Chapter 7 Nyssa
Nyssa
Aros quickly ushered Evie over to the side wall, where she could observe the meeting and hopefully avoid the prying questions of meddlesome gods, though it did not go unnoticed.
Along with the Olympians already present, the Parthenon now housed a host of unfamiliar faces — each more curious than the last. Athena and Apollo had personally vouched for all five the night before, and I now had the opportunity to attach names to faces.
Nike, the goddess of victory, lounged on the arm of Athena’s golden throne.
Everything about her was a contradiction.
From her blonde locks cropped short, bucking the traditional divine standards, to the dirt stains on her white, downy wings splayed out behind her.
If she were to lean a little to the right, said wings were at risk of tickling Demeter’s sun-kissed nose.
Demeter — naturally — eyed them warily, if not a little amused.
And though Nike was the epitome of nonchalance — one tanned arm draped around Athena’s shoulder, the other mindlessly tossing a laurel wreath in the air — the repetitiveness of the act betrayed her nerves.
Athena’s posture, in stark contrast, was rigid and guarded. Her body language almost dared anyone to question Nike’s presence at her side — but when her eyes flicked up to her lover every now and then, they were filled with a soul-deep longing that I was no longer a stranger to.
They’ve not made any efforts to hide their relationship, Vel began. But Athena will act first, ask questions later should anyone deign to comment on it. Her long snout swung around, indicating Hermes, who sat with golden ichor pooling at his feet from a fresh wound in his thigh.
Let me guess: Hermes commented on it?
He did. Her lips peeled back to reveal two rows of knife-sharp fangs — a serpentine kind of smile — as a wisp of smoke passed between them.
Hermes sank deeper into his chair, as far back as the cold metal would allow.
A low, chortling sound escaped Velira’s throat in response.
In the centre of the room, Haras stood at least a foot taller than Caelus, with his bulky arms crossed.
His skin — somewhere between grey and brown — stretched taut as his biceps flexed.
His long onyx hair was pulled back off his face, leaving his one ocean-coloured eye proudly on display in the middle of his forehead, shrewdly assessing me.
His gaze was unnerving — unblinking — and unfortunately, the one next to him did little to reassure me.
Erato only reached Haras’ chest in height, but she was equally as bold.
Her curves were captivating, delicately clad in a gown of lilac gauze, which left precisely nothing to the imagination.
Golden skin dotted with freckles peeked through each sliver of fabric, the ties of which propped her breasts up masterfully.
She had presented herself in such a way that one might easily miss the silver flash of the dagger strapped to her thigh if they could not bring themselves to look elsewhere.
One hazelnut eye winked at me from beneath her auburn locks, and the sultry tilt to her lips had me momentarily questioning my preferences.
That wink was familiar.
Her grin widened as surely as my eyes did and she tipped her head in assent — yes, we had met before. A lifetime ago, in an arena filled with sparring champions and flirtatious trainers.
I quickly moved on to Aspan, struck by an unexpected pang of sorrow.
The satyr bore an easy grin, dipping his head cordially as my gaze acknowledged him.
His lower half was that of a goat — he wore only chocolate-coloured fur from his hips down to his hooves, which were painted a glaring shade of green — while his upper half, that of a man, was unclothed — adorned in thick tufts of hair that crawled over his shoulders and down his back.
One nipple was pierced with a small silver circle, piquing my curiosity.
He grinned again knowingly, then sketched a low bow.
“Since we’re both ogling each other, and you’ve now become privy to my nipple ring, I suppose it’s only logical that we should be on a first name basis.” The satyr winked. “You can call me Pan,” he offered. “It’s preferable to ass.”
I choked on a quiet laugh. Caelus was not so fortunate, harrumphing loudly which turned into subsequent coughs.
“It’s fortuitous then, that you’re not half donkey, isn’t it?” I quipped, biting down on the inside of my lip to prevent any further snickers from escaping.
The chamber erupted in amusement. From Aphrodite’s cackle, to Demeter’s quiet chuckle, to Aros’ roaring howl. Aspan, himself, was thoroughly and surprisingly amused.
“That’s a new one. I think I like you.” He grinned, revealing a row of pointed teeth.
“Get in line,” Aros called from across the room, eliciting a few more godly giggles.
Dionysus stood beside Pan, half a head taller and noticeably slimmer.
His was a wiry kind of build — the kind that fared better running over long distances than in close combat.
His blonde, shoulder-length locks were tied back in a style similar to what Aros favoured, and he was clutching, of all things, a small bunch of grapes.
Every now and then he would whisper to them, then eat one and frown, only to repeat the process some minutes later.
“What are you doing?” I couldn’t help but ask after trying and failing to puzzle it out.
It took Dionysus a few seconds to register that I was addressing him. In response, he just held out the bundle with a dumbstruck expression plastered across his face.
“Taste one and tell me what you think.”
I frowned, wary of the strange god and his fruit.
Do not eat that! Velira snapped as I reached for it. Do not trust new faces — be wary of old ones too. You’re queen of everything now, she scolded. Many would love to usurp the usurper.
I usurped nothing.
That’s not what they whisper and you know it.
She eyed me with one melon-sized golden eye, sauntering past to sniff at the proffered fruit. Dionysus quivered as she neared, his hand shaking so violently he almost dropped them.
Velira opened her maw slowly, and his eyelids slammed shut as he muttered to himself like a prayer. Her long tongue snaked out and coiled around a solitary grape with finesse, plucking it from his clammy hand and rolling it back into her mouth.
Well? I asked.
The chamber was so silent a pin drop could be heard, each of us eagerly awaiting her assessment. For several minutes, the only thing that breathed was the wind.
Finally, she spoke: I detect no poison—
Knew it.
—But it does taste strange, continuing as if I hadn't interrupted. It tastes like… sorrow. Like melancholy mixed with aniseed.
I relayed her evaluation to the still-shaking god, who appeared brave enough to peer at her through one cracked eyelid. He straightened with a sigh of relief, a hesitant grin dimpling his chin.
“You’re right,” he said to Velira. “But that’s not what I’d intended.”
“What did you intend?” Caelus inquired from my left.
“I was trying to infuse them with the addictive, bubbling sensation of anticipation… the quiet hum of pride. But every time I try to coax my magic out, it backfires — usually to the tune of sorrow.”
Perhaps, it is not the fault of magic, but of the mind, Velira offered.
Dionysus’ face fell when I passed on her message, morosely accepting her counsel.
“Yes, perhaps you’re right,” he murmured.
I waited until he wandered back to the rest of the members of the Xifos tis Moiras — the self-proclaimed Sword of Fate — then addressed the room at large.
“You might all be wondering why you’re still here — or why you’ve been summoned.
Each of you are being offered a seat on my council…
A chance to help shape not only this realm, but also Ephemeron, the realm of mortals.
” I said, dread tempering my tone. I glanced at Caelus, doubting any of them would like what I said next.
“Last night, the Fates visited my dreams.”
Apollo straightened. He, more than any, knew how tolling a nudge from Fate could be.
What did they tell you? he asked.
Grimacing, I launched into a brief summary of my nightmare, ending with a recitation of their bone-chilling song.
“One vanished, one tethered, one tortured.
Two sundered, re-bound, reinforced.
Five surrendered,
Four unaltered,
Three protected,
Two defended,
One left to be slaughtered.”
“What does that even mean?” Hermes whined when I’d finished.
It means, Apollo signed, that Fate is warning us. He eyed the god of thieves intently. And we had better heed it.
I nodded, my hand brushing Caelus’ — seeking the smallest measure of comfort I could presently find. “We believe the sisters were referring to their trial.”
Caelus stepped forward, his eyes sparking, ready to etch the words into the marble floor.
“Stop!” Athena shouted, launching to her feet. She tutted at him. “Why are men always so quick to destroy beautiful things?”
Aphrodite and Hestia chuckled while Athena raised her hands like the conductor of a great symphony.
Words appeared out of thin air — every sentence perfectly reconstructed in the goddess’ flawless penmanship — hovering before our eyes.
I blinked at her, in awe of such a clever use of power. She winked back, whispering, “It comes in handy with battle maps, too.”
My brows climbed my forehead. “I have a feeling that skill is going to come in handy sooner rather than later,” I whispered back.
“I’m not sure what the first line means, but the second definitely refers to me,” Aphrodite announced. “And to whoever came after me. Whoever else chose to cut and rebind their fate thread.”
“That would be me,” Arch offered with a shrug.
Aph’s mouth immediately split into a sly smile, transforming her features into something even more magnetic. Arch — the poor fool — was powerless to resist her, his face flushing faster than pomegranate wine stains an ivory gown.