Lore

by Alexandra Bracken

  “Yes, Patér,” the woman said, hurrying the girls to her. “Yes, of course. They will be ready in time for the ceremony.”

  Ceremony, Lore noted. Not just a celebration.

  Philip turned, catching sight of her and the other hunter at the end of the hall. “Why are you standing there like idle fools in need of whipping?”

  Neither Lore nor the other hunter needed more encouragement to flee down the stairs.

  Lore let the man fill the short conversation and kept her head down, counting the stairs as they passed beneath her feet. The smell of incense and cypress oil was enough to make Lore’s head feel unnaturally heavy and her body feel drunk.

  The training facility, the only open floor in the building, had been converted to host the ceremony. The entrance was draped in white silk thick enough to mask the room behind it. Two hunters in full ceremonial robes, their helms and bodies brightly painted, guarded the door.

  Lore let the other hunter approach first, then she reached for the extended arm of the other guard, gripping his forearm with two fingers extended, the way Castor had reluctantly taught her years ago, when she’d won yet another bet. The guard returned the gesture.

  “Welcome, sister,” he whispered, then stood aside.

  Lore nodded, then slid the bronze mask over her face, feeling better about it once she saw some of the other hunters had done the same. She hadn’t wanted to stick out as the only one wearing hers, but the greater risk was someone recognizing her.

  It might have been seven years since she had last set foot in here, but her looks hadn’t changed that much with age, and anyone who had known Lore’s mother would see her now in Lore’s face. She had the same unruly, thick hair, her warm olive complexion, and hazel eyes.

  But . . . maybe not. Her mother was dead, and while grudges could feed themselves over centuries, memories faded at the pace of years. There was no one here who cared to remember Helena Perseous.

  No one but her own daughter.

  Lore swept the silk curtain to the side, only to be brought up short. It took her a moment to realize what she was looking at.

  A temple. She was standing inside a temple.

  As Lore took another step forward, the illusion became clear. Ghostly holographic images were being projected onto the seamless mirrors that covered the walls and ceiling. Columns, real and false, rose toward the digital image of a vaulted ceiling, one decorated with bold colors and seemingly gilded with gold and silver.

  Even knowing it was all a lie, a thrill rose in her—one she didn’t want to examine too closely.

  Lore turned to find that holographic columns at the entrance looked out onto the daylight scene of a wild, rocky seascape. The room’s shadows deepened the farther she moved from it. It gave the space the feeling of a dream slipping into a nightmare.

  Rows of firepots led straight toward an altar of some kind; they illuminated the decorative tile that had been laid over the battered wood floor Lore and hundreds of others had bled on, scuffed, and scratched.

  “What the hell?” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

  A pool scattered with floating candles and flowers stretched out before the altar. Between them was an imposing chair—a throne, really, with a delicate sun carved into its back. It looked to be cast out of gold or covered in gold leaf.

  Given what she’d already seen, Lore had a feeling it might be the former.

  The men and women around her swayed to the gentle plucking of a lyre, others swirled around the room armed with wine and gossip in place of blades. Long tables covered with bone-white cloth covered the right side of the room. The Achillides had brought out their most cherished ceremonial bowls and wares, and all overflowed with a vivid assortment of fresh fruits. Beside it were silver platters of thin-shaved meat and fish, cheese, pastries, and heaps of stuffed olives.

  With a quick look around to make sure no one was eyeing her, Lore stole a goblet of wine, downed it, and then began to assess the feast laid out in front of her. She needed to find Castor as soon as possible, but her last meal had been hours ago, and she wouldn’t ignore the sharp ache in her stomach if she didn’t have to.

  When the woman idling nearby—the one who’d been contemplating the amygdalota in a way Lore could relate to on a soul-deep level—finally moved on to the honeyed baklava, Lore grabbed one of the almond cookies for herself. She was tempted to take one of the chocolate apples wrapped in gold foil to bring back to Athena—just to see her reaction.

  Feeling steadier with some food in her, Lore turned her full attention back to the massive room and moved deeper into its shadows, making her way along the far right edge of the room. The projected images looked like nothing more than static now that she was up close.

  All right, Cas, Lore thought. Where are you?

  She moved again, this time coming to stand near the glowing pool, just outside its halo of light. Lore searched the room for him. The Achillides, like all the hunter bloodlines, had their roots in their ancient home, but every century had brought in husbands and wives from all over the world. The faces around her, with their varied skin tones and features, reflected that.

  Her pulse sped even as she stood still.

  Being back here, in this room, around these people . . . this was bad for her. She wanted to leave, even as she didn’t. She wanted to look away, even as she couldn’t.

  As a little girl, she had been awed by the bloodlines’ displays of wealth, so different from her family’s own situation. She had devoured the inviting secrets of their hidden world’s traditions and had felt as proud, as fierce as any daemon, knowing her family, among so many, had been chosen. That they were the Blooded, heirs of the greatest heroes.

  This is nothing more than a costume party, Lore thought.

  This world was like the static of the projections around her. Temples had once been places of sacred worship, not self-indulgent excess. The bloodlines had stripped the actual beliefs from their rituals centuries ago; their only religion was that of fevered brutality and materialism. Only Zeus himself received any sort of acknowledgment, and even then the sacrifices were shallow gestures born out of superstition, not devotion.

  Several members of her old training class were here; seeing them made her temperature suddenly spike. Orestes, that epic ass, bothering a bored-looking Selene, one of the few children who’d deigned to speak to Lore in the three years she’d trained there. And Agata, dipping her hand into the pool to retrieve an emerald bracelet she’d dropped into it, and beside her, Iesos, with far more scars than Lore remembered him having—not that she liked remembering him at all. He’d been fixated on her not having a “proper” and “real” name, and had decided to call her Chloris instead, like she was supposed to be offended by it.

  Where are you, Cas? she thought again, pained.

  As time wore on and Lore still didn’t see Castor, desperation began to dilute her small measure of hope. Maybe he was at work healing their wounded hunters, or was resting at another one of the bloodline’s properties?

  While his mother had died in the Agon just after Castor was born, Lore was surprised she didn’t see Castor’s father, Cleon. As the longtime property manager of Thetis House, he lived in the building and would have been responsible for organizing such a fete.

  You’ve wasted way too much time already, Lore thought, shifting toward the entrance. She’d need to use the distraction of the celebration to search for him in the rooms upstairs, and, failing that, to steal whatever medical supplies she could and get back to Athena.

  But Lore had no sooner taken a step than a hush fell over the House of Achilles. The hunters angled back toward the entrance, stepping away from the lighted path to the altar. The hungry looks on the faces around her, their eyes fever-bright from wine and excitement, turned her stomach.

  Philip Achilleos appeared at the head of the stairs, Acantha a step behind him. They moved with the lyre’s song, their eyes on the altar as they made their way toward the throne. Rather than si
t on it, Philip stood to its left and Acantha to its right.

  For a moment, Lore didn’t understand Philip’s reluctance. But like the crash of an unstoppable wave against the shore, it came to her.

  The elation of those around her. The symbols of the sun, the lyre, and all the laurel in the reliefs and garlands around her.

  This was meant to look like the Great Temple on the isle of Delos.

  The birthplace of Artemis . . . and her twin brother, Apollo.

  “Oh,” Lore breathed. A jolt raced down her spine, electrifying her. Oh.

  The new Apollo didn’t reside in the House of Theseus, but the House of Achilles.

  But it’s not Philip? She glanced toward the old man, trying to read his guarded expression.

  Interesting. An accident, maybe. Perhaps Apollo had died before the old man could finish him. It wouldn’t have been the first or last time.

  Children, the same girls Lore had seen upstairs, made their way down the steps, their skin painted gold. They were almost unbearable to look at, so proud as they each clutched a candle in one hand and a small silver object in the other. One held a book, another a telescope, another a lyre, another a theater mask. She saw it then. They were meant to be the Muses.

  Sing to me, O Muse . . .

  They, too, formed a procession to the pool. One by one, they sat along its edges and added their candles to it. The flames floated among the white flowers.

  A faint hum filled the air, seeming to rise from everyone at once. The young Black woman playing the lyre began a new song, one that seemed to spiral to the eaves on notes of air and light. She, too, shifted in her seat to get a better view of what—or rather who—was coming.

  Lore knew to turn even before she heard the faint gasps. A sudden warmth passed over her skin, an incendiary power that set every nerve in her body ablaze.

  He descended the stairs the way the first ray of sunlight breaks through a window at morning. His form was immaculate—tall, corded with muscles, and a face that echoed in the sweetest part of her memory.

  Castor.

  ONE WINTER MORNING, BEFORE the sun had begun its ascent and her sister roused from her fading dreams, Lore woke to her destiny.

  She opened her eyes to find her father’s face hovering over her own.

  “Chrysaphenia mou,” he whispered, using his usual endearment. My golden. His face was soft. “Do you still want to train? I’ve found a place for you.”

  Lore looked over to Olympia, curled up beside her like a kitten on their small bed, then back to her father. She was suddenly wide-awake. Her whole body felt like it might burst. “The agogé?”

  Her father nodded. “The Achillides will accept you into their training, but you’ll need to start today.”

  Lore threw aside her bedsheets, jumping to her feet quickly enough to make her father chuckle. He bent over her, kissing her head. She kissed him back. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Shhh,” he reminded her, pointing to Olympia.

  Lore pretended to zip her lips, but she couldn’t stop grinning. She bounced on her toes.

  “It won’t be like what you’ve read,” he said, smoothing her hair down. “I don’t want you to be disappointed when you arrive and see it is not Sparta.”

  The hunters had adapted their training programs from those of the great Sparta, but they removed the things they didn’t like. Lore didn’t care; the only thing that mattered was that she would be able to fight like her parents did. That she would get to see the ceremonies and the archives and all the things they didn’t have in their own small family. The big mysteries she’d only ever heard stories about.

  “Today?” she said, just to be sure it wasn’t a dream. “Really?”

  “Really,” he said. “Now wash up and get dressed. I’ll take you there before my shift.”

  Lore raced to the small dresser she shared with her sister, yanking out the top drawer. The photos there rattled, making Olympia stir and turn over. Lore glanced back at the tuft of dark hair over the bedsheet and forced herself to quietly pull out a T-shirt, her sweater, and a pair of jeans, then shut it again. She went to the bed again and pulled the covers back over Pia, making sure Bunny Bunny the doll was in reach.

  Finally, she thought, excitement swelling in her until she could barely breathe. She raced out of the room, only stopping when she realized she didn’t have her shoes.

  Three months earlier, her parents had sat with her at their small kitchen table and explained why she might not be able to begin her training with the other hunter children her age.

  There isn’t the time for it, her mother had said. I know this is upsetting, but I also know you understand that we’re not the same as the other bloodlines. My— The House of Odysseus won’t open its doors to us after I renounced my name, and even then their school is across the sea. Your father and I will have to continue your training. Come summer, I may be able to work fewer hours, and Mrs. Osborne will be able to see to your sisters. . . .

  Lore had nodded, letting the tears and ache build inside her skull until she could escape to her room. She’d cried silently into her pillow and shoved the book of myths her father had given her far beneath her bed, so she wouldn’t be able to reach for it again.

  She’d fallen into a deep, deep sleep and there, her fate had come to her, shimmering. Dreams were messages from Zeus. It was important she remembered everything. She saw the edge of a shield held firm in front of her, repelling the darkness. A wing made of golden light. Bright eyes reflected in the blade of a sword.

  She had kept the dream to herself. Now, it seemed, the Fates were ready for her.

  Her mother was already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Damara was nestled in a bassinet, babbling quietly to herself. She was smaller than a doll, and her skin so soft and thin that Lore was sometimes afraid touching her would leave a bruise.

  She leaned over and kissed her sister softly on the head. She liked to whisper her secrets to Damara, because, unlike Pia, Damara couldn’t tell her parents what Lore said.

  “I’m a little nervous,” she said softly, then tickled her until Damara cooed.

  Lore laughed. “She sounds like a kitten.”

  “A kitten?” Papa reached in, stroking the curve of Damara’s cheek, letting her gnaw on his thumb.

  “She’s a Perseous all right,” he told them proudly. “The strength of this grip!”

  “A Puuurrrrseous,” Lore said, giggling.

  “Someone is excited, I see,” Mama said as she set down a bowl of oats in front of Lore. Lore breathed in the sweet smell of the cinnamon and bananas she’d mixed into it. She’d made her favorite breakfast.

  “Do you want me to braid your hair?” Mama asked.

  Lore nodded eagerly, letting her mother brush out her waves and carefully weave them into a plait as she quickly finished the food in front of her. Papa and Mama talked quietly about the news on the radio.

  “Can we go?” Lore asked. “Can we go early?”

  Her father laughed. “What do you say to your mother?”

  “Oh! Thank you, Mama,” Lore said, standing on her chair to kiss her cheek. Her mother helped her down, following them to the door. She handed Lore’s father his coat, then helped Lore into her own.

  “You’ve nearly outgrown this one, too,” she said, bemused. “You’ll be tall, like my mother.”

  Lore could only hope. It would help her when it came to sparring and, later, hunting.

  “It will feel very hard at first,” her mother told her, buttoning her up. “Take heart, and don’t be discouraged. Everything will come to you in time. You are a daughter of Perseus.”

  The words stayed in Lore’s mind as she and her father made their way downtown, taking the subway farther than she’d ever gone. When they emerged from the station, the streets were as unfamiliar as they were thrilling.

  Her father held her hand, resisting Lore’s attempts to tug free until they finally reached a large brick building. Her father paused a momen
t, checking the number, then moved his hand to her shoulder to guide her to the smaller building beside it. There, the door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.

  A man met them there, glowering down at where they stood on the lower steps. His black hair was slicked down against his scalp, and Lore noted immediately that he had a face like an irritated goat.

  “We are honored by your graciousness.” Her father bowed his head, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out a thick envelope. The man accepted it without a second glance. “May I present my daughter, Melora?”

  “You understand the terms of this arrangement? The favor I ask of you in return?” the man said, his voice rumbling.

  Lore looked between then, confused. Favor?

  “I do,” her father said. “I will send all the information on Tidebringer to you.”

  “By tonight.”

  “Tonight,” her father agreed.

  Lore’s brow furrowed. Tidebringer had caused the destruction of their family, but she didn’t like the idea of giving this man, a rival of her own house, anything.

  It would be fine, though. Her father was never wrong.

  Finally, the old goat shifted his gaze down on her. “I am Philip Achilleos, archon of the Achillides.” He turned, leaving the door open. “Come, child. Your father is not permitted to enter this place.”

  The weight of her father’s hand lifted, releasing her.

  “I will return for you this evening,” he promised.

  But Lore didn’t look back, even as the door shut and locked, sealing off the morning sunlight. The building was not so much a building as the shell of one, she realized. There were cars parked inside it.

  The man led her down a staircase into a dark hallway. They were underground and heading back toward the bigger building.

  “You are a guest at Thetis House,” Philip Achilleos told her. “If you reveal anything you witness here, your life, as well as the lives of your family, will be forfeit. If you fall behind the others, you will be removed from the agogé to prevent you from holding our children back with your incompetence.”