Chapter Twenty-Four
Like the others, I turn to the horizon, but the brightness makes me squint against the endless expanse of blue. If I didn’t know there was a whole constellation of islands out there, and beyond them, other countries, other empires, I would think that this was where the world ended. Blue, glinting and glimmering, as far as the eye can see. Only the smallest shadow mars the horizon’s perfect line.
Ships . Just as Athena’s scouts warned. But how many, and how fast? Down below, somewhere in the city, an alarm sounds, and then another. It’s picked up by more horns, and soon the sirens are reverberating through the hills around us. The people of Athens are on the alert. The men must start making ready for battle.
A sudden wind whips the hilltop, abrupt and fierce. It seems to me to carry with it a faint, scorched smell, like something burning. And then, in a flash, Ares is here, dismounting from his chestnut stallion. His metal armor flashes in the sun, but his face is thunderous.
“So you would keep my men outside your gates, like dogs?” he snarls.
Athena looks at him coolly. “I meant no insult, only proper caution. I’m sure, in my situation, you would do the same.”
“Father,” Eros steps between them. “Any sign of Deimos?”
Ares glares from him to Athena and back.
“Signs, yes, but none that led me to him.” He works his jaw. “He was on Hydra—he has raised a cult there—but all his temples were empty.” He frowns. “He is raising cults all over the islands of the Saronic. He makes a base for himself there, that much seems sure.” His frown furrows deeper.
“The isles are full of nymphs and mer-people. I am certain they know something. But they refused to tell me.” It’s clear from his face how he feels about this. “They claimed ignorance, but they were lying.” He looks at Eros. “I do not think they would be so insolent on their own account—someone has asked them to keep a secret.”
“Look. They advance.” Nemese’s staring out at the water again, and though I cannot make out as much as the gods can, it’s clear even to me that the blurred forms on the horizon are growing. There’s a fleet out there, and not a small one. Even as I watch, it seems to swell further. I turn to look at Eros’s face—I know he sees much further than I can—and the grim look there tells me all I need to know. This is an army to be reckoned with.
“My brother did not muster these forces alone,” he says quietly. Ares grimaces, turning away from the sight on the horizon.
“I don’t believe he did. Not even with the blood-flower; not in so short a time.”
Nemese still has her gaze fixed on the horizon.
“They carry a sigil,” she says slowly. “On the prow. A dolphin, and a trident.”
My chest tightens at her words. I know what that means. The dolphin symbol is claimed by the Cyclades, the most powerful and populous islands in the Aegean sea. And the trident…there is only one god known to wield that.
“So they do not answer to Deimos after all,” Eros murmurs, staring out across the water.
“Apparently not,” Ares says roughly. “In which case, we are wasting our time here.”
Eros glances at Athena, who, for the first time, looks a little shaken.
“ Poseidon ?” She stares. “He would not dare.”
If Ares has long been a rival of Athena’s, then Poseidon’s conflict with her goes back even further. Long ago, they fought for the right to claim the city where we stand now. The way I’ve heard the story, Poseidon has always had his eye on these shores, ever since the day Athena planted her legendary olive tree here and claimed the shores as her own.
But to send an army against it? There has been no argument between him and Athena; he has no just cause. The ships he sends now can only mean one thing: he means to try and take the city by force, to conquer it for his own. But even the boldest gods respect each other’s strongholds. Especially when the one who claims them is a favorite child of Zeus. If Poseidon is attacking now, that means he has lost his fear of Olympus altogether, and does not expect Zeus to come to Athena’s aid.
And from Athena’s face, it’s dawning on her that he may be right.
“I must speak with my father,” is all she says, before turning on her heel and making for the nearest of her grand temples.
“It is bold,” Ares says, tight-lipped, after she has gone. “Even for the sea-god.” He shakes his head. “It is as I feared. Without the blade on Olympus, order will crumble. Gods will defy Zeus, and start warring with each other. Anyone may rebel, and try to claim another’s land by force.”
I suppose he is thinking that Sparta may be next.
Meanwhile, a change is coming over the water. The sky has started to darken; the air seems to be curdling around us like a damp vapor.
“What’s happening?” I say.
The air grows darker. Thicker. Milkier.
“Fog.” Ares speaks from between his teeth.
Before it descends completely, I catch another glimpse of the ships on the horizon, and it’s a sobering sight. Even I can see, now, that they are legion. Sails upon white sails, a great flotilla in the far distance. But at the moment, they do not seem to be advancing any further. It is as though they mean to wait there on the horizon, watching us. But soon the blanket of fog rolling toward us thickens further, and the sight of them winks out completely.
I have never seen a mist like this. It comes from the sea, but it is more than a sea-mist. When I look up into the heavens I cannot see any sign of it ending. It turns the world a murky green. I cannot tell the time of day or night. And when I breathe it in, the cool, watery taste of it seems to rush through me, pouring through my veins like a second bloodstream. It is almost as though I am underwater; I feel cool, light-headed.
“Psyche?” Eros is frowning. “Are you all right?”
I try to nod, but it doesn’t come out quite right.
“Psyche?”
The fog , I try to tell him. It’s in my head . But the words don’t come out. Instead of words, there are images: they sail through my thoughts like ships. No, like dolphins—like the painted dolphins of the enemy fleet.
I’m back in Atlantis, swimming through its cold waters, trying to reach a boat in the distance, a drowning child. I’m on the road to Delphi, looking for the first time at the great Aegean sea. I’m a child, learning to swim in the waters far below the cliffs of Sikyon. We are mountain people, and not known to be strong swimmers, but I have vowed to learn. I plunge my face into the cold green water, determined, relentless. Again and again and again.
“ Psyche .”
I squeeze my eyes tight, then open them again to find Eros staring down at me. I’m sitting on the ground with Eros’s cape wrapped around me. Someone has conjured a great, roaring fire. But my skin still feels clammy, sea-damp.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” The images are seeping away, as though the fire has chased them from my mind. But I still feel…strange. “It was the mist. It seemed to be inside me.”
I feel the intensity of his stare, a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Well?” Ares’s looming figure stands between the fire and me. “Is she recovered? We should press on. The sea-god’s battles are not ours, nor are Athena’s. We must go back to the Saronic, and resume the hunt for your brother.”
Eros turns.
“You would leave Athena to take on this threat alone?”
“You heard her. There is no greater navy than Athens. Let them look after themselves.”
Eros shakes his head. “Psyche is not well. She is not fit to go anywhere right now—and I am not leaving her behind.”
Ares throws me a scathing look. Yet again, it seems, I am the root of his problems. And though the truth is that I already feel much recovered, I am not about to voice that. If Ares wants to go back to the islands in search of his murderous son, let him. But why drag Eros and me along?
Athena, back from the temple, strides toward us, silver as a dagger emerging from the mist. Her eyes are stormy but subdued; it seems Zeus did not respond in the way she was expecting. “My father says he cannot spare any gods to help, nor will he come himself to fend off my uncle’s trespass. He says he cannot leave Olympus, not while the blade’s whereabouts are unknown.”
She’s trying to hide it, but evidently she feels betrayed. She had expected Zeus to rush to her aid, and stand with her against his brother. But instead, he fortifies himself on Olympus. Perhaps he really believes that it needs his protection more than Athens does right now. But it feels more like the king of the gods has gone into hiding.
Eros glances at his father, and then to Nemese.
“Well, we are here.”
Ares glares. “But cannot stay. We have a mission of our own. Finding the blade is the only thing that will restore order to Olympus, and keep gods like Poseidon in their place.”
“Even so,” Eros says, “do you think to travel back to the Saronic in this fog? It is impossible.”
Ares scowls. Eros is right, and he knows it. For now, we are trapped here. I shiver, and Eros throws me another look.
“You are still feeling the effects. Better you rest inside one of the temples; it will be warmer there, out of this fog.”
“Take her to the vigil house,” Athena says. “My priestesses will watch her.”
I’m about to protest, but Eros already has me in his arms. He’s warm, warmer than the fire, and I lean into his chest, wishing we could stay like this. I don’t know what the vigil house is, but I don’t want to be taken anywhere else.
“I’d be better off here, with you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “We must hold a war council. Better you are warm and dry elsewhere.”
We’re going downhill, the path that leads back to the center of Athens. But only a little way down there’s a building with a great bronze gong outside, and flaming torches lit all around it.
“The vigil house,” Eros explains, pulling his hood down as he always does when mortals are close. “Two priestesses stand guard here, night and day, to ensure no mortals go past this line. The summit is off limits to them: when Athena is in residence, it is a sacred place.” Gently, he sets me down onto the ground. I see the flash of metal: a woman holding a spear. This must be one of the priestesses. She walks over to us, drops obediently into a kneeling stance before Eros. If she is Athena’s mouthpiece, then I suppose she is used enough to the sight of a god.
“My lord. What is your will?”
“This is my consort, Psycheandra of Sikyon. I charge you to keep her warm; keep her safe.”
The woman nods, and moves to usher me inside. I turn around again.
“Eros-”
But he’s already gone, nothing but a shadow in the mist.
*
Inside the vigil house the air is murky, not with fog, but incense smoke. The heady smell of it coils around the room, braziers swinging on long chains from the stone ceiling. Icons flash shimmering gold from the walls. One of the priestesses is younger, one older. They both have the same severe look. They bring me hot water with strange herbs floating in it, and tell me to stay close to the fire, but aside from that they are busy with their prayers. I suppose that is how they think they will ward off Poseidon’s attack. I watch them from my post near the door: two kneeling figures with their backs to me, heads bent before the richly painted icons. I think about the people down in the city of Athens, and the alarms that sounded before the fog came in. All the Athenians will know they are under siege by now. Probably they are gathering in the boat-yards, ready to launch their own great fleet, but it would be madness to do so now, in the fog. So they must wait it out, knowing they are sitting ducks.
And what of Yiannis and Timon, and the Spartan men? I’m sure the fog has traveled outside the gates of Athens. Yiannis already suspected the hand of some malign god at work after the rockfall, and I’m sure he’s not the only one to think so. Now, such an unnatural fog as this will only confirm it.
So: Poseidon means to strike against Athens. He already has many strongholds: the Cyclades, and Corinth, and many other regions where he is the patron god. But if he can add Athens, it will not just be the jewel in his crown. It could almost double his following, and thus, his strength. How many other great cities will fall to him, if he has Athens? Perhaps he will even gain more worshipers than Zeus.
Incense smoke swirls about the room, making me sleepy. I blink my eyes fast—I have no wish to fall asleep here. The priestesses still kneel at the far end of the temple, their backs to me. I move a little closer to the door, crack it open, and drink down the cool air, letting it wake me. The fog doesn’t seem to have dissipated, though. I stare out at its dark green shadows, willing my eyes to adjust. Would I even find my way back up the hill alone?
And then the mist seems to pull back for a second, and I see a figure there. I catch my breath.
A golden-haired boy with a laughing smile, and eyes like mine.
Nikos . But here? In this place? It has to be my imagination. The fog closes over him again, but now my senses are all alert, and it seems to me I hear footsteps. I do hear footsteps. They’re making for the tree-line to my left, where the foliage grows dark and dense. I think I hear a peal of boyish laughter as he disappears inside. And before I can think twice, I am out of the door, running through the fog.