Chapter Thirteen
I step out onto a hillside. Some elevated place, dark and windy. I see mountains carved against the dark sky and moonlight against a distant river. And there, below, is the city: a thousand tiny points of light, flickering like human souls.
A sort of encampment stands before me: A great tent shimmering in the light of what must be a thousand lanterns. It’s made of silk or something even finer, and painted in the brightest colors: scenes of war and victory, some beautiful, some bloody. The tent poles are so finely carved and polished that they shine as bright as the silk, topped with finials of silver and gold, and from the doorway spills a carpet finer than any I saw in the home of the king of Atlantis, though those were brought all the way from Persia, and famed throughout the lands.
A figure appears in the doorway, walking toward us. He is taller than Eros, and broader, majestic even in the darkness.
Eros drops into a kneel, and pulls me down beside him.
“Father.” He bows his head, but I cannot help darting a glance up into the face of this great god. Even Athena is not so feared, nor so ancient, as the first-born son of Zeus himself. I feel myself weaken in his presence. He glows with a ferocity I have not seen before: his armor, his greaves and helmet, all radiant and gleaming. I do not see Eros in his face at all. Though the gods are ageless, he looks more like a man of middle years—his features are craggier, rougher than his son’s. Besides, there is something in his face that speaks of ill temper—not the malice of Deimos or Phobos, but something hard and very proud. And, as his eyes find mine, angry.
“You bring a mortal here?” His voice is dark, rich as winter earth.
“Father, this is Psyche,” Eros says. “I have told you of her.”
“Indeed you have.” Ares’s eyes flash. “And what do you mean by bringing her here?”
“She was in danger. Is in danger-”
“My Lord,” Nemese chimes in. “Your temple on the second hill—it was set alight and desecrated. Your priest, murdered. I saw justice done.” I notice with a shiver now that her hands are stained, and some flecks of red mar her white-and-gold robes. Her hunt was successful, then.
“He would tell me nothing. He was a Messenian, though, by his accent and his dress.”
Ares grimaces. At least his attention is momentarily diverted from me.
“Messenians. They grow bolder.” His fiery gaze moves to the mountainside, looking down at his city. “This is the fifth temple in as many nights.”
“Perhaps it will not do for all of Sparta’s men to travel north just now,” Eros says, and his father scowls.
“I will let the king keep enough men behind to double his city guard. The rest will march for Nafplion at dawn, as before.”
Nafplion . So that is where the men of Sparta are bound for. But why? I look to Eros, who does not look back.
Ares’s keen gaze falls on me again.
“Eros, you make arrangements for the girl. If she cannot stay on Olympus, you must find somewhere else to put her.”
Put me. As though I were a piece of clay.
I look down.
“My lord… could I not travel with you, and stay by Eros’s side? I would not be any trouble.”
He scoffs.
“Look at the trouble you have already caused! While my temple burned, while my son should have been pursuing justice for me, instead he was rescuing you.” His lip curls. “And that is only tonight. I need hardly remind you of the longer list.”
“Father—I have explained to you,” Eros speaks stiffly. “You know none of what happened was Psyche’s fault.”
Ares glowers.
“I know that that is what you want me to believe.” He spares me a look of distaste. “I could topple you with a thought, girl, if I wished it. You see my forbearance, but do not expect more from me than that.”
Eros casts me a doubtful look. I flush. Clearly, I am a problem for him to solve. I had not expected it to be like this.
“She has nowhere to go. I cannot leave her here.”
It is true. I have no home anymore. I had one once, in Sikyon, and then later, for a while, in Atlantis. But they were both destroyed—first by men, and then by gods.
“I am sorry, my lord,” I say to Ares, as quietly and reverently as I can muster. “Please—let me stay.”
He glares.
“This is a council of war, and you have no place at the table.”
I feel Eros’s quick glance from me to Ares. “She seeks no knowledge of our plans, Father. She will not trespass on any secrets.”
I glance at him. What plans? What “secrets”?
“My lord.” I’m not sure what emboldens me to say what I say next. “Please—I am your son’s wife, and I should be by his side.”
Ares’s brows rise, and he lets out a laugh.
“Gods do not take mortals as their wives, girl. As lovers, yes, as playthings or companions, but not as wives. Besides, he is already wed.” Ares’s glance moves to Nemese. “As one of these days, he will remember.”
I feel ill. I don’t dare look at Eros’s face, and yet somehow I blurt, “But we are married, my lord. We were wed under the Old Laws.”
Ares laughs that unpleasant laugh.
“Let me guess. He plucked an apple from a tree, and bade you eat it. What, and you think you have some standing now because of it? Some claim on him—on a god —because you ate from his hand?” He scoffs. “What mortal would not eat from a god’s hand! You are borrowing from Zeus’s ways, are you, boy?” He glances at Eros, then back at me. “The king of the gods is most adept at putting on such bits of pageantry for mortal girls, convincing them to part with their virginity. I suppose the same theater worked well enough for you.”
“Father, enough !” Eros interrupts. His cheeks are flaming. But it doesn’t matter what he says. Mortification floods me. I can’t bring myself to raise my eyes from the small patch of grass in front of me. He was the one that told me about the Old Laws; he said they were laws older than the gods themselves. He called me his wife.
“Your union with Nemese was arranged when you were still in the cradle,” Ares snaps. “It was sanctified by the gods!”
“And what should that mean to me?” Eros retorts.
I want to disappear into the earth; I want it to swallow me and everything I’m feeling. I would run away from here, but I can’t seem to move.
“My lord-” A voice interrupts, cutting through this humiliating debate over my legitimacy. Nemese.
“My lord, if I may.” She sounds measured, composed. The hideous awkwardness of all this apparently hasn’t touched her.
“I believe it would be for the best if we brought the mortal with us. Respectfully: Eros is compromised. If we leave the girl behind and something happens to her—if Deimos or any of his agents were to capture her, for example—we would be in danger. They could force Eros’s hand. Even force him to betray you. Better she go with us, where we can keep an eye on her.”
There is silence for a while. My eyes are hot and pricking, and I’m too humiliated to speak. Eros looks offended at the idea that he could be blackmailed so easily. As for Ares…it’s clear he does not like to be contradicted. But through my haze of anger and shame, I see that he is persuaded. He looks from Nemese, to me, then finally to Eros.
“Let her stay, then. But she will be your charge, and she had better not cause any trouble.” He turns back to me, the dislike flashing in his eyes. “The less cause I have to notice you, girl, the better.”
*
A wind has sprung up in the night, and howls outside. The tent Eros has summoned for us—a dome of exquisite silk, almost as palatial as the one Ares conjured for himself—withstands the high winds with ease. But there is another storm raging within me.
“The Old Laws.” I cross my arms, glaring at where he sits on the bed. “ Are they real?”
He sighs. “They have been real to many before us, and they were real to you and me. My father does not wish to admit their legitimacy because it does not suit him. He does not wish me to wed a mortal, that is all. What the gods dislike, they will find a way to undermine.”
“You did not tell me it was a matter of debate,” I say stiffly. “In your father’s eyes, you are still married—and not to me.” I think of Hermes and his snide looks, his laughter. They think me a fool. Perhaps I was a fool.
Eros looks up at me.
“You wish for the gods to throw a wedding feast for us and paint your name in the heavens? It will not happen, Psyche.”
I scowl at him.
“Did you know?” I say. “That Nemese would be here? That you and she were to fight together at your father’s side?”
He sighs.
“I did not, although perhaps I should have. He has always valued Nemese—she is the daughter he would have wished to have. Phobos and Deimos were useful to him, but they were reckless and indiscriminate. And I…” He pauses. “I suppose I was a disappointment of a different kind.”
He’s quiet then. So am I.
“What happened in Olympus, Psyche?” He’s looking at me, that searching gaze that’s so hard to hide from. Does he ask because he’s concerned, or because he’s waiting for some sort of confession? Because I’m a burden, all of a sudden? It’s not as though I seek out conflict with the gods. All I’ve ever wanted is to live my life in peace.
I make up my mind there and then not to tell him of the apple in Hera’s garden—or the vision that came with it. I don’t want to think about either of those things right now. Instead, I tell him about Hermes. About how he accosted me when Athena had gone out; what he accused me of and what he did; my suspicions that those raiders were not sent by Deimos at all, but were just a ruse to shake us from our nest. When I’ve finished, Eros looks away, his expression grim.
“Perhaps you are right. I did wonder why he should be so keen to help my father, or even Zeus. Hermes acts for Hermes alone. He is grossly deceived if he thinks we have the blade—but such is the power of these artefacts. Many of the gods would desire nothing more than to wield such a blade themselves.”
“For vengeance?” I say, thinking of Deimos and his blood-hunger.
“For power.” Eros looks at me, his eyes full of shadows. “Power was different on Olympus, before the other blades were lost. Zeus had more respect for his brothers then. Now he rules over them with impunity. While he owns the only remaining blade, none dare challenge his authority.”
“While he owned it, you mean,” I say. “What happened to the other blades?” It seems to me that something of that kind of power should be closely guarded, and hard to lose. And yet as of this moment, all three have been separated from their owners.
Eros sighs. “Hades’s blade was lost in the Great Uprising. It was when the Titans were being cast into Tartarus.”
Tartarus: The great abyss. Deeper than the Underworld; the deepest chasm of existence. As far as I can tell, that’s Zeus’s favorite form of punishment for gods who offend him.
“Hades was fighting the Titan, Atlas. At some point during the battle, the blade was knocked from his hand. It fell into the pit of Tartarus, never to be recovered.” He glances at me. “As to Poseidon’s blade, that is less sure. The sea-god is secretive about such things. I suspect he did not wish it known that his blade had disappeared, but word got out. It suited Zeus very well, of course—to be the last one left with such power.”
Among mortals, it certainly bodes ill when power is concentrated in the hands of one man. Surely it’s the same with the gods.
The wind howls outside, reminding me of our present situation.
“And Deimos?” I say finally. “What news of him?”
Eros frowns, and draws his eyes away from mine.
“We had word of him in Nafplion.”
So I was right: that’s why the Spartan army is marching north. But…
“Your father plans to muster an army of men against him? To what end?” Mortals can do nothing against a god.
Eros shakes his head. “There is word that he has started a cult of his own there. That he is turning followers away from Ares to himself instead.”
I stare at him. I thought Deimos was on the run, hiding in the shadows. But taking Nafplion for his own! It is a bold, heedless act. Nafplion is under Spartan control, a prized coastal city. And all that is Sparta’s, is Ares’s.
“He means to flaunt this in your father’s face?”
“It seems so.”
I frown. “I thought the reason he took the blade was to come after you.”
“So did I,” Eros looks at me. “But it seems there may be more to it, after all.”
I swallow.
Or perhaps Deimos draws us out on purpose, and Nafplion is a calculated move designed to bring us right to his door.
“Sparta’s pride depends on reclaiming any lost territory,” Eros goes on. “Whatever their leader was thinking, he will unthink it once he sees the Spartan hordes descending on him.”
Strange. He sounds almost like a war-god, when he speaks those words. Like a true son of Ares, indeed.
“And what of your brother?” I say. “What if he is there? Do you truly mean to put yourself in his way?”
Eros looks away.
“My father thinks it may be possible to reason with him. To secure some sort of bargain. He thinks Deimos will have realized the rashness of his actions, and be already regretting them.”
I feel my jaw tighten. I wouldn’t be so sure.
“And if he doesn’t?”
Eros turns back to me.
“We will deal with it then. Psyche, I promise you, I will do nothing rash. You think I would throw all this away? You think I would risk losing you like that?”
I don’t point out that it’s not only me he’d be losing. It’s his life.
Outside, the wind whistles. I think of the darkness out there. The wild animals. And down in the city below, the men readying for a long march and an uncertain outcome. The marriage beds will be busy tonight.
“I am glad you are here,” Eros says. I look at him.
“Are you?”
He frowns. “I put your safety above my pleasure. You know that. That’s the only reason I wanted you to stay behind. But now that you are here…Come.” He pats the soft bedding beside him. “Lie with me.”
He reaches for me, his warm hands on my skin. His eyes are warm too, softening as they lock on mine.
“You look different,” I say. It’s true. There were lines I had become used to seeing in his face. That strain seems gone now. “Do the Spartans worship you already?”
“Yes.” He hesitates. “And Nemese has been making an elixir for me. Though it can’t revive my god-strength, it helps in other ways.”
Oh . It makes sense. But the mention of her name on his lips spoils things, and I pull away.
“Psyche—I’m sorry. Please, do not be like that.”
“She is valuable to you,” I say.
Eros catches my hand, turns me back to face him.
“She and I are not enemies. She has skills and she is glad to help me, as I would be glad to help her. But it goes no further than that. It has not for a long, long time.”
I look away, letting the words settle.
“Why did it end?” I ask finally. He looks surprised, and doesn’t answer for a moment.
“We were not well suited, in the end, though we agreed on many things.” He shrugs. “We both believe in fairness, justice. We wanted to see a new order on Olympus—a way for the gods to rule with justice and balance. I suppose we thought that those dreams would be enough to unite us, and we imagined that we were alike. But the truth is, we are not very alike at all.”
I absorb that in silence.
“And this elixir you speak of—what is it?”
Eros looks at me, wondering if the change of subject means I’m no longer angry. Am I? I’m not sure.
“It promotes healing, takes away pain,” he says slowly. “Nemese and her kin have great skill in such things. As well as being daughter to Nyx, she is sister to Morpheus and Hypnos,” he reminds me. The gods of sleep and dreaming.
“You were in pain?” I had guessed, perhaps, a little.
He looks at me. “I have not told you the extent of it. There was nothing you could do. But being cut off from my powers so starkly, so completely…I had not guessed how it would affect me.” I see the anger on his face; how little he likes admitting to this.
“My body had begun to ache like a mortal’s. Every day, from when I rose to when I lay down.” He gestures to his shoulder, the spot the king’s arrow pierced in Atlantis. An adamantine arrow: we were lucky that it did not pierce his heart. “Here, it began to feel like fire,” he says. “And then my head would throb, my throat go dry.”
I have heard of mortal men who, too used to a diet of wine, tremor and sweat when they are deprived of it. But I can hardly fathom that such a thing could happen to a god.
“I didn’t know,” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
His face tightens.
“Like I said, there was nothing you could do. I thought perhaps it would grow easier in time. I took long walks, thinking I might feel it less, if I did not sit idle.”
I think of all the days he would go wandering, not returning until evening.
“Often I walked to the woods, thinking I might find the flowers and roots to brew such an elixir. I spent many days on those hillsides looking for them. But I do not have the skill of the children of Nyx.”
“ That’s what you were doing?” I say. “Searching for herbs?”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know what to think!” Emotion catches me again, sticking in my throat. “You were hardly home! I thought you were…”
Tired of me . I don’t say the words, but he hears them anyway. I see it in how he reaches for me, eyes wide with regret.
“Oh, Psyche. I could never be…”
His hands are tender; warm. I have missed this, so much. As he pulls me down to lie next to him, unclasping the pins that bind my chiton , I hear the wind howling outside—but here, inside, it is warm, just us. He runs a light hand the length of my collarbone, making me shiver. His hand slides around the base of my neck, his thumb moving against the soft tendons there.
I see him as he first appeared to me tonight: a cloaked figure in the dark, walking through fire. I feel myself shiver, not unpleasantly. It’s a reminder of who and what he really is. When he lies like this in bed with me, when he looks deep into my eyes, I can tell myself I know him completely. And yet there will always be some part of him, dark and elemental, that I may never quite know, never quite tame. The part that walks through fire.
And I confess, as his lips rush to meet mine…there is some thrill in that.