by Diana Tyler
Shakily, Chloe got to her feet and wiped her eyes, anger roiling beneath her eyes where tears of grief still stood. How could Damian be such a hypocrite? “And if I go back and save Mom and Dad, none of this is relevant.” The woods went silent with her shout. Even the Centaur froze.
“So take your pick, Damian,” she said in a softer but no less severe tone. “Should I go back and save our parents, promising them nothing but maybe a day, a week, a year of life? Or would you rather we stay here and fight for something that could make a difference?”
Damian pressed his lips together firmly and stuck his hands into his hoodie’s front pockets. “There’s a reason we’re the first ones in our family to stand up to the Fantásmata, Chloe.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said, feeling the ground firm up beneath her feet. “It’s because we’re the Vessel, Damian. And we can ignore it and resent it, or we can run with it.”
Damian stood so still that Chloe could have sworn he was going to make himself invisible again and take off through the trees. She wouldn’t try to bring him back if he did. If he wanted to leave, she’d let him.
“I’ve got it,” said Tycho.
Chloe turned to see Tycho pinching something between his fingers: the microchip. He had cut it from Aison’s hand.
“The decision whether to time travel and spare Aison’s life rests with you, Chloe,” Tycho said. He walked over to her and placed the rice-sized wafer in her hand. “But I think you know what he would’ve wanted.”
Fresh tears spilled over as the Centaur pulled a cloak from his kit and draped it over Aison’s body, making his death all the more real to Chloe, all the more final. She clutched the chip. I can’t go back.
She forced the words from her heart to her tongue and willed herself to speak them. “We’ll honor Aison and our parents,” she said, glancing at her brother and Ethan beside him, “by doing everything we can to ensure that their deaths weren’t for nothing.”
Iris put her hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “I told you when I met you that you had to be quite strong if Duna saw fit to send you here. I still believe it.” Iris’s blood-red jasper stone was twinkling in what little sunlight had made its way to the forest floor. She placed her free hand on the stone and lifted the necklace over her head. “My brother Jasper gave this to me. He was murdered by an Alpha guardian who was threatened by Jasper’s beliefs in Duna.” She put the necklace on Chloe and pulled her blond hair over it. “There was a time when it kept my mind fixed on vengeance.”
“And now?” Chloe asked, rubbing the cool stone with her finger.
“Now it symbolizes redemption, of recovering that which was lost. For me, it was recovering the faith of my fathers.” She smiled warmly at Damian. “For you two, it remains to be seen what its purpose is.”
“It represents blood,” Damian said. He walked toward Chloe, unspoken apologies filling his eyes. “Flesh and blood.”
Chloe nodded once, then turned back to Iris and Tycho, who now stood at her side. These strangers, these ancients from a forgotten time, were her family. They, along with her brother, were all she had in this world. The Centaur had been right: if she didn’t have them, she didn’t have anything. The stone around her neck would serve to remind her of that. She knew it.
She lifted the stone so Damian could see it. “Didn’t the Centaur give this to you, when he was Katsaros?”
Damian sighed. He studied the rock a moment as a look of deep-seated shame washed over him. “I gave it back to him.
Another one of my prouder moments.” He gave a weak laugh, and then lowered his gaze to her closed fist. “The microchip is useless here. Wouldn’t Aison have known that?”
“What does it do?” Tycho asked.
“We always thought the chips were just for tracking pets,” said Chloe. “Obviously, they’re for a whole lot more than that.”
“Killing people,” Damian muttered.
Ethan pulled his dead cellphone from his pocket and popped out the SIM card. “Makes you wonder what else these do.” He dropped it to the ground and crushed it with his heel. Damian did the same.
“All the chip’s information is stored in a database somewhere,” said Chloe. “It’d be like searching for a needle in a haystack if we tried to hunt it down.”
“Not to mention there’d be no way we could hack into the computer, even if we could find it,” Damian added.
“Well, aren’t you a sunny bunch?” the Centaur said. “This lad risked his life following you Ashers here. If you want to honor his memory, you can start by having a little faith in him. He entrusted that blasted object to you. I’d like to think he knew you’d find out why.”
Chloe had a dozen reasons to explain why she thought the task impossible, and how she meant no disrespect in thinking so. But the Centaur’s imposing disposition alone had a way of discouraging arguments.
Chloe, Ethan and Damian stood in silence.
After what felt like hours, Tycho intervened. “The best thing for you right now,” he said, putting an arm around Damian’s shoulder, “and for all of us, is to give Aison a proper burial.”
“What about this?” Chloe said, indicating the silicon chip in her fist.
“Has anything thus far been left unknown to you?” Tycho asked.
Chloe shook her head. The fact that she and those standing around her were still alive was proof enough that the god they served was faithful. He wouldn’t leave them in the dark on this.
“Who has perished?”
Chloe looked up to see Archelaos, the high priest, on horseback behind the Centaur, his young attendant mounted beside him. When no one answered, Archelaos kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and trotted to the oak tree. He pointed at Aison’s covered head and said, “Cael, pull back the cloak.”
The attendant dismounted and did as he was told.
“No…” Archelaos stumbled off his mare and ran to Aison in panic. “No, it can’t be.” He took Aison’s face in his hands, turning it tenderly from side to side as if to confirm his identity. When there was no longer a question, he fell prostrate onto the hard dirt ground and wept.
Ethan took the attendant by the elbow and drew him aside. “He knows Aison?”
“Aye,” nodded Cael. “Aison is his nephew. Aison ran away this time last year and no one’s seen him since.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ULTIMATUM
The fetid stench of pig blood turned Hermes’ stomach as he floated down the aisle of Hades’ throne room. Of all the creatures the Pythonians sacrificed, swine were by far the most offensive to the nostrils, even nostrils accustomed to the sulfurous fumes of the Underworld. Hades himself, the dark lord, choked with disgust as waves of blood mixed with the fire of the far, magma-canvassed wall.
Hermes watched his master remove his horned helmet and begin to pace back and forth on the precipice, below which roared the insatiable mouth of the Phlegethon.
“I would rather they sacrifice the aphids from their gardens than one more stinking pig.” Hades swung back his arm and sent his helmet spinning through the air, straight into Hermes’ chest.
“The Lycaea Festival is tonight, brother,” said Hermes, placing the helmet over his cap. “The purest Petrodian blood will soon rid the air of this unholy odor.” He plugged his nose and offered his most charming smile.
“We don’t tolerate you for your humor, Hermes,” said Apollo, who was seated on his basalt throne, arrayed in his blinding panoply of gold. “Give your report, and please, spare us any embellishment.”
Hermes nodded. He forced himself to remember that if he were condemned to remain sequestered here in Petros’s bowels as they were, he would no doubt be equally inhospitable.
“Sires,” he said, “I have told you that two Ashers have joined the refugees in the hills outside Ourania. I have reason to believe that one, perhaps both, of these is the Vessel the oracle spoke of.”
Hades raised a hand toward his helmet, and with a flick of his finger jerked it to
ward him, the force of his pull dragging Hermes to the floor. “Have you seen the Moonbow?” With his opposite hand, Hades made a sweeping motion across the igneous wall, commanding the flow of fire and blood to cease.
“No, my lord,” said Hermes, pushing himself up onto hands and knees, “but—”
Apollo held his palm beneath his lips and blew across it, his breath lighting the rows of cauldrons atop their tripods, one by one. “The prophecy was clear, brother. The Moonbow precipitates the Vessel’s appearing.” He stood from his throne and stepped off the dais, drawing his sword. “We all know you love a good battle, Hermes, perhaps more than Ares once did, but the time has not yet come to make war.”
Apollo pointed his sword at Hermes and made three mock thrusts, laughing when he saw Hermes’ hand reach for his wand, a reflex Hermes had never learned to control in the presence of his brothers.
“You see,” Apollo said, turning to fence with the air, “you feel paranoia because you’re itching to fight. Why don’t you return to your mistress and enjoy peacetime while you can. Mania will finish off the Ashers soon enough, and your bloodlust will be sated.”
Hermes sheathed his wand. “It’s not as simple as that, sire. As I speak, the Ashers are with Iris, protected behind a wall the All-Powerful is using to protect them. Mania is powerless as long as they’re in hiding.”
“Then get them out of hiding.” Hades’ cavernous voice echoed throughout the chamber; the wind of his breath sliced the tripods’ flames in half, sending skeins of smoke into the noxious air. “Every second those Ashers live bolsters the All-Powerful’s plans against us.”
“Our brother speaks truth, Hermes,” said Apollo, bringing the sword to his side. “If we don’t eradicate them, the Pythonians—from the centaurs to the aristocracy—will be subverted.”
“Our hands are tied as long as the wall stands, my lords,” Hermes said. “One of the Ashers, the boy, was intercepted by Leto just this morning, but the encounter was unproductive.”
“Don’t be cryptic. Unproductive in what way?” Apollo asked.
“I-I counseled Leto that it would be best to befriend the new Ashers rather than play the foe. B-but the young man regarded her as nothing more than a common beggar and disappeared before an inroad could be made.” Hermes cursed his tongue for stuttering. He was no mightier than a mouse when interrogated by these two.
“A doma that permits him to disappear…” Apollo tapped his chin. “Perhaps you’ve met your match.”
“Indeed, sir.” Hermes paused, feeling his pride creep down his throat like a spoonful of bitter herbs. “That means one of the other two is the time traveler. In any case, I’m afraid to say that I’m far outmatched. It’s my suspicion that they’ve come from the future to thwart our present plans. Perhaps the Moonbow rose in the time they’ve come from, and whatever stratagem our future selves concocted failed.”
“Our future selves?” Hades bellowed. “Don’t include me in your baseless hypotheses, Hermes. I will take Zeus’ place in Tartarus if I’ve played a part in this ignominious fantasy of yours.”
“His theory is feasible, Hades,” Apollo rejoined. “But as you say, if it’s true, our brother insults us by implying that we’re at fault.”
Apollo spun on his heel and pointed his sword once more at Hermes’ head, only this time there was no trace of mirth in his ice-blue eyes; he’d spilled plenty of Hermes’ immortal blood before, and in circumstances far less dire than these.
“I care not what the reason is for why these Ashers are here,” Apollo said, “be they Vessel or minor delinquents. I only care that you dispose of them and anyone who comes to their aid, including their comrades behind the wall. If any one of them so much as sets their big toe outside that barrier, chop it off and slit their throat.”
Hermes gave a humble bow, the final step before he begged to be spared Apollo’s blade. “Brother, you know I can touch no one bodily. I ca—”
“I am well aware of the laws!” Apollo shouted, the luminous glow of his face fading as his ire increased. “Every day we’re bound here in this rathole is a reminder of that millstone.”
“Then you know that I cannot harm the Ashers, much less take their lives.” Hermes folded his arms across his tunic, thankful for the bronze cuirass beneath it. If he lingered here much longer he’d undoubtedly need its protection.
“Are you so daft that you’ve forgotten why you charmed Diokles’ daughter in the first place?” Hades moaned and pouted, his round bloated head turning a sickly shade of green. “Why do we tolerate him, Apollo? If he is our eyes, I would rather we gouge them out.”
Apollo settled back into his throne and threw his feet onto the ivory footstool, a gift from Hephaestus before he, too, was chained in darkness. “Aye, and he’s our ears as well, ears that had better be rid of wax right now or these words will be the last they hear.”
“My ears are opened, my lord.” Hermes bowed so low that he could see the whites of his eyes reflecting back at him from the slick obsidian floor.
Apollo leaned forward and drummed his fingers against his lips. “It’s time to involve the child.”
“Which child, sire?” Hermes said.
“Your son, you imbecile. You say you’ve met your match with these Ashers, that they’re unreachable, unknowable behind their wall. It stands to reason, does it not, that Mania’s spawn will serve as a worthy rival?”
“That boy is being spared for my sacrifice, the pure, undefiled blood of an Asher’s child,” shouted Hades, now rushing toward Apollo, his horned helmet lowered like the head of a charging bull.
Apollo snatched his shield from behind his throne and forced his brother back with a warning blow to his chin. “Don’t be so myopic, Hades. You’ll have your Asher blood the hour this inconvenience is contained. We’ll maintain his innocence as much as possible, but at this juncture, it’s required that we dirty his hands a bit.”
Hades grunted; he held his jaw in his hand, opening and closing it while Apollo set down the shield, bowl side up. “You strike me again and I’ll have Deimos and Phobos feed your rotten heart to Cerberus.”
Hermes shuddered. He knew these two made no empty threats. Despite their ability to regenerate, an ability with which all souls of the Underworld were cursed, they still played by mortal rules, wounding and killing one another as a virile show of power. Hermes had lost count of the number of times his own organs had been roasted for the hound of hell.
“You give me a need to strike again and I’ll weave a rug from that glaucous skin of yours,” Apollo said.
Hades turned away, and with an indignant air stalked off into the shadows.
“Stand like a man, you spineless imp,” said Apollo, spitting as he turned back to Hermes. “It’s no wonder that the Ashers torment you so, even from afar; your affair with Mania has robbed you of all your mettle.”
Hermes stood and brought his right arm across his chest, a sign of gratitude that his own skin was not yet stripped off his bones. In no small way did it hearten him to hear his brother pinning blame on Mania. “You speak truth, brother, as always. The woman has been a distraction. I’ve spent all my time tutoring her, training her—”
“Bedding her,” said Apollo.
Hermes’ cheeks grew hot. It was true he’d been Leto’s lover, but only because he’d been commanded to ensure she produced an unblemished Asher’s son for sacrifice once all of Petros had been purged of Duna’s devoted. Since he couldn’t convince her to woo any man save himself, he’d been left with no choice but to take her as his mistress, his own Persephone.
“Indeed, sire,” Hermes said, “forgive me for my indulgence in such carnal pleasures.”
Apollo smiled as he waved off Hermes’ apology. “Your carnal pleasures have maintained Mania’s trust all these years. I don’t ask for your repentance, only that you will carry out my wishes.”
“Anything you ask, brother.” Hermes’ heart beat wildly, so anxious was he to leave this place and fly through the nig
ht back to Leto.
“You will make a weapon of your offspring and your lover,” Apollo said.
“Yes, my lord,” said Hermes, bullets of sweat now pouring from his brow, “but you forget that the lad is just ten years old. His doma will not manifest for another eight years.”
“And you forget that your immortal blood runs through his veins.” A shadow fell darkly across Apollo’s porcelain face. “Death will elude him for centuries. Even his sacrifice, which our selfish brother so craves, will not result in his annihilation. You must use this to your advantage.”
Hermes’ jaw fell slack. He took the cap from his head and wiped his perspiring face. “I am daft, like you say. Pray, speak plainly of your plan.”
“I make no pretense about having a greater intellect than yours.” Apollo came to Hermes, clapping his shoulder as his piercing eye winked. “I leave you to your own devices now. But should you fail…”
Apollo unsheathed his sword, cast it onto the floor and shoved his cold, steel-like fingers between Hermes’ ribs. “I will rip out your liver and feed it to Prometheus’ eagle piece by piece. This I will repeat for as many days as it takes me to forget your failure.” He clenched Hermes hard and pulled him close. “And my memory is not short.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CURSED
Aison’s corpse was the first ever to be interred behind the refugees’ wall. Every man, woman, and child gathered that evening with small cakes and libations and laid them on his grave, lamenting a man they knew nothing about, save that he was a runaway, just like them.
Archelaos had replaced his white robe with a sackcloth tunic, which he’d torn from neck to navel. He sat beside the grave mound, watching through tear-stung eyes as the last of the lamenters wandered back to camp.
“It was kind of them to mourn for him,” he said, placing his hand on the ancient yew tree towering above him, its low-hanging branches like a shroud around the bereft.