QBLH
The Ten of Pentacles:
Attainment of a deep,
Lasting commitmen
Chapter LXXIV
Wealth
Love
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Jason stood where Medea had beckoned him, keenly aware that every eye in the hall had turned toward him. The music had ceased. Even the servants had stilled. He felt the weight of Colchis settle upon his shoulders like an unseen hand.
"My father King Aeson has sent me to you. I fear on a mission to have me not come back. He demanded that somehow; I could persuade you to release the fleece to my custody. I am not certain that I wish for you to give up such a magnificent treasure on the basis of establishing a treaty of alliance between the two of us against our common rivals, the centaur invaders of the north country. We certainly did not travel all this way just to steal your treasure nor to start a fight. It was Hercules of the Amazons who enticed my father to send me on this journey, and he has now abandoned us. We seek not the fleece, but only friendship."
Jason’s words echoed briefly, then vanished beneath the greater truth of where he stood. Colchis was no fringe kingdom clinging to superstition. It was the granary of the eastern sea, the hinge between mountain, steppe, and water. From its ports flowed grain, gold, timber, and horses—wealth drawn from lands that stretched far beyond the horizon, across the northern plains where the rivers fed fields vast enough to supply nations yet unborn.
Greek poets would later speak of centaurs roaming those regions—half men, half beasts—but the truth was simpler and more dangerous. These were not monsters, but horse-lords: disciplined riders bred to the saddle, masters of archery and maneuver, indistinguishable from their mounts in battle. Their cavalry could break infantry before steel ever met steel. Colchis traded with them, fought them, restrained them when it could—and feared them when it could not.
Aeetes ruled not by legend, but by logistics. His wealth was measured not in coin alone, but in harvest cycles, cavalry strength, and control of passes leading from the Black Sea into the heart of the continent. The Greeks had sailed into the capital of a system older, richer, and far less sentimental than their own fractured city-states.
The Golden Fleece itself did not hang openly in Colchis, nor was it paraded before visitors. It lay within the high precincts of the kingdom, beyond the reach of soldiers and kings alike. To the court it was a sacred relic; to Medea, a custodial burden; to Aeetes, a symbol whose possession justified rule.
In truth, the fleece was something else entirely.
The fleece which Jim had created for Medea in the Pleasure Dome on Artemis was a carefully guarded treasure. Isis knew that Jim would need to fetch it during his excursions through time and sooner or later, he would need to return to Artemis with it restored as if nothing ever happened. She would use the fleece to find Jim in time.
Isis may not have as technically proficient as Jim, but she certainly wasn't a slacker. She knew a little about hyperspace technology. It was required to study in high school for all the girls on Artemis. She constructed a hyperspace shield to surround the fleece. If the fleece were to be moved, she would know it regardless of where or when Isis would be. If she were to accelerate in time beyond the occurrence of the theft, she could simply activate a tracer which would remember certain details about the event. To guard the fleece, she used a remnant of Shaltain's operating system to act as a sentinel. The sentinel would construct holograms to ward off potential thieves. If the thief was ever bold enough to work a way through the illusions and traps which guarded the way to the fleece, the retrieval system would then pose a very different but deadly threat.
Aeetes believed the fleece made him king.
Medea knew better.
It was bait, to trap Qblh.
Jim suspected that Isis had the fleece booby trapped. For this reason, he would get a mortal man to accomplish the task. Shaltain's defensive systems would be somewhat confused if a mere mortal man were somehow able to retrieve the fleece, because its network calculations would consider human success an impossibility. Computers had a difficult time when it came to solving paradoxical solutions. Paradoxical situations were logically impossible, and thus beyond the mental ability of Shaltain's systems.
Whoever attempted to take it would be creating a daring challenge—to the goddess, to the Amazons, and to forces that did not forget across time. That was why no army had ever seized it. That was why kings sent sons instead.
Aeetes regarded Jason without expression and did not trust the foreigner.
Perhaps the man had indeed come intending to steal the fleece and now faltered, overwhelmed by the visible might of Colchis. The apology Jason had offered sounded less like diplomacy and more like a plea for mercy. Aeetes had heard such tones before. They always preceded treachery—or failure.
Aetes laughed.
It was not the laughter of amusement, but of recognition.
“You Greeks,” the king said slowly, rising from his throne, “are forever invoking fathers—dead fathers, distant fathers, convenient fathers. You cloak desire in duty and call it virtue.”
He descended the steps, his voice growing stronger with each word.
“You speak of inheritance as though it were authority. You speak of legend as though it were proof. You ask me to surrender the wealth of Colchis because another king wished to rid himself of a son.”
Aeetes stopped before Jason.
“I am king because I hold this land,” he said. “Because I feed it. Because I defend it. Not because my father told me to rule.”
His gaze flicked briefly toward Medea—measuring, proprietary—then returned to Jason.
“If you wish to leave as guests, you may do so. But if you wish the fleece, you will not take it by apology.”
He gestured toward the great doors.
“They opened at once.
Heat rolled into the hall like a living tide.
Beyond the threshold, the Argonauts beheld what they had glimpsed only in passing before—now fully awakened. Twin towers shaped like colossal bulls exhaled steam and flame in rhythmic pulses. Bronze flanks glowed red beneath layers of soot and age. Pistons drove massive limbs. Chains groaned. The earth trembled with each breath of the machines.
Aetes’ voice carried easily over the roar.
“These are not beasts of myth,” he declared. “They are not gods, nor monsters. They are ordered power. Harnessed fire. The labor of kings.”
He turned back to Jason.
“If you are a hero, then you will prove it—not by seduction, not by theft, and not by invoking bloodlines that mean nothing here.”
Jason felt his mouth go dry.
From the edge of the hall, Theseus watched in silence.
He recognized the machines at once—not as creatures, but as engines. Crude, powerful, and deliberately misunderstood. He felt the familiar tightening at the back of his mind: the overlap of names, of histories, of roles that should not coexist and yet did.
Hercules had promised this journey.
Theseus now stood within it.
Qblh had foreseen the outcome.
Medea said nothing.
She stood beside her father, her expression composed, her eyes bright with calculation. She had not spoken the challenge aloud, yet she knew it was coming. She watched Jason not as a lover, nor yet as a sacrifice—but as a variable.
Jason, sensing her gaze, searched her face for reassurance.
She gave none.
“Speak,” Aeetes commanded.
Jason swallowed.
“I am no coward,” he said at last. “But neither am I a fool. If you would test us, then name the test plainly. Let it be known to all what price you demand.”
The king turned to her and spoke softly, asking what challenge should be set for the fleece. Medea leaned close and whispered in his ear.
Aetes stiffened.
“That is impossible,” he said flatly.
Medea did not flinch. She reminded him that these were the conditions Isis herself had decreed for any who would claim the fleece. The right to it was bound not to lineage or theft, but to ordeal.
Aetes smiled inwardly.
If Isis wished for an impossibility, then impossibility she would have. He decided at once to embellish the test—just enough to ensure no man survived it. He announced that if Jason accomplished the tasks, the fleece would be granted freely, as a sign of friendship between their peoples.
Outwardly magnanimous.
Inwardly final.
Medea had convinced him of her devotion. More than that, she had convinced him she was in love. The king now believed she intended to use these Greeks as offerings—sacrifices to Isis or to the Amazons, whose rites he both feared and despised. He knew well the rumors: that Amazon priestesses bred by sacrificing men, that kings themselves had once been born of such rites.
His own father had been one of them.
The men chosen were often raised to rule—until they were spent. Experiments aboard the mother ship had long sought to produce a male resistant to ambrosia’s fatal effects. Egypt’s pharaohs had come closest. The research had nearly succeeded—until Qblh had seized the Pegasus and ended the program.
Aeetes resolved to guide the Argonauts directly to the Temple of Artemis, where the fleece lay hidden. There, Medea would complete the sacrifice. The Amazons’ sudden interest in the Greeks now made perfect sense.
Turning back to Jason, the king raised his voice so that all might hear.
And he issued the challenge.
“Stranger, why needest thou go through thy tale to the end?
For if ye are indeed of noble blood,
or not inferior to the heroes of Hellas,
and if thou truly desirest the fleece,
I will grant it—when thou hast been tried.
I bear no grudge against brave men.
Therefore thy trial shall be one I myself can perform—
deadly though it be.
Two bulls with feet of bronze I possess,
breathing fire from their jaws.
These do I yoke and drive across the Field of Ares,
cleaving it with the plough.
Into the furrows I cast—not grain—but dragon’s teeth,
from which armed men spring forth.
These I slay as they rise against me.
If thou canst do the same—
on that very day shalt thou bear the fleece away.
Until then, expect it not.
For it is unseemly that a brave man yield to a coward.”
Jason stood stunned.
Betrayal burned through him—but Theseus’ words echoed in his mind. Ask for the fleece. Dare him. There was no retreat now. Hercules was gone. The challenge was impossible.
And yet Medea smiled.
“I am certain,” she said calmly, “that he will accept my father’s challenge.”
She took Jason’s hand and led him away as though the matter was settled.
Aeetes dismissed the Argonauts entirely. In his mind, they were already dead. It was obvious to him now: the Amazons were preparing the men for sacrifice. He pitied them briefly—then returned to his feast.
Still, caution demanded insurance.
He quietly instructed his captain to watch the Greeks and to kill them all should they attempt escape.
Jason could not stop thinking of Theseus.
He had known. How much more did he know? Jason considered seeking Medea’s counsel—but no. She needed to believe him as fearless. He was still grappling with confusion when, unexpectedly, it was Medea herself who offered the solution.
Though under Circe’s influence, Medea was not deceived. She knew her wine had been altered. Yet Qblh’s visit had been no illusion. He had commanded her to aid Jason—and then vanished.
She had resisted him. But now the situation favored her.
If Jason failed, she could sacrifice him and bear a child of remarkable strength.
If he succeeded, she would be bound to give him the fleece—exactly as Qblh required.
Either way, she lost nothing.
And she found, to her own surprise, that she liked Jason. He was earnest, awkward, and sincere. He danced with her through every song, flushed with delight when she kissed him, stumbling like a boy whenever she teased him.
She enjoyed disarming him—drawing him back the moment his attention strayed.
And somewhere beneath the layers of enchantment and strategy, affection took root.
