1.79

The Young Griffon

For the concept of a greater to exist, a lesser was required to give it meaning. For a man to be notably tall, for a distance to be notably far, or for a body of water to be notably deep, there had to be a corresponding norm that each of them surpassed. It followed, then, that for a greater mystery cult to exist, there would have to be a corresponding lesser. Something profound enough to inspire virtue, and opaque enough that no living Greek had ever unraveled its mystery – but less so than the institutions that the great city-states called their own.

These lesser mysteries were the source of inspiration for most men of virtue. Logistically, it was impossible for things to be any other way. A Greek cultivator was an exceptional existence, but the greater mystery cults were even more exceptionally selective than that.

A man had ten choices and ten choices alone if he coveted the pursuit of highest virtue.

This was the first and in some ways most important decision he would have to make in his life. The pursuit of heaven was a hopeless dream no matter where you stood. But for a child uninitiated, the pursuit of membership in a greater mystery cult seemed very nearly as hopeless.

The choice of which to pursue was crucial. Each cult valued different things in a mystiko, required skills that more often took years than months to properly hone. In deciding on an institution to pursue, you were committing yourself to one at the expense of nine. As a young man, or even a boy, you were forced to invest all of yourself into that singular goal and ignore the possibility – the greater likelihood – that your true unknown potential resided somewhere in the other nine.

The considerations of filial expectation, geography, and financial logistics limited most burgeoning cultivators’ options to greater or lesser degrees. The final choice, however, remained theirs. Families advised and a man’s means confined, but universally known was the reality that every cultivator faced heaven alone. In the end, the young man decides. In the end, even the boy must choose.

Responsibility of that magnitude is a cruelty when thrust upon a child. It is a necessary cruelty, though – the first of many more to come. Making that choice and suffering what follows is fundamental. It changes a person. For better and for worse, it is the first time in a cultivator’s life that it truly matters that they are alive. Their first act that no one but themselves could have possibly put forward. A joy and a sorrow uniquely theirs.

Unless, of course, they were born into a greater institution. In that case there was no need to worry. No trials were required for them to take in hand what less privileged souls were fighting and clawing and desperately living to one day possibly achieve.

No, certainly not. Nothing so unsightly for the brightly shining heirs. It was only natural that the free world’s fortunate sons would receive as gifts what the masses had no other option but to steal – like cursed fire from the heavens.

Men like Alazon and Gianni Scalla were above that lesser struggle. Children like my cousins had greater pursuits to occupy their time. As did I.

All my life, I had never once been cursed with a choice.

At any rate.

Eight city-states were home to ten greater mysteries. It simply wasn’t enough for even an above average cultivator to win admittance. Let alone an average cultivator, or even worse, an unrefined soul. Perhaps if the kyrioi were more generous these institutions could have found ways to spread their wonders to the masses. But they were not. If they had been, it was doubtful they’d ever have made it to where they were today.

Instead, those less privileged than the free world’s prodigies and her aristoi built what monuments they could with the materials available to them. They observed what there was to be observed. They cultivated what virtue they could find. And lacking the greater mystery of, say, a fallen sun god, they instead contemplated humbler phenomena. Down-to-earth discoveries, some would call them.

Though under the earth was perhaps a more apt description.

“What was that?” Sol finally asked once the second chthonic hand receded, that storm flashing in his eyes as he glared daggers at the earth. The riptide pull of his influence doubled and redoubled, drawing our horses unconsciously towards him even as they screamed. I smacked my white mare on her neck, breaking his sway over her with my own. She huffed and danced nervously away.

“You’ve never seen a lesser mystery before?” Scythas asked quizzically, wiping horse blood off on his faded green attire.

“I’ve seen many things that could be called mysteries. None of them have looked like that.”

“Ah, true. I suppose this is a different flavor of madness than what you’re used to.” The Hero glanced in the direction the ink-black hand had pointed, then down at the soil where his mare had been dragged under. The hand had taken even the blood from the soil. All that remained were the drops on the grapevines and what he had on his own hands.

“You’ll need another horse,” Selene observed, unplugging her ears. The scarlet flames behind her eyes flickered and cast uncertain embers from their corners. “Those directions weren’t very specific.”

A poor reward for the sacrifice offered. Of course, she didn’t say that out loud. Not while we were still standing overtop of the receiver.

“It’s enough,” Scythas assured her. “In the meantime, I’ll walk.”

“Impossible,” the old Thracian said at once. Khabur heaved himself down from his dappled mare, patting her flank. “I’d never sleep another wink if I let a Hero walk while I rode a horse he’d rented for me. Take her.”

“I appreciate your intent,” Scythas said, a bit awkwardly. “But, the pace we’ll be keeping…”

“You’re too slow, old man,” I told him frankly. Khabur grunted and smacked his thighs, each impact a meaty sound.

“Don’t waste your worry, žibùtė. This old dog’s still got a few years left in him,” he assured me. It wasn’t difficult to believe him.

Of all the worthless sea dogs that we had left the Eos to, he was perhaps the least useless of them all. He was tall, even a bit taller than Scythas, which was remarkable for a man that had never refined himself. He had been skin and bones when we took him from the slave galley, but already he had filled out to something nearly formidable again. Broad-backed and thick-wristed. His hands were as large as mine and littered with calluses and scar tissue that stood out from otherwise leather tanned flesh.

He had no hair on his head. Perhaps a cosmetic choice, perhaps a product of slavery‘s stress, or maybe just Kronos leaving his unshakeable mark. He still had his beard, at least, and most of it had even retained its striking auburn shade.

The rest of our sea dogs were each a ruinous combination of too small, too weak, too stupid or belligerant to be of value even in a field. Khabur the Thracian, to his credit, was merely old. In his time, I could imagine him making a go of what he was suggesting. Even more beyond that. If Sol and I had found him before Kronos, then…

Well. It didn’t matter now.

“Get back on your horse,” Sol commanded, and Khabur had no choice but to obey.

“We can ride together, at least -”

“The mares are too small to ride double.” I smirked faintly at the betrayed look Khabur sent my way. “The Hero has offered to walk and is assuredly faster than you. You’ll learn to sleep with the guilt, or the Eos will have gained a tireless oarsman. Neither outcome will upset me.” I didn’t dislike the old Thracian, but that didn’t mean I’d humor him.

“The stallion is strong enough for two,” Sol decided. As if it had understood him, the black horse with the blacker attitude snapped its teeth and pounded the soil with broad hooves.

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Scythas eyed the beast doubtfully.

“It’s just a horse,” Sol said impatiently.

The stallion glared at Scythas. Its eyes were yellow and hateful.

“It can’t be helped,” Selene said, sounding not at all exasperated as her words implied. The girl in the sunray silks and philosopher rags swung her legs around so she was sitting side saddle, braced her hands on her mare’s back, and pushed.

Her mare shifted its legs like it had been lightly shoved, but the daughter of the Oracle soared up and across the gap between her horse and Sol’s, flipping head over heels and landing adroitly behind him on the stallion’s bare back. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she smiled winningly.

“I knew we’d meet again,” she said, rubbing the black horse’s flank. “Let’s get along this time, hm?” The beast threw its head back and reared up on its hind legs, screaming as it sought to throw her-