The Lost Hero

Jason didn‘t have an answer. Zethes poked him in the back with his icicle sword, and they followed the
princess down a massive hallway decked in frosty tapestries.
Freezing winds blew back and forth, and Jason‘s thoughts moved almost as fast. He‘d had a lot of time to
think while they rode the dragon north, but he felt as confused as ever.
Thalia‘s picture was still in his pocket, though he didn‘t need to look at it anymore. Her image had burned
itself into his mind. It was bad enough not remembering his past, but to know he had a sister out there
somewhere who might have answers and to have no way of finding her—that just drove him up the wall.
In the picture, Thalia looked nothing like him. They both had blue eyes, but that was it. Her hair was black.
Her complexion was more Mediterranean. Her facial features were sharper—like a hawk‘s.
Still, Thalia looked so familiar. Hera had left him just enough memory that he could be certain Thalia was
his sister. But Annabeth had acted completely surprised when he‘d told her, like she‘d never heard of Thalia‘s
having a brother. Did Thalia even know about him? How had they been separated?
Hera had taken those memories. She‘d stolen everything from Jason‘s past, plopped him into a new life,
and now she expected him to save her from some prison just so he could get back what she‘d taken. It made
Jason so angry, he wanted to walk away, let Hera rot in that cage: but he couldn‘t. He was hooked. He had to
know more, and that made him even more resentful.
―Hey.‖ Piper touched his arm. ―You still with me?‖
―Yeah … yeah, sorry.‖
He was grateful for Piper. He needed a friend, and he was glad she‘d started losing the Aphrodite
blessing. The makeup was fading. Her hair was slowly going back to its old choppy style with the little braids
down the sides. It made her look more real, and as far as Jason was concerned, more beautiful.
He was sure now that they‘d never known each other before the Grand Canyon. Their relationship was
just a trick of the Mist in Piper‘s mind. But the longer he spent with her, the more he wished it had been real.
Stop that, he told himself. It wasn‘t fair to Piper, thinking that way. Jason had no idea what was waiting for
him back in his old life—or who might be waiting. But he was pretty sure his past wouldn‘t mix with Camp Half-
Blood. After this quest, who knew what would happen? Assuming they even survived.
At the end of the hallway they found themselves in front of a set of oaken doors carved with a map of the
world. In each corner was a man‘s bearded face, blowing wind. Jason was pretty sure he‘d seen maps like this
before. But in this version, all the wind guys were Winter, blowing ice and snow from every corner of the world.
The princess turned. Her brown eyes glittered, and Jason felt like he was a Christmas present she was
hoping to open.
―This is the throne room,‖ she said. ―Be on your best behavior, Jason Grace. My father can be … chilly. I
will translate for you, and try to encourage him to hear you out. I do hope he spares you. We could have such
fun.‖
Jason guessed this girl‘s definition of fun was not the same as his.
―Um, okay,‖ he managed. ―But really, we‘re just here for a little talk. We‘ll be leaving right afterward.‖
The girl smiled. ―I love heroes. So blissfully ignorant.‖
Piper rested her hand on her dagger. ―Well, how about you enlighten us? You say you‘re going to
translate for us, and we don‘t even know who you are. What‘s your name?‖
The girl sniffed with distaste. ―I suppose I shouldn‘t be surprised you don‘t recognize me. Even in the
ancient times the Greeks did not know me well. Their island homes were too warm, too far from my domain. I
am Khione, daughter of Boreas, goddess of snow.‖
She stirred the air with her finger, and a miniature blizzard swirled around her—big, fluffy flakes as soft as
cotton.
―Now, come,‖ Khione said. The oaken doors blew open, and cold blue light spilled out of the room.
―Hopefully you will survive your little talk.‖
IF THE ENTRY HALL HAD BEEN COLD, the throne room was like a meat locker.
Mist hung in the air. Jason shivered, and his breath steamed. Along the walls, purple tapestries showed
scenes of snowy forests, barren mountains, and glaciers. High above, ribbons of colored light—the aurora
borealis—pulsed along the ceiling. A layer of snow covered the floor, so Jason had to step carefully. All around
the room stood life-size ice sculpture warriors—some in Greek armor, some medieval, some in modern
camouflage—all frozen in various attack positions, swords raised, guns locked and loaded.
At least Jason thought they were sculptures. Then he tried to step between two Greek spearmen, and
they moved with surprising speed, their joints cracking and spraying ice crystals as they crossed their javelins to
block Jason‘s path.