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left dark smudges around their eyes, but Kyria could not,
would
not, accept defeat now.
    â€œYou survived a shipwreck, and you will survive this!” she cried. “If this is Hestia’s cauldron, then let her protect us. Picus, Nicolaus, help them!” She pointed toward the wasteland beyond the trees.
    Somehow, she got her parents moving. As they stumbled past the last of the trees, she heard a shout and saw the Etruscans urging their mounts down the slope.
    The shadow of the western rim lengthened swiftly across the crater floor as the sun dipped behind it. Their feet kicked up beige dust as they raced toward the tumbled rocks on the other side. The slope there was steep, but perhaps they could climb it, perhaps they could throw rocks. She only knew that she was
not
going to simply sit down and wait to die.
    Their pursuers had reached the flat ground. By now most of the crater floor was in shadow, but they urged their horses toward their prey. The first three riders were well into the mud pool before they realized they were not on solid ground. Horses plunged wildly as the viscous mud caught at their hooves, then fell, screaming as the searing mud sucked them down. Only one of the soldiers managed to struggle back to his companions, and Kyria did not think he would be fighting for a while.
    The boys had pushed her parents behind a formation of curdled stone. The slope around it looked half melted, stained in patches of bright yellow, ocher, and gray. Empedocles and she tumbled into place behind another. The forces that had been merely disturbing when she sensed them from the grove now beat against her awareness. The stone beneath her was warm, and a reek of rotting eggs filled the air. She stifled a shriek as vapor hissed from some nearby hole, and another at Empedocles’ chortle of delight. She fought back an impulse to slap him. If his life was going to be cut short, he might as well end it laughing.
    As the sun set, the crater became a cauldron of shadow. She could hear voices from the other end, but could not see their foes. Even on foot, the Etruscans would hesitate to cross the crater floor in darkness. The fugitives would be equally invisible. But they must do something, or they would gain no more than an uncomfortable night and capture in the morning.
    The cliff behind her was faintly visible in the afterglow. The boys and she might be able to climb it, but her parents had barely been able to get this far. Her father had the comfort of his philosophy. It was her mother for whom Kyria wept, only now recognizing how much courage she had shown.
    At the other end of the caldera, light sparked, faltered, then settled into a steady flame. In moments another torch was glowing, and then a third, and they began to move. There was a hollow rumble from beneath the earth as someone dislodged a stone. For a moment the torches paused, then came inexorably on.
    Kyria blinked back tears. It had all been for nothing, their escape, their journey, and this last desperate dash. She had scorned her mother as useless, but she herself had done no better.
    As their enemies drew closer, the torches began to swing about, poking into each hole and behind each rock formation, lest they miss the one where their prey lay hidden.
    â€œMeto, forgive me for not coming back to you. And you, my little one,” she whispered into Empedocles’ hair. “I should never have brought you here . . .”
    His eyes glinted as he turned to her, then he pointed at the torches and laughed. Kyria stifled a gasp. Being of Water, she had always found the salamanders hard to see. But she was seeing them now, dancing in the flames.
    The nearest soldier thrust his torch at a tumble of rock and recoiled as the earth emitted a burst of reddish steam. The next man swung and swore as glowing steam billowed around him, and then the third. The salamanders were dancing, and now she saw nymphs with them, manifesting somehow from the