Wings of Fury

by Emily R. King

  Cleora winced again, then rested her head against my shoulder. “I think I’m going to enlist in the guild.”

  “You want to be a vestal virgin?”

  “We both know I have no aspirations to leave the temple. I already abide by their rules. Joining is an option.”

  Not for me. I wasn’t a virgin, and nothing could undo that. Swearing fealty to Gaea required purity and a commitment to live here for the remainder of one’s days. Cleora’s devotion I could almost understand—she already lived in harmony with the guild and worked hard to contribute—but defacing herself? I could never comprehend that.

  I picked up her mask and held it out. “Next time you start thinking about doing something irreversible to yourself, remember you have your velo.”

  Cleora took her mask. It resembled a creature not often depicted—a bee. Most velos were inherited family heirlooms, but Cleora’s came from a craftsman’s workshop. Mother said that while she was pregnant, she and Father browsed hundreds of velos before they agreed upon this one for their firstborn. Two small antennae stuck out from above the mask’s wide eye holes. The profile was slender, with a pointed chin and a serene expression, a contrast to the serious one I always wore. She never told me why our parents selected it for her. Perhaps she didn’t know.

  Bronte pushed open the door, peeked inside, and entered. “What happened? The matron is fuming. She told Acraea we should find somewhere else to live.”

  Cleora covered her eyes, draping her arm across her face, and gave no reply.

  “Well . . . ,” I started, searching for the proper words. “Cleora mentioned she might become a vestal and live out her days here. I may have reacted strongly.”

  Bronte lifted one brow. “The matron is furious. Acraea is pleading with her not to throw us out.”

  “Prosymna has threatened us before,” I replied.

  “This time, she means it.”

  “Whose temple is this?” I asked. “Prosymna acts as though she’s the goddess in charge.”

  “Althea,” Cleora said faintly. “Don’t be disrespectful.”

  I threw my hands up. “I’ll talk with Prosymna.”

  “No,” Bronte replied firmly. “You’ll make things worse.”

  “She won’t tell us to leave.” I was almost certain about this. I was more certain that Bronte didn’t need to hear the truth from me. Cleora should tell her about the chastity crosses.

  “Cleora, will you really join the guild?” Bronte asked. “I thought the three of us wanted to leave when the time was right and make a place of our own together.”

  “I did too,” I said.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Cleora replied, her tone careful.

  It seemed to me she had. Perhaps she would change her mind when she heard that we had a way out.

  “I have news,” I said. Cleora uncovered her eyes, and Bronte straightened attentively. “I bought a boat.”

  “A boat?” Bronte replied. “How?”

  “I paid for it with the coin from Mama’s death.”

  “The blood money?” Bronte said, aghast. “Althea, you’re joking.”

  “I’m not. Don’t you see what this means? We can finally leave this place.”

  Cleora went so still I could not tell if she was breathing.

  “And go where?” Bronte asked.

  “The southern isles.” When Oceanus, the Titan god of the seas, was disowned by his siblings, Cronus agreed to a treaty for trade routes with the other Houses, and for his armada of triremes to sail the seas. Oceanus’s vast territory of oceans and isles became a refuge for runaways and outlaws. The southern islands in the Aegean Sea were the ideal place for us to seek shelter and build our life together, away from Decimus, away from the guild, away from Cronus.

  “But none of us know how to sail,” Bronte noted.

  “We’ll hire a guide.”

  Cleora still had not moved or spoken, but she was breathing.

  Bronte chewed her bottom lip. “How much coin do we have left?”

  “Proteus set a fair price,” I replied. “But seaworthy vessels are expensive.”

  “How much?” Bronte pressed.

  “None.”

  Cleora dropped her chin to her chest. “Oh, Althea. How would we afford a guide, or supplies for our journey?”

  “Or to set up a new life?” Bronte added.

  “We can do this,” I insisted. “Perhaps we could make a trade or sell something. The loom, maybe. I don’t imagine we’ll haul it with us.”

  My sisters quieted. With a seaworthy vessel, the possibilities opening up to us were undeniable. A long moment later, Bronte spoke up.

  “I have coin set aside.”

  “You do?” Cleora and I said in unison.

  “I stashed it in the instrument case. Under the lyre.”

  I opened the wooden case. Running my hand over the lyre’s shiny turtle shell, careful not to touch the strings, I reached under it and pulled out a heavy pouch. Cleora extended her hand, and I passed it to her. She opened it and peered inside.

  “Bronte, how did you . . . ?”

  “Sometimes, when it’s my turn to tend to the sheep, I go into the village and grind wheat.” She gave an awkward half smile, her cheeks reddening. “The older customers like that I sing while I work. Last I counted, I’ve saved just over a hundred coins. I knew when the time came to go, we would need our own silver.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.

  “I knew it would come up one day. As Prometheus says, ‘I prepare, for one day my opportunity will come.’”

  Bronte’s fascination with Prometheus began as a girl. She would dress like a boy and go out to listen to the philosophers quoting the god of forethought during their street-corner debates. She often made a point of walking past a mural in the city of the hulking, bearish-looking god.

  Cleora rubbed at her temples. “Can we finish discussing this the day after tomorrow?”

  The mood in the chamber shifted to a grim sort of resignation. The next day was the anniversary of our mother’s passing.

  Bronte kicked off her sandals, then removed Cleora’s and lay down beside her. I was hungry—perpetually, it seemed—but I took off my sandals and joined them.

  Nighttime tiptoed into the bedchamber and cozied into the corners. Our feet were lined up in a row at the bottom of the bed. They varied in size—as with our noses, mine were the largest—but on the heels of our right feet, we had identical freckles. Bronte called them our sister stars.

  “I wouldn’t have taken my vows without telling you two first,” Cleora whispered.

  “Do you really want to become a vestal?” Bronte asked.

  “When Mama needed help, she came here for a reason.”

  Cleora wanted the guild to shield her from the Almighty. Didn’t she understand that the vestals could not shield me from Decimus? I could not stay at the temple forever, and yet, I could not imagine my life without both of my sisters . . .

  “Mama’s the reason why I took to working in the garden,” Bronte whispered, her voice melancholy. “She could grow anything.”

  “Gaea blessed her with bounty,” Cleora answered.

  I leaned my head against her shoulder. Of the three of us, Cleora had the most conviction in the goddess. Her faith brought her peace, no matter how much our viewpoints differed. I would rather be trapped in a tree like a hamadryad than join any guild where Matron Prosymna was in charge, but I wouldn’t rob my sister of that small peace.

  We lay together for what felt like an eternity, thoughts tumbling through my mind about Decimus, about our new boat, about my responsibilities. Eventually, I started to get up to check that the slaves had finished the mending, then I remembered that I had gifts.

  “Ugh, Althea, lie back down,” Cleora said. “I was almost asleep.”

  “She held still longer than I thought she would,” Bronte remarked.

  “I got you two something.” I rose, pulled the honey pies from my cloak pocket, and h
anded them one each.

  “Where’s yours?” Bronte asked.

  “I ate mine already,” I lied. I only had enough coin to purchase two. “Do you remember Mama’s pies? I wish we still had that recipe.”

  “It was Papa’s recipe,” Cleora said, her mouth full.

  Bronte nodded. “Each year, he made honey pies for Mama’s birthday. After he passed away, she made them for our birthdays. They were her favorite.” Bronte passed me a third of her pie. “It’s yours.”

  “But—”

  Cleora offered me a third of hers too. “Take them,” she said.

  I accepted the portions and ate them slowly. Honey and crumbs stuck to my lips. I licked them clean, then my fingertips, savoring every last bit. Cleora lay back down with a tired groan. Bronte cuddled her left side, and I nestled against the other. Bronte hummed a lullaby, the song Mother favored most. These private moments were fewer and fewer because of our household duties, but they were my favorite. When the three of us were together, it felt like nothing bad could happen and we could do anything.

  After she finished the song, Bronte spoke into the dark, “Which isle would we escape to, Althea?”

  Cleora exhaled a drawn-out breath. This was not the time to push her.

  I draped my arm across my sisters. “We needn’t decide that tonight.”

  But I had decided.

  The time had come to leave Thessaly.

  4

  Sneaking out of the temple with my spear and shield hadn’t gotten easier over the years, but I had gotten better at it. The most difficult part was leaving my bedchamber without waking anyone.

  I crept through the dark and set my shield on the roof first, then fed my spear through the window. Cleora and Bronte lay asleep behind me, their breathing quiet. Before we all went to bed, Acraea had spent an hour calming Matron Prosymna, then came to say we were allowed to stay on the condition that I showed the matron more respect. I agreed, but I didn’t scrub the kitchen floor before dawn for Prosymna or her goddess. I did it so my sisters and I had somewhere to live.

  Stepping onto the roof, I shuffled to the edge and tossed my spear and shield onto the hay below. I hung from the roof, feetfirst, and dropped. After collecting my gear, I crept to the stables. The matron’s trusty mare poked her head out of a stall. I fed her some clover and barley, then I saddled her and led her across the courtyard, through the gate off the kitchen. Once outside, I mounted her, and we rode the moonlit trail.

  Selene, the second-generation Titan goddess of the moon, shone in her full glory. We reached Othrys in a third of the time it took the donkey. I hid my face behind my shield as we approached the city gates, where a pair of soldiers stood guard. My cloak covered me and my tied-back hair. As long as no one looked too closely, they would assume I was a hoplite.

  “Evening,” said a guard.

  I grunted.

  “It’s a fine night for a visit to the tavern,” said the other.

  They waited for my answer. I grunted again, and my voice cracked, sounding like an enthusiastic note of agreement. They laughed and let me pass.

  I rode up the dim roadways, past the closed booths of the agora, to the tavern. Drunken men loitered around the open door, where music rang out. My finger tapped with the downbeat. The temptation to stop in and listen to the music over a drink almost made me veer off course, but I kept going.

  The palace shed a garish radiance over the ramshackle huts. Soft lamplight glowed from around their closed shutters, deepening the shadows in the alley. Hardly a soul could be seen. I encountered more stray dogs than people, and of the few people whose paths I did cross, none were women.

  I retraced my steps to the oracle’s tent. Though I was uncertain about the notion of fate, my mother said my destiny was to protect my sisters, and I swore I would. Now, with our freedom almost within reach, I had to know whether or not persuading Cleora and Bronte to leave the guild and sail to the southern isles was the right choice. My mother wasn’t around to offer direction, but an oracle might.

  No lamplight shone inside the tent, and no noise came from within. My hopes sank. Perhaps not seeking a seer’s advice was my fate. Perhaps some charlatan looking to swindle me out of coin would dissuade me from following my instincts and leading my sisters to the southern isles.

  A faint light flickered on inside the tent, followed by a voice calling out.

  “Althea Lambros, we’ve been expecting you.”

  My feet locked in place. Of course, an oracle would know I was there—I had come all the way in the middle of the night in search of insight—but my nerves still jumped. Would a charlatan know my name?

  No matter what the oracle said, I would do what I thought was right for my family, yet I was curious enough to approach the tent and step inside.

  The room was small. A drawn curtain separated the tent into two rooms. A woman faced the entrance, a single candle burning on the table she sat behind. Her wild black hair spilled around her slim, smooth shoulders, and her red dress flowed to the floor, skimming her bare feet. An authentic theater mask of a goat hid her face, its expression frozen in a woeful grimace. The mask had no eye openings, but the mouth had a slash for speaking through. Two horns protruded from the forehead and curved out and up to the sides like crescent moons.

  “Welcome.” Her throaty voice didn’t suit her youthful, glowing skin. “Put down your spear and shield. You don’t need them.”

  Perhaps she could see through the mask . . .

  I aimed my spear at her as I slowly lowered it to the floor. Showing no alarm, she pointed at the stool across from her. “Please sit.”

  “Can you see me?”

  “Oracles see with more than our eyes, Althea.”

  “Who told you my name?”

  She gestured at the stool again. “Rest.”

  I withheld my growing curiosity and sat across from her at the table, setting my shield near my dusty feet.

  She held up her hands, palms out. “Your hands, please.”

  “First, my payment.” I removed from my pocket the two silver coins I borrowed from Bronte’s stash, setting them on the table.

  “I require no payment.”

  “I would prefer that you accept it.” Her reading would not feel legitimate without my paying for her services.

  “If you insist,” she said, picking up the coins. Once she pocketed them, I extended my hands toward hers. She took my wrists in her grip, then her left hand drifted up to my gold arm cuff. “This belonged to Stavra.”

  “You knew my mother?” The oracle seemed closer to me in age, but it was possible she had met my mother when she was a girl.

  “You didn’t come here to discuss Stavra,” she replied.

  “I’m here about an oath I made to her.”

  “Your oath to watch over your sisters was sworn without your knowing the whole truth. You have much to learn about promises, Althea.”

  The thin curtain shifted behind her as a shadow passed by. We were not alone.

  The oracle released me and started to stand.

  “Wait,” I said. “I want to lead my sisters to the southern isles. Will we be safe there?”

  The oracle sat back down and took my wrists again. “I do see an isle in your future, but I also see darkness. You seek freedom and justice. Both will come at great cost to your family.”

  “How can I protect my sisters?”

  The oracle pulled a spindle of white string from her pocket. “We can tell you about your moira through a full reading. But have a care. Such knowledge cannot be unknown.”

  Moira—fate—was the one cosmic power I would consider listening to.

  “I would like a full reading,” I said. “But I don’t have any more coins.”

  “You paid enough already.” The oracle wound the string around my hands, binding them together. The white thread felt thin and sticky but strong, like a spider’s web.

  Two more women stepped out from behind the curtain, both with voluminous black hair a
nd theater masks shaped into ominous goat faces. The woman on the right held a pair of silver shears, and the one on the left, a stick.

  The oracle finished tying my hands with multiple layers of string, binding them together. At the finish, the spool of string was the same thickness as when she’d started, as though none had been unwound.

  “I am Clotho,” said the oracle. “These are my sisters, Lachesis and Aisa.”

  Clotho held up her spindle. Lachesis, the one with the shears, cut loose the line around my hands. The string warmed and glowed against my skin. The last sister, Aisa, unwound my hands slowly, one loop at a time, then laid the string on the table and counted lengths of it with her stick. The sisters lifted the string and stretched it out between them. Clotho and Aisa each held an end, and Lachesis held the middle. The string extended across the width of the tent, longer than I was tall.

  An unnatural stillness came over them as the brightness of the string intensified. Their hair shone white in the radiance, and the expressions on their goat masks changed from grimaces to eerie smiles. The sisters spoke in chorus, their voice as one, the pitch low and piercing:

  “The time of Cronus’s tyranny will end. A clever, brave hero was preserved and hidden among mortals. A Titan child of Cronus and Rhea lives. Find the Boy God. Raise him up, and he will unite all the Houses under one mighty throne. He will erect the greatest palace in the history of the world, where he will reign and rule with thunder and justice.”

  A vision overtook my mind, palpable as a waking dream.

  A god sat in a majestic marble throne, in a great hall atop an unfamiliar mountain peak. Dozens of small white scars riddled his forearms and calves. Another scar, red as the dawn, cut down the side of his flat nose and ended at his upper lip, which was mangled from the deep slash. His eyes, a deep blue so intense one might mistake the tone for black, had deep crinkles at the sides and short, pale lashes. He was not fat, per se, but his muscled form lacked definition, and the weight around his middle outmatched the girth of his chest. Still, I imagined that, when he was younger, women must have found his robust frame irresistible, and he had enjoyed them aplenty. The remnant of that rogue was visible in his high, wide cheekbones and the stern cut of his jaw. His ears stood out at the sides of his head, adding an accessible charm.