by Diana Tyler
“They’re goodhearted people,” said Iris. “They know better than most what it’s like to lose a loved one.”
“And you three,” Archelaos said, gesturing at Damian, Ethan, and Chloe seated to his left and right, “am I wrong to presume that you, too, have lost family?”
Damian watched Chloe and Ethan give hesitant nods, neither of them willing to explain the details of their parents’ deaths.
For Damian’s part, he didn’t want to answer questions but ask them. The afternoon had passed and not a single question had been put to the priest. Damian was doing his best to pay his respects and give the man some space, but the sun was setting now, and he refused to let the priest leave without first answering his questions. Someone had to break the silence. It might as well be him.
“How did you know he’d died?” he asked Archelaos.
Chloe slapped Damian on the back of his hand. Leave him alone, she mouthed.
Archelaos sank his wrinkled hands into the mound and began digging a hole. “It’s all right. I feel it necessary that my grieving period be cut short.” He took a dagger from his belt and sliced a diagonal line across his palm, letting the blood trickle into the hole. “On this grave, at this death, I hereby pledge to bring to justice to he whose hand has taken my nephew’s life.”
The priest ripped off a piece of his garment and wrapped it around the wound. “In answer to your question,” he said to Damian, “I knew only that a relative had perished in Ourania.” His gaze fell to the modest headstone, Aison’s name carved crudely into it. “I had no idea it was my nephew.”
“But who told you?” Ethan asked. “We were the only ones who knew, and we’ve all been here this whole time.”
“And you got here pretty quickly,” Damian said to Archelaos.
Archelaos sighed as he sprinkled dirt over the hole of blood. Damian didn’t have the heart to tell him that his solemn oath was useless; the man responsible for Aison’s death wouldn’t be born for another two thousand years.
“I knew because an envoy of the Pythonian oracles intercepted me on my journey home to Eirene,” Archelaos said.
Iris and Charis shifted beside one another, uneasiness sneaking its way into their sadness.
“You break your vows as high priest by consulting with Pythonians,” said Tycho, his face livid with outrage. “It’s little wonder you’ve always been so distrusting of Iris and my daughter when your loyalty is clearly divided.”
Cael, standing at attention over his master’s shoulder, put a warning hand on the hilt of his sword.
Iris touched her husband’s arm. “Tycho, calm down. You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“I don’t claim to be the man my predecessor was,” said Archelaos. “He led by faith and I lead by pragmatism. The Pythonians and I have an understanding.”
“Do you realize that these Pythonians are the ones responsible for your nephew’s murder?” Damian was unable to temper the exasperation in his tone. “They’re called the Fantásmata where we come from, but they’re still the same bunch of bastards.”
Tycho let out a long exhale, willing his emotions to cool. “Forgive us for reacting with such passion, Archelaos. My wife and I, and our new friends, have seen firsthand what the Pythonians are capable of. The fact that you have any sort of agreement with them is—”
“Sheer idiocy,” muttered the Centaur, before tramping off into the trees, yanking down limbs as he went.
“It’s misguided, is what he meant,” Tycho said, glaring at the Centaur’s tail as it swished back and forth tempestuously.
“What sort of understanding do you and the Pythonians have, exactly?” Ethan asked, so far maintaining his civility.
“It’s a simple one, really.” Archelaos’ eyes welled again. “I give them money when they request it, and they protect my family in return. They’ve sworn to spare my family from Mania’s wrath, and their own, when the time comes.” He turned to Chloe, his mouth quavering, reluctant to speak. “You were right. They’re going to destroy the temple.”
“Aison gave this to us,” she said, taking the microchip from her jeans pocket. “We don’t know why he wanted us to have it, though. It’s technology that doesn’t even exist here.”
Archelaos bent low, his long nose nearly touching Chloe’s palm as he studied the chip. “My god, the Lycaean Seal. This isn’t technology, my dear girl, but sorcery.” He straightened and held out his hand. “May I?”
Chloe set the chip in his palm. “What do you mean? What does it do?”
“In truth, I’m ignorant of its function,” Archelaos said, as his old eyes squinted at the seal. “I only know that it’s used to seal the missives I receive from the Pythonians. I don’t even know their names, only what they write to me when they demand more gold for their coffers.”
Ethan ran his hand along the scars the wolf had left him with over eight years ago. “Sounds familiar. They like their anonymity.”
“Why did you call it sorcery if it’s just used to seal letters?” Damian asked.
“Because the seal kills whomever does not comply with the Pythonians’ wishes. It’s cursed.” In that moment, the high priest’s olive face turned ashen as sudden terror seized him. “I fear I have already revealed too much.” He closed his hand around the chip before drawing it to his heart. “I pray you let me keep this, Chloe. I cannot, in good conscience, leave it here with you. It’s only a matter of time before its dark magic descends upon you.”
“Let him have it, Chloe,” said Damian.
“But Aison gave it to us,” she said firmly.
“And how do you know his motives were pure? You knew virtually nothing about him.” Damian stopped himself from continuing. He wanted to add that they did know one thing about Aison: he was a Pythonian, and a murdering, shapeshifting one at that. Surely his sister didn’t need reminding.
Chloe stared down at Archelaos’s closed fist. “He didn’t want to hurt us.”
“Don’t be naive, Chloe.” Damian stood up, no longer caring whether he hurt her feelings. They had bigger problems to worry about besides making sure they weren’t being insensitive. “He was playing you. He followed you here so he could kill as many of us as he could. He was probably expecting the chip to take out more people than just himself. If you keep it, there’s a chance it still will.”
The priest opened his hand as every eye fixed on the dormant chip. Damian couldn’t help but wonder if it was leaking its poison into the air right now. How did it kill people, anyway? He didn’t want to find out.
“What do you guys think?” Chloe said, looking up at Iris and Tycho.
After a few long seconds, Iris finally answered. “I’ve been trying to consider what I would do if I were in your place.”
“And?” said Chloe.
“And I wouldn’t risk the lives of those I love for the sake of knowledge.”
“Give it to him,” said Charis. Though no one had asked her opinion, she wasn’t one to withhold her thoughts until someone asked for them. “It’s too big of a risk to keep it.”
“Why not make your decision the democratic way?” said Archelaos. “I will not take the chip from you by force.”
“The Centaur isn’t here to vote,” said Chloe. “But he’d want me to keep it.”
The high priest sighed as he stroked his wispy beard. “Centaurs are just as devious as Lycaeans, my girl. Whatever the Centaur has told you in the past, my advice to you is do the opposite.”
“All in favor of giving Archelaos the chip,” said Damian, “say aye.”
Charis, Iris, and Damian were all in favor, making it a tie vote.
With the help of his attendant, the priest got to his feet. “I think I deserve a vote as well. I’m in favor of the notion, and therefore take this burden upon myself.”
Damian looked away from his sister, feeling her grief as if it was his own.
Cael returned in a matter of minutes with the horses, and the priest was helped onto his mount.
&nb
sp; “I’m afraid you won’t be welcome here after what you’ve divulged to us today,” Tycho told him.
“Understandable, my friend. If and when you require my assistance, you know where to find me.” Archelaos reined his horse toward the trail before looking once more upon Aison’s grave. “If you receive news of my death, do me the honor of burying my bones beside his.”
“You have my word,” said Tycho.
When Archelaos was out of earshot, Chloe stood up and placed upon the burial mound a small bouquet of hyacinths and lilies tied together with twine. “I will honor your memory,” Damian heard her say. “I still have faith in you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HERMOGENES
Hermes stayed away until sunrise, hoping that the brightness of day would make his proposal—his orders—for Leto more palatable, even sweet, if possible. He had never met his son before. Hermes had made it clear to Leto on more than one occasion that he didn’t want to learn anything about the boy, not even his name. He’d already let himself grow dangerously close to her; he couldn’t afford to form a bond of any kind with their child.
Today, however, he would not only meet the boy but also inform him and his mother of Apollo’s nebulous plan, a plan Hermes had been assigned to carry out. He knew of only one way to ensure Leto’s compliance, and that was to appeal to her love for him, a love he only wished he didn’t share.
He flew over the courtyard wall and settled onto the lone branch of the poplar tree that Leto had smitten with lightning just days before. The house was quiet, save for the barking dog below his feet.
“Get away, you!” he snapped.
He didn’t want to wake Leto. He needed more time to prepare a speech whose fervor would command obedience, a Herculean labor considering his mind felt like a cart half sunk in mud. The longer he sat, the more he realized that it wasn’t for want of ideas that his thoughts were stagnant; he could not will himself to corrupt a child, much less his own.
Up to this time, all the mortals Hermes had ever lied to and led astray had been grown men and women, no longer innocents with hearts as impressionable as clay. He’d found it took very little guile to tempt adults toward wickedness, so long as he pandered to their selfish desires. Children were different. Their consciences had not yet been silenced by the raucous demands of the flesh, or soul-consuming avarice. They still saw the world as a bright rose blossoming before them. To wrong anything, or anyone, within it would be to trample it.
Leto emerged from the colonnade, her eyes searching for the yapping mutt presently leaping to reach the wings of Hermes’ heels. His breath nearly left him when he saw her, for he’d never before beheld her in the sun. The silvery streaks of her flowing hair shone like rivers under starlight. Her ivory complexion was a moon in the long gray shadows of dawn.
Leto had been just eighteen when he’d met her in the desert, a woman by the world’s standards yet still a child in desperate need of love. Love had been all she’d ever wanted, and love he had lavished on her in return for her loyalty. It had not seemed shameful to him to ratify an agreement of which she was completely oblivious.
To her, their affair was as natural an arrangement as Orion or Pisces in the heavens. Bringing the boy into it would prove to her that his affection was disingenuous, and, to be fair, in the beginning it had been. Now, he rued the hour he’d bewitched her with promises of love and conquest. He’d corrupted her heart, and she’d stolen his. Soon, he would drive her to break it.
“What are you doing up there, you silly bird?” Leto called, laughing as the dog ran circles around the tree.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Hermes replied.
“You never come in the morning. Is something wrong?” She came closer, seeking to discern from Hermes’ countenance whether he spoke the truth. He prided himself on his talent to deceive, but she’d seen through him before, in tender moments of intimacy when his affiliation with hell was temporarily forgotten. In those times, he didn’t exist in reality, but in a dream.
“Not at all,” said Hermes.
The dog had stopped barking. He had lifted his forepaw and pricked his ears toward the courtyard wall, focused on the green lizard scurrying across it.
“I wanted to see you in the daylight, my flower.” Hermes leapt down from the tree and pulled out his wand, which now appeared as a yellow daffodil, the narcissus she loved so well. “For you.”
Leto took the flower and kissed his cheek. “I feared your brothers had hung you over the Phlegethon by your wings.” She nudged his sandals with her bare toes.
“Mama?”
Hermes’ eyes jumped to the colonnade and the statue of himself, called a herm, which the Alphas believed warded off evil, an imbecilic notion that benefited no one except the merchants who sold them. Beside the herm stood a young boy wearing a loincloth and rubbing his sleepy eyes. He was a redhead, just like Hermes.
“Go inside, Hermogenes,” said Leto. “I’ll be right there.”
The boy took a step forward, shielding his face from the rising sun as he regarded Hermes. “Who are you? And why are there wings on your sandals?”
“I…” Hermes felt as if Apollo’s sword had pierced straight through his lungs. He could barely breathe as agonizing pressure permeated his torso and numbness gripped his limbs. He stumbled rearward and caught himself on the tree trunk.
“He’s a neighbor,” Leto said to Hermogenes. She waved the daffodil for him to see. “He brought us this narcissus. Isn’t it beautiful? He picked it while shepherding his flocks.”
Hermes frowned. Did the boy have no idea who his mother was? Did he not know that everyone in Ourania was either dead or hiding from her?
“Why does he have wings?” The lad grinned. “Can he fly?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Leto rushed to him, shooing him back with the flower. “Now go inside and get yourself dressed.” She spanked his bottom and the boy scooted into the house, glancing back over his shoulder as he went.
“You named him Hermogenes?” Hermes asked as air refilled his lungs.
“As you know, it means ‘born of Hermes.’ Don’t worry yourself, my love. He thinks I named him after the herm.” Leto laughed. “He knows nothing of the true gods, and I intend to keep it that way, in deference to your wishes.”
A sharp pain, like the pinch of a pair of calipers, bit down on Hermes’ heart. He knew he’d been wise to keep his distance these ten years, but never did he expect that a single glimpse of his son would affect him so profoundly. Hermogenes’ resemblance to him was uncanny. Even the boy’s mellifluent voice was his, as was the cleft chin, broad shoulders, and oval face full of freckles.
Hermes had never experienced boyhood, and if he followed through with Apollo’s plot, Hermogenes’ own would be cut short. He would become a fiend like his parents. Innocence—the belief in herms and the fascination with flying—would melt like snow at Hades’ gates.
“Did you really come only to bring me this?” Leto asked, caressing her cheek with the daffodil. “I cannot even keep it.”
With a flick of his finger, Hermes changed the flower back into his wand. Taking it by its end, he pulled Leto into his arms. “I came to—”
The hound resumed its barking at the wall. This time there was no creature to excite it; the dog was looking directly at something, or someone.
Hermes leaned in and whispered into Leto’s ear. “We have a visitor. You must conjure a strong wind to buffet him. Hurt him, but don’t kill him. We need them alive.”
Leto tried to conceal her grin as she nodded. “The time for befriending the Ashers has come and gone.” She balled her hands into fists as the dog chased the unseen trespasser around the wall’s perimeter.
Hermes twirled the ends of her sun-streaked hair. “The boy had his chance to accept your hospitality.”
All thoughts of pacifism, which had disarmed him the moment he saw the boy, fled Hermes’ psyche as he was seized by an alternative plan: trap the Asher. Hold him captive
to lure the others. Apollo would be satisfied, and Hermogenes’ innocence would remain intact, a fact that would please both Hades and Hermes, but for two very different reasons. The former desired a pure sacrifice; the latter a guiltless life for his child, one untainted by the gods for as long as possible.
The dog was now jumping at the wall, yapping at the creature only he could see.
“Panther, come!” Leto whistled, but when the dog wouldn’t obey, she extended her hand toward him, shaking the earth beneath his paws. The dog jumped, tucked in his tail, and took off toward the house. “Good dog.”
Hermes also retreated into the shelter of the colonnade as Leto’s arms stretched forward. “Be swift,” he called.
“What’s happening?”
It was Hermogenes, his little voice like a morning lark.
“A storm is coming,” grunted Hermes, refusing to incline his head toward the boy. “Go hide underneath your bed.”
“But my mama’s out there.”
Hermogenes went to the fountain just as whirlwinds of dust began to spin, advancing like infantrymen toward the wall.
“Boy, it’s not safe there!” Hermes shouted, pulling his cloak around his nose and mouth.
The poplars and myrtles started to sway as the wind howled around them, yet Leto stood like a pillar in their midst, untouched by the storm she conducted. Within seconds, the sky was cast with an eerie pall as storm clouds were marshaled overhead.
Hermes thought that even Poseidon, who had ruled the seas, would have been impressed by Leto’s power to rally the winds, and control their direction and speed. If the Great Sea would obey her, no doubt she’d rule the world and forget about her masters below.
“Get back inside before you get hurt!” Hermes yelled at the boy.
But Hermogenes latched onto a stone dolphin’s nose and dug in his heels, stubborn just like his parents. “Mama!” he cried out, but Leto didn’t hear; his shout was a quiet whisper in the wind.
The pergola groaned; the wisteria vines whipped against each other as the beams beneath them shook. Sharp pellets of rain shot down from the sky like murderous darts, followed by hailstones the size of a fist.