Chapter 60

We Fail a Test

When we appeared, I landed in a snow drift. Annabeth touched down on shoveled sidewalk. I didn't think that seemed very fair.

"Yeouch," I hissed, hopping sideways and patting myself off. "I can't feel my toes!"

Add something else the spandex suits were no good for: insulation.

"Look alive," Annabeth warned.

Turning from my freezing fingers, I got my first real look at our landing site.

It was your classic alpine town— brick buildings, sloped roofs, piles of shoveled snow and icy slicked sidewalks. A big welcome sign for tourists declared it "Leadville, Colorado! Highest city in North America!" and I didn't struggle to believe it: the air was thin and frigid for March. Down the street a man hung an OPEN sign in a restaurant window. A middle-aged woman wearing four layers power-walked around the block. And, in front of us, bright scraps of fabric made the ground look like a porcupine-on-birthday balloon crime scene.

Annabeth knelt, snagging one of the scraps in two fingers.

"Spandex," she said grimly. "These are— were from other competitors."

"How is that possible? We just got here."

Teleporting away from the opening ceremony hadn't been as instant as the last few trips, but it hadn't been long. Less than a minute. Not enough time for a fight to start — and end — before we ever arrived.

"Agon said duos would be staggered by five minutes," Annabeth said. "But the ones later in the order are coming from Labyrinth time, while the earlier ones are back on normal time. And down there…"

"Real-world hours pass in minutes, and minutes go by in seconds," I finished. "Right. Makes sense." I eyed the scraps, taking in how many there were. Fifty, maybe more, in four different colors. "What do you think got them?"

A hacking, throaty cough answered. Annabeth drew her sword. Anfisa expanded in my hand. Together we faced the source— a narrow alley between two shuttered storefronts.

We crept forward, me in front and Annabeth behind. Snow crunched under my shoes, and I noticed spots dyed red. I held my weapon a little higher.

When we came around the side of the building, we were greeted with ragged breathing. Not the seven-hundred-pound-monster-waiting-to-eat-you type, either, although I almost wished it was that, compared with what we got.

A little girl was propped against the brick wall, dying. Her orange jumpsuit was covered in bloody gashes. She was panting, head lolling forward and back, her eyes hazy. She glanced our way, pulling her attention from a small sapling sitting across her thighs.

"Zoë?" she asked, and I realized I'd seen her before. She was a Hunter from the group that chased us through the Labyrinth.

Annabeth knelt at the Hunter's side, using her sword to carefully cut fabric strips off of the girl's legs.

"Not quite," she said. "Hold still."

I wasn't sure the Hunter heard her.

"I tried," the Hunter said. "You were right. Lady Artemis is close, I can feel it now too. I thought… I thought I could do it if I tried. That I could rescue her. Hah! I really overestimated myself, didn't I? Couldn't last five minutes."

"Don't speak," Annabeth said. She had gotten strips of spandex free and was tying them around the worst wounds, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

"The satyr could've gotten away," the Hunter said. "He was fast. He'd shown me. But they were waiting for us, and when I told him to run, he said he would help. I should've told him no. I should've insisted. But I was scared."

I remembered Zach, the patriotic satyr from the qualification round.

"Zach was your partner?" I said. "Where is he?"

"Right here," she half-sobbed. "Can't you see? He's here!"

My eyes landed on the sapling in her lap. I'd thought it was strange, an uprooted plant in a frozen alleyway. Only now did I put two and two together. When satyrs died, they reincarnated as plants, something I learned from Grover. The droopy sapling was Zach… what was left of him.

Annabeth was still working at the girl's wounds, but her movements were slower now. Less urgent. It wasn't because she'd fixed them— more blood than ever was flowing out. She'd just realized it was futile. Eventually, she stopped entirely, cupping the girl's hand.

"What's your name?" Annabeth asked softly.

The Hunter tilted her head. A light giggle escaped her. "But you already know it, Zoë. I'm… I'm…" Her face scrunched up. "Who am I? I can't remember. Can't… think. Head feels…"

Her chin dipped. She didn't speak again.

Annabeth rose. I saw her fingers squeeze, strain, and then, very slowly, relax.

"We should go," she said. "We've wasted time already."

I looked at the dead hunter one last time. "Those marks aren't from any wandering monster. They're sword wounds. Another competitor did this."

"I know," she said.

I had a suspicion she wasn't worried about running into the culprits. She might even have been hoping to.

Before leaving I scooped up Zach's sapling. A second of focus shattered a square of worn concrete a few feet across as my powers forced the ground underneath to tremor. I placed the sapling inside, scooped some dirt over its roots, and hoped I'd done enough to help it grow big and healthy. Then I took off after Annabeth.

Walking down Main Street we got funny looks off the locals, but not as many as expected. At first I thought the Mist must have been covering our clothes, until I heard a traffic cop mutter something about "More of those damn circus kids."

I was glad we didn't have to come up with an excuse, don't get me wrong. Still, it kind of hurt to be profiled as a clown-in-training.

"So…" I said. "Where do we go?"

"The closest test location," Annabeth said. "Where else?"

I tried not to roll my eyes. "I meant, how do we find it? Just wander around?"

"Of course not. They gave us a map."

"When?"

"Back at the ceremony."

"You mean the one Hecate projected? But that was only up for a minute."

"Exactly. Plenty of time."

I didn't argue after that. I just assumed it was a daughter of Athena thing.

We turned off of main street, walking until the businesses changed to spread-out one-story homes. I kept my eyes peeled. Even if we knew roughly where the proctor was supposed to be, we didn't know the first thing about what they would look like.

If I thought spotting them would be a problem, I was worried for nothing.

Coming around a corner, my eyes locked onto a man in the middle of the street wearing the frilliest pajamas I'd ever seen. At least I assumed they were PJs. They were all black, with felt tights, buttons, and a wide collar. Cuffs on his wrists blew in the wind. He wore the sort of shoes you'd expect to see on a broadway actor playing a noble. His outfit looked expensive, but a few centuries out of date.

If the man was concerned about standing out, he didn't look it. He stood with one hand on his chest, the other stretched out palm up. His chin angled toward the sky, giving us a fantastic view of his receding hairline.

"Oh my gods," Annabeth breathed.

I looked between her and the brown-haired stranger. "I don't get it. Should I know him?"

"Know him? Percy, that's William Shakespeare!"

At the sound of his name, Shakespeare's gaze jerked away from the sky.

"Indeed, tis I," he proclaimed. "Mistress England's most eloquent voice. Pride of Apollo. The Bard of Avalon! I greet you, my lesser cousins, and must ask, who better than I to render judgement upon works of word?"

"Is that our question?" I asked. "I mean, I guess possibly—"

"Rhetorical! Now listen, for no good prologue is repeated twice." Shakespeare gave a dramatic flourish with his extended hand. "In a kingdom there once grew two peasants, one a man and the other a woman. Born of squalor, ruled by famine, both didst hold but a single valued possession: love. Love of their parents. Love of their neighbor. Love of the world, and perhaps most importantly, love of one another. In their teens were they wed, and together didst they brave war, plague and drought, in exactly such order. Now I ask of you, what was their fate?"

"I don't understand," Annabeth said. "I never heard this before. Is it a true story?"

"Truth is naught but mirage," Shakespeare declared. "What is a true story, but inspiration for the creative mind? I ask not for an inane account— I seek a story. Thine own work, if you please."

Annabeth's mouth opened, then closed. She glanced my way.

"Don't look at me," I said. "I dropped out of school when I could barely read, and I haven't exactly spent time at libraries ever since."

"You have to know a little. Romeo and Juliet, at least."

"That's the one where they die at the end, right?"

"Extravagantly," Shakespeare said with relish.

"How about that, then," I said. "What if we have the couple die?"

"Is that your final answer?" Shakespeare asked neutrally.

"No!" we both said.

"Very well. Take the time you need to compose. But have caution not to linger too long. Storytelling can oft become a cutthroat business."

I didn't miss the implication.

"Thanks for the warning," I said. "But we already know what the other competitors are capable of."

Suddenly Annabeth's eyes widened. "The Hunter! That's it!"

She quickly started pacing, snapping her fingers, lost in thought. I gave her a few seconds, then couldn't hold it in anymore.

"What do you mean?"

"Tragedy," she said. "It makes so much sense. Think about it. Hercules's labors, Of Mice and Men, the Titanic. So many of the greatest stories ever end as tragedies. Why? Because they stick with you. They don't allow you to forget. And good ones, good ones always come with a twist."

She stopped pacing, facing me excitedly. There was something electric about the way her brain was moving.

"Hercules completed his labors, only to die horribly of poison. When Lennie dies, George has to do it. Jack could've lived, if they just stuck Rose's lifejacket to the bottom of the door. Those are their twists. For that poor Hunter, the twist was that it was slow. She had time for her last words, but was too far gone to even see she was dying. Death is the right answer, we just weren't being specific enough. How do they die?"

"Killed by soldiers, sickness, or starvation," I said, remembering the options.

Shakespeare specifically said that was the order. Death in war would have been flashy. A plague would be slow, drawn out. But the saddest, by far, would be living through both only to starve.

"The famine," I said. "After surviving everything else, they die together because they can't eat."

"Is that your final answer?" Shakespeare asked again, just as neutrally as the first time.

"It is," Annabeth said.

Slowly, Shakespeare lowered his hand. He smiled, but it was a sad one.

"Time hath taught me that audiences love to see a protagonist's wants unfulfilled," he said. "Seventeen comedies I wrote, and only ten tragedies, yet the tragedies make the bulk of my performed works. Thine answer satisfies. You pass."

Annabeth beamed. I was probably smiling myself. It felt nice to pass a test, especially since I wasn't used to the feeling.

"However, heed my warning before you go! Stories never have but a single answer. Yours was correct, yes, but others would have been as well. Over the centuries I have seen millions of souls come before me as a Judge of the Dead. I say this as an expert, as much as any man ever may be: many tragedies are born of those who seek them out, however unknowingly. No fate is ever truly set in stone. So, cousins, do not be so quick to turn your back upon hope."

Shakespeare smiled at us, then adopted the pose he'd been in when we arrived, freezing like a statue. I couldn't decide if that final smile had been a hopeful one, or tinged with the same sadness from earlier.

The next proctor was all the way out on the east edge of town, set up in a saloon parking lot. Annabeth said he was a famous avant-garde artist from Russia, Wassily Kan–something, but I was mostly focused on how his name sounded like a type of gasoline. His test turned out even easier than Shakespeare's. We had to paint on a blank easel, but I tripped and splattered everything on my palette all over the canvas in a bright mixed-up mess. Wassily loved it. I loved the look on Annabeth's face when she heard we'd actually passed. Everyone was happy.

We only had one more test to pass, and I honestly thought we had to be winning. Sure the start was slow, but we'd been flying ever since. Annabeth said there was a proctor north of us on the way to the finish line, and we took off at a jog.

Leadville reminded me of a smaller version of Anchorage, with more tourist shops. You could tell the population doubled every ski season. Mountains loomed on all sides, endless pine trees dusted in fresh white coats. It would've made a great vacation destination, if I weren't so busy worrying about whether this round would be our last.

We heard the proctor before we ever saw her.

Warbling moans were rolling down the streets, bouncing off the buildings, coming from out of sight. Sniffs and snorts mixed into the wails like percussion. The further we ran, the louder it grew.

"Is that… crying?" Annabeth asked without slowing.

"Sure sounds like it," I said. "And I have a feeling we're about to find out for certain."

We passed through the last scattered houses and climbed up a snowy embankment. When we spotted her, I nearly dropped Anfisa. I'd kind of guessed it was a woman from the voice, but I really hadn't expected the statue part.

Frozen on her knees, hands pressed to her eyes, a statue stood in snow up to her abdomen. Shudders shook her stone torso in time with the sobs we'd heard from so far away. She didn't look up as we approached. She didn't look up when we stopped in front of her. Even when she spoke, her hands never left her eyes.

"Greetings," she wailed. "I suppose—" she paused to sob "—that you—" another sob "—are here for the test?"

"Yes," Annabeth said. "We're here for the… are you alright?"

"Thank you for asking," said the crying statue. "I am absolutely miles from okay. Quite devastated, really. Now then, let's get to business."

With a great deal of effort, the statue drug her legs from the snow. She rose to her full height, which was surprisingly tall. She stood at over six feet, still sniffling.

"Sing me a lullaby!" she said, sounding like a toddler. "Do it quick and make it good! I haven't slept or stopped crying in two thousand years, and I'd like a bit of respite."

"That's it?" Annabeth asked. "We just need to sing a lullaby? Any lullaby?"

"Oh fooey! I just knew my test would be the worst!" The statue's wails grew louder than ever, like a storm siren plopped in our faces. After a minute she quieted enough to speak again, but the echoes still rolled through my head.

"This is just awful!" she said. "I really just can't do anything right! All these famous artists, and I thought I could fit in? Oooooh, sing that lullaby right now, please. I'm going mad!"

Tuning out her wails, I turned to Annabeth. "Can you sing?"

"Everyone does in the evenings at Camp," she said. "But that's group singing, and only the Apollo or Aphrodite kids are ever really good at it."

"You'll do great," I reassured her. "I'd offer to help, but my singing generally makes people start crying, not stop."

"No more talking!" said the statue. "Singing! I want singing! Soothe me!"

Annabeth fiddled with the hem of her spandex top and took a long, deep breath. "Okay. Alright, okay. Here we go— You're sure there isn't a specific song you want?"

"SING!"

Annabeth shut her eyes and dove in.

"Rock-a-bye baby—"

"NO!"

The word was shouted so loud, I thought I might get blown off my feet. Annabeth flinched. I flinched. Hell, the whole hillside flinched— an inch of snow was flung downwind like a landmine had detonated.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Annabeth said. "I just started!"

The statue tried to cross her arms, but didn't get very far with her palms still stuck over her eyes.

"Nothing about babies," she insisted. "No mention of children, kids, youths, or offspring, either. That'll never calm me down; I'll just cry louder!"

I thought it was ironic to be told not to mention babies by the biggest baby I'd ever met. I didn't say that out loud, though. I doubted that would help our chance of passing.

"Fine," Annabeth said.

She didn't need as long to get into it the second time. Irritation must've burned away her stage fright.

"Twinkle twinkle, little star—"

"NO!"

"What now?" Annabeth snapped.

"Stars!" cried the statue. "You mentioned stars! What a horrible thing to say to me! Stars mean the moon, and the moon means… her."

I'd never seen stone shiver before, until now. And I hadn't seen Annabeth this angry since… well, that morning, but that didn't really count. Talking about Luke had really gotten her going.

"Is there anything you will let me sing?" Annabeth demanded.

"A lullaby," said the statue.

Annabeth hurled her arms toward the sky. "Oh, wonderful! How helpful."

"If you'd like, I could always fail you," the statue said. Her sniffling intensified. "But that would just be too sad!"

"It's alright," I told her. "We'll try again."

I met Annabeth's eyes and tried to pass a silent message, 'Keep trying.' The statue wasn't failing us for choosing the wrong songs. We only needed to go until we found one she liked.

Whether my look worked or not, Annabeth took the advice.

"Alright," she said. "One more time. One, more, time."

As soon as she started, I could tell something was different. I didn't recognize the words at all.

"Alone in the world, All, all alone,

With pain she curled, Her world becoming stone."

Annabeth wasn't the worst singer, but she wasn't the best, either. It wasn't her voice that made the song sit heavy in the air. It was the words. The statue's sniffling quieted more than ever. She started to sway. I couldn't believe it.

"It's working!" I said. "Whatever you're doing, keep at it!"

"Her pride brought it on, So silence did she don.

Never, never again. Not after losing ten."

The statue's head was drooping. Her breathing was getting slower, thicker.

"Just a little more!" I said.

"It's fine now; let go!

Forget your old foe!

For once, go to sleep.

There is no reason to weep."

Annabeth took a deep breath, mopping sweat off her brow. I was sure of it now; it wasn't just a song that I didn't know, she'd made it up on the spot. Her singing voice may not be perfect, but even her mom would've been proud of thinking that fast.

"Is that it?" I asked.

It should have been. The proctor was ready to count her final sheep. Of course, things can never be so easy.

Metal struck metal. Somebody cackled. Down the hill, a fight had broken out.

Looking back, that wasn't quite right. It wasn't that the fight started there. Instead, it was a fight that had only just reached us.

Two figures moved almost too fast for my eyes. One wielded silver hunting knives. The other used claws that might as well have been knives themselves. Two more figures were on the edges, one behind each of the fighters. One was a redhead lurking like a vulture, waiting to swoop in and deal pain without any hard work. The other was a girl, and she wasn't doing so good. She hobbled with a limp. One hand was pressed to her stomach. Each breath was so labored, I could see she was struggling from a hundred yards uphill.

It was Zoë, protecting one of her injured sisters. And fighting her, Mark at her back, was Kelli, the traitorous Empousa.

One thought filled my head, How were they here? I would've noticed them at the qualification round, I was sure of it. Even if they were in the games, they shouldn't have been in our heat. It didn't make sense.

And, for a moment, I hesitated. They could mess up everything. One word from any of them — Mark and Kelli, but the Hunters too — and the guy I answered to could be exposed to Annabeth in the worst possible way. I'm ashamed to say it: I really considered leaving them, hanging back on the hill, and watching without lifting a finger.

Right afterwards anger burned the indecision away. If I allowed myself to be the kind of person who watched others die for his own benefit, I wasn't sure I'd want to wake up ever again.

"We have to help," I said.

Annabeth was already moving. We only made it a step.

"The test isn't finished!"

The statue slurred the words slightly, but that drowsiness was fading fast. Her tone was as sharp as Kelli's bladed nails.

"If you save them," she said, "you fail."

"Come on!" I complained. "We sang your stupid lullaby, and you were totally into it. You can't change the rules now."

"Can too," said the statue. "I'm a proctor, I can do anything I want. And I'm putting my foot down. I won't hesitate!"

"Stop being difficult!"

"I won't let you interfere! I won't I won't I won't!"

Any effects from the lullaby were gone now. Her crying returned full-force, wails turning to shrieks, each like a torpedo fired through my ear canals. Pine needles dropped off nearby trees. Dozens of birds took flight across the woods, fleeing as fast as their wings would carry them.

Annabeth was being forced back like I was, but she had some crazy willpower. She dug her heels into the snow and shouted, "Niobe!"

I didn't recognize the name, but the statue definitely did. The crying cut out like somebody found her mute button.

"That's right," Annabeth said. "I know you. I know why you cry. You lost your children, and it crushed you so badly you turned to stone. You wouldn't want to see more kids die, would you?"

The statue was silent, still. Her outburst had bought us some time, making Kelli and Mark hesitate. Unfortunately, it also drew their attention. They were looking our way. At me.

"Lost," said the statue reeling my attention back to her. "Lost. How prettily put. Sounds far better than saying killed, doesn't it?"

"Yes, they were killed," Annabeth said. "And you know who else will be? Those girls down there, unless you let us help them."

"Good!"

"You don't mean that."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Niobe snapped. "You know my story, the story of poor old Niobe, so you know exactly what made me like this. How I bragged to Leto of my children, their number and loveliness. Folly. Ohhhh what folly. Before I knew it she'd sent her twins out like hounds. My children, my beautiful children, fell one by one like livestock. I'm no fool— not anymore. Those girls down there serve Artemis. I smell it on them. So let them fall. When they're torn from this world, maybe that damned maiden could know a fifth of the pain wrought on me."

I wasn't like Annabeth. I didn't know the whole myth, or everything Niobe had gone through. But I had a pretty good eye for people. I could tell Niobe was a grieving mother. I could tell she believed more death might make her feel better. And I could tell, somewhere inside, that there was a part of her that never wanted to see children die again, even if those children were tied to someone she hated.

Mark had managed to get around Zoë. He had the other Hunter by the throat. Distracted, Zoë lost her knives in a badly timed parry. With difficulty, I turned my focus on Niobe.

"You don't want this," I said. It wasn't a demand; it was the truth. "You want to stop Kelli. You want to save those girls."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Niobe said.

"Maybe I don't. I've been wrong before. But you can fail us, or turn us away, or curse our names, we'll accept it, just help us now. Save them. Please."

"They're my enemy!" Niobe said. "They're scum! They're vile! They're… They're… They're just girls! Oh gods be damned, I can't do it!"

Her resolve broke, and with it noise poured out. The sobbing was louder than ever, but something different. It washed over me warmly— a parent's tears at graduation, crying at a wedding, the sobs of someone who just landed a life-changing job. It felt good. Invigorating.

But for Mark and Kelli, it was different. Kelli's face split, crinkling in ways sure to leave permanent wrinkles. Mark released the Hunter's throat to cover his ears, and from the look on his face it wasn't close to enough. In seconds I was treated to a sight I never expected to see: the proud Empousa and cocky mortal turning tail and fleeing as fast as their legs could take them.

Once they were gone, the crying tapered off. I almost missed the feeling when it disappeared.

"For the record, you fail the test," Niobe said sternly. "For talking me out of revenge, if nothing else. I'd get a move on if you want to pass this round in time. And on your way out, tell those Hunters not to dare come closer, or I'll show them some real crying."

"Thank you, Niobe," Annabeth said.

"I didn't do it for you," she sobbed.

The Hunters were alive, but dazed. The crying had shaken them pretty bad. I doubt the near-death experience helped, either. Annabeth and I started their way.

Before we left, Niobe's voice stopped us. "Kids."

We turned, and I nearly did a double-take. Her hands had come off her eyes.

It was a beautiful sight— two blue orbs embedded in a smooth stone face. Her scleras were as red as they were white from crying. They looked wise and ancient, like a gods' but different, too. They knew pain the way only those born mortal ever really could.

"I wish there were more people like you in the world," she said. "Then, maybe, there would be less people like me."

I didn't know what to say, and Annabeth must not have either.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. Go on now, shoo!"

We climbed down the hill with the sound of sobbing behind us. It was a sound full of pain, but there was another feeling mixed in. Buried in those cries, I thought I heard notes of relief.

(-)

Please don't judge my lullaby too hard. I'm about as gifted at music as an elephant is at hide-and-seek.

Also, in case you were wondering, Annabeth's line about fastening the lifejacket to the bottom of the Titanic door is a MythBusters reference. She seems the type to watch that show.