The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Eight

Eros, I think blurrily. But then the world swims into focus, and before me stands Hermes, his face a storm of disapproval.

“Psyche.” His eyes narrow to slits. “What madness led you here?”

The dream—the trance, whatever it was—still clings to me. A god. My mother…

“I don't know...” My words come out slurred. I try to stand, but can’t yet manage it.

Hermes kicks at the half-eaten apple on the ground, sending it skittering. He crouches down, as if to get a better look at me. I do not much like the way he studies my face. Then he leans closer, and I brace myself. I think he’s going to ask me something—some question I will not like. But that’s not what happens.

“ Skotos ,” he commands. Sleep : it’s not a suggestion. The last thing I remember as the darkness claims me is the feeling of being lifted by a pair of strong arms.

*

I wake again as though surfacing from deep waters. The room is dim but I recognize it as the one in Athena’s palace. And there is Athena herself, standing in the shadows. I blink, and she steps closer.

“You are more reckless than I had imagined,” she says. Her grey eyes search mine. “Do you know what you did? Where you were?”

“In a garden,” I ease myself to sitting. “An orchard. There were golden apples-”

“The Garden of the Hesperides,” she interrupts. “Those apples belong to the goddess Hera.” Her voice is sharp, and I look away. The open gate, the lure of the garden: I should have resisted. I knew it was reckless.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Have I endangered myself with that one, small act?

But Athena shakes her head, impatient.

“It’s not about you stealing. Or it’s not only that.” She folds her arms, stares at me. “Those apples are potent. The gods can eat them. But for mortals…normally, they are fatal.”

And yet to you, they were not . The words hang in the air between us.

“I only took one bite,” I say. “A small one.”

She frowns, unconvinced. And she’s right to be. What I saw today proves it, more clearly than anything I’ve suspected before. I know, now, how I began. The act of deception that led to my birth.

One mortal parent, one divine.

I had not thought the knowledge would bring such loathing with it. I feel sullied by having borne witness to such trickery. To know I am the fruit of it.

That’s one reason I don’t want to tell Athena the truth. The other goes deeper, born of sheer instinct. Already these gods don’t trust me. Only a fool would give them another reason.

I hold Athena’s gaze.

“It is a mystery, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrow. “Did you see anything? A vision, perhaps?”

I shake my head. “I remember darkness. That’s all.”

She stares at me a little longer, as though waiting for some confession. When it does not come she rises, her long braid brushing her chiton as she stands.

“Very well. But do not think that you shall be so lucky a second time. I told Eros I would protect you. But what you bring upon yourself…” She shrugs. “There, my promise ends.”

I nod, trying to convey humility and obedience. With narrowed eyes she turns and leaves the room. My heartbeat quiets, and I close my eyes.

I saw much in that vision. But the greater part, I still need to know. What god was he? My…I cannot use the word father . I had a father, and he was the mortal man who raised me. But the one who gave me life—who was he?

I search back through what I saw, looking for any details that might help me. I remember those bronzed arms and hands, his tremendous stature as he rose to his feet. But the color of his robes, or any symbols or ornaments, any detail that could tell me more…none of that surfaces.

Athena was right about the apple’s potency. I am far from dead, but I am not well.

The face of the unknown god—the absence where his face should be—goes around and around in my head. If I could get back to that orchard—if I could risk another bite of an apple—would it tell me the rest of the story? Would I see the true face of the god who sired me? But even that might not tell me what I want to know. There are many gods, hundreds of them or even thousands, in these lands, minor ones as well as great, and not all their names are known by my people. Perhaps the gods that roam Atlantis are different from those we learned of in Sikyon. There is no saying I would recognize this creature’s name.

I am beginning to think that god-children are not half so rare in my world as I had thought. People said they had died out, but now I suspect there is another reason we hear so little of them. It was Eros who showed me the harsh realities of how god-children are treated in the mortal world. There are stories of Perseus and Achilles, worshiped by many. But in reality, no human king wants one of his subjects to have more power than him. Staying small, staying invisible, is the safer option. No two god-children are born alike, Eros says. Some are born with great abilities, some with none. Some age as mortals do; others develop faster, or live longer. A god’s greatness is no guarantee of what gifts their mortal offspring may or may not have. And though most of the time their power is very small, the gods are prone to jealousy—of each other, of their families, even of mortals. When you consider all that, it is no wonder that any such children hide away. They are safe in neither world. How many must exist among us, and yet hide what they truly are?

I drift in and out of sleepless dreams, I don’t know how long for. When I wake again, my head feels clearer, my limbs moving more easily. I test them on the stone floor, and stand. Perhaps there is some news of Eros. The image of the tapestry comes to mind as I think his name, but I push it away. I can’t think about that right now. Knowing Deimos has him in his sights is torment enough.

Stepping slowly, I find my way to the door and along the corridors. When I come to the center of the palace, I startle at a new sight. In the heart of the atrium, a tremendous fire has been lit. Its tallest flame must stretch higher than the highest house in Sikyon. A figure sits before it, and though I can only see the outline of him, I recognize him by his posture, languorous and sprawling. Hermes turns at the sound of my footsteps.

“I would not have thought to see you on your feet again so soon.”

“I am a guest here,” I shrug. “I do not mean to be an encumbrance as well.”

Hermes purses his lips.

“That is not what I meant. You have caused some trouble today.”

I lower my eyes. If I have caused him trouble, it does not upset me. But it would be safer to continue a show of humility.

“I apologize,” I say.

“You are too inquisitive for your own good.” He leans back in his seat, watching me, then gestures next to him.

“Do you know what this fire is?”

I shake my head.

“It belongs to Athena alone,” he says. “It is the flame of truth and wisdom. Sit and warm yourself a while—perhaps it may do you some good.” His tone is wry. Clearly, he thinks wisdom something I am particularly deficient in.

I am not particularly keen to join him, but I’m not sure how to say no—and besides, he may have news for me.

Up close the fire seems even taller, and it seems to me its flames have an odd, bluish tinge. It crackles as I sit. At first I do not feel any great heat from it—not the heat that settles on the skin, at least—but as I relax into it, I do feel a different kind of warmth, a sort of vigor stirring inside me, like thoughts kindling, or inspiration about to strike. I draw a little closer. It is a pleasant feeling.

Hermes repositions himself in the chair. “Not quite so innocent as you look, are you, my girl?”

I turn; I do not like his tone.

“Come, be honest.” Hermes’s teeth flash. “It's time you told the truth, my pretty pet: how came your mother by that knife of yours, and where are you hiding it now?”