The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

A rustle comes from somewhere to my right, deeper into the trees. Then it comes again, and I see the flash of something, or someone, fluttering behind a tree.

“Hello?” I say. There’s no answer. I step deeper inside the tree-line.

“Show yourself,” I call out. I think I see the flutter again and I race toward the spot where I glimpsed it, flying between black branches, hearing them snap and shatter underfoot, cracking against my face and hands as I burst through the dark brush. Then suddenly, a hand clamps over my mouth.

“Shh. Do not scream.”

The voice is light, close to my ear.

“Promise you will not cry out,” it says. “Swear it.”

I hesitate only a moment. “In the name of all the gods, I mean you no harm. But you must tell me who you are.”

A laugh—burbling and gleeful. My breath catches in my throat. The hand drops and I turn to look at him. His blue eyes dance; he tilts his head to the side, examining me, merry as a bird. His childish lips purse together. He looks to be nine or ten.

“Do you not know me, aunt?”

My throat tightens. Time and logic make a fool of me. I remember holding him in my arms, only a few days old. I remember his tiny hands, his eyes that even then seemed older, wiser, than reason could allow.

“Yes,” I say. “I think I do.”

He looks pleased.

“Mother said you would. She said you looked like me.”

A tall, lithe figure steps from behind a nearby tree. Black hair swinging to her elbows. Dimitra .

“Sister,” she greets me.

I can only stare.

“What are you doing here? I saw you in a dream, but I didn’t know…I didn’t dare think…”

She laughs, but her laughter is not like her son’s. I remember a time when it was just as free, just as bright as his, but that was many years ago.

“Did you really think me dead?” she says. “You, who has cheated death so many times herself?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” I admit. “When that great wave took you-”

“It did not take us,” she says, impatient. “Nikos summoned it.” She looks at her son, pride glowing in every feature. “You should see what he can do now.”

“So it’s real,” I say, still half-disbelieving. “He really is-”

“The sea-god’s son,” she finishes. She says it so matter-of-factly, but all I can do is stare. This golden-haired child, so light on his feet. His father is the god who caused the rock-fall on our road here; who sent the mist, and means to set his armies upon this innocent city.

“But how?” I manage. I remember the rumors that washed around Atlantis: that gods still walked its shores. That women were not to walk alone near the water, the gods being ever hungry for pretty mortals. Dimitra shrugs.

“They were all so afraid, in Atlantis,” Dimitra says. “Do you remember? All those silly rules and prohibitions. I suppose you dismissed them as old wives’ tales. I did not. And to think, those timid fools sought to barricade themselves for fear of being seduced by a god! I knew I should not consider such a thing a defilement. I should consider it a triumph.” She glances at me, with that old look of defiance. “I walked there every day before I was queen, and after, too: I left my handmaidens behind, though they trembled to obey me. I went as often as I could, and swam and disported myself in such a way that I felt would be sure to catch his eye, if that great god were watching. And when he came to me…” She glances at me, her voice full of satisfaction. “Well, you know. You have lain with a god, too.” She smiles. “Though not with one so powerful as mine.”

I can only stare at her. I knew my sister to be bold, even reckless. But…

“ Poseidon ?” I say. She just smiles.

“I asked him for a child,” she says. “They say many mortal women perish birthing the children of the gods. But I knew if there was anything I was born for, it was to see my son triumph over kings. I begged him for such a child. For a hero of our age.” She looks at Nikos, a great brightness playing across her face. But Nikos is no longer paying attention. He has scaled the tree nearest us and installed himself in a fork of its branches; he looks down on us now with a pleased grin.

I can’t help thinking of the last time I saw him. The last time I saw them both. I shake my head.

“But where have you been? After you disappeared…”

“We have been made very comfortable,” Dimitra says, her voice a little haughty now, as though I might be about to dare show pity.

“The sea-god has made us a home in the Cyclades, by the water’s edge. It is a beautiful spot. He visits sometimes. He likes to see the man his son is becoming.”

My head spins. I feel caught in some strange forest, darker and more impenetrable than the one that surrounds us now. It seems to me that some tangled thread has wrapped itself around us, my family and me, since before either my sister or I were born. Long ago, surely, the Fates wove these threads around us, binding us to things greater and more dangerous than any mortal lives should touch.

“You should leave this place,” I murmur. “A child of Poseidon is an enemy to all of Athens, and to any gods who stand with Athena. If Nikos is who you say he is, right now there is no more dangerous place for him to be.”

“ I am not afraid of some Athenians,” he laughs, swooping down from the tree. Dimitra looks at me, and I cannot tell what emotion crosses her face. There is pride there, but not only pride. Some wistfulness, almost like regret.

“He speaks the truth, Psyche. And he has a god’s protection.”

One god’s protection, I think. One god’s favor. And where one god favors, the others grow jealous. I study the outline of my sister’s face in the dark, as though I can commit them all to memory. Many times before, I thought I’d lost her for good and I was mistaken then. Perhaps I am mistaken now.

“You don’t understand, do you?” Dimitra says. She holds my gaze. “We came here for you.”

For me?

“Poseidon helped bring me here so that I could speak with you.” She fixes me with a look. “You can come away with us, Psyche. It’s not too late.”

I stare. “Come away with you?”

“Under Poseidon’s protection. He is stronger than you realize. He will win this battle, and all the other battles that come after.” She hesitates. “No doubt you have heard all about Zeus’s blade going missing.”

I frown. “Of course. It is why Poseidon strikes Athena’s city—because Zeus can no longer stop him.”

Dimitra looks at me. “But the second blade, Poseidon’s blade. I don’t suppose you know that he is on the verge of recovering it.”

My head spins.

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen carefully to me, Psyche. Your mother’s blade—the one you had in Atlantis. I don’t know how, or why she came to have it, but believe me: that is Poseidon’s lost blade.”

I shake my head. I hear a ringing noise.

“You don’t know that.”

“Poseidon does,” she counters. “I described the blade to him in detail. He was quite certain. And he is most interested to meet you, as a result.” She looks at me. “Since I told him how it was lost in Atlantis, he has been searching for it. He has sent his nymphs to find the sunken island, and to comb its depths for the blade. I have drawn maps for him and shown him exactly where the treasury was when the island was aboveground. But so far he has had little luck. Only now it seems they draw close. He has sent a great guard of nymphs, and soon they will be swimming back to place it in his hands. Do you see?” She looks at me. “When Poseidon has his blade again, he will be the only brother who does. Athena will hardly stand a chance against him, and nor will Zeus. It will be a new reign on Olympus, and sooner than you think.”

She studies my face. “It will be no bad thing. Zeus’s rule has been unchallenged for too long. Perhaps he was once a just ruler, but no more. Poseidon is the eldest of the brothers, and has the claim by age-right. He has the claim of justice. And now,” she shrugs. “He will have the claim of force.”

I should warn them , is one of my first thoughts. Eros, Athena, the rest. If this is true, they ought to know. Dimitra must see it in my eyes.

“Tell them, by all means,” she says. “Perhaps they will even believe you. Better for them if they surrender now. Then they will be in his favor when he rebuilds Olympus and makes a new order there.”

My head swims. She speaks with such certainty, as if there is no doubt all of this will come to pass.

“And what of Deimos?” I manage to say. I’m sure she has not forgotten the vengeful god whose brother she killed. “He wants you dead, and he grows more powerful, too.” I think back to what Ares said, the sea-nymphs who were so intent on keeping Deimos’s whereabouts secret. The sea-nymphs are answerable to only one god: Poseidon. And surely it was Poseidon who caused the earthquake on the road here. Earth-shaker : that is the other name my people know him by.

“Are you sure Poseidon has not formed some alliance with him?” I demand. The two gods with the two blades. They both wish to see Zeus dethroned, I know that much.

Dimitra shakes her head.

“He will protect me from Deimos.”

“ I will protect you, Mother.” The slight figure in the tree stares down at us, his golden hair tangled in the branches. He looks so proud of himself, all puffed up as he imagines a man must be. He is a beautiful creature. I still find it hard to understand that this half-grown child is the nephew I knew as an infant. The dreams, visions, whatever they were, loop back through my mind.

“I saw you in a dream, Nikos,” I say. “You carried a jeweled knife at your neck.”

Dimitra looks at me, her eyes sharp.

“What do you mean? What sort of dream?”

“I don’t know,” I confess.

She shakes her head.

“He has never carried such a knife.”

I saw what I saw, but there is no point in arguing.

“So you will not come with us?”

I feel a pang. Some part of me—the youngest part of me, the child that once hung on my older sister’s every word—wants nothing more. But I am not that child now.

“You know I cannot.”

She looks away. “I had to ask. Father would have wanted me to ask.”

The pang in my heart deepens.

“Come, Nikos. It is time we were gone.”

The child drops from the tree, landing on his feet as sure as any cat. Dimitra’s eyes comb over my face once more before she turns and disappears into the darkness. The flash of Nikos’s golden head is the last thing I see.

*

Despite the mist, I find my way back, past the vigil house and its flickering torches, past the silent stone of Athena’s scattered temples, to the summit. The gods are gathered in a circle, with the fire still blazing between them. Athena has shed her silver cloak for armor, and the fire’s flames dance in the reflection of her shining breastplate.

Then, beyond the promontory, over on the sides of the cliffs, even through the dark mist, something catches my eye. There, on the neighboring hill: men like a trail of ants, pushing something up the incline. I squint, waiting for another gap in the mist. When it comes, I see I was not imagining it. Soldiers are wheeling a ballista —one of those great mounted crossbows, tall enough to need five men to operate it. Strong enough to launch its lethal arrows almost two leagues. And it is not the only one. The men are wheeling these great weapons to the top of the hill under the cover of this misty night. When dawn comes, they will be ready. It heartens me a little, to think that Athens is making its own use of the mist.

My mind swirls, a deluge of thoughts, as I near the encampment. Should I tell the others what I have heard—that the sea-god’s long-lost blade has been recovered? That Deimos is not the only one, perhaps not even the chief one, whose actions they must fear? But they will not believe me—or they will demand to know how I got the information, and they will certainly not believe the words of my sister, the god-killer. Besides, it would compromise her safety and Nikos’s, if I were to reveal them.

“Psyche.” Eros stands up from the fire, startled by my approach. The others pay less attention. “What is it?” he says. “Your face is very pale.”

I shake my head. I cannot tell him here, like this, in front of the others. I signal to him, and he lets me pull him aside, under the shelter of a tall tree. I wonder how far advanced the night is, how soon until we see the first threads of dawn.

“Well?” he stares down at me. “What is it?”

“I…” How to begin? “My sister,” I say. “I saw her.”