands with magical sight.
"She's always an early riser," Aeëtes mused, a faint line of suspicion appearing between his brows. "Check the arena grounds. For anything… unusual. Enchantments, curses, the works."
"There is something," the mage replied without hesitation, his voice tinged with professional appreciation. "A rather sophisticated piece of spellwork. The craftsmanship… it's unmistakably the princess's."
Aeëtes stiffened, starting to rise from his seat. "And you didn't think to lead with that? I'll stop this farce right now and have that preening peacock tossed back to his ship—"
"Your Majesty," the mage said, gently but firmly placing a hand on the king's arm. "The enchantment… it's a Rage Induction field. Keyed specifically to the Spartoi. And buried within it, a Growth Augmentation matrix. The warriors will be twice their normal size, and twice as vicious."
Aeëtes froze, halfway to standing. He blinked, processing. "…What?"
"It seems the princess has been… industrious," the mage said with a wry smile, casting a look of profound pity down at the oblivious Jason. "And her skills have progressed remarkably."
"Medea is…" Aeëtes slowly sank back into his seat, a strange, proud warmth battling with his confusion. His daughter, his clever, quiet daughter, had taken his side so fiercely she'd secretly rigged the trial in his favor? The thought was deeply touching, in a slightly terrifying way.
"Father! I'm so sorry I'm late!"
Medea arrived at a half-run, a little breathless, her lavender hair slightly disheveled. She stopped before the royal box, dipping into a quick curtsy. "I was up late studying and overslept. Please forgive me!"
Up late = secretly enchanting the arena to ensure my victory = the best daughter a king could ask for!
"Nonsense, my dear! No forgiveness needed!" Aeëtes's earlier suspicion melted into pure, beaming paternal pride. He stood again, this time to usher her into the seat of honor beside his own. "Sit, sit! You've earned your rest."
"Oh, I… I couldn't possibly—" Medea began, her guilt over the real reason for her late night making her squirm.
"Nonsense!" Aeëtes insisted, firmly guiding her down. "Today, you watch from the best seat in the house."
Medea's older brother, Prince Apsyrtus, who had overheard the entire exchange, gave her shoulder an approving squeeze. "Listen to father. You've done more than enough."
Medea's initial panic morphed into bewildered acceptance. She hadn't betrayed her father, she reasoned. Not really. She'd saved the fire-breathing oxen from Cyd's tender mercies multiple times. And the arena enchantments? They just made the trial more lethal, which was exactly what her father wanted! The more she thought about it, the more comfortable the plush cushion felt beneath her. She'd be a fool not to enjoy the fruits of her… ambiguous labor.
"Report on the bulls," Aeëtes said, turning his attention back to the arena.
"Agitated," Apsyrtus replied, a smirk on his face. "Unusually so. They tore their pen apart last night. Took a dozen men and three minor injuries to herd them into the staging tunnel. They are… primed."
Aeëtes leaned forward, raising his voice so it carried across the suddenly quiet arena. His gaze fixed on the small, solitary figure below. "Jason of Iolcus! It seems your famous voyage… ends here."
Inside, Jason was a quivering mess of regret and phantom heartburn. But he had eaten a hearty breakfast. He had donned his finest (and only) set of polished armor. And he had walked into this pit because a man with pale, honest eyes had told him to.
Is he here yet? Jason cracked one eyelid the tiniest sliver, scanning the lowest tiers of spectators—the common folk and minor nobles. He saw them: his crew. The Argonauts. Leaning on the rail, chatting, laughing, placing bets. Spectators. Pure and simple.
Those bastards, he thought, a spike of genuine anger cutting through his fear. But it was futile. For them, the duty was the voyage there and back. The actual retrieval of the Fleece was his problem. Success meant a better story for their own legends. Failure? Well, they'd already had plenty of adventures. They were in the black either way.
His scan continued, hope fading, when a flash of impossible white caught his eye.
There, standing at the very front of the lowest tier, isolated from the jostling crowd, was Cyd. His hair, stark against the dun-colored stone, stirred in the morning breeze. He wasn't cheering or jeering. He just watched, still and intent as a hunting hawk.
Jason's breath hitched. "Cy—"
Cyd raised a finger, pressing it to his own lips. Silence. Then his mouth moved, shaping three clear, silent words. He finished by raising a thumb, the gesture simple and absolute.
[Trust me.]
A wave of irrational, desperate faith crashed over Jason, washing the doubt away. I do! I believe you!
He straightened his spine, clenched his fists, and turned his face up to the king's box, his voice ringing out stronger than he felt. "Great Aeëtes, King of Colchis! I am ready! Let the trial begin!"
"Hoh? Such confidence, from nowhere." Aeëtes rose, his arm sweeping out in a theatrical gesture. "But confidence will not save you from flame and steel! BEGIN THE TRIAL!"
With a grinding rumble, the main gates of the arena ponderously swung shut, sealing Jason inside. Simultaneously, a heavy iron portcullis at the base of the royal box began to rise, revealing a yawning, pitch-black tunnel mouth.
Jason took a deep, shuddering breath. The steps were simple in theory: yoke the bulls, plow the field, sow the teeth, defeat the warriors. The execution was where things got… fatal.
"AAAAAGGGHHHH!"
A blood-curdling scream, ripped from a man's throat in pure terror, echoed from the black tunnel. Everyone flinched. A moment later, the handler who had been tasked with releasing the bulls came sprinting out of the darkness, his face a mask of panic.
Aeëtes frowned. He knew that voice. Something was wrong.
FWOOOOSH!
A torrent of orange-white fire, thick as a tree trunk, erupted from the tunnel mouth. It engulfed the fleeing handler completely. The man's scream cut off in a wet, final sizzle. A wave of blistering heat washed over the arena. Jason cried out, throwing himself into a clumsy roll as the edge of the firestorm licked the sand where he'd been standing, turning it to smoking, black glass.
ROOOOOAAAAR!
From the inferno, two shapes emerged. The fire-breathing oxen. They were not just glowing with heat; they were wreathed in roaring, uncontrolled flames that danced along their metallic hides and streamed from their flared nostrils. Their eyes burned with a mindless, destructive fury. They stamped the ground, leaving smoldering, hoof-shaped pits in the sand as they advanced.
"Excellent," Aeëtes chuckled, settling back into his seat. "Their temperament is… concerningly robust. I worry for the clean-up." He spoke as if commenting on the vigor of a prized hunting dog.
Jason scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs. The air reeked of ozone and cooked meat. The sand near him was vitrified and smoking. The heat radiating from the creatures was like standing at the mouth of a forge.
Cyd… you're not… lying to me, are you? The doubt, cold and slick, coiled in his gut again. This wasn't a trial; it was an execution by incineration.
ROAR!
The bulls spotted him. Their heads lowered. Fire pooled in their throats, lighting their gullets like hellish lanterns. Then they charged.
Two avalanches of muscle, scale, and living flame. The ground trembled. The air screamed as it was torn apart by their passage. Jason's mind went blank. There was no dodging this. No outrunning it.
"Fool," Aeëtes sighed, already looking bored. "At least it will be quick."
Instinct took over. Jason threw his hands up in a futile, last-ditch block, squeezing his eyes shut against the imminent agony of being burned alive.
The thunder of hooves… stopped.
The unbearable heat… vanished.
A strange, synchronized thud and a pitiful, confused moo reached his ears.
Jason cracked one eye open.
The two fire-breathing titans were kneeling in the sand three feet in front of him, their heads bowed. The flames that had enveloped them were gone, reduced to a few sad wisps of smoke curling from their nostrils. A thin line of white foam dripped from their slack jaws. Their bodies trembled violently, but they made no move to attack. They just… knelt. As if awaiting a command. Or paralyzed by a memory more terrifying than any enemy.
Jason stared at his own hands, utterly unharmed. He looked at the bulls, then his gaze snapped up, searching the crowd.
There, in the same spot, Cyd gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod.
A hysterical, triumphant laugh bubbled up in Jason's chest. He swallowed it, forcing it down into the core of his being where it solidified into unshakable, fervent belief.
I TRUST YOU! he screamed internally, the thought a prayer and a battle cry. He turned back to the docile, terrified bulls, a wild, confident grin spreading across his face for the first time since landing in Colchis.
The game was on.