“Hello, Lachesis.”
Lachesis merely met his gaze as she worked. All right, then.
“The loophole that keeps the Nexus’s strike from being fatal: How can I use it to protect myself?”
“You cannot, godling. You are diminished and no longer possess sufficient power to protect yourself. You will enjoy the irony.”
Ah, yes. Enjoy. Right. Prediction or demand? “If I’ll enjoy the irony, it will be at a far future date, I am sure.”
He sighed. So he was vulnerable, with no way to keep himself safe from a strike. On the other hand, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. “How is the god-killer used, exactly?” If he knew how to keep them from using it on him in the first place . . .
“With malice.”
“I was rather hoping for something a little more specific.”
“I am measuring life-threads for 255 mortals per minute, estimated. You will allow that I am somewhat preoccupied and will wait for the rest of the answer to your question in due time, godling.”
“Right. Sorry. You do it well, Lachesis.”
“Compliments are irrelevant.” Her lithe fingers rapidly drew out a number of threads along a measuring stick, knotted each at the ends, and set them aside for Atropos. “As the UnMaking Nexus is a living weapon, it must be fed before it may strike. It must be placed in a saucer of immortal blood and left alone. The blood must be of equal or greater generation to the intended target to ensure success. Once it has absorbed the blood, it will strike at the nearest immortal it can find. No further targeting can be effected.”
“That sounds a bit imprecise, like more of a grenade than a sword or an arrow.” He made sure it wasn’t a question, but if it coaxed a little more information from her, so much the better.
The eyes of Lachesis narrowed. “As we informed Zeus, when you craft a living weapon capable of slaying a god, you may criticize. Until then, you must accept what is.”
“On the contrary, it was no criticism. I might be at risk from this weapon, so it’s good to know that it can’t be easily aimed.”
“On the contrary?” she repeated. “So now you are arguing with the Fates. None argue with Fate and win, godling.”
“I wasn’t—that was not my intent at all, Lachesis.”
She turned her attention back to her work. “And now you correct me. You learn nothing.”
Apollo had to fight off the urge to waste his last question by asking if she was screwing with him. If she was trying to get him to do that, then she was screwing with him indeed. “I am but a youth compared to you, Lachesis. My wisdom is not nearly so grand.”
“So now you call me old? A crone, perhaps, unworthy of your respect?”
“You are old, Lachesis. As old as time, some say. None are more worthy of respect than you and your sisters.”
He smiled.
She stared.
“You are about to ask your final question of me,” she said at last. “Continue.”
Yes, now that you’ve gone and ruined my train of thought . . . He suddenly recalled something Thalia said back at the camp. “Which of the other Olympians have learned what knowledge from you about the Nexus?”
“You try to combine many questions into one.”
“I combine many inquiries into one question,” he said. “A subtle difference.”
“Argumentative.”
“Only slightly.”
“Impudent.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Lachesis simply stared at him. Apollo stood his ground and said finally, “I would ask your forgiveness for any perceived impudence, but I am told that passionate entreaties hold no meaning in this place. Regardless, if my expressing contrition will aid your acceptance of this, then I will do so.” He fought the urge to wink. She turned her gaze back to the threads, measuring, measuring, measuring.
He waited.
“Upon taking his brother’s throne, Poseidon came before us with questions of his own.” Apollo simply waited this time, hoping for more, appreciating the rhyme. “He learned nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “So then either he knows nothing of the Nexus at all . . . or else he already knew about it and you didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”
“Statements,” Lachesis said.
“Statements I would be deeply grateful for responses to, in truth,” he said, nodding. It was worth a shot.
She stared, perhaps predictably. “You used already twice in the same sentence,” she added finally.
“. . . Yes. Thank you.”
He looked around, trying to think of how he might glean any further information—if indeed the three held any that might be of use to him. He swiftly realized that looking around was exactly the wrong thing to do if he didn’t want the visuals to bend his mind to distraction.
“Marble floors,” he stalled. “Nice.” A bit cliché too, though he supposed the Fates probably did start using marble before the Olympians were even born, so he’d have to cut them some slack. In any case insulting their decor wasn’t likely to help his situation.
Or maybe it would. The Fates were tough to predict.
“You have asked your three questions. That is all you will ask of me. Now you will move on.”
Apollo nodded, frustrated that no grand ideas were coming to him. “Right, so I guess my time here is ended.”
“Incorrect.”
“Atropos said I would ask three questions of each of you, and then my time would be ended.” He had to stop a moment to reform the question he wished to ask into a statement. “I have asked three questions of you, Clotho, and Atropos.” He supposed he could have risked a fourth question, but as prickly as Lachesis was being, he thought it unwise. The Fates were under no obligation to let him go, after all.
“You do not understand.” With that, Lachesis turned from him, putting on a pair of earphones and listening to some unknown music. The conversation appeared to be over.
Yet, Apollo realized, he was still there and still un-“ended”. Immediately another question leaped to mind: What now?
The question of what sort of music the Fates liked to listen to leaped up immediately after that but got smacked down as pointless color.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Everything comes in threes.”
“Except when it doesn’t.”
—First and Second Laws of Cosmological Organization
THEY WEREN’T MAKING HIM LEAVE. That much was clear.
Except, Apollo realized, it wasn’t clear at all. Were they not offering to summon an exit for him because they wanted to trap him there? Did they expect him to find the exit on his own? Did they even realize that he couldn’t leave without the help of a full god? The Fates were sometimes fuzzy on the details, after all, or simply content to let the details attend to themselves in time. Then there was that whole “ended” thing, which rather ruled out the trapping bit, but he had already tried leaving the same way he came and found no door.
Apollo descended the staircase up to the second level, perturbed at the way the Room’s topography caressed the brain like a belt sander. Thought itself was difficult here, and the fact that he’d only just realized the trouble he’d had formulating his questions troubled him further.
His feet gained the second level, which turned out to consist of the back of the Room. He tried not to think about that, and aiding him in his effort was the sight of a comely young woman blinking at him from behind a luminescent curtain of blackness.
You will ask each of us three more questions.
The possibility that he wasn’t out of Fates of whom to ask questions slowly crept into his consciousness. Yet the Fates—there were only three. Had Zeus known of another? For that matter, had Apollo himself known only to forget after diminishing? If that was the case, what else had he forgotten? He didn’t think diminishing worked that way, but it was his first time.
It was a moot point, anyway, since he couldn’t remember what he couldn’t
remember.
Irritated by this train of thought, Apollo canned the ontological masturbation and focused on the woman instead. Fate or not, she might be able to help, and in any case she was unnaturally cute. He followed her through the curtain, blatantly ignoring those wary readers who suspect a trap. (He can’t hear you anyway. He’s diminished.)
The curtained area into which he passed was small with a blessedly consistent geometry. Filling it were little more than a bed and a few small tables, atop which sat some spools of thread and assorted types of mending tape. The woman stood in the center of the room, smiling at him.
She hid the smile instantly the moment he saw it, replacing it with a bland stare that somehow managed to seem self-conscious. “Apollo, welcome. Er, you have come.”
“That I have, mysterious one. I would ask your name, save for the fact that I’m only allowed three questions. If you are, in fact, another of the Fates, that is.”
She straightened, taller and prouder, though at her full height she was still a head shorter than Apollo. Her left foot fidgeted as her blank expression quivered. “I am. You may address me as Poppy.”
“Poppy,” he repeated, sure to not make it a question. “I was unaware the Fates numbered four. I regret that I’ve never heard of nor met you before. Your loveliness is truly a sight.”
Her smile returned for a moment, only to vanish again. There was a trace of a blush on her cheeks. Apollo moved closer, curious. The Fates were not moved by flattery, at least not as far as he knew.
But he wasn’t about to use any questions to confirm that just yet either.
“I’m new,” she explained. “And . . . all right, actually I’m not so much of a Fate as I am a . . . I guess you could say I’m an intern.”
Apollo tried to coax more information out of her with just a curious look.
She cast about suddenly. “Oh, would you like something to drink? I’ve only water, but . . . it’s good water. I’m sorry there’s not more to offer; I don’t really have many guests as you can imagine.”
“I would be a poor guest to decline. I’m sure it’s marvelous water.” He smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed, radiating what charm he still held post-diminishment. It was, he expected, still considerable. “I didn’t know the Fates hired interns.”
“Intern, singular. Due to increased birth rate and life expectancy, I think is what they said.” She handed Apollo the water and sat down beside him. “Plus, I get to handle the special cases when someone gets brought back to life. It used to only happen once in a while, but these days it’s getting a little more common. I probably owe my position to the invention of the defibrillator.”
“Ah, you’re welcome, then.”
“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it? Regardless, I’m still getting the hang of things.” She blushed again, spine straightening up from the more relaxed position she’d slipped into. “And according to my last evaluation, I’m really unpracticed at the mysterious detachment shtick. But I’m working on it.” She swallowed, eyes hardening. “You will ask your questions now.”
He waited, just watching her. Her jaw trembled slightly.
“That’s . . . not really a prediction.” She sighed finally. “I don’t have that kind of power yet.”
“That must get frustrating at times.” He reached out to put a hand over hers.
“It’s not bad. Except when we watch TV. Do you know what it’s like to watch TV with those three? Between them all, they know exactly how everything is going to start, end, and how it’s going to get there. Nor are they shy about sharing it—they’re always talking about how predictable something is and ruining any surprise at all.”
“One wonders why they watch at all if they find it so boring.”
“I suspect they like talking about it on the Internet, and they at least need to see a show in order to discuss it. It’s a weird . . . Fate . . . thing. Hard to explain. Not that I’ve ever caught them going online.” She pulled her hand away. “Not that I’m supposed to explain things like that at all, even.”
“It’s all right to share things that aren’t related to why I came, surely. I don’t even know how you got the job or your parentage yet. You seem to be somewhat more than mortal, though I can’t be sure of the source.”
“I’m not really sure myself . . . which is to say, ah.” She paused, standing straight and facing him. “My origins lie shrouded in mystery. They are unknowable. Enigma.”
“Ineffable,” Apollo offered.
“That might be a good word, but I think it’s taken.” She cleared her throat and took a breath, apparently doing her best to appear aloof once more. “Now. You really must ask your questions. Before Atropos decides your time is up.”
“She does that a lot.”
Poppy nodded. “It is her thing. Er, ‘such is her nature,’ I should say. Now, please, ask. Don’t get me in trouble, Apollo.”
“I like you,” he told her. “You don’t call me ‘godling.’”
Poppy’s countenance faltered just for a moment. “Behave yourself.” She crossed her arms, waiting.
“As you wish,” he said finally, adding with a wink, “Intern-lady of Fate. I know the Fates created the UnMaking Nexus. I know Zeus was aware of a loophole that prevented its strike from being completely fatal. It occurs to me that I haven’t actually asked how the loophole works or how Zeus might return.”
Poppy began to speak, then stopped and collected herself. “You have not.” She flashed a proud grin then shut it away, still waiting.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” he said. “Much to my dismay. Very well: What can be done to aid Zeus’s return via this loophole?”
Poppy paused, pondering. “If Father Zeus did truly suspect foul play—”
“We’re pretty sure he did.”
She cleared her throat. “If he did, the loophole requires that he first create a magical talisman into which he then siphons a piece of his immortal essence.”
“A talisman not unlike an amulet.”
Poppy opened her mouth to respond, pausing first to flash a little smile. “A magical talisman, which could be created only by him so as to be properly attuned to him. Only by his hand could it be made ready to accept and hold the required fragment of his power.”
“Purple stone,” Apollo fished. “Hangs on a gold chain about the neck. About yay big.” He held up his hands questioningly.
“The magical talisman—”
“Amulet. We already found it.”
“Hush.” Poppy glared at him. It was sweet. “The magical talisman must then be delivered unto the hands of a chosen champion of Zeus’s offspring.”
“Look, just say ‘amulet.’ It’ll be faster.”
She frowned. “Amulet isn’t anywhere near as mysterious as magical talisman, and I’ve got another evaluation coming in a month.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
“The amulet,” and here she imbued the word with a mysterious wave of her arms, “must be taken by the chosen champion among Zeus’s offspring—”
“She’s got a much shorter name too.”
“You know, this would be over and done by now if you would just let me speak.”
“Yes, but I do so enjoy the sight of you talking.”
“So why shorten everything I’m trying to say?”
He simply smiled, leaning back and listening, trying to make her blush with his gaze under the theory that she might tell him more than she was supposed to if she became flustered again. He also just enjoyed doing it, but two birds with one arrow and so forth.
She turned her back to him instead, continuing to speak. Apollo listened intently, making a concerted effort to note every detail, every option, and commit them all to memory with special care so the process of exiting the Fates’ abode—or even walking out into the main room again—didn’t knock them out of his mind.
Poppy’s answer was indeed detailed, yet so great were Apollo’s efforts at absorbing every mote of information that absol
utely none of it managed to make its way past his ears and into this retelling. Such things may only be transcribed from echoes within the cosmos, as anyone with an advanced degree in quantum fictional mechanics knows. Some narratives may claim to hide such details purely out of dramatic license, keeping them unknown so as to create tension and mystery, but that’s all really a bunch of bull. Not that many would admit it.
Any contradiction between the above statements and statements elsewhere in this narrative is, of course, completely intended. Probably.
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Apollo said when she was done. “Though finding the place might be a little problematic. Which brings me to my next question: Just how can I get out of here if I’m diminished? I had to have someone else open the door for me to get in.”
“You’ll have to ask Atropos’s help with that unfortunately.”
“Ask her help,” he repeated, just managing to turn the inflection away from being interrogative. “That might be a problem . . . Will you ask her on my behalf?”
Poppy paused, cocking her head to one side, considering. Her eyes shut. She slowly drew a breath as her arms raised up, spreading out, fingers splayed wide as if searching the air for something. Her eyes worked back and forth under closed lids, body beginning to sway. Apollo waited, curious about what was happening, uncertain if this was some means of telecommunication with the other Fates or if she was simply trying to answer the question. Her daze lasted long enough for Apollo to worry that he might have wasted the last of his questions—and begin to hope that maybe the Fates had also hired a concierge or personal masseuse who might allow him three further questions.
And then Poppy opened her eyes to reveal darkly glazed orbs that seemed to stare at him across a vast distance. “I . . .” she began, “will ask.”
Apollo blinked.
She smirked and blinked away the glaze. “How was that? Pretty mysterious, eh?”
Zeus is Dead Page 24