Chapter 35 #2
This was not the story she’d been told. She had believed, like everyone else, that Prometheus had stolen one of Zeus’s thunderbolts and given it to mankind so they might rise up against their creator.
But this was an even greater transgression.
She thought of the ripple effect Hera’s revelation about Jason’s parentage had created.
It touched the lives of all who traveled on the Argo, the islanders of Lemnos, the Doliones, potentially the entire city of Iolcos.
So many mortals pulled by her puppet strings.
The gift of foresight would give men a weapon against the gods’ manipulation.
After all, what greater way to start a revolution than allowing people a glimpse of their future.
Carefully, she unwrapped the shard of omphalos stone, making sure not to touch it with her skin. It felt heavier than before. In the light from the doorway its corners looked tinged with red, like it was soaked with the blood of all those who’d carried it.
“So all the seers and priestesses lie about reading the omens?”
Phineus made a noise in the back of his throat. “They are either charlatans or fools who believe their own delusions. They can no more read the omens in animal intestines than I can fly.”
Phineus’s implication weighed heavily on her.
If what he said was true, and the will of the gods could not be divined, the priestesses of Demeter had ordered the slaughter of Melia’s daughters and all those who’d gone before, based on lies.
Her hands trembled as she rewrapped the stone and stuffed it into her bag.
“What is the point of feeding my life-threads to this stone, if I can’t even decipher the visions it shows me?”
“You must learn.”
The finality in his tone struck a chord inside her that had been stretched to breaking point. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d thrown her bag to the ground.
“The Children of Prometheus are a joke. Whispering your secrets to each other, waiting for the last daughter to change the world for you. Do you have any idea how it feels to be told you are destined to kill Zeus, the actual god that created mankind? And to have the rest of the Twelve hunt me like a boar—”
Phineus slammed the end of his staff into the ground.
“Enough!” He drew a breath. “You and the gods are not so different. They have the power to command the elements, so do you. They are not omnipotent, as they want us mortals to believe, and they make mistakes just like we do. You have a chance to make a real difference, to end the suffering of so many. Here’s my advice: stop feeling sorry for yourself, work it out and trust no one. Oh, and don’t get killed.”
Danae stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
Phineus twitched his head in the direction of the doorway. “Ah! Lunch, at last.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay here.” He tapped his way toward the entrance.
Then she heard it too. A rhythmic thumping, growing louder and louder.
Ignoring Phineus, she grabbed her bag and rushed out of the entrance, to see the sky darkened by the vast wings of a harpy.
She shrank back against the ruin, as Phineus staggered around beneath the creature, bony arms reaching for the cloth parcel dangling from its claws.
Her memory of the harpies’ attack on the ship was a blur of wings, talons and blood. Her legs threatened to buckle. It felt as though the ground was moving, like she was back on the deck, trapped in the memory of Manto’s death.
But she was no longer that terrified girl who’d fled Delphi.
She forced herself to look at the harpy.
Really look at it. Her eyes traced its arms fused to its leathery wings, the sagging breasts that hung from its scaly chest, the squashed, snarling face and the matted hair trailing down its back.
Lastly, she made herself look at its taloned feet, from which sprang the claws that had ended Manto’s life.
It was monstrous, yes. But it was just flesh and bone. It could be killed.
The harpy landed, awkwardly, like a giant bird, and dropped its load. Phineus fell to his knees, scrabbling for the parcel. How could he? One of these creatures killed his child. Then she realized, he didn’t know. He couldn’t see the harpy.
She drew out her dagger.
The harpy sniffed the air. Then its grizzled head snapped toward her, indigo eyes narrowed. Danae’s fist tightened on the handle of her knife. She could feel the power of her life-force thrumming through her, but it was weak. She hadn’t replenished her threads.
Snarling, the harpy unfurled its wings, creating a gust of air that knocked Phineus to the ground.
Then it launched itself toward her. In the moment before impact, she pictured Manto, standing on the deck of the ship, arms flung wide, nothing to fight with but their belief that Danae would bring about a reckoning that would shake the world.
She sprang toward the harpy. Metal clashed with bone.
She twisted on impact, skidding underneath the harpy’s talons as she sliced upward.
The creature wheeled around in midair, its vast wings propelling it round for another attack.
But Danae was ready. She feigned to the right, nicking the beast’s thigh with her blade as it descended.
It roared and lashed at her, but she dodged again.
Phineus cowered, his hands over his head. “What’s happening?”
She couldn’t spare the breath to answer. She darted around the thrashing claws, cutting the harpy’s legs where she could. But she was tiring, and each wound fed the harpy’s rage. It was learning to predict her movements and on the next jab, talons raked over her shoulder. The pain was excruciating.
She was going to die, just like Manto.
Gasping through the ache, she transferred the knife to her left hand.
Instead of dodging the harpy’s next assault, she leaped into the air.
Swinging her good arm around the creature’s scaly neck, she clung on as the harpy flapped into the sky, attempting to throw her off.
Its breath was rancid, and its pointed teeth gnashed at her face.
With a spasm of pain that almost forced her to let go, Danae stretched out her arm and sliced. The harpy screamed as she hacked at its wing, tearing holes through the membrane. Unable to stay airborne, the beast tumbled down, spiraling back to earth.
They landed with a bone-shattering crack on top of the ruin. The harpy broke the worst of her fall, but the air was pummeled from Danae’s lungs, and the entire left side of her body was in a vice of agony.
Then she felt it, the whisper of life-threads leaving the harpy’s body.
She placed her good hand on its chest and sucked the creature’s fleeing life force into herself.
She gasped as the sinews in her shoulder knitted together and the pain melted from her bones, just as it had done on Lemnos when she took the life of the panther.
Energy raced through her, and she was bright and new again.
She could see the translucent strands moving through each blade of grass, the insects that flew from leaf to leaf, and Phineus.
He was radiant, a glowing tangle of moving energy.
But something was different. The power rushed through her faster and faster until it felt like her body would break open; it surely could not contain so much life. Everything around her was so bright, too bright, the colors exploding together until she could see nothing but blinding white light.
Excruciating bliss.
Then the world came back into focus. She sat up slowly and looked at the mangled body beneath her.
The harpy was dead, and yet she felt no joy.
Something had shifted, and she didn’t know what.
It unsettled her. Perhaps absorbing a life taken by force felt different to taking one that was offered willingly, like the panther’s.
She clambered down to the ground, where Phineus sat, calmly eating the bread and cheese he’d unwrapped from the harpy’s parcel.
He choked as Danae pressed her blade against his neck.
“Why did that thing bring you food?”
“It was my tormenter,” he spluttered.
She squeezed her knife into his skin. “Explain.”
Phineus gulped down his mouthful. “The creature brings food and some days it allows me to eat, others it waits until I’ve unwrapped the victuals, then attacks...”
For the first time Danae noticed the silver scars that laced Phineus’s arms.
“Why?”
“It was my punishment...from the gods.”
Danae stared at him.
“Do you know what it was?”
Phineus shook his head. She believed him.
“It was a harpy. One of the creatures that killed Manto.”
Phineus stiffened. She waited a moment to let the revelation sink in, then touched his shoulder. “We must leave now. There are two more of them, they could be anywhere.”
“Is it dead?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Instead of getting to his feet, the old man placed a knob of cheese in his mouth and resumed chewing. The line between Danae’s brows deepened.
“Phineus, you’re coming with me.”
He swallowed. “No, child. I would only slow you down. Besides, I have played my part.” A smile spread across his face. “It’s time I saw my Manto again.”
“You don’t have to die,” Danae said quietly.
“Oh, but I do. Sooner or later the gods will come searching for the harpy, and when they do...” He paused. “All mortals must travel to the Underworld. Leave me the dignity of choosing when.”
“Who will bury you?”
Phineus’s mouth quirked. “Don’t you worry, I’ve had a long time to plan for this.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“You must.” Phineus spoke with iron-hard resolve.
“Your life is not your own anymore, you are the last daughter. Your destiny is all that matters. I can be of no more help to you. But you are not alone. The Children of Prometheus are out there. There are powerful people in our ranks. When the time comes, they will find you. But you must go now.”
Danae stared at him, then threw her arms around his thin neck and whispered, “I will be the reckoning. And when my work is done, I will tell the world the part that you and Manto had to play.”
As she drew away, Phineus clutched her hand.
“Before you go, tell me your name.”
She straightened up.
“My name is Danae.”
“Daeira!” called Jason, as Danae clambered down the boulders toward the Argo. “Thank the gods. I was beginning to think you were lost.”
By way of an explanation, she held up a full waterskin. She’d left the other with Phineus. Another person to add to the list of those she could not fail.
She took Castor’s arm, and he pulled her up over the side of the ship. Her wet dress clung to her legs as she landed on the deck. She’d washed off the harpy’s blood in the stream. Not for the first time she was grateful that seers always wore black.
Jason turned to address the crew. “We have a difficult journey ahead. The elements will only grow harsher the closer we come to Colchis.” He looked at Atalanta and Telamon who were once more restrained.
“I hold no tolerance for mutiny, but we need rowers. I offer you both the chance to swear your allegiance to me as captain. If you refuse, we will leave you here without weapons or supplies.”
Telamon glanced at his brother, lying on his bed of furs behind the rowing benches and said quickly, “I pledge my service to you, Jason.”
Jason smiled. “Release him.” He nodded to Pollux.
Atalanta shook her head, staring resolutely at the deck. Danae’s heart drummed against her chest. She couldn’t see a world in which the warrior would ever swear loyalty to Jason.
Once free of his bonds, Telamon crouched beside Atalanta and whispered something in her ear. Her head snapped up, and she stared at Telamon with a look so penetrating it could have bent iron. Then her eyes found Danae’s.
Silently, Danae begged her with every bone, breath and life-thread in her body to choose life over pride.
Something softened in Atalanta’s eyes. She lowered her gaze and muttered, “I pledge my service.”
Relief cascaded through Danae.
“Louder please, for everyone to hear.”
“I pledge my service.”
Jason nodded and signaled for Pollux to release her too. “If you disobey me again you will be killed instantly, and your bodies will be tossed into the sea without burial rights.”
It was a heavy threat. Not only death but the promise of eternity spent wandering the banks of the River Styx.
Atalanta and Telamon were silent as they joined the men on the benches. As Danae watched Atalanta take up an oar, warmth spread through her chest. The warrior was safe, for now, and she had the rest of the voyage to win back her favor. Starting by sneaking her extra wine rations that evening.
As they set off, Danae looked to the horizon. The wind was strong, and soon the mainsail was bloated by gusts of salty air, driving the Argo onward, toward the mouth of the Black Sea.