But the gods aged slowly.
His wavy silver hair thinned at the back of his head, finer than his thick, wiry beard and chest hair. In one calloused hand, his veins visible under pale, freckled skin, he held a lightning bolt that twinkled as softly as a dying flame.
Hundreds of people kneeled before his mighty throne, their heads bowed in reverence. The god surveyed his subjects, a profound crease between his bushy brows. Such a worry line only developed after years of frowning, yet he did not appear cross. He peered at each of his subjects with empathy, as though he was well aware of their individual trials and woes, their tender hopes and dreams, and he carried the troubles of their hearts in his own, bearing up their needs and desires with a noble attentiveness that could only be born from abiding love.
It was then that I recognized my perspective of the great hall. I wasn’t watching from an omnipotent angle, hovering overhead. I was positioned right beside the god, in an adjacent throne. More thrones flanked ours, all occupied by others, though I could not see who. The truth of my position struck me motionless. The people weren’t just kneeling to the silver-haired god. They were bowing to us all.
The vision dimmed until I was back in the tent. The three oracles exhaled at once, and the string darkened. Lachesis braced against Aisa, too weakened to stand on her own.
“May the goddess bless you,” Lachesis said, then led her sister behind the curtain again.
“I—I don’t understand,” I stammered, shaking off the final tendrils of the vision. “One of Cronus’s children is alive?”
Clotho teetered back to her stool on shaky legs. She leaned forward against the table, bracing against it for support. “The Boy God can be found in the southern isles, on Crete. Just as Cronus defeated his father, so will this boy rise up to defeat his. However, he will not prevail without you.”
A sense of understanding pricked my heart. What Clotho warned of was truth. I couldn’t explain how I knew, just that I knew, with the same certainty that the sun would rise and set on the morrow, that this Boy God was part of my future.
I pressed a hand to my flip-flopping stomach. How had my fate become intertwined with a god’s?
“What if I don’t help him?” I asked.
“Fate works in mysterious ways. By the hand of faith, we are guided to our destiny. The journey is the trial.” Clotho wiped at her sweaty brow, her throat flushed.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I will be,” she replied shakily. “Reading your future was like gripping a star.”
The oracles’ process with the string and shears and measuring stick was bewildering, as was their reading. It was true that a Titan could only overthrow another Titan by vanquishing. The gods could not die, for divine ichor—not blood—flowed through their veins. But I still felt the oracles must have misread my destiny.
“Perhaps you and your sisters mistook me for someone else,” I said. “Can you unspool another string and look at my future again?”
“You only have one moira, Althea. Now listen very closely. A guide will be sent to you, and you will recognize him by his good deeds. Follow him to the Boy God. Help the Boy God rise, or you and your siblings will never know peace. Cronus must not discover that his child lives, or he will stop at nothing to destroy him. Should he succeed, the God of Gods will rule forevermore.” Clotho rose from her stool on wobbly knees. “Your sisters are in danger.”
“What?”
“There’s no time to explain.”
I grabbed my spear and shield.
Clotho followed me to the door. “Go quickly!”
As I mounted the mare, I asked, “What do I do if I find the Boy God? What should I tell him?”
Clotho didn’t reply.
I glanced over my shoulder at her, but she was gone. Indeed, the whole tent had disappeared. Turning in a circle, I saw no sign that it had ever been here. The oracles, too, had vanished.
A gust blew at me, whirling a piece of string at my face. I snatched it out of the air. The piece of white string, as long as my finger, fluttered in my grasp. It looked remarkably similar to the one Clotho had unraveled from the spool.
Two soldiers nearby began patrolling in my direction. I tucked the string into my pocket and rode for the gates. The guards recognized me from earlier and waved me through. As soon as I was out of their sight, I kicked my heels into the mare’s flanks and took off.
5
I rode hard down the rocky pathway. Everything the oracle said about the Boy God fled my mind, replaced by a single thought: Your sisters are in danger.
I pushed the mare harder. The wind barreled down the mountain with us, shoving at my back. Hurry, the gales seemed to say.
At last, just after midnight, the outline of the temple came into view. The gates stood open. I longed to charge in with my spear and shield held high, but I dismounted in the woods and left my shield tacked to my saddle. The hamadryads dozed around me, their drooping branches sighing up and down. The trusty mare stayed behind as I put on my velo and crept forward.
Five horses without riders stood in the temple courtyard. A soldier guarded them, his back to me. The soldiers must not have been there long. Their horses were sweaty and lathered from their recent trek. No one else was visible. The matron and vestals had either fled or were trapped somewhere under guard. My sisters would have hidden before getting caught. They wouldn’t have left without me.
Under the cover of shadows, I slipped inside the courtyard and sneaked toward the andron. The liege man with the horses turned toward the open gates—Theo. The soldier from the market who gave me the olives and retied my mask.
I slid past him and inside the andron. This chamber was for men’s use only, but since no men lived here, the vestals had converted it into storage space. Unused furniture, empty baskets, chests of old clothes, and spare velos had been left in an array of forgotten piles across the room.
Footsteps pounded overhead on the second floor where the bedchambers and gynaeceum were located. Voices carried down through the ladder opening.
“We searched every chamber, sir.”
“Search them again,” a deep voice replied.
Steps thudded closer. I tucked my spear behind a broken bed frame and climbed into a large woven basket.
The ladder creaked as one of the soldiers came down. Footfalls scuffled across the dirt floor. I held my breath as his steps came nearer. Through a gap in the weaving, I saw two big boots. The soldier circled the room, then the door banged as he exited.
“See anything?” he asked.
“No, sir,” Theo answered.
“The Lambros girls are here somewhere. Keep an eye out, Colonel Angelos.”
I recognized that name . . . Angelos . . . Of course, Theo was Angelos, one of the liege men present the night my mother died. He had offered me a hand when another soldier had pushed me down. That night had been seared into my memory, but Angelos was seven years older now, with longer hair and a short beard.
I wriggled out of the basket and fetched my spear. Through the window, I glimpsed the soldier beside Angelos, and my empty hand flew to the back of my neck.
Decimus.
I had hoped that with age and perspective, and with the passage of time, he would seem more harmless than my memory of him, but he was still fearsome.
He stood at a formidable height and wore the bulk of his massive, muscled body with tremendous magnitude. Arrogance rang out from his every weighted step and brutal sneer. He commanded attention from those around him, not because he had earned their respect but because his absolute confidence triggered a sort of nervousness. He was not the sort of man who denied himself his desires.
Yet age had frayed him. His hair shimmered with gray, and his deeply tan skin bore wrinkles and dark spots from too much sun. Overall, though, time had been kind to him, unjustly so.
I had to find my sisters.
Gripping my spear tightly, I ascended the ladder to the second floor and tiptoed down the corr
idor. Loud noises sounded ahead. I sidled up to an open doorway and peered in. A soldier was tearing apart a bedchamber. While he was turned away, I darted past and continued to the gynaeceum.
The unlit chamber appeared empty. Each evening, the vestals gathered to sit and talk and spin and weave. Some nights, they put on performances for each other: music, poetry recitations, or plays. A large wooden chest, normally used for storing theater masks and costumes made out of old clothes, occupied its usual spot in the far corner, but the contents of the chest had been piled outside it. I lifted the lid, and a blade was thrust at my nose.
“Father of stars,” Bronte breathed, lowering the kitchen knife. “It’s you.”
She and Cleora were crammed inside the chest, both of them wearing their velos. We’d discovered this hiding place as children, during visits with our mother. We would pretend to put on performances for big crowds—Cleora playing her lyre, Bronte singing, and me dancing. When it was time to leave, the three of us would fold ourselves inside the chest and hide, giggling, until Mother pretended to “find” us. These days, the chest barely held the two of them.
“Where have you been, Althea?” Bronte asked.
“I’ll tell you after we get out of here.”
They climbed out one at a time. I expected to find Cleora pale and shaky, but she carried herself with rigid coolness.
“Althea, do you still think speaking the Almighty’s name doesn’t bring ill fortune?” she asked.
“Decimus has returned,” I explained.
Cleora’s scowl dissolved, and she wrapped her arms around me. “I didn’t know. The matron woke us to say liege men had come. We hid straight away. Did Decimus see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Bronte peered into the corridor. “This way is clear.”
“Soldiers are searching the bedchambers,” I said, then checked outside to ensure that no liege men were patrolling the perimeter for escapees. “We should go out the window. I left the matron’s mare in the woods. We’ll ride to the cave.”
Bronte and I looked to Cleora. Her fear of going outside was mighty, but her fear of capture was mightier. She nodded in agreement.
Seven years after our mother’s passing, on the very day of the anniversary of her death, we were finally leaving this place.
Somewhere nearby, a woman began to scream. The abject sound grew louder, shriller, more filled with pain. The many faces of the vestals and slaves flew through my mind. I wondered who we were hearing . . . and what they were doing to her.
This is my fault.
The thought repeated itself over and over, drilling into my bones.
Bronte covered her ears and scrunched her eyes closed. The last time I had seen her this distressed was when Mother was captured. Cleora held herself completely still, except for her nostrils, which flared with each rapid breath.
Their terror shook me into action. I climbed onto the roof with my spear. The screaming stopped. Bronte gave a visible shudder, then snapped back into focus and followed me.
Cleora paused at the window. Although her velo was on straight, she adjusted it and fussed with the ties.
“I’ll lead the way,” I said. “The cave isn’t far.”
Cleora didn’t budge. “I forgot Mother’s lyre, and, Bronte, you left your bow and arrow.”
“I have a spare bow and arrow in the cave,” Bronte said.
Cleora backed away from the window. “Your coin pouch is in the instrument case.”
“We’ll return for them later,” I replied.
Cleora retreated another few steps. “We won’t be able to travel very far without silver,” she said, then fled the gynaeceum, disappearing out of sight.
“What in the name of Gaea?” Bronte griped.
“She’ll be back.”
Feeling exposed, we climbed inside the gynaeceum again. The heavy silence pushed down on us as we waited, and the moment seemed to lag on forever.
Doubts began to creep in. Our bedchamber, where we kept the lyre, was just down the corridor. What was taking Cleora so long?
“She hasn’t gone out in years,” Bronte whispered. “Maybe she can’t bring herself to leave.”
“She can,” I insisted.
“I should go find her.”
“Give her a moment.” My answer was mostly selfish. I trusted Cleora, but I also didn’t want to be left alone.
We remained there, huddled in the dark, mired in our worries. Cleora should have returned by now. Had she changed her mind? Or had something happened to her?
A muted cry came from outside.
“Bronte! Althea!”
We poked our heads out the window. Cleora waved from our bedchamber window down the way. She lifted the instrument case to show us.
“I’ll meet you outside,” she said in another loud whisper.
Below, a soldier patrolled the dirt path between the compound and the woods. We all ducked inside again.
“Lambros sisters!” the soldier shouted, sounding the alarm. “They’re on the second floor!”
Bronte and I rushed into the corridor, my spear firm in my grip, and pulled up short. Ratface Brigadier Orrin stood between us and the way to our bedchamber.
We ran the other direction toward the stairwell at the rear of the compound. He barreled after us and snatched Bronte by the hair, swinging her around. She raked her nails across his cheek and yanked herself loose.
Orrin called to his comrades. “They’re up—!”
I jammed the spear into his thigh. He staggered sideways against the wall with a low groan. Bronte gaped at us, looking from him to me. My mind went blank. I didn’t know what to do next. I had never speared a person before, only rabbits and squirrels.
Orrin gripped his injured leg. “You bitch.”
“I would have aimed for your heart,” Bronte snarled.
She grabbed the spear, and together we wrenched it out. Orrin sank to the floor, his face pinched in pain and his punctured thigh bleeding.
Bronte tugged at me. “Come on. Cleora must be ahead of us.”
I raced after her to the back stairwell, still somewhat dazed.
“Althea Lambros!” Decimus hollered. His voice impaled me. “Don’t bother running! I will find you!”
We thudded down the stairs to the kitchen. Acraea stood in the shadows, her back against the wall and an iron pan in her fist.
“Thank Gaea you’re all right,” she whispered hoarsely. “The soldiers forced the other vestals and slaves into the stables. Go, before they catch you.”
“Have you seen Cleora?” Bronte asked.
Acraea shook her head.
“We thought she was in front of us,” I said.
“I’ll send her your way,” Acraea replied. “Go!”
We fled out the back gate and crouched in the trees.
Time slowed again. My legs burned from squatting, and my eyes ached from squinting at every shadow. The compound was too quiet. Cleora should have come out by now. I hoped she hadn’t tried to go out the front gate, where Angelos was standing guard.
I caught a glimpse of a shadowed figure as it threw a box out of our bedroom window. The box landed nearby and broke into pieces. Bronte crawled over and held up the shattered pieces of our mother’s lyre. My whole chest fell inward. The cracked turtle shell was beyond repair.
Bronte searched the murky undergrowth, then crawled back to me. “The lyre is ruined, but I found my bag of coins.”
A scream came from above. Cleora appeared in our bedchamber window with Decimus behind her, his arm wrapped around her chest and a dagger pressed to her cheek. Cleora stared straight ahead, her chin high. Her expression broke me. It wasn’t fear or anger or sadness. She looked resigned, as though she always knew this day would come.
“Althea,” Decimus called. “Your sister is appealing, but she lacks your feistiness.”
Another figure appeared in the gynaeceum window. An archer.
“My work has made it impossible to return for yo
u until now,” the general continued calmly, articulately, like he had memorized his speech. “But all these years, Althea, I’ve only thought of you. Now it’s time for you to come home with me.”
“Run, Althea!” Cleora cried. “Run—!”
Decimus smothered her mouth with his hand. “Come to me, Althea, and I won’t hurt her like you hurt my brother, Orrin.”
“They’re brothers?” I breathed.
Bronte shook her head, dumbfounded.
Orrin appeared at the threshold of the back gate with Matron Prosymna held against his chest. He stepped over something—someone. My tongue turned rough and dry. Acraea lay sprawled on the floor, a spear sticking straight out of her middle. Orrin bled from his leg, but that didn’t prevent him from shuffling forward, his sword against the matron’s throat. She was very still, but her back arched against him awkwardly.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting, Althea,” Decimus bellowed. “I will kill the vestals one by one!”
“Do not fear, daughters,” Matron Prosymna said loudly. “The Mother of All Gods is with us. Believe in Gaea’s boundless glory.”
“Silence her,” Decimus ordered.
Orrin drew his blade across the matron’s throat, as quick as a lightning strike. She folded forward out of his arms and fell to the ground in a heap.
Bronte started to go to her, but I held her back. Matron Prosymna could not have survived an injury like that, nor could Acraea, and we couldn’t risk being spotted by the archer. My pulse boomed in my ears. Acraea and the matron deserved better than martyrdom.
Cleora squirmed against Decimus, her mouth still covered. He pressed his blade more firmly against her cheek until she quit moving.
“Althea!” he cried louder. “Come to me, or I’ll give your sister to the Almighty!”
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” I whispered. “It’s supposed to be me.”
“You cannot reason with him,” Bronte replied. “He’ll say anything to draw you out.”
“He’s come for me. I can negotiate for her release.”
Orrin limped back inside the kitchen. Above, Decimus and Cleora disappeared from the window, as did the archer. I rose to go inside, but Bronte pulled me back down.
Wings of Fury Page 6