by Cassie Day
Charon startles awake. He jolts upright, rubbing at his face. I sigh once before lifting my head off his shoulder, his side a long line of heat against mine.
Brown grass shuffles in a warm breeze far beneath us. Bare trees rustle in the wind. Yet the moment our chariot passes by, the grass shifts to a stunning green. The trees sprout buds, then leaves. Spring truly arrives in the realm, following Persephone’s journey back to her harvest goddess mother Demeter.
Then a city sprawls below. Athansi!
Waves of golden wheat stretch outside a gleaming white wall surrounding stone buildings of every size. Some are huge, glimmering pure white in the dawn sunlight. Others are small yet stories high with thatched roofs. A dizzying number, all crowded together with gray stone roads extending in all the spaces between.
The chariot slants downward. Close enough I could reach out and touch the peak of a grand temple with massive pillars holding it up. People turn and wave from below, a rainbow of fabric and skin. Satyrs, men with the bottom half of a standing goat, traipse through the crowd alongside mortals. A group of women weave flowers and branches into ornate wreaths. Their pointed ears and willowy shapes—nymphs!
And in the middle of a crowded market with deep blue awnings, a handful of women jog against the teeming crowd. They wear short dresses smudged with dirt and leaves. Lean, tall dogs follow at their heels, tongues lolling out. The goddess of the moon, Artemis, has worshipers described exactly like them. Could these truly be her hunting maidens?
I grin and wave. They wave back.
The Olympian Palace sits on a hilltop looming above the city. Clouds cover its spiraling towers at each peak, layered so thick there’s no glimpse of any roofs beyond.
The stone is white and sparkles beneath the sun. The palace is massive with an entrance constructed of a blocked roof and columns bigger than Arion’s muscled chest. There’s no walls surrounding the palace, instead a wide set of stairs leading to it and precise gardens at its back.
The hill beneath turns green, thick with grass and morning dew. The fragrant smell of blooming flowers fills the air.
“Oh,” Desma says. She lifts her head from where it fell against the chariot side in sleep. “We’re here.”
I should snap at her for stating the obvious. But the same awe fills me too, freezing me to my seat. The chariot tilts, Arion steering toward a landing at the top of the palace steps.
Too soon, he lands in a clatter of hooves on stone. He sprints for a moment, then slows to a run. Then a walk. He stops beside tawny wooden doors. They’re carved with immeasurable pictures.
I focus on a minuscule corner. An entire scene of a battle against massive foes takes shape. The gods fighting their giant predecessors, the Titans.
Hermes jumps from his seat and swings the chariot door open. Persephone and Charon follow him out of the carriage, sandals tapping against the landing. He beckons for Desma to follow. She does, taking his offered hand to step down.
He offers that same hand to me. I reach, staring at the drop made farther by my sleep-heavy limbs. But before I can, Charon appears from seemingly nowhere, elbowing Hermes in the stomach with a sharp jab. Hermes stumbles backward, grinning. He shrugs his shoulders and steps away to join the others.
Charon’s hand is the same except for his missing claws. I take his hand and turn it. I glance up. There are no animal parts, not a swinging tail or curving horns. If not for the black staining his arms from fingertip to elbow, he looks the same as the other gods. Well, except for his intense stares.
“Your claws?” I ask.
“Gone,” he says. He doesn’t tug my hand to hurry me along. “I don’t need them here.”
“I see,” I say though I don’t.
I look at Hermes and Persephone. If not for their ethereal beauty, they’re mortal in appearance. I connect the pieces. This is Charon’s way of fitting in among the gods.
Finally, I step down. His hand is warm in mine after the cold journey. When I move to join the others, I regret letting it go immediately.
I glance back a single time to see Charon clenching and unclenching his hand. His eyes are more blue than gray. He watches his hand with a strange softness.
“You brought more ladies!” a man slurs.
An arm falls across my shoulder. Another lands on Desma beside me. He pulls us close to his body, closer to each other, and I wrinkle my nose at the stench of sweet-sour permeating from his every pore.
Persephone levels a scowl at whoever holds us. “You’re overwhelming them, Dionysus.”
“Fine, fine, you grumpy girl,” he mumbles, pulling away. His scent doesn’t leave with him, lingering in the air and in my nose. Perhaps even in my clothing.
Hermes grasps Persephone’s elbow. “Your mother waits.”
Her skin drains of color. Her shoulders slump forward until she’s hunched in on herself. Yet she nods and bids us a terse farewell before following Hermes into the depths of the palace.
She glances back once. Her expression is full of such despair, a painful tug begins in my heart. I watch them disappear from view. I’ve lost my most powerful ally to something as simple, if overwhelming, as a mother’s devotion.
I remember my mother’s face. The barest hint of it; the slope of her nose, the scar on her chin, and how her hair undulated beneath the waves. I shake the thought away by looking at the chariot. Arion is being tended to by a servant of the court in simple clothing. He’s led away though he snorts a quick goodbye.
I’m left with Desma and Charon, both of whom look as lost as I feel.
“Time for introductions, I suppose,” Dionysus says, stumbling in front of us. “I’m Dionysus, the god of wine among other fun things.”
He wiggles his brows. Is he attempting to hint something? I can’t imagine what. At most his brows remind me of a pair of crawling sea cucumbers. I scrunch my nose upward at the imagery, unsure if I want to laugh or despair.
“I’m Desma,” she says in a low voice. She watches Dionysus’ brows with a level of confusion to match mine.
“I’m Agathe,” I say. “What’s wine?”
Dionysus’ grin goes crooked. “Oh, we’re going to have fun with you two.”
Desma backs away. I stop myself from following. I can’t show weakness this early, not if I want to survive the Olympian court.
Charon sighs, striding forward to place a hand on Dionysus’ shoulder. “Please stop.”
“Who are they?” a woman asks.
Dionysus startles, swinging himself toward the voice with a stumble. “Artemis! I was just thinking of you.”
Artemis bares her teeth at him. “Keep me out of your thoughts, you drunk pervert.”
“You tease me so,” he says, fluttering his long lashes. “May I introduce you to our guests? Wait, why am I asking? Of course I can!”
Artemis whistles once, piercing and low. Her mouth lifts into a smirk.
Dionysus continues, oblivious. Or uncaring. “Everyone, meet Artemis. Goddess of the hunt and the moon.” He claps his hands. “Now where are those beasts of yours?”
Two dogs slink to Artemis’ side. Russet fur, more red in the sunlight. Long snouts, tipped with a pale nose. Long legs with thin whipcords of muscle. Even their blunt tails are whip-thin.
They’re lovely except for the unsettling intelligence in their eyes.
Dionysus coos at the beasts. “Who’re good puppies?” And when the dogs do nothing but loll pink tongues out with a hint of sharp fang, he continues. “You are!”
Desma shoots a questioning look at Charon.
He shuffles closer to my side. “Dogs.”
Aunt told us of many things, furniture and gods and mortal culture, but forgot the bits about what creatures those above keep as pets. If not for Bion and his town, I’d be as lost as Desma.
“They assist me on my hunts,” Artemis says.
She looks down her nose at Dionysus, who’s lowered himself in front of one of the dogs. He continues to coo like a demented bird. Th
e dog’s ears are low, its tail beating at a steady pace, and sharp canines flash again when its tongue slinks out to lick his face.
I edge forward. I suppose they’re not so bad. Beautiful, even, with their gleaming fur. I reach toward the one not being accosted by Dionysus. The dog meets me halfway, snuffling at my hand.
Then it plops onto its back end, butting its head beneath my hand until my fingers trace behind one ear. I stroke there, then scratch, while its tail beats against the floor in a steady beat. Desma joins me and the dog closes its eyes in bliss.
“I like these two,” Artemis declares. “They’re only ones stupid enough to pet my fearsome hunting hounds.”
“Hey!” Dionysus says with a pout.
“Besides you.” She pauses, stroking a hand along her square jaw. “Perhaps they can join me on a hunt.”
“Shoo with both of you,” a new voice says, warm and soft with a core of steel.
How many gods live here? My head already hurts from the trip, never mind remembering faces and names of those who could be friend or foe. All I truly want is a peaceful nap without people or a rocking chariot involved.
Still, I lift my head. A woman with wrinkles around her mouth as if she’s more accustomed to smiling than anything else. Her skin is as warm as her voice. Her hair seems black until she steps further into the light, then it gleams a dark yet warm brown.
Dionysus whimpers, continuing his pout. “But Hestia, I’m having fun.”
“Shoo! Go back to your wine and servants,” she says with more steel. Then, softer. “Your father calls for you, Artemis.”
Dionysus does go, though slowly. More than once he staggers to the side or into a wall outright while he ventures beyond the doors and deeper into the palace. Then he’s gone around a corner with Artemis following after him, though she stops to wink over her shoulder. Her dogs follow, leaving my hand empty of fur and warmth.
“Now,” Hestia says with a smile. “Let’s see you to your rooms.”
Chapter 18
“I’M HESTIA,” THE GODDESS says. Her steps are sure despite the endless array of hallways the exact copy of one another.
If not for occasional bundles of flowers in a vase or statues of men and women, I can’t tell one turn from another. But I trust her to lead us. Kindness beams from her smiles and gentle tone.
Desma’s brow furrows. “Hestia? I haven’t heard that name before.”
I’m tempted to chide her for the possible insult, but it’s true. Beneath the sea, our education of the gods was limited to stories passed through generations. Many stories were lost altogether either through the unexpected death of an aunt or a lapse in memory.
“I’m not mentioned much by mortals or gods.” She looks over her shoulder. “Goddess of the hearth isn’t impressive compared to my sisters’ titles.”
At the curious tilt of my head, she continues. “I’m Hera and Demeter’s older sister.”
I fall back, matching Charon’s slower stride.
“Charon,” I whisper.
He leans closer. Our shoulders brush. “How are you related to the court?”
He shakes his head. A wisp of dark hair caresses my ear. I shiver, heat coursing through me from the simple touch.
“I’m not,” he says. “I was born from Chaos itself alongside Nyx and Erebus. While I’m a deity because of my limited abilities, they’re considered protogenoi or original gods.”
I gulp at the mention of Chaos—the element that birthed the realms and its people, said to be fathomless and inescapable.
“What’s the difference between the protogenoi and the court gods?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “The protogenoi are more connected to Chaos. All three of us can shift our appearance through our pure connection, better than the other gods who are more separate from Chaos. Erebus was always the most adept.”
“Nyx’s husband?”
“Yes. He spends his time sleeping now.”
“You three were born when the Titans ruled the realms?”
He nods.
I shiver again, this time from the unsettling sensation of staring eyes. Erebus, an ancient god of darkness. Nyx’s husband. Here in this shimmering palace full of light, shadows linger beneath statues or doors. Darkness is everywhere. Does he watch when his name is uttered?
Do the Titans? They vanished after the Titan War three centuries past, leaving only the crater lake in the center of Prasinos where their palace used to sit. Everything they left behind crumbled to dust soon after except for their written laws.
I lean into Charon’s side.
He settles some of his weight against me. “Are you well?”
Shaking those thoughts away, I nod.
A boom sounds from the end of the hall. Two enormous doors fling open, cracking into the marble walls to each side. When they swing back, the stone is fractured in cracks spreading like veins. Yet the longer I stare, the more those cracks pull themselves back together until the stone is unmarred.
A figure strides from between the doors. A barrel chest, wide golden belt, and blue eyes.
Zeus.
Artemis and her two dogs trail after him.
“There’s our newest guest,” Zeus says.
The dogs wince, one scratching at its ear with a hind leg. I’m tempted to rub my own ears; his voice is too loud, echoing in the hallway barren of anything but stone.
He slices into the space between us, throwing a muscled arm around my shoulder. Charon stumbles backward with a grunt. Zeus leads me toward an offshoot from the main hallway.
I glance back. Charon follows alongside the rest of our odd entourage: Hestia, Desma, Artemis, and the dogs.
The next hall is wide and polished like the last. The only difference is the lack of enormous doors at the end. Instead, the hall curves into another, the gleaming white stone an endless ocean.
We pass a section of wall carved into whorls: flowers, fan-tailed birds gilded with gold-leafing, and cupped hands holding an infant. Two legs are where a fishtail should be. I shake my head, ignoring the twitch Zeus’ arm gives in response. The gods aren’t born with tails.
I glance at the door again. But while I was lost in thought, it came loose, creaking open on invisible hinges. A room waits beyond.
Opulence. Pure opulence. Everything crusted in gold. Each bit of fabric a rich jewel-toned color with a crushed texture.
A woman moves, silhouetting herself in the doorway. Her trim waist and long neck give the appearance of someone more avian than mortal. She tilts her head, green eyes narrowed, baring her flawless neck just so.
“Husband,” she says, her voice a mix of sultry and snapping cold. “Who is this?”
She gestures at me, from the soles of my scuffed sandals to the tangled mess of my wind-blown hair. Her frown deepens.
“Hera,” Zeus says, voice flat. Sweat builds along his arm and in the crook of his elbow. “I’m giving our new friend a tour.”
He moves his free hand; an expansive gesture to encompass the grand palace. His other hand twitches lower across my collarbones until it brushes the top of one breast.
I become ice itself. Somehow I shrug his arm off and stumble back a step. His arm hangs in the air for a moment before falling to his side. He doesn’t turn. His smile to his wife, his queen, turns brittle.
A fountain to the side beckons. I bite my tongue. The copper tang of blood fills my mouth. I restrain myself from jumping into the fountain to wash his touch away. Instead, I inhale deep, letting the scent of sun-warmed stone center me.
We’re standing in front of the queen of gods, the goddess of marriage, and he dares touch someone else. Why? The stories say he’s virile and powerful—they don’t mention why.
Marriage is foreign—more foreign than my new legs or quiet voice. But commitment is not. They’ve committed to a life together yet he disrespects her.
I swallow sharp words. From Hera’s watchful look to her pursed, painted mouth, she’s doing the same. But her glare isn’t di
rected at her husband. No, it’s pointed toward me.
Zeus laughs, smacking a kiss to her cheek. Her face doesn’t thaw but her shoulders slump forward.
A hand touches my elbow. Warm skin and sleek claws—Charon.
He leans forward until his mouth is by my ear. “Are you all right?”
Yes. No. I don’t know.
My silence says enough. He steps closer, hand falling away. His presence is enough to make up for the loss of skin-on-skin. His posture is rigid, his shoulders thrown back. His eyes are the hard gray of steel where they rest on Zeus.
Zeus sighs. Even this is too loud in the cavernous hall. He strides away from Hera with a pat to her bottom. She jolts, springing forward. Her lips purse until the candied red pales to ashen coral.
He struts, proud as the overconfident geese from Kyma, and beckons for us to follow. He doesn’t touch me again.
Hera trails at our backs, the train of her dress a distant rustle of silk against the floor. Her hair ornaments refract light from the gaping windows, cascading distorted rainbows onto the marble.
My necklace warms. Nyx’s necklace. I glance down.
The jewel, beautiful even while it swallows light, has pulsed with a steady heat since I arrived in the palace. Perhaps sun-warmed during the chariot ride. Or some of her magic still burns in its depths.
“The library!” Zeus yells, throwing open a new set of doors. They’re made from smooth mahogany wood and utterly at odds with the rest of his pristine palace.
We follow him into the room beyond. The dogs glance at me in passing, snorting as if to say ridiculous man.
I smother a grin. Hera’s gaze blazes hotter against the back of my neck. I ignore her along with Zeus’ pleading looks.
I expect another display of opulence: rows of gold-leafed books, plush chaises strewn with layers of useless pillows, or rustling curtains dyed in outrageous colors. But no.
Stretching to the grand ceiling are rows of books in all shapes, from tiny booklets to massive tomes. A few have gilded spines but most crack with age or use.