Lore responded yes, as if they had been questions. She would do whatever she needed to in order to stay. She would train as long and as hard as it took to achieve areté—that perfect combination of courage, strength, skill, and success—and, one day, kleos. Her destiny was a gift, and now she would manifest it.
The archon brought her to the second story of the building, a bright space despite its lack of windows. The floor was covered in wood, and there were already clusters of children there, some as young as her at seven or eight. Others were older, and older still.
A heavy silence fell over them as she and Philip passed by, moving toward the far end of the room. They bowed to him, but Lore was too awed by the racks of weapons and the training groups to really hear their hissing whispers of Perseides and Perseus.
Finally, they reached the other children her age. They all wore short red chitons and clutched small wooden staffs, like spears without their deadly point. Lore searched their faces eagerly, and was surprised to see the looks of disgust and apprehension there.
They just don’t know you, she thought. You have to prove yourself, like the stories say.
“This is Melora Perseous,” Philip said. “She will be joining your agelé as a guest of our bloodline.”
That was the only introduction she was to be given. With a nod to the instructor, Philip left them.
For a moment, the instructor, a pale-haired beast of a man, merely took measure of her with his eyes.
“Perseous,” he said, amused. “The great House of Perseus reduced to begging and trading in pity, it seems.”
The other children smirked at one another, snickering and whispering.
Lore’s jaw tightened until she thought she might crush her own teeth.
“You are weeks late to be joining the others your age,” he continued, circling around her. At the opposite end of the floor, the other trainees began their day’s lessons, drilling with swords and staffs. Lore resisted the nagging temptation to turn and watch them, letting the clash of metal on metal, wood on wood, flesh on flesh, be enough.
You are a daughter of Perseus. She repeated the thought until it became like armor only she could see. You are a daughter of Perseus.
“As it happens, so is he,” the instructor said, motioning to a boy at the back of the room. He stepped forward through the other children. Lore gave him a look of appraisal, uncertainty worming in.
The boy was about her height, but his limbs were like twigs. His skin was sallow, as if he hadn’t seen the sunlight in months. A shadow of dark hair was growing back along his shaved scalp. Thick bandages were taped to the bruised skin of his inner arms and the back of his hands.
He’s sick, she realized. Or had been, if he was here now.
She liked the laughter of the other children even less now, and liked the boy more for not reacting to it when it began again. Lore met his dark eyes, narrowing her own. The boy looked exhausted to her, but he was here, even if the others clearly thought he shouldn’t be.
“Castor will be your hetaîros for the time being,” the instructor said coldly. “But he is destined to apprentice with the healers and will not always be available to you. In those instances, you will observe. In the meantime, you should be . . . evenly matched.”
The others laughed again. Lore wondered if they thought she was going to be hurt by it because she’d been paired with someone coming back from illness, or if Castor was because he’d been stuck with someone born into the House of Perseus.
There are always rivalries between the houses, she thought. But with her and Castor, there would be none of that. Her blood was fizzing in her veins at knowing she had a partner. Lore lifted her chin. They had no idea what she was capable of, or what her destiny would be. She wouldn’t fail her bloodline, and she wouldn’t fail her hetaîros.
Lore nodded to Castor. He nodded back, his gaze soft but intent. She liked him. His calm made her calm, too.
Her only warning was the feel of the air shifting at the back of her neck, and then the crack of pain there knocked her forward. The other children shoved back at her with their staffs, keeping her within their ring. The next hit came from her right, then her left, battering her back and forth as they circled her.
Castor let out a sharp gasp to her right, lifting an arm to try to block one of the boys as he spun the staff down against his shoulder blades.
Don’t fall, Lore thought, trying to catch his eye. Don’t fall.
This was all part of the training. It hurt, but it was necessary. The blows rained down on them, relentless and shattering. Lore tried to gulp in breaths, to keep the tears from pouring down her face. The hits and pain roiled around her like crushing waves. She looked to Castor again, only to find that he was already looking back.
“This is the most important teaching you will take from this hall,” the instructor said. “You must learn not to fear pain, or else it will shackle you and strip your courage. Fear is the greatest enemy.”
Black began to gather at the edge of her vision as the faces in front of her blurred, splitting into two and then three like the heads of Cerberus.
You are a daughter of Perseus.
Her mother’s voice echoed in her skull, thundering as a staff struck Lore behind her right ear. Blood exploded in her mouth when she bit down on her cheek.
Castor was stumbling, his body shaking with the effort not to fall. He glanced at her again and forced himself straighter, as did she.
Don’t fall, she thought.
I won’t, his gaze promised.
And as long as he wouldn’t, neither would Lore.
“Pain is the essence of life,” the instructor said. “We are born into it and, if you are to be hunters, if you are to honor your ancestors, you will die in it.”
I won’t die, Lore thought, the black crowding into her vision. She looked to Castor again, holding on to the sight of him.
“Your father and mother may have delivered you into your bloodline,” the instructor said. “But they are not your family. Those around you are your sisters and your brothers. Your archon is your guardian, your light, and your leader. He is your patér. Your true father. It is for him that you learn pain. It is for him that you bleed.”
Lore spat out blood, nearly choking on it. Her father was her archon.
“You will strive for areté, but there is no greater death than that of a warrior who has attained the immortality of kleos for himself and his bloodline,” the instructor said. “Honor. Glory.”
The others—everyone in the training hall—repeated it with him.
“Honor.”
Hit.
“Glory.”
Hit.
“Honor.”
Hit.
“Glory.”
They don’t know, Lore thought. They don’t know my destiny.
She would have honor and glory. She would attain kleos and restore her house. There was nothing more important than that. The House of Perseus would rise again, and her name would be legend.
Castor backed into her, still shaking. She caught glimpses of him between the blows, between the looks of disdain and amusement around her. Snot and blood poured down his face, and he was blinking, trying to clear his vision. She gripped his wrist, steadying him.
They would not fall. Together, they would prove themselves. They would prove that they deserved to be there.
When the next blow came, Lore knew how to claw the amusement from their faces.
“Thank you,” she said. And again, with the next crack of wood against her shoulder, her shin, her knee. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Castor repeated. “Thank you.”
Over and over, until their voices strained and the hits slowed, and, finally, stopped. The instructor held up his fist, and the other children fell back.
Lore realized she was still holding Castor’s wrist, but was too afraid to let him go.
“That’s enough. Go wash yourselves and change,” the instructor s
aid somewhere nearby. “Everyone else, we will begin with the first stance.”
They limped toward the doorway, Lore following Castor up one flight of stairs to the changing room. Lore and Castor found the red chiton fabric folded in neat stacks by size and each claimed their own.
Long sinks ran along the edge of the room, and there were shower stalls at the back. Lore picked up one of the nearby washcloths and, after wetting it, began to clean the blood from his face. Castor did the same for her, his touch gentle.
Their eyes met, and they grinned.
NO.
The word pounded through Lore’s skull. Her back found the mirrored surface of the wall just as her knees crumpled.
Cas, Lore thought as she slid into a crouch.
Even with his powerful body, his gait had none of the rigid confidence of Athena or the steady, reserved pace of Philip and Acantha. There was only that same awkwardness she had noticed during their match, as if his muscles were strung tight as a bow, as he made his way toward the altar.
Castor—the new Apollo—seemed to be concentrating on keeping his arms relaxed at his side and his head high, but now and then he glanced down, as if afraid he might trip. His fingers curled one at a time, only to uncurl again, over and over, with each step.
Her breath caught in her throat all the same. His bloodline had adorned him in a glimmering white chiton, its silk embroidered with golden symbols of his new divinity. One shoulder and part of his smooth, muscled chest were exposed, and his arms and legs were left bare save for the gleaming gauntlets around his wrists and the straps of his sandals.
The effect was devastating, even before she noticed the crown of gold laurel leaves nestled in the dark waves of his hair.
The new god’s face was devoid of the teasing grin he’d flashed her during their fight. It was devoid of anything; if she hadn’t seen the flicker of worry in his eyes, she might not have recognized him as Castor at all.
But it’s not Cas, she reminded herself. Not anymore. Whoever he had been, whatever he might have become, he was something else now.
Lore didn’t understand how she had missed it before—how strange it was for him to tower over her in such peak physical form when the Blooded healers and Unblooded doctors, all those years ago, had been certain death could take him at any moment. She’d even excused the sparks of power in his eyes as being nothing more than his dark irises catching the restaurant basement’s lights.
She’d woven a tale she could believe. She’d seen a ghost in place of a god.
The mask caught her hot, quick breath and fanned it back across her face until she felt smothered by it. As if sensing her, the new god began to turn in her direction, but was interrupted.
“My lord,” Philip called. Castor turned to where he and Acantha still held their positions on either side of the throne. “May we begin? The sun is at its highest point in the sky, burning bright for you.”
“Of course,” the new god said, taking his seat. Then, stronger and firmer, “My apologies.”
How? Lore thought. How is any of this possible?
Castor had been a boy of twelve during the last Agon. He had barely been strong enough to lift his head, never mind kill one of the last old gods. This had to be a mistake—somehow, this was a mistake.
It’s real, a voice whispered in her mind.
Then why had he come to find her at the fights? Why had the Achillides let him out of their sight after they’d gotten him safely from the Awakening?
A feeling of dread began to gnaw at her as she watched Philip sweep a hand toward the waiting throne. There had been something strained in the man’s tone—something . . . something. Lore found herself studying the archon as the new god approached him.
Castor’s words came back to her as if he’d just whispered them into her ear. Something is happening. I don’t know who I can trust.
She still hadn’t seen his father—she hadn’t seen Evander either, for that matter.
Her next thought arrived with a sudden, ruthless certainty. Philip’s going to kill him.
Castor was marked now, god or not. He’d broken his oath to his archon and shed blood that was not his to shed.
Is that what this was? An illusion to draw the golden calf to the altar for sacrifice, so Philip could take the power for himself? Castor had known. He must have.
There had been a number of kin slayers throughout the centuries of the Agon, all seeking to take power from those they had once claimed to love and cherish. Most refrained, fearing that the worst sort of curse would fall on them. Kin slayers were never allowed to survive long.
But the bloodline had honored and served Philip Achilleos far longer than the new god, who had once been no more than a weak nuisance in their eyes. Lore wondered if he had any true allies here beside her.
She reached into the depths of her robe for her screwdriver as Castor moved around the pool, glancing at the small girls gathered at its edge. The throne seemed to shimmer with delight at the sight of him.
The ancients had been horrifyingly clever in their killing of rivals and enemies. When Lore looked at the chair again, all she could see were the many ways it could be made lethal to a mortal god. A poison could have been mixed into the gold, as it had once coated the tunic of Nessus given to Herakles. Or a blade could be hidden inside a panel, ready to slide into his soft flesh.
But if Philip wanted Castor’s power, he’d have to strike the killing blow himself. Lore shook her head, releasing some of the tension gathered between her shoulder blades. He wouldn’t do it here, in front of everybody.
The man’s face was collected, but Lore felt it—the contempt in that restraint. Philip and Acantha knelt before Castor first. When Philip spoke, it was in the ancient tongue, as melodic as a river flowing into a great sea.
“We honor you, Bright One, we thank you for guiding the sun across the broad heaven. Charioteer, slayer of serpents. Far-shooting, far-working: bringer of plague, healer of man; herald of song, poetry, and hymn; voice of prophecy; averter of evil, master of fury—”
“Yes,” Castor interrupted in a droll tone that was so unlike how she remembered him. “I believe that’s nearly all of them.”
Lore’s lips parted. She would have laughed at the expression on Philip’s face, except the room had gone utterly silent.
“We . . .” he began once more, glancing to Castor. The new god propped an elbow against the velvet arm of his throne, leaning his chin against his palm. He waved him on, looking bored.
If there was one thing Castor had always been, it was respectful. Not meek, exactly, but never one to challenge. If there had ever been anyone who might have had a shred of hope in not having their newfound divinity go to their head, it would have been him.
It should have been him.
So much for that, Lore thought, rubbing a hand against her chest. Power was the greatest drug of them all.
“We welcome you back to the mortal cradle that bore you. We honor you and ask for your continued protection of the house of mighty Achilles,” Philip said. “In gratitude, my wife, Acantha, daughter of—”
“I know who your wife is,” Castor said. “Thankfully, I didn’t lose my mind with my mortality, though you’re making me question that.”
The hunters murmured, exchanging looks of discomfort and confusion.
Philip continued, his hands curled into fists against his knees, his head still bowed. “In gratitude, we will arrange a holy hecatomb around the great altar we have built for you in the lands of our ancestors.”
Lore frowned. A waste of a hundred cattle, all slaughtered in ritual sacrifice. Castor appeared to agree.
“I would rather you give the meat to the hungry of this city,” he said, his voice unbearably cold.
There was a sharp inhalation of breath somewhere on the other side of the room. Philip’s face bloomed red with stifled anger. His jaw worked back and forth, as if struggling to bring himself to speak.
It had likely been decades since so
meone had spoken to him in such a tone, and Lore decided to let herself enjoy it, just for a little while longer.
“We also offer this performance, and a song composed in your honor,” Acantha said smoothly.
The little Muses stood, recognizing their cue. The woman playing the lyre began again, the song serene and joyous. The girls began to sing, dancing in carefully practiced unison. As they stole glances at the new god, their movements stiffened.
Castor gave them a small smile of encouragement, one that vanished as he saw one of the girls—the Calliope—begin to cry. They were children—younger even than Lore had been the first time she came to Thetis House. The air in Lore’s lungs turned to fire as she watched the girl cry harder, snot and tears dripping down her face as she struggled through her routine, no doubt realizing how badly she’d be punished for this.
When the performance came to a merciful end, Castor did not applaud with the hunters. He merely nodded, his dark gaze turning back to Philip. The older man snapped his fingers at the girls and they fell into a neat line.
“Those before you are the . . . finest of our parthénoi,” Philip said, struggling with the word finest. “If one of them pleases you, you may have her as your oracle. Or, perhaps, a mistress once their first blood comes.”
Lore wondered where one might procure a poisoned shirt in this day and age, and how well it would hold up in its gift wrapping when she mailed it directly to Philip Achilleos.
The parthénoi were those young women kept from the Agon, never to become lionesses hunting for their bloodline, but existing solely to ensure its survival through the birth of yet more children. Becoming one of them, never being allowed to participate in the Agon, had once been Lore’s greatest fear, before she knew there were far worse things to be afraid of.
Prisoners, she thought, venom pumping through her veins. That’s all these girls were. That was all they would ever be allowed to be.
Lore could imagine it so clearly—cutting through the hunters around them to reach the girls, carrying them away before anyone else could hurt them. But then the new god spoke.
“They are charming,” Castor said, a dark expression on his face. “However, I forbid you to offer them to anyone of this bloodline—or any other—until they have reached adulthood, and may choose their partners for themselves.”
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