Chapter XI
XI
Several of the acolytes remain frozen, staring at the place where the priestesses have gone as though half expecting them to return. I move away from the group to settle in a corner of the atrium where I can collect my thoughts without distraction. There, I turn the riddle’s words over in my mind.
Men may give and take me, yet I consume them all. Who am I?
I’ve solved riddles before; it was a pastime I enjoyed with Theo on many afternoons back home.
I think of what he would say if he were here.
Riddles are one of two things, he once told me.
Words to be untangled or puzzles to be solved.
I calm a little. I don’t know the answer to this riddle yet, but that doesn’t mean I can’t solve it.
I pick apart the riddle’s words in my mind, rearranging their order. I am barely conscious of the other acolytes around me anymore. My eyes bore into the stone floor before me as brighter and brighter morning light continues to filter in through the windows.
Men may give and take me.
There are plenty of things that men give and take all the time—food, money, land—but those all seem too practical, too literal, too easy. I change tack and think more metaphorically.
Men may give and take me.
There are other things, less tangible things, that men can give and take.
I go over some of the possibilities quickly.
Joy. Sorrow. Love. Hate. All of those answers are plausible, but none of them feels right.
It takes me a moment to understand why. Athena is not a goddess of joy, sorrow, love, or hate—she is a goddess of wisdom, intellect, and knowledge.
A chord within me hums. Knowledge. That feels closer to the right answer.
Men can give knowledge, and they can take it away, too.
Then I remember the second part of the riddle: Yet I consume them all. Could knowledge truly consume?
I dip my stylus into its inkpot, my hand hovering over the bit of parchment I’ve been given to write my answer on.
Knowledge is the best answer I’ve come up with.
It feels credible, yet…something stops me from writing it down.
I can’t entirely quiet the tiny voice in the back of my mind, the one that worries I am wrong.
Anxiety pulses through me, and my hand trembles so violently that a fat drop of ink falls from the stylus and blots the parchment.
The sudden sharp chirp of a nearby bird breaks my focus, and for the first time, my gaze cuts across the atrium to the hourglass Eupraxia placed on the table.
It is far away, but not so far that I can’t see that half of its sand is already in its lower chamber, with more and more slipping through by the second.
A movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention, and I’m surprised to see Kallisto making her way to the urn.
I’m not the only one who watches as she drops her parchment into it with a look of intermingled triumph and relief.
Disappointment twists in my side like a blade.
I wanted to be the first to answer the riddle.
My morale dips again when a second acolyte drops her parchment into the urn, followed by a third, fourth, and fifth girl.
Half the acolytes have now submitted their answers.
I stare at my parchment again, willing it to reveal a clue, anything that can help me.
Men may give and take me, yet I consume them all. Who am I?
Joy.
Sorrow.
Love.
Hate.
Knowledge.
Hubris.
Life.
Death.
Every one of these answers is plausible; every one of them feels off to me.
I swallow, fighting the urge to vomit, then look at the hourglass yet again.
More sand has poured into the bottom chamber, impossibly fast, too fast. I begin to sweat.
If I submit the wrong answer, I’ll fail the test, but if I don’t submit any answer, being wrong or right won’t matter.
I clench my jaw. I need to be sure, and to be sure, I need one more clue, a hint, I need—
I suck in a sharp breath. It is as though I’ve been struck by lightning, so suddenly does the revelation come to me.
I have the answer to the riddle; now I’m sure of it.
Of course. It’s so simple that I’m almost angry at myself for not having seen it immediately.
I scrawl a single word onto my scrap of parchment, then add my name and stand, striding confidently toward the urn.
I can see Kallisto watching me, but when I drop my parchment into the urn, I do so without regret or doubt.
The hourglass’s sand still trickles from its top chamber to its bottom one, but I am no longer afraid of it.
Relief crashes over me in waves. I turn from the table and, for the first time, really look around the atrium.
The five acolytes who’ve already submitted their answers are sitting together in a cluster, unable to speak to one another but clearly reveling in their success.
Three more are scattered throughout the room, and I realize that one of them is Apollonia.
She’s drawn her knees up to her chest, and tears slick her face.
She is staring at her parchment with a wild, hopeless expression.
Suddenly, she looks up at me. There is pleading in her eyes.
I open my mouth to say something comforting, but of course there’s no sound.
A loud scrape of wood against stone interrupts the silence.
I turn and see a door on the other side of the atrium opening.
Eupraxia and the other priestess have returned.
Neither of them speaks, but I know why they are here.
The sand in the hourglass is almost gone.
If Apollonia doesn’t submit an answer—the right answer—in the next few minutes, she won’t advance.
I imagine what Stheno would say if she were here: Apollonia is my competitor in this space, not my friend.
I shouldn’t feel bad for her. But then I remember yesterday, when she stood up for me even though she didn’t know me.
She protected me even though she’d had no real reason to.
I make up my mind.
I’m still standing in the middle of the atrium, but I turn around, praying that my idea—harebrained though it is—works. By now, Eupraxia and the other priestess are standing at the table again. I stop before them and point at the urn.
“Have you submitted your answer, girl?” Eupraxia asks.
I nod, then point to the urn again urgently.
Eupraxia shakes her head. “Once you’ve submitted your answer, you cannot change it.” Her tone is surprisingly gentle.
I know that, of course. I just hope Apollonia is still watching me.
I turn from the table and pretend to slip, knocking my body into it.
The hourglass wobbles precariously, and I reach out, careful to let my fingers brush against it as I use the table to steady myself.
In an instant, Eupraxia has come around the table and grabbed my forearm.
The gentleness in her expression is gone, replaced with irritation.
“Mind your feet, girl!”
I offer a low bow of apology and make a show of walking away from the table quickly. My back is to Eupraxia now, so she doesn’t see the glance I sneak at Apollonia.
Apollonia, for her part, has watched the whole exchange.
She frowns at me, and I deliberately look from the hourglass to her.
I see the moment understanding dawns on her face; her mouth falls open in a silent O.
She is tactful enough to wait several seconds before she scrawls something onto her own parchment, then runs to the urn to submit her answer.
She’s barely turned from it when Eupraxia raises a hand. “The first test has now ended,” she announces. Her hawklike gaze sweeps over us. “ ‘Men may give and take me, yet I consume them all. Who am I?’ I am time.”
I still can’t speak, but I exhale. The temple’s hall felt stifling before; now I feel the lightest brush of a morning breeze on the back of my neck, cooling me.
“The following acolytes submitted the correct answer: Kallisto, Amersa, Medusa, Galene, Xanthe, and…Apollonia. To those of you who guessed correctly: Congratulations,” says Eupraxia.
“You will advance to the next test. To those who did not submit an answer or who guessed incorrectly: You will not proceed. Once you have taken the tacetaqua’s antidote, you may gather your things and leave the temple. ”
Four of the acolytes bury their faces in their hands, and I feel a pang. Then I find Apollonia’s eyes. We still can’t speak, but the bright smile on her face matches mine. I breathe relief. We’ve both made it.
The second priestess—the one who gave us the tacetaqua before—now comes to each of us with a new goblet.
When she reaches me, I notice that the antidote looks just like water.
I drink eagerly, relieved when I clear my throat and hear my own voice again.
The atrium begins to fill with the sounds of other acolytes finding their voices; there are hums, breathy gasps of laughter, and occasional sobs from the four who have not been successful in solving the riddle.
It occurs to me that, in a mere hour’s time, our number has already dwindled down to six.
Eupraxia claps her hands, and we fall silent again.
“Those of you who were successful may now eat breakfast in your quarters,” she says.
No one needs to be told twice. The anxiety that racked me during the first test is gone, and hunger replaced it almost instantly.
My stomach growls, and mine isn’t the only one.
I almost weep when we return to the acolytes’ sleeping quarters and find a generous spread of food at its center—plates of fruit, cheese, and flatbread piled high.
No sooner have I filled my bowl and sat down than Apollonia joins me.
“You helped me.” She speaks so that no one but I can hear. “You helped me, even though you didn’t have to.”
I’m about to bite into an apple, but I stop. “And you helped me yesterday,” I whisper. “So we’re even.”
Apollonia shakes her head. “That’s not the same, not even close.” She cocks her head. “Why did you do it?”
I consider the question for a moment. Part of the reason I wanted to help Apollonia was because she had defended me the day before, but I know there is more to it than that.
I think of my mother, of the way she is always in constant competition with the other goddesses of the Sea Court.
I realize I don’t want to be like her, threatened by other powerful women.
“I want to become a priestess,” I say, “but I want you to become one, too. I see no reason we can’t both pass these tests, together. ”
Apollonia meets my gaze and holds it. “Together, then,” she says. “We’ll do this together.” She squeezes my hand. It is brief, but I feel its warmth and cherish it. We eat the rest of our breakfast in silence, together.