THE HEALER| Heroes of Olympus

3

"Mr. D," Jason said. "Dionysus."

"Mmm hmm." Chiron poured lemonade, though his hands were trembling a little. "As for Seymour, well, Mr. D liberated him from a Long Island garage sale. The leopard is Mr. D's sacred animal, you see, and Mr. D was appalled that someone would stuff such a noble creature. He decided to grant it life, on the assumption that life as a mounted head was better than no life at all. I must say it's a kinder fate than Seymour's previous owner got."

Seymour bared his fangs and sniffed the air, as if hunting for more Sausages.

"If he's only a head," Jason said, "where does the food go when he eats?"

"Better not to ask," Chiron said. "Please, sit."

I took a seat next to Jason.

Chiron sat back in his wheelchair and tried for a smile, but Jason could tell it wasforced. The old man's eyes were as deep and dark as wells.

"So, Jason," he said, "would you mind telling me—ah—where you're from?"

"I wish I knew." Jason told him the whole story, from waking up on the bus to crash-landing at Camp Half-Blood. He didn't see any point in hiding the details, and Chiron was a good listener. He didn't react to the story, other than to nod encouragingly for more. When Jason was done, the old man sipped his lemonade.

"I see," Chiron said. "And you must have questions for me."

"Only one," Jason admitted. "What did you mean when you said that I should be dead?"

Chiron studied him with concern, as if he expected Jason to burst into flames. "My boy, do you know what those marks on your arm mean? The color of your shirt? Do you remember anything?"

Jason looked at the tattoo on his forearm: SPQR, the eagle, twelve straight lines.

"No," he said. "Nothing."

"I examined his mind, and it seems there is a fog of some kind keeping his memories from himself." I told Chiron. Chiron nodded as if he expected nothing less.

"Do you know where you are?" Chiron asked Jason. "Do you understand what this place is, and who I am?"

"You're Chiron the centaur," Jason said. "I'm guessing you're the same one from the old stories, who used to train the Greek heroes like Heracles.

This is a camp for demigods, children of the Olympian gods."

"So you believe those gods still exist?"

"Yes," Jason said immediately. "I mean, I don't think we should worship them or sacrifice chickens to them or anything, but they're still around because they're a powerful part of civilization. They move from country to country as the center of power shifts—like they moved from Ancient Greece to Rome."

"Non potui melius dixisse." Something about Chiron's voice had changed. "Sic iam nostis deos esse reales. Iam petitus es, non es?"

"Forsitan," Jason answered. "Vere certus non sum."

Seymour the leopard snarled.

"Why are we speaking Latin?" I asked confused.

But what was weirder was that the centaur had switched to another language and Jason had understood, automatically answering in the same tongue.

"Quis erat—" Jason faltered, then made a conscious effort to speak English. "What was that?"

"You know Latin," Chiron observed. "Most demigods recognize a few phrases, of course. It's in their blood, but not as much as Ancient Greek. None can speak Latin fluently without practice."