The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Twenty

More men are flogged that evening. I stand at the rock’s edge staring down, and wonder what small, meaningless offence these men committed to earn such treatment. What if Yiannis were to be among them?

“Please, Psyche,” Eros says behind me. “Come away.”

“They’re under your command now,” I snap. “You could stop this if you wanted to.”

His eyes travel over mine.

“This is how the Spartans have always trained their men. My father will return soon. What confusion would I sow, for one day’s respite?”

I turn my back. He speaks so reasonably. I hate it.

Nemese has retired, and Ares is gone. We have the evening to ourselves, but I do not sink into his arms. There is something between us, stilted and heavy. Ares may have left us for now, but his presence still thickens the air.

Down below, the men are lighting their evening fires. Small figures scurrying in the dark. I wonder where Yiannis and his brother are among them. Have they heard the news that they are to march to the gates of Athens?

And what, I wonder, awaits us all there?

*

It’s night, and torchlight shimmers on the tent’s silk walls.

“Tomorrow we will reach Athens,” Eros says. He speaks as though I’m tired; as though I cannot manage these days of marching, the way the Spartans can. I am not weak, I want to tell him. I am not some little creature.

A breeze makes the walls of our tent shimmer and ripple, like a sea of silk.

“Come to bed,” Eros says. He lies facing me, one arm propped up on the soft, inviting bed. But I am restless.

“It shouldn’t be like this,” I say. “The men, the fighting. This hunt for Deimos. And you, a war god. It’s not right. It’s not who you are.”

His voice tightens. “You mean, it’s not who you want me to be.”

“Of course it’s not,” I glare. “Is it who you want to be?” In one way, I’m realizing, it’s to his advantage as much as his father’s. Ares needs his henchman and Eros needs a following.

Eros looks away.

“You think I want to be my father’s subordinate in his bloody world, trudging from battlefield to battlefield-”

“Then don’t ,” I begin, but he interrupts me, his voice rising.

“-but we are not in a good position to bargain, Psyche.” He swivels his gaze, leveling his eyes with mine. They are dark, even angry. “And one of us had better do something to keep Olympus on our side. Why did you not tell me about the Hesperides? The apple? Word of you has been spreading, Psyche. Did you think it wouldn’t? Their distrust grows. One of us must do something to placate it.”

I blink. So he knew, after all. Since when?

“I am sorry I didn’t tell you,” I say. “I don’t know why I didn’t.” Only that it was something to do with Nemese, and something to do with pride, and a knot of feelings that’s hard to untangle.

“And I am sorry,” he says after a while. “About all of this. I know I promised we’d have a quieter life, after Atlantis. That we’d be away from all this.”

All this . Gods. Wars. All these things that pull us away from our story, from living the lives we choose. I think of our life in the valley: the slow pace of nature, the solitude.

“You weren’t happy there,” I say.

He meets my eyes, briefly. Perhaps I had expected him to deny it; to say of course I was. I’m always happy when I’m with you . But instead his lips tighten a little; that frown between his eyebrows deepens.

“I’m not able to give you what you want,” he says. “I know that. I thought I could, but…” I see him swallow, and this time I’m the one who looks away. I know what he means. We’ve discussed it before. I fold my arms across my chest, as though they can protect me from the feelings flooding me. How can he say he’s not able ? A god, not able?

“You mean, you choose not to.”

He looks at me. “You know I cannot. It would be too much to bear.”

He means children. He does not wish me to have his children.

In Sikyon, no girl ever wondered whether she would raise a child. Unless a woman was particularly ill-favored or scandalous she would marry, and whether or not her body saw fit to produce children, she would have children to raise. Even the unmarried women who live in their sisters’ or brothers’ homes raise children. If you are a woman, it is what you do.

But for Eros…he says it would be too painful. Our children would be mortal children, after all, and he says it is enough that one day he must be parted from me. But to experience that with a child? He says I ask too much of him.

Other gods bear it well enough , I’d pointed out. They sow their seed in mortal wombs with abandon, never troubling themselves over the knowledge that one day, those children will die.

But in my heart I know Eros is not like those gods. He loves what is his, and when he loves, he loves deeply. I understand him—and yet I am angry, too.

That humdrum, mortal life I had in Sikyon—I would never have imagined it had things to offer me that this one didn’t. But in that life I left behind, I would have children by now.

I sit up abruptly, pull my chiton around me, and rise from the bed. He turns, frowns.

“Where are you going?”

“I need air.”

I push through the door of the tent, into the moonlight. Trees, breeze. My heart calms, but not enough. I try to settle my breathing. There’s a rock on the top of the incline, a wide slab like a seat, and I hunker down there and stare out over the valley. Where the men are camping there are a few fires, but mostly darkness.

“Psyche…” Eros stands in the doorway of our tent. Golden light spills out in front of him, a bright bar on the dark grass. I shake my head. It’s no use.

“Leave me,” I say. “I’ll come to bed when I’m ready.”

He stands there a moment longer, as though he intends to say something more. But then he turns and goes back inside. I suppose he will take the elixir Nemese has made for him and fall into some untroubled sleep. But my restless thoughts show no sign of easing. I watch the moon-shadows playing over the black ground, and hear the small noises of the night. Ajax grazes not far off; I hear the grass being ripped softly from the earth. He is a familiar, reassuring sight, his dark flanks brushed with moonlight; the white blaze sharp on his muzzle. He snorts gently as I approach.

“Can’t sleep either?” I murmur, and run a hand along his mane. He snorts again, then moves away from me, nosing at the ground. His step becomes purposeful, stepping beyond the path, toward the edge of the mountain.

“Ajax!” I hurry after him.

I see where he means to go: a sandy little goat-trail that goes over the edge and down, through the brush.

“Where are you going?”

He flicks his tail, looks back at me. I can’t think what he means by this expedition, but I know better than to try and stop him. I wait for him to walk on, but instead he pauses and, with a marvelous grace, lowers himself to a kneel. I have seen him do this before, though only for Eros, not for anyone else. The compliment makes my eyes sting for a moment. He whinnies, flicks his tail again.

I walk over, and climb onto his back. “All right.” I trust you.

Together we go over the edge, and down. The mountainside feels steeper in the dark. Above, the moon hangs in a silver sickle. I hear the calls of night-birds, the rustles of small creatures. Despite the steep incline and the darkness, Ajax’s tread is sure. A new scent reaches me: the lush, vegetable smell of damp earth.

“You’ve found water, have you?” I put my hand to the horse’s mane. So that’s all this is: he’s thirsty. His ears prick forward, his pace quick yet careful, and soon the path levels, opening into a copse of pine trees thicker and greener than any I have seen lately. I hear the soft sputter of water nearby. Ajax weaves through the trees, and I gasp.

At the center of the trees is a round, clear pool, its waters almost white with moonlight. It feels ancient, so simple and yet so majestic. Perhaps it is the nighttime hour which gives it this special magic—perhaps in high noon it would not be quite so dazzling—but its beauty leaves me breathless. I wonder if it is not some old god’s sanctuary, or perhaps the home of a mountain sprite. But if it is, Ajax does not seem much bothered: after I slide from his back he steps to the pool’s edge and lowers his head to drink, sending ripples through the pool, circles of light in the inky black. I stand and watch. The beauty feels restorative, calming. The black water seems to pull me in, the slow drift of ripples hypnotic and mesmerizing. I feel my focus drift, and moonlight re-forms on the water’s surface, making strange shapes. In a daze, I step forward.

I recognize the image. It is like the one I saw before, in the temple at Nafplion. The sea, the white-sailed boats. And the pale-haired child with eyes like mine.

Nikos .

But this time he’s wearing something he did not wear before. It hangs around his neck, fastened on a thick string, and it glints in the light, sharp as fangs. A blade…a blade I think I know. Dark metal that at first glance you might mistake for iron. A jeweled hilt. A blade that can do things that no iron blade could ever do.

I blink, rub my eyes, and when I open them again, the surface of the pool is calm. I don’t know what to think. I feel rattled, that deep peace that I felt at the sight of the pond now thoroughly displaced. Was it mere fancy? What does all of this mean ?

Just as I’m wondering, I see a light flickering outside the trees. Ajax turns, and I put a hand on his flank, urging silence. Then I edge toward the circle of trees and slip into their cover. There it is again, the spark of orange. The flame of a torch.

Someone is coming this way.