“It’s perfect,” Acraea replied.
Bronte ground grain better than anyone else in the compound. She adjusted her gold necklace, frowning. “Should one of us check on Cleora?”
By “one of us,” she meant me.
I downed the wine in our cup, then took the last two pieces of flatbread and ate them on my way upstairs.
Cleora was straightening my bedcovers as I arrived. Our small chamber was only just better than the slave quarters, but Cleora had added homey touches: painted violets and yellow crocuses along the base of the plain ceramic walls, polished tile floors, our few belongings displayed beautifully on shelves, our clothes organized and stowed in cedar chests. Our mother’s lyre in its wooden case was the showpiece on one shelf, and leaning against the opposite wall was our family loom.
It was cramped quarters for the three of us, but Cleora cared for it well. She was slender yet strong from lifting heavy pots of water and hauling logs to feed the ever-burning fire in the kitchen hearth, and she moved with a measured grace that radiated temperance. She wasn’t a dancer—though she played the lyre beautifully—but her internal tempo was steadfast. Watching her work was mesmerizing, like observing the waves of the sea, constant and purposeful.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Now you apologize?” Cleora pulled at the bedcovers with quick tugs. “The matron only has so much patience.”
“She’ll forget about it.”
We both knew that without Cleora instructing the kitchen slaves or Bronte and I assisting in preparing the food, Matron Prosymna would struggle to feed the fifty or so vestals living here. We had become indispensable, especially Cleora, whose ability to run a household more than compensated for her reluctance to do outside chores.
“I cannot find your velo,” she said. “It must be here somewhere . . . Ah, here it is.”
She pulled my modesty mask out from under the bed and sat down, facing the window and its view of Mount Othrys. Our former home, the city of Othrys, kneeled at the feet of the mountain peak, strewn around its fringes in the stony foothills. I sat beside Cleora, close enough to smell the almond oil she had dabbed into her wavy red hair.
She offered my mask to me. “I know you dislike wearing your velo, Althea, but don’t take it off today.”
“I shouldn’t have to veil myself every time I step outside.”
“You sound like Mama.” Cleora sighed.
“Mama was right about a lot of things,” I said.
“Perhaps, but we must be grateful for what the gods have given us.”
Women weren’t doomed to live off scraps of happiness, but I suspected Cleora was concerned about Decimus seeing me in the city. I wouldn’t worry her more. “I won’t take off my velo.”
She tied the strings behind my head. Plumes extended from the eye openings, resembling a mane, or flames, depending on one’s interpretation of the exquisite craftsmanship. It had belonged to our mother and, before her, our grandmother.
“Quit moving,” Cleora said.
“My nose itches.”
“Why can’t you ever sit still?”
“I can.” I wriggled my nose to scratch it against the inside of my mask, but otherwise, I didn’t move.
“Finished.” Cleora’s finger skimmed the scar on the back of my neck. It had taken four vestals to restrain me—and another four to hold back my sisters—when the matron burned the U-shaped tag into my skin. “Does it still hurt?”
“Only my pride.” I rearranged my hair to cover the mark.
“I need to get back to the kitchen. We’ve got bread to bake.”
I glanced sideways at Cleora. Her tired voice and bloodshot eyes worried me. She had slept restlessly last night. She always did around the anniversary of Mother’s death. It would be seven years tomorrow. Mother was on all our minds.
“Why don’t you lie down?” I said. “I’ll tell Acraea not to expect you back until this afternoon.”
“The work is good for me. Having order in the house brings me peace.” Cleora tipped her forehead against mine. This show of affection had originated at the dawn of time when only Gaea, the Protogenos of the earth, existed and nothing lived on her yet. Uranus, the Protogenos of the sky, rose above her, sapphire blue and set with stars, and he rested his forehead against hers. That union of the primordial gods formed the first family—and family meant everything.
I shifted back. “Would you like anything from the city?”
“Just your safe return. Tell Acraea I’ll be right down. And, Althea? I try hard to make this our home. Please keep the peace with the matron.”
A hot lump expanded in my throat. I wanted a home of our own, just the three of us, far away from here, but Cleora tried to make this place a refuge. I didn’t intend to compromise that for her.
“I’ll do better,” I said, and slogged back downstairs to the kitchen.
The slaves’ regimen for preparing meals was already suffering from Cleora’s absence. The girls were loitering about, sipping wine and chatting. The fire in the hearth was dwindling, no additional grain had been ground, and the dough looked as though it had been shaped into loaves by a Cyclops.
Acraea snapped at them to get back to work. “They’re worse than sheep,” she grumbled. “Where’s Cleora?”
“She’ll be right down. I’m leaving now.”
Acraea passed me a basket with the shopping list, a pouch of coins, and food and water for the day. “Don’t forget, the olives must be—”
“Burgundy. I remember.”
I reached for an apricot from the basket on the table, and a pebble struck my hand. Bronte chuckled from where she stood outside the window, her bow and arrow slung over her shoulder. I stuck my tongue out at her, and she grinned before heading out to the fields.
Watching her go, I struggled not to envy her the quiet day she had ahead. Somehow, she always managed to find time alone, though, in honesty, she was more bearable to be around after she’d had a day to herself. Bronte would pass the time by singing in our secret cave or napping in the sun while she pondered ideas that she would later discuss with the vestals. She had a mind for philosophy and took interest in the guild’s beliefs in Gaea by starting noncontentious debates. Her favorite philosopher was the second-generation Titan Prometheus, the god of forethought. Most philosophers lived in the north, with the House of Coeus, where they studied with the greatest minds in the world, but as a woman, Bronte would never have that opportunity. Just as I could never become a true dancer. Women ran and maintained households. Everything else—particularly the arts and higher thinking—was for men.
I carried my basket of food to the stables. Our donkey had shoved his head through an opening in the fence around his pen to chew on the baby green shoots in the herb garden.
“Don’t let Bronte catch you,” I said, yanking him back into his pen. “I hope you didn’t eat anything poisonous.”
A section of the garden was reserved for medicinal purposes. Bronte could tell her plants apart, but, to me, they all looked the same. I strapped the saddlebags to the donkey and climbed on. The donkey would be slower and less comfortable than the matron’s mare, but I doubted Prosymna would permit me the favor of borrowing her horse.
Acraea caught me before I left and slipped a bundle into the basket. Up close, I could see the burn mark on her forehead that was usually hidden behind a fringe of gray hair. Conversely, the tag on the back of her neck, given to her as a young girl on behalf of the husband she later ran from, had nearly faded. She discreetly unwrapped the butcher’s knife for me to see.
“Keep an eye out for him,” she said.
I wanted to reassure her that she didn’t need to worry, that the chance I would encounter Decimus was low, but I couldn’t. As I rode out of the gates and up the path through the hushed, shadowy woodland, I wished I could have brought my spear and shield as well. Women weren’t allowed to carry such defenses.
Taking the kitchen knife out of the basket, I hid it in the folds of m
y skirt with one hand and gripped the reins with the other. Maidens usually traveled in pairs, but even safety in numbers was an illusion. I would ensure my security with a blade.
2
Taking a detour would shorten my time in the city, but I never traveled east without stopping to see my mother.
At a divide in the road, I dismounted and led the donkey down a footpath between cypress trees and speckled sycamores. Spring had flung itself back into the northeastern region of Thessaly, brightening every bush and tree in brilliant green.
The hamadryads living in the dogwood and mulberry trees studied me as I passed. Their faces blended with the rough bark, their arms twisted into the boughs and bodies winding around the curvy trunks. The woodland spirits were good natured unless disturbed.
I stepped over their roots and ducked from their branches to avoid bothering them. The ground softened to sandy soil, an easier place to bury the dead, as well as prime ground for the olive trees that marked the entrance to the graveyard.
Headstones in the shape of pillars were scattered across the mossy sanctuary. I stopped before two, one shorter than the other, and rested my hand on the tall one.
“Hello, Mama.”
Six pairs of wings were etched on the front, which read, FAMILY DOESN’T ABANDON FAMILY. The shorter headstone stood atop an empty grave for our half sister, who hadn’t been seen or heard of since the guards ripped her from my arms. Not a day went by that I did not think of her, wonder what my mother would have named her, and picture the life she would have lived.
Though no one was buried there, it hurt my heart to kneel before the vacant grave site and dig, shoveling up dirt by the fistful. After Mother’s death, we received an official letter of appreciation and payment for her service to the First House as an honor maiden. The Almighty referred to his captives as honorable, as though their abduction was a noble calling.
The letter I burned.
The pouch of coins I buried.
Now I dusted off the pouch. Years ago, when my sisters and I buried the coin, we promised each other we would only spend it on one thing.
“Mama, I’m getting us out. It’s time.”
Cleora was too comfortable at the compound, and too committed to the guild. Any longer living there, and she might never leave. But the true impetus was time. Decimus would not wait forever to return for me.
After tying the pouch to my belt, I patted the dirt back into place and covered it with moss to prevent anyone from noticing. Cleora or Bronte would have uttered a prayer for the well-being of our mother’s and our half sister’s souls, but I gave up on turning to Gaea a long time ago.
I led the donkey past the wide-eyed hamadryads and back to the road. We followed the steep gravel path uphill and around the throat of the mountain.
Sunshine poured down, warming the day. Cool winds blew up from the valley, but the fresh gusts didn’t stop my velo from sticking to my face. I nibbled on pieces of cheese beneath it. The mask itched, but I couldn’t take it off in case I chanced upon other travelers.
Abductions had increased in recent years. No one stood up to the Almighty, not his five Titan brothers who managed their own households or his wife, Rhea, a Titaness. I hadn’t been to Othrys since last autumn, before the rainy season made traveling these vertical roads treacherous, but it was rumored that Rhea spent more of her time at the Blue Moon Fortress in the south with her brother Crius, head of the Third House, than at the Aeon Palace with her husband.
Around the next bend, the Aegean Sea stained the horizon. The glittering expanse of cerulean, dotted with stretches of islands, belonged to the Sixth House. The Titan Oceanus was estranged from his five brothers. His watery realm was the only domain not governed by the First House. Mother once told us that a tribe of women inhabited one of Oceanus’s isles, living without stone walls and velos. It sounded like paradise.
Far above me on the mountaintop, manifesting like a shadow in the eventide, the outer wall of Othrys rose into view. I tucked the kitchen knife back into the basket and guided the donkey into the flood of people waiting for admission through the main gates.
A pair of soldiers stood guard, questioning various groups and individuals about their purpose for entering. They stopped mostly women, who needed permission from a male relative to leave their home. I twisted my bare neck around for the guards to see my tag—evidence that a man owned me. Tagged women were viewed as tamed, and less likely to travel without permission.
“Divine day,” one guard said, waving me into the city.
I fell in line with the stream of entrants crowding the narrow streets. A thick mix of unwashed flesh, animal excrement, and emptied chamber pots—all baking in the sun—hit my nose like a mallet. Nothing stunk of civilization quite like the city.
Riding farther into Othrys, I entered the colorful market district. Pale plaster huts with red tile roofs were hedged in among lean-tos and patchwork tents. The street teemed with customers bargaining with merchants. Stray dogs and cats sniffed about for scraps. The agora sold everything: baskets of spices piled high and shiny bolts of bright silks, every kind of fresh fish and cured meat, a rainbow of cheeses and produce, vibrant woven rugs, and even children’s toys.
I tied the donkey to a post in front of a tavern, collected my things, and set out for the nearest produce booth. The stand was stocked with an array of winter root vegetables, and springtime had reintroduced a bounty of beans, artichokes, spinach, and beetroots. My eye landed on a plate of almond-and-walnut honey pies. Our mother used to bake them for our birthdays. The handheld treats were a family favorite.
An unmasked maiden bumped into my side as she reached for figs.
“Pardon me,” I said, my voice trailing off. Her chin, cheeks, and forehead were covered with burn scars. The lattice marks scored into her skin were too precisely patterned to be random.
Carefully—intentionally—this girl had been marred.
Last time Acraea came home from the city, she had mentioned that families performing ritual burnings had increased. Parents were dismayed by the Almighty’s abductions of their loveliest daughters, so disfigurement of young women had risen in popularity. Acraea never told me exactly how she escaped with the single burn on her forehead all those years ago, only that Gaea had helped her. Nowadays, men paid a higher bride price for a marred woman than a pretty girl in a velo. Some girls were so afraid of capture or spinsterhood, they mutilated themselves.
“What can I do for you?” barked the merchant.
I snapped into focus. The scarred girl was gone, and my sack was still empty.
“Do you have burgundy olives?” I asked as I began collecting figs.
“All out, but I have these.”
Acraea would send gadflies after me if I came home with black olives. I haggled with the merchant over the figs, bringing him down in price enough to purchase two honey pies, then continued on.
I knew my birth city well. Sometimes I missed the scent of goat’s milk and fresh verbena in the morning, but I never missed the soldiers, posted on every street corner, watching residents with penetrating stares. They reminded me of Decimus and the night my mother was taken. A pair of soldiers loitered up ahead, so I took a shortcut down an alley to avoid them and exited in front of the Aeon Palace.
All Titans resided in mansions. This was the zenith, the grandest and most impressive godly estate in the world. A dwelling fit for the head of the First House, the God of Gods.
The Aeon Palace could be seen from all across the land. It had been built atop the peak of the mountain range, its shape a smooth continuation of the summit. Constructed upon the precipice of the stony apex, the exterior walls rose steeply into a triangular point, its singular spire impaling the sky. Craggy walls opened to depthless archways and lofty doorways into alcoves. Battlements and ramparts divided the structure into seamless levels, and spacious terraces lined with parapets cut into the structure. A band of clouds ringed the top, partly obscuring the snowy crown where the flag o
f the First House flew, the Almighty’s alpha and omega insignia on a backdrop of blue-and-white stripes. It was said that nobody but the gods could pass through the portal of clouds to the great hall above.
Before me, the gates stood five times taller than any man. Sacrifices of bounty had been set around the entry, baskets full of fruits and cheeses that rotted in the midday sun. Once a week, the refuse collectors threw everything into a wagon and hauled it away for pig slop. The gates creaked as guards pushed them open for soldiers approaching with wagons full of wine barrels. The Almighty dined mostly on nectar and ambrosia, the food of the gods, but he also had a taste for wine.
Through the open gates, I saw two young women lounging under leafy apricot trees. They wore blue, the Almighty’s favored color for his honor maidens. No wonder Rhea spent most of her time in the south. Her husband’s betrayals were blatant. Or perhaps the honor maidens were only permitted to wander the palace grounds because Rhea wasn’t present to throw a jealous fit. According to rumor, somewhere in the city was an unmarked mass grave where the Almighty’s honor maidens were buried, most dead under mysterious circumstances. After Rhea left the palace, the frequency of these deaths dropped dramatically.
The honor maidens saw me, saw the open gates, saw their chance at freedom, yet didn’t run. The God of Gods didn’t need to chain his prisoners. Fear held them.
The gates shut behind the last wagon with a shuddering bang. I waited for the onlookers to disperse, then spit.
Not my god. Not my ruler.
I weaved through the agora, pushing into the rising winds. Merchants rushed to tie down their tents and secure their wares. The mountain skies changed moods faster than Matron Prosymna, but the sudden change in weather wasn’t a reason to start home. Storms rattled through the hilltops day and night. At times, Helios, the sun god who rode his golden chariot across the sky each day, became infatuated with the Oceanids, the nymph daughters of Oceanus. A storm would brew over the ocean when Oceanus grew agitated by Helios ogling his daughters, and those winds would eventually make landfall. The gods’ choices affected mortals every day, and stars, that was tiresome.
Wings of Fury Page 3