Chapter Thirty-Four
“Poseidon.” Ares is first to speak. “You show yourself. We wondered why you had sent a child to do your bidding.”
Nikos flushes, but the cloaked figure holds up a hand. Now that he is closer, I see how mightily he is built. I thought Ares a towering figure, but this god dwarfs even him.
“I do what must be done,” he says. “The boy has his role to play.” Then he turns, speaking over his shoulder, as if to someone else waiting in the sea.
“Come: you said you wished to join him, did you not?”
I watch, heart thumping, as another figure wades to shore. My sister.
As she approaches, I hear a hiss from Deimos.
“She’s the one, Father,” he snarls, twisting in Ares’s grip, his face livid. “She’s the one who killed your son.”
Dimitra doesn’t flinch. She just walks to where Nikos stands, and takes her place by his side. And Poseidon—it can be none other—takes another step toward me. The air seems to shimmer and crackle in his presence. I feel a chill go through me, and not just of fear. I know him. I shouldn’t, but I do. And I don’t want to think about why.
“You say you have terms for me. What are they, Psycheandra?”
Psycheandra . The way he says my name…
I blink all thoughts away, and grip the blade tighter. I came here to bargain. My terms have not changed.
“The Athenians and the Spartans, the Cycladeans too. All have fought bravely. You must spare them further bloodshed, and take no more lives here today.”
The cape shimmers, and for a moment I see a face through it: dazzling, though no longer young. A powerful forehead, wide jaw, blazing eyes.
“Look around you,” he says. “The city is all but won. Soon they will stand down. There will be no need for further bloodshed.”
Athena lets out a sound of subdued fury.
“You misunderstand me.” I force my voice to stay strong. “I ask that you withdraw your troops. Leave Athens, and leave these men free to choose their own fate. Your show of strength today will probably convert some of them to your cause. But if you are to have this blade, you will not win those followers by force.”
I steel myself to look at him, but the sea-god seems calm: he does not flinch to hear such demands made by a mortal, bold though they are. I had half expected him to threaten me, or to attempt to take the blade by force, like Ares.
But I’m not done yet.
“And not just Athens.” I take a breath. “If I am to hand over this blade, it is not to see more of my people die to please the gods. Gain whatever following you will, but not at the end of a sword. If you want the worship of these mortals, let them worship you by choice, not conquest. You will raise no more mortal armies in your name.”
The sea-god is still for a moment. I sense that he is contemplating, not my words, but me. Though I cannot clearly see his face, I feel his gaze.
“So—you would put an end to war?” he says. His voice is tart, impatient, slightly amused. “You are wrong, Psycheandra: War is beloved of mortals. It is what your poets sing of. It is how men find glory. Take it away from them, and they will not thank you.”
“Nevertheless,” I say quietly, “these are my terms. Take your fight to Olympus, and Olympus alone. If you swear it, the blade is yours.”
The wind seems to thicken around us.
“Look at me, Psycheandra,” he says. He lifts back the hood, and I see his face clearly now—dazzling and sea-worn, strength in every line; some humor and some cruelty there, perhaps some wisdom too. And his eyes: sea-blue, the same color as Nikos’s.
The same color as mine.
I close my eyes again, not willing to entertain these thoughts I don’t have room for.
“Psycheandra,” he says again: “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
“You know who I am.”
Yes . My head buzzes; my mind rings with it. I don’t want to know what he wants me to know. But that blue gaze bores into me.
“I can give you great things. If I am King of Olympus, it will serve you well—much better than he who sits there now, who is no just ruler, as you have observed.”
His words pull at me, a tumult of feelings and confusion. I could be favored. Be protected. Safe. But…
“That is not what I asked. Can you promise what I ask?”
His mouth quirks, very faintly.
“I cannot.”
“Then,” I say, “I cannot hand it over.”
There’s a sudden movement in the corner of my vision: Deimos, tearing himself from his father’s grip—but Ares, snarling, wrenches him back. I look around and see Athena has her bow strung and raised. The arrow’s pointing…at me?
“Why do you hold your son back, Ares?” she grimaces. “He only wants revenge. One of these mortal girls is a god-killer. And look how the other one betrays us.”
“I do not betray you,” I snap. “What is it you imagine that I owe you? What have any of you ever given me but your scorn?”
Her eyes flash; she steps closer, bow raised.
“No! You will not harm her!” It’s Nikos, his bright eyes glowing, his hand raised. I had almost forgotten that he, too, held a blade. But Athena does not see it, or ignores him. She bends back her bow, the string tightens—and Nikos throws the knife. But he does not throw it at Athena. Instead he hurls it behind him, toward the olive tree, and the blade sings as it buries itself deep in the trunk.
Athena screams once, a harrowing sound. She stumbles; it’s only Nemese’s grip on her that keeps her standing. My blood runs cold. The tree. In moments, its shimmering leaves turn black, the fruit withers. The branches and trunk glow briefly like dark embers before turning lifeless as clay. And then it is nothing but ash.
In the distance, a dreadful sound begins. Rumbling, and then the yawing sound of stone grating against stone.
“My city.” Athena drops her bow to the ground. Her voice is barely a whisper.
High in the hills of the Argolic, I once heard an avalanche fall. I did not think to hear that dreadful sound again. Can it really be? Can a city so mighty as Athens be collapsing? I see Poseidon’s face, impassive and grim. This was the work of his knife, and of his son. But I do not think this was his choice.
Through the miasma around us, I hear the shouts of men. I can imagine the sight before their eyes. And what of the women and children back in the city? Horror curls in my throat.
“Keep the walls standing as long as you can,” I hear Eros saying. He turns to Athena, then to Ares. “Take what strength you need from me. Give them time to flee.”
Ares plunges his spear into the earth, and I see a flash of gold fork from its base like lightning moving in the direction of the city. He grips the spear-handle in his fist, closes his eyes, and begins some muttered incantation. Athena, even as ill and weakened as she looks, moves to where he stands and grips the spear alongside him.
Seeing his opportunity, Deimos wrenches once more against Ares’s grip—and this time he pulls free. In an instant he has gathered Athena’s bow from the ground, but Eros is almost as fast. He wraps his arms around his brother and kicks the bow away.
“Behind me,” I call to Nikos and my sister. The hand that holds the blade is as unsteady as my voice, but still I brandish it in front of me for Deimos to see.
“You know I will not hesitate,” I say. I saw where his eyes landed. It was Dimitra he meant to kill first. The tip of the blade seems to flash as I point it before me.
“I’m not afraid of you, little witch,” Deimos hisses. He wrestles against Eros’s grip, but Eros holds him tight, meeting my eyes behind Deimos’s head. I know he will keep his grip for as long as he can. But I also know his strength is low right now.
Then Nikos’s voice, high and searching, breaks through our stand-off.
“Father!” he calls. “Where are you going?”
Poseidon . Where is he? My eyes widen as I find him: he’s standing by the olive tree, or the dark stump that remains of it. The jeweled hilt glints as he slides his blade free once more. He’s standing where the water meets the sand.
“Father!” Nikos calls again. The sea-god glances backward, but it’s me his eyes land on.
“I cannot give you your bargain,” he says. “And what good is Athens to me now? I have no use for a city of ruins.”
And with that, he walks on, out into the water. My breath catches. He’s leaving? Now ? I see my sister’s face, and my nephew’s: the dart of fear on hers, the incomprehension on his.
“Wait!” My voice travels through air that already rings with the clash of metal. But Poseidon’s long stride doesn’t break. Another moment and he is gone from view, part of the grey water once more. In his wake, the water is already receding, flowing back into the sea.
You would not give him what he wanted, Psyche. What did you expect?
But the ill feeling in my stomach doesn’t subside. He has abandoned us: me, my sister, Nikos. And I might not need him, but they do.
Deimos’s sneer brings me back to the moment.
“He has no use for you, you see,” he says to Nikos. “Now who will you hide behind, halfling dog?”
Heart pounding, I turn back and do my best to keep the blade steady. Nikos has no weapon now, and my sister, too, is unarmed. I am what stands between them and the other gods’ wrath.
“You mean to let him live?” Deimos hurls at Athena. “The boy who destroyed your city?”
Athena is standing with Ares and Nemese, still doing what she can to prop up the falling city. She does not answer Deimos, but I see his words are not without effect. As for Ares, he meets my eyes with an emptiness in his own: if he does not wish to harm us, then he certainly does not wish to save us. He will let this play out as it may.
So this is what my bold attempts have come to. Poseidon has deserted us. The other gods see me as their enemy. Athens falls to ruin. And soon, very soon, Zeus must arrive to claim his blade, and I do not think he will look kindly on me.
Around us, it seems the haze is lifting—not all the way, but enough. Perhaps because the efforts of the gods are elsewhere now, trying to keep Athens standing. And through the white blur, I see men charging; I hear them, too, as though the fog no longer dampens the sound of their blades. The Athenians are bearing down on the Cycladic forces with a new and deathly rage, the kind borne from despair—from seeing one’s home collapse before one’s eyes. Minutes ago, it seemed that Poseidon’s forces could not help but win. Now I am not so sure.
Athena draws a breath, and it seems to shudder in her lungs.
Avenge your city, Athenians! Her cry resonates across the beaches, ringing in my head.
Avenge me!