Sophronios Bythoson's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Sophronios wanted the lost histories of Atlantis, and he had nowhere to dig for them. He hung in the throne hall of the Palace of Poseidon, a sea-god with a man's dark-skinned chest, a horse's forelegs, and a long fish tail that stirred the water behind him. He was Poseidon's war-master and the wisest head in the city. He knew the story of the whole world. But he did not know where the first drowned people had sunk. "The seabed is endless," he told the empty hall. "I could search a thousand years and find sand." His trident leaned against the dais. The orichalcum shaft caught the blue palace light. Sapphires glowed along its length, and red coral wrapped the grip. He took it in his hand and pressed the center stone. He had owned the weapon for centuries. He had never asked it a question. The sapphire warmed under his palm. A low hum climbed the shaft. Sophronios held still. His father had given him this trident when he first rode to war. His father had said the stones remembered older seas. Sophronios had thought it only a saying. He lifted the trident and let the current carry his question. "Show me where the first city fell." The sapphires brightened one by one, from tip to butt. The water around him shivered. Lines of pale light spread from the stones and drew a shape in the dark hall. It was a map. He saw the shelf of the deep, a trench that cut it like a wound, and a single mark that burned at the trench's lip. The mark pulsed in time with his own heart. Sophronios floated closer. He read the distance. He read the depth. The trench lay far past Atlantis, deeper than any patrol had ever gone. Cold water. Crushing dark. But it was a place. It was a bearing. After all his waiting, the ruins had an address. "There," he said. His voice shook. "You were there the whole time." The light faded. The sapphires cooled. The map was gone, but he had it now, cut into his memory like a scar. He knew the cost at once. The trench lay below the reach of his soldiers. The pressure alone would crack their armor. He would need a crew who could survive that depth, and he would need them soon, before the current shifted the silt and buried the mark again. He could not go alone. He could not take the whole army and leave the city blind during a broken succession. Sophronios gripped the trident and pushed toward the great doors. He had a destination at last. Now he had to find divers mad enough to follow him into the deep.