Lore

by Alexandra Bracken

  Lore wasn’t worried, though, especially after Van met one of the Achillides hunters and brought home an array of the Kadmides’ weapons. Athena had taken obvious pleasure in laying them out and examining each one, including a proper dory. But any excitement Lore had felt at the success disappeared into the emotional black hole of Van’s and Castor’s silence.

  When Lore couldn’t take any more of Van’s judgmental looks as he sat watching Miles’s progress on Argos, let alone the sight of the closed door Castor was hiding behind, she had gone back into her bedroom. There, she finally noticed what Miles had left for her on the dresser.

  The feather charm on the necklace winked at her as it caught the sunlight. She hesitated a moment, her finger brushing against its edge.

  Never free, she thought.

  Lore swept the necklace off the dresser into the small trash can beside it. But she felt its presence, even if she could no longer see it. Needing to escape it—to escape the house—Lore opened a window and crawled out onto the fire escape to make her way up to the roof. There, she watched the heavy gray clouds roll in from a distance.

  Lore looked back over her shoulder at the sound of someone on the fire escape, but relaxed when she saw who it was. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

  Athena looked around the town house’s bleak roof. There was nothing much to see beyond Lore, two old lawn chairs, and the air-conditioning unit. Truthfully, no one should have been up there, but Miles and Lore sometimes made the climb when the weather was nice and they had wine to drink. They’d talked about doing something with it—a little garden, maybe—but that had been before Gil died.

  Before Hermes left, Lore corrected herself, rubbing her arms. She turned back toward the silver thunderclouds gathering to the east.

  The goddess avoided the other chair, choosing instead to sit on the rough surface of the roof. She drew her dory across her lap and began to sharpen both points with the whetstone she’d taken from the kitchen.

  “It was Hermes.”

  She wasn’t sure why it was easier to tell the goddess. Maybe it was knowing that Athena, blunt as the flat edge of a blade, wouldn’t try to console her or make her talk through it.

  “What of him?” Athena asked, setting the whetstone aside.

  “The man I worked for—the person who owned this house and left it to me.” Lore swallowed. “It was Hermes the whole time. When he disappeared, he came here. The Reveler told me in the museum.”

  “Ah,” Athena said. Then added, carefully, “And you believe the imposter?”

  Lore nodded. “Apparently Hermes also thought I had the aegis. It must have been a massive disappointment to him when he realized I didn’t and he’d put in—” Her voice caught in a way she hated. “And he’d put in all of that effort cozying up to me for nothing.”

  Athena’s lips compressed into a tight line.

  “I don’t get it, though,” Lore said. “The Reveler said that Hermes felt indebted to me, and that he had wanted to keep Wrath from getting the aegis. . . .”

  “Hermes clearly discovered the existence of the poem,” Athena said, “and hoped to use it to escape the Agon.”

  “That,” Lore agreed, “or he had no idea and just wanted the shield to use in the next Agon, and thought I might give it to him willingly if he showed me enough kindness. But why did he feel indebted to me? Why go to such elaborate lengths to maneuver his way into my life when he never asked me about my past, or pushed me on it? He even gave me an amulet that hid me from the sight of gods. He left me this house.”

  “I had wondered as much,” Athena said slowly. “As I told you, I had followed your tale through the years and searched for you. I saw you only once, three years ago, walking through the nearby streets, and followed you home. Yet I never saw you again, and at the start of this hunt, all I could do was hope you might still be there.”

  The thought of passing within feet of the unseen goddess filled Lore with a strange, delayed dread.

  “Do you remember if I was wearing a necklace?” Lore asked. “One with a gold feather charm?”

  The goddess considered her question carefully. “You were not.”

  It must have been just after Lore had returned with Gil—with Hermes. It had been another two weeks before she’d woken to find the necklace on her nightstand. He’d seemed to believe her birthday was the date on her fake passport. Her real one had already passed.

  “You ask why Hermes would enact such a charade?” Athena said. “It is because he is cunning and because he delights in it. Yet he is no fool. If he believed you possessed the aegis, he had a reason. So I must ask you again, Melora—do you possess my father’s shield, and is it in danger of falling into the imposter Ares’s hands?”

  Numbness pricked at Lore’s fingertips, her palms. Her mind looped her thoughts into circles, one dark fear chasing the next. She jammed her nails into the skin of her arms, using the pain to break through it.

  “I don’t have it,” Lore said. “Maybe he found out that Aristos Kadmou bragged about its location to my father.”

  “Indeed.” The goddess let out a low hum.

  She remembered then what Belen had said. You are a distraction. It is a distraction.

  Lore hugged her arms to her chest, leaning forward over her knees. “Do you think it could be about more than the poem—that it could be that the idea of a girl stealing it cuts at Wrath’s pride?”

  “He may have many reasons for desiring it. He wishes to know the secret of winning the Agon. He wishes to mend his wounded pride at being bested by a young girl. He wishes to have the glory of the aegis as a symbol on his arm,” Athena said, “and to use it as a tool. It can summon thunder and call down lightning, but it does not have to be used at its full power for it to drive fear into the hearts of those who behold it.”

  The goddess seemed to consider something else, adding, “If you will not give the shield to him willingly, he will need you to wield it on his behalf, and he will do whatever he must to compel you.”

  “You say that like you care,” Lore said. “Why pretend you actually have some interest in me beyond the terms of our agreement?”

  “Like any craftsman,” Athena said, tilting her head toward her, “if I see potential in raw material, I have the urge to shape it into something great.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” Lore said.

  “I do not understand your accusation,” Athena said plainly.

  “You’ve never guided women,” Lore elaborated. “Not the way you did for your heroes. But you were always more than happy to punish them.”

  “Women and girls belonged to my sister and were beyond my responsibility,” Athena said, the words edged with warning. “I owe you no explanation.”

  Athena’s face dared her to continue, and Lore had never backed down from a misguided fight.

  “Do you know why female hunters aren’t supposed to claim a god’s power—how the elders of the bloodlines have always justified it?” Lore asked, letting years of quiet anger fill her chest like steam. “They point to the origin poem, but they also look to you. To the fact that you only ever chose to mentor male heroes on journeys. You only helped them attain battle-born kleos—the only kleos that matters to the elders. To them, you have always been an extension of Zeus’s will.”

  “I was born from my father’s mind. I am an extension of his will.”

  The goddess’s jaw set, turning her face into a mask of fury.

  “My presence here, now, is all that is needed to understand what becomes of those who upset the natural order of things. Who betray the father.”

  “Weren’t you angry?” Lore asked, hearing her voice break. “How can you not be furious that even you weren’t completely free to decide who or what you wanted to be?”

  The goddess remained silent, but there was something to her expression now—a narrowing focus.

  “You let men use your name and image to reinforce their rules—you represented what they alone could strive to be,
” Lore said. “But what about the rest of us? Those of us called women, and everyone who isn’t so easily sorted?”

  “I did not realize my gift of artful craft belonged solely to men,” Athena said. “Or that I did not acknowledge those women who displayed excellence in their home and the care of their family.”

  Lore drew in an unsteady breath. “You know, what almost makes it worse is that you actually see yourself as the myth men created for you. Just now you claimed you were born from your father’s mind—but you had a mother, didn’t you? Metis. Wisdom herself. That was her gift, not Zeus’s, and he devoured you both to save himself, and claimed it. Denying her is denying who you are. It’s denying what men are capable of.”

  “I know precisely what they are capable of, child of Perseus,” Athena said coldly.

  Lore flinched at the name of her ancestor.

  “You cast your opinions with unearned certainty,” Athena said. “However, I am not the one you do battle with now. Your anger lies not with me, but with yourself. Why?”

  Lore ran her hand back through her hair, gripping it.

  “You are so very angry. I felt it from the moment I first laid eyes upon you, and it has only grown more powerful as you have tried to stifle it,” Athena said. “You ask me why I did not see fit to use my power the way you might have, and yet, you hold yourself back from your own potential. I would not have thought you to be such a coward.”

  I am not special, or chosen. Lore pressed her fists to her eyes. The memory of the realization was just as agonizing as what had happened. “I’m not holding myself back, I just . . . I just can’t make another mistake.”

  Athena made a noise of derision. “The false Apollo has weaseled his way into your mind and made you doubt yourself. You know what must be done. He does not even know how he came to possess his power.”

  Lore looked up sharply at that.

  “Did you think I would not unravel the truth?” Athena asked. “When he has been so very forward with questioning those he meets about my brother’s death? Why else would he seem to despise and resent his power? Why else would he want to seek out my sister, knowing she only wishes him dead?”

  “He . . .” Lore began, uncertain. She didn’t want to talk about this. It felt like a betrayal of Castor. “He doesn’t want me to go too far.”

  “And you are not capable of determining that limit yourself?” Athena asked. “You rely on his judgment over your own?”

  “He’s trying to protect me,” Lore said. It was what Castor had always done, as much as she’d tried, in her own way, to protect him.

  “From whom? From what?” Athena asked. “Yourself? All that you might become if you embrace who you are and not who he wishes you to be?”

  Lore trusted Castor with her life—she knew he would never intentionally hurt her. But the way he had looked at her when he’d caught up to her in Central Park, the shock and disgust on his face . . .

  Maybe he really didn’t understand. The seven years they’d lost had never felt longer.

  “I hate the Agon,” Lore began.

  “No,” Athena interrupted. “I think not. You hate what it cost you, but this world bore you. You belong to it. That is your birthright. You were always meant for glory, but it was taken from you, and now you will never feel satisfied—never whole—until you possess what you deserve.”

  In her mind, Lore heard her younger self say the words again. My name will be legend.

  “It’s not about deserving,” Lore said, forcing herself to get the words out. “I don’t want to become the kind of monster they are.”

  “You are no monster. You are a warrior,” Athena said. “And were you not meant for some greater role, you would have perished with your family.”

  “Don’t say that,” Lore whispered. Please don’t say that.

  Longing tore at her. The thought that everything that had happened hadn’t been her fault, that it hadn’t been for nothing—her whole soul ached for it to be true.

  “There are far worse things to become than a monster,” Athena said.

  “Is that what you told yourself when you punished Arachne for her hubris?” Lore asked. “When you turned on Medusa?”

  The goddess seemed confounded by the question. “What is it you accuse me of with Medusa?”

  “Poseidon raped her in your temple, and instead of stopping him, instead of punishing him, you—” Lore choked on the word. “You made being the victim the worse crime. You made her a monster, and then you sent someone to kill her.”

  “Is that what you believe?” Athena asked.

  “Your father, your brothers . . . they took so many women against their will. How could you not understand Medusa’s experience, when Hephaestus had tried to force himself on you?” Lore took a deep breath, steadying herself. “They took whatever they wanted. Why would the men of the Agon treat their women and girls any differently? They make us believe our lives are our own, even as they slip the collars around our necks. Even G— Even Hermes. At any point, they can pull the leash.”

  “Is that why you abandoned your path as a warrior?” Athena asked. “You did not wish to be controlled? I would have thought the deaths of your family were at the root of the decision, but you continued your training, did you not? Yet something drove you from the hunt . . . from this world.”

  For years, Lore had steadfastly refused to recall what had happened that night. She’d hoped that if she buried it deep enough in her heart, it wouldn’t make her feel half as sick or terrified of being made to answer for it.

  But Lore found herself speaking now, the words unfurling with such force, she wasn’t sure she would be able to stop them if she tried.

  “When Iro’s father ascended to become the new Aphrodite, he had no son,” Lore began, “and no immediate male relatives. A second cousin became the interim archon of the Odysseides. He never came to the estate for the first two years I lived with them. During that time, I focused on my training with Iro. I told myself that even if I had nothing else, there was the Agon. I could still bring honor to my family.”

  Athena watched her, waiting.

  “And then the new archon of the Odysseides came. He stayed. He seemed to be everywhere at once, his eyes always trailing after us. Watching us from the window as we drilled and sparred, across the table at meals, as we swam in the lake . . .” Lore said, her hands curling at the memory. “He would find any excuse to touch me—to correct my stance when I didn’t need it, to stroke my arm or leg as he passed. My instructor told me to never speak of it to anyone, or else the archon would find out how ungrateful I was for his favor and attention. I would be thrown out into the street without so much as a knife to defend myself. No money, no future.”

  Lore’s hands tightened into fists.

  “One night, after dinner, he told me to go to his office and wait for him there,” she continued. “The others at the table must have known what would happen, but they did nothing. The servants looked away. Iro was so excited. She thought he was going to offer me a place as a léaina.”

  She needed to draw a deeper breath, to collect the right words. Bile rose in her throat.

  “His office was dark except for the fire in the hearth. He locked the door. He told me that I wouldn’t be continuing my training. That I would serve only him. His needs.”

  Athena hissed.

  “I knew he was right. I had no one else. I had no family. It was the moment I realized my future was entirely in his hands—it just—”

  Lore drew in another breath. “He put his hands on me. . . . He forced his mouth on mine and pinned me to the desk. He was bigger. Heavier. And I thought, I am not special, or chosen. That was the shield I’d used against the truth for years—the certainty that I was meant for something more. But that moment, with him over me, that’s when I understood what that world was. There would always be a man deciding my fate, whether it was my father, an archon, or a husband.”

  The goddess’s eyes glowed, the sparks flaring into r
iotous spirals. It made Lore think of the fire in the office again, how much brighter it had seemed as her terror set in.

  “I never had a choice,” Lore said.

  At least, not one whose consequences she understood before giving her answer.

  “He took away the last of the illusions.”

  The archon’s breath had hitched with excitement as he’d watched her realize as much.

  “Gods were supposed to be my enemy. The other bloodlines. Not the archon of my mother’s house—the one that had taken me in. Sheltered me.”

  The knob to the desk drawer had dug into her hip. Her body moved to protect itself, when her mind couldn’t. Her fingers closed around the cold metal. She pulled, slipped her hand inside. He pressed himself to her, and it was like nothing she had known in a fight.

  “I found the letter opener. I cut myself pulling it out from the drawer. He gripped my chin and forced my head back, so I would have to look at him.”

  He pulled the collar of her shirt until it tore. The fabric gave easily, but not as easy as the skin across his throat.

  “I realized I had always had choices, even if I hadn’t seen them,” Lore said. “And I made one. I chose not to belong to him. I chose to kill him, so he couldn’t hurt me or anyone else.”

  The memory of his blood spilling, staining his white skin and her dress, the weight of him slumping against her as he struggled to kill her in retaliation, even in the throes of his own death, came back in a cold rush. She touched the long scar on her face, the last cut he’d made as she’d slipped out from under him. Sweat broke out across her body, and she was shaking, scarcely able to draw a breath.

  But what Lore remembered most from that night was her rage. The way it burned through her fear and shock and devastation and gave her what she needed to survive.

  Lore had done what she’d been trained to do, knifing his body until it was still and there was no air moving in his lungs. It had been rage that carried her on bare feet across the fields and unpaved roads. It had been rage that kept her alive and moving. Her rage had fed her when she went hungry.