27 #3
A single dark brow rises like the sail on a ship as he studies the bloom. “It’s just a flower.”
“No it’s not.” I take it from his hand and toss it on the floor. “It’s a message. A wish.”
“For what?”
I point to the blooms one at a time. “White lilies symbolize death. Asphodel? Death. Chrysanthemums are for funerals.”
He chokes as he sees the arrangements with new clarity.
“Lily of the Valley,” I note, “are placed on graves.”
A muscle in August’s jaw jumps.
“And white oleander blossoms are toxic. They’re all a warning. Every bud and bloom.”
“How do you know what they mean?” he asks.
“My grandmother is a gardener who speaks the language of flowers. And she’s superstitious.”
August’s eyes dart to Ares. “He knew you’d know.”
I nod.
This is just another cut from the war god’s blade. I imagine standing from the table with August by my side. Plucking a candle from its holder and pressing the candle’s flame to the linen. We would walk out of this temple with our heads held high as Ares’s poisonous blooms and message burn.
Our plates are served. Pieces of pork – a reminder of the boar – and spiced sturgeon – a reminder of the creature that prowled the Lethe – steaming loaves of bread drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with rosemary and basil, cherries, figs, and pomegranate.
I push the pork to the edge of the plate in case the deities served us the immortal swine.
More servants emerge from the back room of the temple carrying bottles of wine. Like locusts, they swarm, filling glass after glass.
No water is offered. When I ask for some, I’m ignored.
More of the divine arrive, and as they do, chairs, plates, and ambrosia are brought out for them.
Many gods from the participating pantheons gather to welcome their mortals.
They may not be championing them directly, but they’re here to enjoy the evening all the same.
Some of the gods and goddesses I know. Many I don’t.
Our friends are promised finery: armor crafted to fit their forms, weapons they’ll need for the games, riches beyond measure.
None of the divine venture to our table from theirs, and Ogun doesn’t come. A pointed stare from Anansi tells me why. I haven’t given him what he wants.
For a moment, the briefest second, I debate telling him something. If I give him a hint, will it be enough? I know it won’t be. He wants the source of the tea, and I will not betray my own mother.
After dinner, dancing begins.
A large body fills the seat across from us. Ares leans back in the chair, folds his hands over his taut stomach, and generally looks pleased with himself. When he’s served, he cuts his food and eats in silence between sips of ambrosia.
August brushes his thumb over the back of my hand, gently reminding me that we’re alive. This moment, and this evening, still belongs to us. His eyes catch on my lips and track the faint scar running from chin to cheek, bisecting them. They move to my eyes and hold.
“Callalie will kill you,” Ares says offhandedly before he takes another sip.
My attention snaps to him. So does Aymes’s.
My bones turn brittle, my strength chipping away as I realize what he’s giving me. I become aware of my hand trembling in August’s.
“Four words,” he says.
My sister had uttered four words before he took her life. I knew the number four was significant somehow. I just didn’t know this was why.
“What does that mean?” August demands. He flicks a glance at me when Ares doesn’t answer.
The cruel god leans in, drinking in every drop of the fear Morrigan told me to withhold. “Since you’ve found no champion, and seem so eager to end your life to go and meet her, I thought you’d appreciate the irony in her promise.”
Ares lazily swills his glass, the iridescent liquid swishing and swirling, releasing its sickly-sweet fragrance. A divine maelstrom trapped.
“She had so much faith in you. It’s a shame it was misplaced, and that she never realized what a terrible, prideful creature you are.
I bet she would have thought you’d at least try to make it to the games, if not outright win them.
But I think it’s safe to say she was blind to how broken you really are. ” Another nod to our last trial.
My chin quivers. I squeeze August’s hand when he shifts forward.
Ares takes his napkin and wipes his mouth, then politely excuses himself. He stands, addressing the room that’s gone silent, all its occupants eavesdropping. “The final trial begins at dawn.”
He vanishes from the table, from the temple. And leaves us with the stark truth.
Hours. That’s all we have left.
None of the deities even deign a glance in our direction. They’ve already dismissed us and refuse to help.
But then…I feel Morrigan. She watches from just outside the temple, her dark form revealed by moonlight and the pale swaths of fabric now being torn sideways by a wrathful wind that’s too hot to be hers.
Gusts claw at her hair, her dress, and her dark power.
On the wind, I don’t smell the scents of her realm – of earth and rain.
I smell copal.