THE BATTLE OF THE LABYRINTH Percy Jackson ... - No one's invited.

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We spent the next day treating the wounded, which was almost everybody. The satyrs and dryads
worked to repair the damage to the woods.
At noon, the Council of Cloven Elders held an emergency meeting in their sacred grove. The three senior
satyrs were there, along with Chiron, who was in wheelchair form. His broken horse leg was still
mending, so he would be confined to the chair for a few months, until the leg was strong enough to take
his weight. The grove was filled with satyrs and dryads and naiads up from the water—hundreds of them,
anxious to hear what would happen. Juniper, Annabeth, and I stood by Grover’s side.
Silenus wanted to exile Grover immediately, but Chiron persuaded him to at least hear evidence first, so
we told everyone what had happened in the crystal cavern, and what Pan had said. Then several
eyewitnesses from the battle described the weird sound Grover had made, which drove the Titan’s army
back underground.
“It was panic,” insisted Juniper. “Grover summoned the power of the wild god.”
“Panic?”I asked.
“Percy,” Chiron explained, “during the first war of the gods and the Titans,
Lord Pan let forth a horrible cry that scared away the enemy armies. It is—itwas his greatest power—a
massive wave of fear that helped the godswin the day. The wordpanic is named after Pan, you see. And
Grover used that power, calling it forth from within himself.”
“Preposterous!” Silenus bellowed.“Sacrilege! Perhaps the wild god favored us with a blessing. Or
perhaps Grover’s music was so awful it scared the enemy away!”
“That wasn’t it, sir,” Grover said. He sounded a lot calmer than I would have if I’d been insulted like
that. “He let his spirit pass into all of us. We must act. Each of us must work to renew the wild, to protect
what’s left of it. We must spread the word. Pan is dead. There is no one but us.”
“After two thousand years of searching, this is what you would have us believe?” Silenus cried.“Never!
We must continue the search! Exile the traitor!”
Some of the older satyrs muttered assent.
“A vote!”Silenus demanded. “Who would believe this ridiculous young satyr, anyway?”
“I would,” said a familiar voice.
Everyone turned. Striding into the grove was Dionysus. He wore a formal black suit, so I almost didn’t
recognize him, a deep purple tie and violet dress shirt, his curly dark hair carefully combed. His eyes
were bloodshot as usual, and his pudgy face was flushed, but he looked like he was suffering from grief
more than wine-withdrawal.
The satyrs all stood respectfully and bowed as he approached. Dionysus waved his hand, and a new
chair grew out of the ground next toSilenus’s —a throne made of grapevines.
Dionysus sat down and crossed his legs. He snapped his fingers and satyr hurried forward with a plate
of cheese and crackers and a Diet Coke.