The Reign of Olympus (Shadows of Olympus #3)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I wake with the taste of salt on my lips. Eros is nowhere to be seen. Of course he’s not—he must have been with the army all night. I pin my chiton and push the tent flap aside. Wind still whips across the summit, and instantly I see the ships in the bay beyond. I am sure that in the night they have come closer. It seems that even with four gods on our side, Poseidon’s forces are pushing the Athenian boats back.

Eros is standing at the cliff’s edge with his father, Ares’s hand gripping his shoulder in a way that tells me he’s drawing on his son’s strength again. I go to stand beside Eros in the sharp wind, and when he turns to look at me, his lips are faintly blue. I long to reach for him, to pull him from his father’s grip, but that would only make things worse.

“You’ll get ill again,” I say. Ares has promised him strength and renewal, but it seems to me he’s doing the opposite. “You can’t keep going like this.”

“I won’t have to,” he says. “Once we win.”

Suggestions of weakness make him stubborn. And maybe he’s right. We can’t afford to lose to Poseidon, and not just for Athens’s sake. Does the sea-god have the adamantine knife in his possession yet? For the first time I dare to imagine his victory here, and what might follow. If he comes to claim his prize, can we afford to be here when he does? I will not let him make a captive of Eros. I will not let us be delivered to Deimos’s mercy.

Eros turns to his father, resuming some discussion from before I arrived.

“How many have we lost?” he says.

“Three companies, or thereabouts.” Ares’s voice is stony. Looking at him for the first time today, I see the look of fury on his face.

“What is it?” I say quietly. For some reason, it does not sound like they are talking about the Athenian forces lost at sea.

“There was a revolt,” Eros answers, his voice low. “Some of the Messenian companies fled in the night. They killed those who got in their way, or tried to stop them. Generals, mostly.”

I feel my pulse quicken. I walked through that encampment only yesterday night. This must have been just hours later.

I cast another look out toward the bay, the choppy white waters and the seemingly endless ships.

“And out there?” I say.

“Poseidon’s forces do not relent,” Eros says, tight-lipped. “Athena and Nemese are with the Athenian fleet now. If we do not turn the tide soon, they will take the bay.”

And Sparta’s men must join the battle.

“I—I’m not feeling well,” I say. It’s true, but not in the way he thinks. “I will take shelter a while in the vigil house. It’s warm, and their herbs will help.”

Eros frowns as he looks me over. I must look pale enough to him, because he doesn’t question it; he just nods.

I pick my way down the narrow path, the cold wind pawing at my hair. The guardians must be inside the vigil house; I see no one. Even so, I step off the path and move through the forest instead. At the base of the hill, I weave my way through the streets again. They are not so quiet as before; tension is everywhere in the air, taut as a pinched thread. Children run in and out of houses, their energy wild and reckless, sensing something coming that they cannot explain. Their mothers do not corral them. It is not so windy down here, though a breeze seems to follow me through the narrow streets. I think of war—wars past and war ahead—and the enormity of it dazzles me. How many times has Athens heard the ring of steel in these streets. What blood of generations past lies spilled beneath its stones?

Would it matter so much, if Poseidon were to become king of the gods, lord of Olympus? What has Zeus ever done that we mortals should mourn if he were deposed? Poseidon might not be better, but I am not sure he is any worse. Either way, humans will continue to die for their gods. Either way, we’ll be down here, in the bloodshed and mud, and they’ll be up there, in the clean, bright glades of Olympus.

No, I do not care much what happens on Olympus. But what will it cost our world if the gods become rivals in theirs? Poseidon’s war on Athens is already costing mortal lives. And the further this war spreads, the more will be lost.

I walk through a large square to find it has been turned into an open-air healers’ station. I suppose many ships must have already come back full of wounded men. And yesterday morning, when Poseidon’s boats almost breached the Athenian shore: many arrows found home then. Now I am face to face with the result.

There are so many women working here, their faces pained and pinched, their hands busy and blood-covered. And the men they’re tending are their brothers, fathers, sons. It feels wrong to walk by. When the earthquake struck Sikyon, I was not there. I have not witnessed what these people have, but it seems to me I know their pain, and I suppose my hands may wash a wound or wrap a bandage as well as the next. I meant to check on the Spartan forces, on Yiannis and Timon, but I will go to them soon. Perhaps the healers here will have news of the insurrection Eros spoke of.

I approach the nearest group, and the women look up at me. The men they’re tending to have wounds of many kinds: one has a blood-soaked compress covering most of his face; another has an arrow-head still buried in his arm; another cradles a bloody hand against himself like a wounded bird.

“Can I join you?” I ask. One of the women darts her eyes at me. She’s older, and seems to be in charge.

“These are our bandages, our herbs. We’ve none to spare,” she snaps. “Whatever your men need, you must find in your own home.”

I flush and try to explain myself, but feel someone’s hand on my arm pulling me back. The hairs on my neck prickle. I snatch my arm away, and find myself looking up into my sister’s face, half-obscured by her traveler’s cloak. My eyes widen, but before I can say a word she drags me to the edge of the square, down the mouth of a small alley.

“Dimitra!”

She pulls the hood down, throwing a glance over her shoulder, and then down the alley behind me.

“Surely you’re not safe on these streets-”

“Neither of us are,” she says sharply. A wave of anxiety rolls over me. She is alone this time…

“Where’s Nikos?”

“He’s fine. It’s not that. I have news. Something I think you should know.”

My heart flutters.

“There was an attack last night…” She hesitates. “In the Underworld.”

I stare at her. The Underworld?

“An entrance was breached somewhere in the Gulf of Saron,” she speaks quickly. “The guardian was found dead. And Cerberus…” Her face wrinkles in distaste. She’s speaking of the great three-headed dog that guards the souls of the Underworld, keeping them in Asphodel. He doesn’t just keep the dead in; he keeps the living out.

“Two of his lives were taken,” she goes on. “Two of his heads severed. They found a pool of ichor all around him.” She looks at me. “Though it seems the beast did damage too: his claws were thick with gore.”

“Deimos,” I breathe.

She nods, looking surprised that I should know so much.

“That’s what they’re saying. The guardian was no mortal creature; nor is Cerberus. Only an adamantine blade could have done such work.” She studies my face. “I suppose you have some idea why he was in Hades to begin with?”

“Eros guessed,” I say slowly. “He said he would try to bring back Phobos.” A chill goes through me. Surely he didn’t manage…

Dimitra frowns.

“Well, it seems as though he fled before he could finish the task. Perhaps Cerberus managed to wound him badly enough after all. But if he could come so close, what’s to stop him trying again?”

I nod. The only real surprise is that Cerberus’s third life was not taken; that Deimos was stopped at all. It seems like Olympus isn’t the realm that needs defending after all—it’s the Underworld. If Deimos manages to free his twin, I shudder to think what grotesque revenge they will take on the world. Gods and men.

“You should come with us,” Dimitra says. She’s not looking me in the eye and her voice is quiet, which is unlike her. It occurs to me that she does not want to cause me pain, and for some reason, this surprises me.

She clears her throat. “I know you love him. But he cannot keep you safe, Psyche. Poseidon will soon have his blade back. And after that, he will have Olympus at his feet. He is the only one who can protect us from the twins. But you will not court his favor if you stand against him today.”

A lump forms in my throat.

“I can’t leave Eros,” I say. “And I can’t betray him. He will stand with Athena, I know it. And he does not trust Poseidon.”

“Then he’s a fool,” Dimitra sets her jaw.

My heart twists inside me. I don’t know what to believe. Eros is so sure. Dimitra is so sure. But I’m not sure of anything anymore. Outside the alley the noise of the square is dimmed, nothing but a dull throb.

“What has Poseidon promised you?” I say. “That you should have such faith in him?”

Dimitra gives me a hard look.

“He has promised me nothing. But to Nikos, he has promised great gifts. My son has gifts beyond measure, Psyche. He will be a great hero.”

I think of that bright face, its fearless, reckless eyes. A hero . I thought the fact that he was not here with her today meant Dimitra had left him somewhere safer. Now I’m not so sure.

“Where is he?” I say. “Is he out there, on the boats? Don’t tell me he’s part of this.”

“Psyche...” Her voice changes; something gives way. “I could not keep him from this battle if I tried. And you have not seen him fight, sister.”

My heart drops. “He’s a child , Dimitra, gifts or no. And he’s mortal. No matter his father’s favor, he’s mortal.”

She looks away.

“I know,” she says. Her voice is strained now; I can feel the weight behind it, the helplessness where before I saw only pride. “But he is his father’s son. He is Poseidon’s child far more than he is mine.”

I look at her anguished face. How did we get here, tangled up in this? Caught in the wars of gods who use mortals as their pawns? In my silence, Dimitra gathers her cloak around her.

“I may not see you again,” she says. Her words are flat, and hang starkly in the air. I know them to be true. We stand a little longer, looking at each other. We have never been the type of sisters to embrace—not for many years. But now she takes a step forward, and brushes her thumb across my forehead. A touch that’s feather-light, quicker than blinking. An old woman’s mark of protection.

But I feel the blessing in it.

“Fair wind, Psyche.” She turns and is gone, disappearing around the corner in the time it would take me to call her name.

To say any of the unspoken things.

*

I’m approaching the vigil house when I hear voices. It’s one of the priestesses—and it sounds as though someone is arguing with her.

“This is the goddess’s sacred space,” her voice comes, sharp and angry. “You cannot go further.”

“But it is the goddess I have come to see,” the other voice retorts, a voice I think I know. I step around the bend and catch my breath.

Yiannis .

And he’s not alone. A dark fog blooms in my chest. He’s carrying someone. A slighter figure, cradled in his arms.

“Yiannis?”

The priestess snaps a sharp look in my direction, scowling to see another intruder. Yiannis only half-turns: once he sees the priestess has taken her eyes off of him he tries to dart past her again. She’s quicker. She flings her spear out beside her, blocking his path, and in the same instant, the other woman emerges from the temple, armed also.

“You risk much, with your disrespect,” the first one hisses. “We shall not tell you again. Withdraw, unless you wish to face the metal of our spears.”

“Yiannis!” I quicken my steps, panting, until I reach his side. “What’s happened? What-” Then I take in the figure in his arms. Eyes closed, though one of them is still blood-blackened. Colorless lips, pale skin. No longer a child, not yet a man.

“Timon,” I murmur, but the boy doesn’t stir. “What happened to him?”

Yiannis looks at me, but it feels more like he looks through me. His eyes are stricken, wide but empty. I think of Odysseus, cursed to wander blind in the wilderness.

“Yiannis. What happened?”