Discord's Apple

by Carrie Vaughn

  “I don’t know.”

  “I have to give it to her. I don’t care, I have to—”

  “Evie, think for a moment.” Alex took hold of her shoulders; Evie gasped, surprised, trembling. “Think what it is—the apple of Discord. Hera will use it to start wars. She could destroy the world with it.”

  “The world’s already at war. And I don’t care, it doesn’t matter—”

  “Would your father want you to give it to her?”

  “I don’t care!” He was in her face, urging her, and she didn’t want to listen. There had to be another way, had to be something she could do. “Arthur—I have to find Arthur, he can help. If we can get him back without giving her the apple, Arthur and Merlin will know how—”

  “Arthur’s been here? King Arthur? Did he take the sword?”

  Evie nodded, and Alex breathed, “Excalibur.” Then he said, “He’s still here in Hopes Fort? We’ll find him. You’re right. He’ll help.”

  Nodding absently, Evie agreed, and wondered which part of Hera’s plan she was falling into.

  A group of six army helicopters flew by, passing over the house and heading south. They pounded the air with their rotors.

  Marcus screamed and dropped the axe he’d been using to chop firewood. Terrible visions struck his mind all at once, like lightning. The sky was clear, the sun warm. No storms raged; no lightning flashed. All was peaceful, except for the throbbing in his mind. Stories. Hundreds of tales, voices telling them all at once, in languages he didn’t recognize, cadences that were foreign. Gods, beasts, golden fleece, enchanted swords, all stored inside a well-worn leather bag—

  All stored in the cellar under the villa. He’d never gone down there, but somehow he knew. He could picture shelves of artifacts, racks of swords, golden apples and winged slippers, icons of the gods—all under his family’s small house?

  He ran to the house, then to the stone steps that led down to the roughly carved-out cellar. His father didn’t permit any of the family to enter here. Even at their most mischievous, his children obeyed him. Somehow, the place repelled curiosity. Not anymore. He pushed back the sheepskin that hung from the lintel at the bottom of the stairs, marking the cellar entrance. Even in the dim light, he could see it was just as he had imagined, the wondrous objects of a thousand tales spread before him.

  His heart and lungs raced, unwilling to accept the magnitude of what he saw. This was larger than him, and he wasn’t ready for what his being here meant. What is this?

  This is the Storeroom, the vision that had struck him from within said. You are its heir.

  “But my father—”

  You are its heir.

  Marcus’s knees gave way. He sat on the dirt floor and tried to catch his breath. He was sixteen. Only sixteen. Nearly a man, yes, but—he wasn’t ready. He’d inherited the knowledge all in a terrible flash, a burst like death. Even at the first, he’d understood what it meant. That was why he’d screamed.

  He wanted to give it all back.

  Part of him believed it was a mistake. The gods had visited a fit upon him, a false vision. He climbed the stairs slowly. He had to know. He’d see his father striding through the door, and Marcus would demand from him some explanation for what was happening to him, and what the cellar Storeroom really meant.

  Pale, shaking, he reached the house’s main room just as someone rushed through the archway. Not his father, but his younger brother Tonius.

  The boy was flushed and shouting. “Marcus, please, hurry. Father’s fallen, out in the field. He isn’t breathing, he won’t wake up, you must come help him—”

  Marcus closed his eyes and wept. Bitterly, he wished his father had died slowly, of creeping old age, as fathers were supposed to. If Marcus had to carry this burden at all, he’d rather have taken it on in small parcels, so that he might not notice the growing weight of it.

  12

  A voice woke Sinon. “Come to me. I need you.”

  It wasn’t a sound, but a thought in his mind, put there by Apollo. A holy summons.

  Sinon rolled onto his back, folded his hands under his head, and stared at the ceiling, painted gray in the light filtering through the curtains hung around his pallet. It was never night in the Palace of the Sun, and he couldn’t sleep without the curtains. He sighed. We won the war, he thought. What trick of the gods made me a slave, then? I should have fought harder for my freedom.

  It was a useless thought, which he nonetheless considered often.

  He rose, dressed, and went to Apollo’s bedchamber.

  One might have expected the place to be sumptuous, decadent. In fact, it was the opposite, simple and comfortable. This wasn’t where he entertained or impressed. This was where he lived. A table held cups and a pitcher, a pair of chests sat against a wall for storage, a wide pallet occupied a corner. The drapes over the windows were closed. A lamp by the bed cast a little light.

  Apollo stood from the bed. “Pour me some wine.”

  Sinon did so, bringing Apollo the cup.

  Apollo took it and drained it in one go, then tossed the cup away. The bronze goblet clattered on the stone. “Tell me, Sinon. Do you like me?”

  Sinon couldn’t lie. If he tried, his jaw froze. The no that he wanted to spit died on his tongue.

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “You—you’re very difficult, my lord.”

  Apollo grinned slyly. “But I’m not entirely unlikable?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Apollo tipped his head back, flexing his shoulders, stretching his neck. The god commanded him, “Make love to me, my Achaean warrior.”

  This was an old routine by now. Apollo had once told Sinon he enslaved him because of his pride. Apollo occasionally wanted to feel weak—a difficult problem for a god. Sinon supposed Apollo thought he had solved it, in possessing a proud slave.

  He was taller than Apollo, when Apollo was wearing what Sinon thought of as his human form. When the god had been mortal, this was how he had looked: slender and young. What he had learned, watching this god—this man—over the years: Apollo was lonely. For all his power, he had to command someone to make love to him. Sinon could almost feel pity for him. In that, he found some affection for his master.

  Sinon touched Apollo’s chin, tilted his face up, and kissed his lips, long and lingering. Apollo melted into his arms.

  He had some small power over a god, which when he thought about it was terribly ironic.

  Later, Apollo slept curled against Sinon like a child, his head resting against the other’s shoulder. Sinon’s breath stirred his golden hair. Lightly, he ran a finger along the beardless cheek. The god fit so compactly in his embrace. It was almost enough to make him feel protective. He kissed the top of Apollo’s head.

  He had begun to drift to sleep when Apollo stirred and murmured, “There’s someone in the house. Come in through the closet.”

  He meant the doorway to Olympus.

  A moment later, she appeared at the entrance to Apollo’s bedchamber. Looking over Apollo’s naked body, Sinon saw her. She regarded them, meeting his gaze. She was armored, a sword girded at her side, her helmet under her arm. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t exactly bow to her from his current position. He didn’t like being caught like this, having this woman see him tangled in bed with his male lover. That pride again. His impulse was to bury himself under the covers like a child having a nightmare. If only there were covers.

  Smiling, Apollo snuggled closer to him. Without opening his eyes he said, “Athena. Care to join us?”

  No reaction marred her hard expression. “Tempting, but no. We haven’t got time.”

  “Maybe later, then?” Apollo said hopefully.

  “Zeus is planning something.”

  “He’s always planning something.”

  “He’s really planning something this time. It’s what we’ve feared.”

  At this, Apollo sat up. Gratefully, Sinon shi
fted out of his way.

  “He’s doing it at last, is he?”

  Athena nodded. Apollo ran his hands through his hair. “That crazy old man.”

  “What’s wrong?” Sinon said quietly. If they had been in Olympus, or in the courtyard, or anywhere but in their postcoital bed, he would not have had the impudence to ask. If they’d been anywhere else but in bed together, Apollo would not have deigned to answer.

  He shook his head. “Zeus is going to ruin everything. Well, then. It’s time. Once again the children must rise up against the Father.”

  He stood and recovered his tunic, discarded near the bed. Striding across the room, he went to a chest in the corner, opened it, and pulled out of a set of armor: breastplate, greaves, helmet, shield, sword. All were blindingly golden.

  “I assume you have a plan?”

  “He’s currently away from Olympus, on one of his liaisons. We can occupy his palace and wait for his return.”

  “Sinon, help me with this.” He gestured to the straps on the breastplate. Sinon, infected by Apollo’s urgency, didn’t bother dressing, but went to the god and helped him fasten on the armor. The divine conversation continued. “That’s it? No intrigue, no subterfuge, none of that wiliness that makes us love you so?”

  “I thought the direct approach would be best.”

  “Who is with us?”

  “Almost everyone.”

  “Almost? Athena, this is not a task to be undertaken with half measures.”

  “I don’t trust Hermes. He’d expose us just because to him it’d be funny. Hades will not help us, but he will not hinder us. He’ll stay in his palace. Dionysus can’t be bothered, says it can’t really be that serious.”

  “None of those is unexpected, I suppose.”

  “I cannot find Hera.”

  “No matter. She certainly won’t stand by Zeus.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Apollo stepped away from Sinon and looked himself over, tugging here and adjusting there, squaring his shoulders, settling into the fit of the armor.

  He tucked his helmet under his arm and said to Sinon, “There. How do I look?”

  Sinon and Odysseus had often helped each other with their armor. His throat tightened, and he looked away.

  “Magnificent, my lord.”

  Apollo smiled. The god outshone his own armor. “Thank you. Oh, here—” He took a second sword out of the chest, along with its belt and scabbard, and gave it to Sinon. “Take this.”

  Sinon held the weapon at arm’s length, as if uncertain what to do with it. The last time he’d held one of these, he’d impaled himself on it.

  “Why do you give me this?”

  “Because you might need it.” He crossed the room to Athena, and together they left.

  Sinon went after them, following a few paces behind. “Are you going to kill Zeus?” he said, disbelieving.

  Athena glanced over her shoulder at him before speaking to Apollo, “Is he always so outspoken?”

  “Usually. It amuses me to no end.”

  “Apollo!” Sinon called. The god turned on him, and Sinon flinched, taking a step back. All at once, Apollo seemed to tower over him. Sinon found his courage and said, “How—how could you do such a thing? He’s . . . he’s a god. He’s Zeus.”

  The god returned a glare that was intense, inhuman, without any of the sun’s warmth.

  “And I am Phoebus Apollo.” Sunlight poured in through an archway leading to a courtyard, limning him in gold, when this conspiracy should have been happening in darkest night.

  They were at the closet that held the doorway to Mount Olympus. Apollo pointed. “Watch this door. Stop anyone who tries to come out of it, unless it’s me or Athena. Do you understand?”

  And what if it was Zeus who came through?

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Apollo opened the screen in front of the closet. He gestured Athena into the passage first; then he followed. The pair disappeared.

  Sinon slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, letting the sword lie across his thighs. By the gods. By the gods indeed, what was happening? What could Zeus be planning that would make the rest of Olympus take up arms? The two or three times Sinon had seen him, he’d been overwhelmingly imperious, holding himself apart from the others, a lordly figure. Perhaps simple jealousy prompted a rebellion.

  Athena and Apollo had aligned against each other during Troy. Now they aided each other. The alliances of the gods were transient things. Sinon supposed he ought to have been grateful Apollo had not tired of him after all these years and disposed of him in some horrible manner suitable for the tales of bards.

  If only Apollo had tired of him years ago and set him free.

  Incongruously, he thought of praying. He ought to pray to someone, as he had when he was a boy, as he’d been taught by his parents. Thank Zeus, they said. Or, Bless us, Apollo. But there were no gods—he knew that. Only people with more power than they knew what to do with. If he lived for a few centuries, he might learn the tricks of their power, find a little power of his own, become his own god. The god of lies, the god of slaves, the god of lost hopes. He could build shrines and have people worship him.

  No. If having all that meant he’d become like them—no. All he’d ever wanted were good friends fighting at his back and a little honor to take home with him when the war was done. A lovely woman to mother children for him, to carry his honor in later years.

  He hooked his finger under the chain around his neck and pulled. It dug into his skin, pinching. But it didn’t break. It didn’t come off.

  He heard footsteps approaching, the gentle slap of leather sandals on the tile in the hallway. He hurried to his feet, his blood racing. He held the sword ready.

  The footsteps stopped.

  No guests were staying at the palace. Another servant would not be so stealthy. Sinon had been quiet; the intruder shouldn’t have heard him. He was just around the corner. Sinon could almost hear breathing. He kept his own mouth closed, drawing quiet breaths through his nose.

  He inched to the edge of the wall to steal a glance at who was there. Quickly now, look around and duck back—

  What he saw made him hesitate.

  An old man stood there. He held a dark cloak wrapped around him. His thick gray hair swept behind his ears. The mouth within the beard frowned.

  It was Zeus.

  Sinon lurched back, holding the sword before him like a shield, almost falling as he stumbled on his own feet. Putting his arm out, he caught his balance. The pose he struck wasn’t graceful—his legs were splayed, his back hunched. He stared as if a hydra had just reared before him.

  They regarded each other for a moment, the old man standing calmly, Sinon gripping the sword in a defensive stance. Zeus pushed back the edge of his cloak, revealing his hand. Sinon flinched, as if warding a blow. Then they froze, once again waiting for the next action.

  Gesturing to the doorway, Zeus said, “Have they already gone?”

  The hairs on the back of Sinon’s neck stiffened. He nodded.

  “May I pass through?”

  This was Zeus, King of the Gods. He could strike Sinon down with a thunderbolt. The Greek warrior held his sword ready out of sheer habit and principle—it was what one did with a sword. He couldn’t stop the god! But the god had asked.

  For a choking moment, Sinon wondered what it would be like to be a child, with this man as his father. He could go to him with his hurts, cry on his shoulder, and he would not be mocked. His fears would be smoothed away.

  Sinon saw himself being held by this man and comforted. Zeus the Father.

  He looked away and shook his head. It was a trick. Zeus was making him feel this way. Just as Apollo made him feel desire and pleasure.

  Zeus said, “The one thing we cannot do is make mortals feel anything. We can seduce, cajole, trick, and bribe, but we cannot force. We can enspell, but spells fade. In the end, your emotions are your own.”

  That made the wa
r within his heart that much worse. The loyalty, the hatred, the despair, the love, the memories—they all belonged to him, and he could blame no one else for them. Sinon bit his cheeks to keep from crying out.

  Zeus said, “If you’re not held by some oath to try to stop me, please let me pass.”

  Sinon was Apollo’s slave. The chain around his neck made him so. But Apollo had never broken him; he’d never laid oaths upon him or demanded fealty. He’d depended on Sinon’s . . . friendship. His honor.

  “What’s going to happen, my lord? What will you do to him?”

  Zeus studied him, and his gaze was like Athena’s, heavy and searching, until Sinon felt that his heart as well as his body was naked before him. Sinon’s back bowed. He breathed hard, as if he carried a great weight.

  “Are you his friend?”

  Sinon started to shake his head, then said, “I don’t know.”

  “A slave, then. How long has he had you?”

  “I don’t know. He took me the morning after Troy fell.”

  Lips pursed, Zeus nodded. “More than forty years. If my plan works, you’ll be free to leave here.”

  Forty years. He should be an old man. Why didn’t he feel the press of age?

  A generation had lived and died without him.

  He could not keep grief from cracking his voice. “My lord, where would I go?”

  Zeus said with kindness, “Wherever you want to. Let me pass, son.”

  He was still, in some deep part of him, a soldier. He’d been given an order, and he trembled with the thought of breaking it.

  But what exactly had Apollo said as he left? Stop anyone who tries to come out of the passage. He’d said nothing about keeping someone from entering.

  Feeling as weak as a newborn, yet vaguely relieved that he had made a decision that would not require him to try to fight the Father of the Gods, Sinon lowered his sword. He knelt, head bowed. Turning the sword in his hand, he rested its point on the floor.

  He remained there, honoring the god.

  “Close your eyes, child.”

  Sinon shut his eyes tightly. He felt a touch on the back of his head, like that of a father ruffing his child’s hair.