To be revered and wanted.
I glance at myself one last time in the mirror and run my hands over the curves of my hips.
For one delirious moment, I think I even look the part. But as soon as I meet my own eyes in the mirror, I remember who I am. Not a lionized descendant destined for greatness, but an unwanted orphan, abandoned and forgotten.
Then I shake my head and turn away from the mirror.
Chapter 3
I meet Clea at the front stairs. She’s clutching both our flower crowns in hand. When I reach her, she holds out the crown and I’m silently grateful as she places it snugly on my head.
“Beautiful,” she says.
“As are you.” She looks resplendent in a dress that’s both similar to my own in style and yet wholly different on her willowy frame. Her softness makes the dress flow around her in waves of trapped moonlight.
“Confession: I’m not sure I’m ready to face them all,” Clea whispers to me. “To know that our godparents must be among them and that he or she refuses to claim us?”
I’m surprised to hear Clea voice such thoughts. This is, of course, the exact same thing I’ve been worrying over since the day I came of age, but Clea is usually all sunshine and cheer. She’s a true daughter of Hestia, if ever there was such a thing.
“We’re daughters of the Virgin Goddess today and shall be always,” I say, to comfort myself as much as her.
Clea looks up at me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach the green of her eyes. The emeralds hanging from her ears swing when she nods her head. “You’re right, of course. And tonight, let’s make the most of it.”
Though Clea and I are vastly different, there is one thing we both understand about each other: We’re unwanted daughters who have everything we could ever want or need, but yet still hunger for more.
One of the younger orphans opens the giant door before us. She bows her head in respect. “May the night treat you well, sisters,” she says.
“And you, little Marigold.” I pat her head as we pass. She’s been at the house nearly ten years now, but I can’t stop seeing her as the wailing chubby baby who arrived at our doorstep swaddled in sheepskin and smelling like milkweed.
Outside and down the wide marble steps, Clea and I follow the stone path that winds back and forth down the hill to the boulevard. We both glance back when we hear giggles coming from the hydrangea bushes next to the house.
“Clea, you don’t think the young daughters of Hestia House could be skipping their lessons, do you?” I say.
The giggling goes silent. Currently Hestia’s House has sixteen orphans within its care, including Clea and me, and I’d guess at least a dozen of them are currently in the bushes.
“Not the young daughters of this house,” Clea says with mock seriousness as she loops her arm through mine and heads us toward the lake.
“And they certainly won’t be hiding in the willow trees along the clearing at sunrise,” I add in a voice meant to carry back to the chattering bushes. Clea laughs at my encouragement of their naughty behavior but we both know it’s tradition, spoken or not. And traditions are in the blood of us Olympians.
As we reach the boulevard, Hestia House fading behind us, I’m reminded of how beautiful the heart of Olympus can be just before moonrise. Rarely am I out this late. As one of the Gods of Light, Hestia’s work is almost always done in the daytime.
Silver moonrays pool over the thatched shop roofs. Everything is closed now in honor of the ceremony. In this dim and eerie light, I can feel the magic in the air. It coaxes us toward Lake Nisa and the amphitheater on its eastern shore where a row of gold thrones will be waiting for the gods and goddesses to take their places and choose their possible champions.
As we cross the street, Clea leans into me and whispers, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course,” I say distantly, sure that whatever secret Clea has, it’s not likely to be juicy.
We live lives as shuttered as Deion’s Bakery in front of us. I take in a deep breath and detect the smell of fresh dough and yeast. Gods, I love bread. Sura says past the God Gate into the mortal realm, humans have begun to shun bread.
One more reason why I will never ever go there.
I’d gladly eat my weight in bread. Ten times over.
“...and he said he loved me.”
“Wait, what?” I pull to a stop. “Who did?”
Clea sighs. “Were you listening to me?”
“Yes! Well...half. I was half listening. Who told you he loved you?”
“Kahne!”
“The son of Ares?”
“The very same.”
“No.” I tug Clea across the street. We slip between the bakery and sweets shop and take the stone steps down to the shore of Lake Nisa. The ducks quack at us as we pass. Giant cattails stand tall and proud along the water’s edge. “When did you speak to Kahne? When have you even had time to supposedly fall in love?”
“We’ve been writing each other letters,” Clea says.
“Well that’s ridiculous.”
In the pool of light cast by one of the golden lanterns, Clea frowns, blonde brows deeply furrowed. “That’s not very nice, Ana.”
We enter the woods that run between Lake Nisa and the city. On hot days, Clea and I come here to pick the pink and yellow primroses that grow beneath the trees. The shade is a godsend. Now the winding trail is lit every six feet by lanterns made from the pulp of silverwood.
“Clea,” I say and try to sound as reasonable as I can and not as judgmental as I feel, “all of the sons of the dark gods are savage, cruel beasts. It must be a joke. Surely you can see that?”
“Well, I—” Clea trips over an exposed tree root and abruptly grabs my arm. I’m not prepared for the sudden tug of her weight and she yanks me down with her. We both go sprawling on the forest floor.
“Oh, gods. I’m so sorry, Ana!”
“It’s all right.” I hurry to my feet and lean down to help her up as laughter rings out nearby. Not the sweet laughter of the young daughters excited to see the choosing but a reedy, mocking laughter.
“I know they don’t teach you much at Hestia House,” the girl says, “but at the very least I’d think walking was included.” A girl in a long white dress, with fine gold rope crisscrossing her slender body steps out in front of us. There’s a sneer on her otherwise perfect face. Two boys, still cloaked in shadows, walk up behind her.
“Now Lyantha, you shouldn’t taunt,” the taller of the two boys says. “You know these poor girls have spent most of their lives on their knees picking flowers. They’ve little need of walking.” His dark eyes spark as he rakes up and down my body and then Clea’s.
“You’re right, Pearce,” Lyantha says.
I’m not sure I recognize the girl, but she smells like Hades, like cinnamon and campfire smoke.
I look to the second boy who approached, who so far has been silent. But as he comes into the halo of lantern light, I suck in a breath. My blood goes cold. Clea trembles beside me.
For all of our traveling to deliver flowers, we don’t spend much time with outsiders beyond our house, much less male descendants of dark gods, much less this sort of descendant.
Dark hair frames a face of sharp angles that would make a mortal melt. But it’s the mismatched eyes that make Haven Knightfall stand out.
There are stories, of course.
That he peeked at a gorgon with one eye.
That he fought a cyclops and won, but lost an eye in the battle.
That he seduced a sorceress with his wicked mouth and upon leaving her, she cursed him.
Whatever the real story is, Haven’s never told it.
His right eye is an uncanny, bright shade of amber.
His left eye is bleached of all color so that his iris is nearly white.
Help won’t be coming from this boy.
“Excuse us,” I say, aiming for strength and inwardly cringing at the meek tone of my voice. “We don’t want to be
late for the ceremony.”
Haven looks straight at me with those stunning eyes. His voice is the embodiment of brimstone and flame. “I wouldn’t worry, orphan. Hestia’s daughters have been unwanted since their birth. Do you really think that would change this day or any other?”
Anger blooms inside of me. My hands twitch at my sides, fingers tingling.
If I reached out and touched him would he wither and die?
If there’s power inside of me, it’s never been one I control.
But right now I wish it were.
“Step aside, hearthtenders,” the girl says and sweeps past us. “Our choosing ceremony awaits.”
They walk away laughing.
“I hate that he’s right,” Clea says as she brushes the last of the forest floor from her dress and then straightens her flower crown. Mine fell off in the fall and is long gone.
“Maybe so,” I say. “Or maybe not. We don’t know our true fathers, but we could be descended directly from a god, making us demi-gods, Clea. There are so many possibilities. Those assholes are confirmed descendants and are so many generations removed from their godparent, I can’t imagine they bear much more connection to their god than a monkey does to a mortal.”
Clea smiles. “I’ve always admired your ability to spin something in our favor.”
I reach out and tuck her arm through mine. “The Fates have led us this far. They won’t abandon us as we walk the path they’ve chosen.” I set my own dress to rights and we surge ahead on the path.
When the trees thin, I hear the distant hum of conversation in the giant theater ahead.
And when we finally step through one of the many arched doorways and into the amphitheater, the hundreds of attendees go silent.
But not for us.
No, their eyes are turned toward the sky. To the gods descending from Mount Olympus.
Chapter 4
Despite having grown up in Olympus surrounded by gods and their godly things, it’s still a sight to behold seeing them descend from the sky.
Zeus is first, as he is with everything. The King of the Gods waits for no one.
Though I’ve never been to the mortal realm, I know from the mortal books in Hestia’s library that humans think Zeus flies around wearing what looks like a bedsheet, long gray hair billowing around his stern face.
That can’t be further from the truth.
Zeus is in armor that inspired the armor of Roman soldiers so many centuries ago. Beneath the golden breastplate, he wears a tunic that’s made of the finest linen and trimmed in the finest gold thread spun by Arachne herself (until Athena turned her into a spider). His breastplate flashes beneath the lantern light deepening the shadows of the lion’s head artfully shaped into the metal. Lightning crackles along his gold vambraces highlighting the neatly trimmed beard on his face. His long salt and pepper hair is tied back in a bun.
In his left hand he carries the thunderbolt created for him by the Cyclops. It glows an otherworldly shade of violet and silver.
The hair lifts on the back of my neck. Clea clutches my hand tighter.
After Zeus is in his throne—the largest on the dais—Hera, his wife, joins him next. She sits on his left in a stunning dress the color of emeralds.
Athena takes the seat on his right in armor of pure Olympian gold. Her dark hair is left unbraided and it curls around the rimmed edges of her armor’s shoulder plates. Next to her sits Apollo looking just as beautiful in a tunic spun of gold.
Several other gods and goddesses take their places one after the other. Demeter, Artemis, Hermes, Hephaestus, Poseidon, Aphrodite, and my own mother goddess, Hestia.
Lastly, the two darkest gods of all—Ares and Hades.
Even from clear across the theater, I can sense the might and mastery of both gods. They don’t strut across the stage like Poseidon. In fact, they barely acknowledge the crowd of their brothers and sisters. Instead, Ares takes his seat on Hestia’s right and Hades goes to the opposite end of the stage and sits on Aphrodite’s left.
For a moment, I’m caught by the dark beauty of Hades, God of the Underworld. He is tall and broad, with cheekbones sharp as the sword at his side. His dark hair seems to roil lightly in a wind that isn’t there like he’s caught in some phantom breeze.
In some of Hestia’s mortal books, Hades is portrayed as gaunt and haunted, but in reality, he’s the personification of night itself, beautiful and depthless.
In contrast, my mother goddess is kindness and light. She is the mother-maiden of all, soft and plump, with a beauty that can soothe every fear and nightmare.
“Come on,” I whisper to Clea and drag her to the tiered stone benches carved into the mountainside. Somehow we manage to slip into our seats without drawing too much attention. Everyone is glancing at the gods and goddesses assembled in front of us and then away. It hurts to look at them in their full splendor like this for too long.
The crowd is silent and waiting.
Even the surrounding woods and the wildlife on Lake Nisa remain quiet.
Zeus is the first to speak. “Welcome to the Choosing Ceremony.” His thunderbolt crackles. “Some of you are here as witnesses. And some of you are here for a greater purpose. As you all know” —Zeus stands up and begins to walk the length of the dais— “every five years, we, your gods, submit only our most promising descendants to the Moirai Box, but it is the Fates that make the final selection. From those names, they give us ten of you to compete in the Descendant Trial.
“From each house, only one is crowned the victor. They serve as our Head of House, our army generals, our most trusted advisors.”
He pauses and I’m absolutely certain it’s for dramatic effect.
“But being chosen for the Descendant Trial isn’t for those who are weak of will or faint of heart. It is true that the Fates guide our hands in this choosing, but it is up to you to show your might.”
The crowd murmurs their approval.
“If you lose during your trials,” Zeus goes on, “you not only disgrace your god, you lose your place among us here in Olympus. You’ll be stripped of any godly power you possess and reduced to a mere mortal. You’ll be cast out of Olympus, your entire existence wiped from the memories of those around you.”
Though we all know this, the crowd still twitters with energy. This is the biggest risk of being chosen and competing in the Descendant Trial.
If you lose, you’re done.
Gone.
Wiped from existence.
You couldn’t pay me any amount of money (or bread) to make me covet a spot among the chosen. And sure, I long for something more than picking flowers, but to risk losing your place entirely? No, thank you.
Hard pass.
“Now,” Zeus says, “let us begin.”
The crowd cheers and claps.
Hestia finds Clea and me across the large expanse of the stone theater and smiles at us.
We’re up.
My heart leaps to my throat as Clea and I rise from our places. It might be the first time we’ve ever taken part in a choosing ceremony, but Sura has prepared us for this super important honor, making us practice the extremely simple ritual hundreds of times over the last few months.
So why am I shaking and now feel like I want to vomit? I scoffed every time Sura made us practice and reiterate her directions. Now I’m worried I didn’t practice enough.
Because what if I trip? In front of everyone? Sura didn’t say anything about how to avoid tripping!
I gather up a fold of my dress and take slow, careful steps up the three marble stairs. Clea and I cross the dais and kneel before our mother goddess.
“Hello, children,” Hestia whispers. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you, Mother Goddess,” Clea and I say in unison.
Louder now, Hestia says, “As your duties will be eternal, we bless this night with the Eternal Flame.” She flicks her hands.
I peek up as the magic flashes red and gold and white.
&nb
sp; In each hand appears a torch, the end of which glitters with Hestia’s flame.
I take the torch from her right hand, Clea her left.
There’s no heat to the flame, at least not yet. Embers spark up into the night.
Back on our feet, we swivel around and face the gathered demi-gods and descendants.
As if by some dark magic, I immediately lock eyes with Haven Knightfall.
He’s sitting on the lowest tier giving him a front row seat at the ceremony. He’s on the left side of the theater in line with his dark god—Hades.
Haven’s good eye smolders in the dusk and lantern light. He somehow looks attentive and respectful and bored and distant all at the same time. The shifting light of the Eternal Flame sharpens the already sharp planes of his face. His dark hair hangs along the left side of his face making him look more roguish than before.
Now my heart is galloping through my chest.
Don’t fall. Don’t trip. Don’t vomit. I’m turning this into a mantra. If you believe it, it will be true. Don’t fucking fall.
With a summoned breath, I cross the dais. I can feel Haven watching me the whole way and my body heats up beneath his stare as if I’m the torch and his gaze the flame.
Stop thinking about Haven Fucking Knightfall. Focus!
Clea and I leave the dais and go to the large bronze bowl that sits atop a pedestal carved from the base of the marble stage.
In unison, just as we practiced, Clea and I set our torches inside the bowl. Though there are no coals, no stacked wood, the bowl quickly ignites with a resounding WHUMP.
The crowd cheers.
Clea and I return to our seats. Our job is done. We’ve served our mother house without shame or embarrassment, which is all I could ask for.
Zeus stands up again and says, “Now, let the choosing begin.”
Chapter 5
For all of their might and power, it isn’t the gods who choose those who go on to compete in the Descendants Trials, it’s a little wooden box. Or more specifically, it’s the Moirai Box that harnesses the power of the Fates. The Fates never show their faces at a choosing ceremony. That would be beneath them.
Hades Descendants (The Games of the Gods Book 1) Page 2