He gave Annabeth an embarrassed look, as if realizing he wasn’t helping team morale. “Or maybe she’s badly wounded, and she crawled away to die. ”
“Let’s go with that,” Annabeth agreed.
Percy was still shivering. Annabeth wasn’t feeling any warmer either, despite the hot, sticky air. The glass cuts on her hands were still bleeding, which was unusual for her. Normally, she healed fast. Her breathing got more and more labored.
“This place is killing us,” she said. “I mean, it’s literally going to kill us, unless…”
Tartarus. Fire. That distant memory came into focus. She gazed inland toward the cliff, illuminated by flames from below.
It was an absolutely crazy idea. But it might be their only chance.
“Unless what?” Percy prompted. “You’ve got a brilliant plan, haven’t you?”
“It’s a plan,” Annabeth murmured. “I don’t know about brilliant. We need to find the River of Fire. ”
WHEN THEY REACHED THE LEDGE, Annabeth was sure she’d signed their death warrants.
The cliff dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: a river of fire cutting a path through a jagged obsidian crevasse, the glowing red current casting horrible shadows across the cliff faces.
Even from the top of the canyon, the heat was intense. The chill of the River Cocytus hadn’t left Annabeth’s bones, but now her face felt raw and sunburned. Every breath took more effort, as if her chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The cuts on her hands bled more rather than less. Annabeth’s foot, which had been almost healed, seemed to be reinjuring itself. She’d taken off her makeshift cast, but now she regretted it. Each step made her wince.
Assuming they could make it down to the fiery river, which she doubted, her plan seemed certifiably insane.
“Uh…” Percy examined the cliff. He pointed to a tiny fissure running diagonally from the edge to the bottom. “We can try that ledge there. Might be able to climb down. ”
He didn’t say they’d be crazy to try. He managed to sound hopeful. Annabeth was grateful for that, but she also worried that she was leading him to his doom.
Of course if they stayed here, they would die anyway. Blisters had started to form on their arms from exposure to the Tartarus air. The whole environment was about as healthy as a nuclear blast zone.
Percy went first. The ledge was barely wide enough to allow a toehold. Their hands clawed for any crack in the glassy rock. Every time Annabeth put pressure on her bad foot, she wanted to yelp. She’d ripped off the sleeves of her T-shirt and used the cloth to wrap her bloody palms, but her fingers were still slippery and weak.
A few steps below her, Percy grunted as he reached for another handhold. “So…what is this fire river called?”
“The Phlegethon,” she said. “You should concentrate on going down. ”
“The Phlegethon?” He shinnied along the ledge. They’d made it roughly a third of the way down the cliff—still high enough up to die if they fell. “Sounds like a marathon for hawking spitballs. ”
“Please don’t make me laugh,” she said.
“Just trying to keep things light. ”
“Thanks,” she grunted, nearly missing the ledge with her bad foot. “I’ll have a smile on my face as I plummet to my death. ”
They kept going, one step at a time. Annabeth’s eyes stung with sweat. Her arms trembled. But to her amazement, they finally made it to the bottom of the cliff.
When she reached the ground, she stumbled. Percy caught her. She was alarmed by how feverish his skin felt. Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim.
Her own vision was blurry. Her throat felt blistered, and her stomach was clenched tighter than a fist.
We have to hurry, she thought.
“Just to the river,” she told Percy, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “We can do this. ”
They staggered over slick glass ledges, around massive boulders, avoiding stalagmites that would’ve impaled them with any slip of the foot. Their tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but they kept going until they crumpled to their knees at the banks of the Phlegethon.
“We have to drink,” Annabeth said.
Percy swayed, his eyes half-closed. It took him a three-count to respond. “Uh…drink fire?”
“The Phlegethon flows from Hades’s realm down into Tartarus. ” Annabeth could barely talk. Her throat was closing up from the heat and the acidic air. “The river is used to punish the wicked. But also…some legends call it the River of Healing. ”
“Some legends?”
Annabeth swallowed, trying to stay conscious. “The Phlegethon keeps the wicked in one piece so that they can endure the torments of the Fields of Punishment. I think…it might be the Underworld equivalent of ambrosia and nectar. ”
Percy winced as cinders sprayed from the river, curling around his face. “But it’s fire. How can we—”
“Like this. ” Annabeth thrust her hands into the river.
Stupid? Yes, but she was convinced they had no choice. If they waited any longer, they would pass out and die. Better to try something foolish and hope it worked.