Zeus chuckled. “Oh, sweet daughter of mine,” he said. “Why so pessimistic? I told you from the start I did nothing wrong and have no need to hide. But by all means, give them your account.”
Athena cursed under her breath. He wasn’t lying or bluffing. He wanted her to speak, no doubt to make a fool of herself in front of them all. Punishment, in essence, for going against him. Punishment that wasn’t nearly as severe as he’d done to others, gods included, who’d dare challenge his rule, but it was punishment that was effective nevertheless, because he knew, above all else, that Athena loathed the possibility of ever being wrong.
Still, the Goddess of Wisdom wasn’t without options, and she knew how to put pressure on the Olympians, too. Before she spoke, she counted to five in her head, letting the silence linger so each of them would hang on her every word. She only needed three.
“He raped her,” she said, making eye contact with each one. “He raped her so that he could satisfy his urges, urges that nearly cost us everything already. Don’t let him trick you into thinking it was for some noble cause like the pursuit of truth. He violated one us, and if there aren’t consequences, he’ll do it again, and again, and again until Olympus is in ruin.”
Poseidon, who leaned on his trident a few paces behind Zeus, was the first to speak. “From what we’ve understood, she’s in league with Cronus,” he said. “Or rather, was tasked by Cronus to take the throne. Is that true?”
Athena reluctantly nodded, as there was no point in hiding that aspect to the story. “It is. But she would’ve told us that if given a chance.”
“From what we’ve also come to understand, she was given two chances,” her uncle went on. “Is that also true?”
“It is, but—”
“Then there are no buts,” Poseidon said as if he were lecturing a toddler. “She was given opportunity and paid the consequence. It’s not as if he chained her to a slab to have her liver ripped out for the next thousand years. I’d say that’s far worse, wouldn’t you? Or should we ask Alex how he truly feels about how you treated him instead?”
Athena narrowed her eyes as murmurs of agreement rippled through the gods. “That was different,” she said.
Poseidon smirked. “Was it? You’ve certainly done far worse than that throughout the ages as well,” he said. “Was the gorgons’ curse different? Or Medusa’s execution? What about your dealings with Arachne? The poor girl only wanted to weave tapestries to the best of her ability, and because she did it better than you, you turned her into a spider—a spider who, I might add, as long as we’re talking about long-term consequences, harbored a deep grudge that proved most troublesome.”
The goddess felt her skin warm and her mouth dry. She had no defense to any of that, and she hated how vulnerable she became because of it. She didn’t feel vulnerable because the others would bring judgment upon her. She felt that way because to make them see what Zeus had done was egregious, she’d have to admit something she couldn’t bring herself to do. She’d have to admit she was wrong to a great many things.
“I’m not the one on trial here,” Athena said, hoping she could turn this around and spare her ego. “Regardless of…your inabilities to see the nuance in my dealings with others, Dad raped Euryale, and there’s no telling what she’ll do when it comes to revenge.”
“Then she’ll be responsible for her own undoing,” Hades said. “Not that I care either way. It all seems like a waste of time if you ask me, which, no one ever does.”
“This is serious, Uncle!” Athena shot back at him.
“No, it’s not,” Zeus said, finally cutting in. “Just because you say I forced myself upon her, doesn’t make it so. She quite enjoyed every second, and if you doubt me, ask yourself this: If I’ve committed such a heinous act, why isn’t Euryale here to say so?”
The Goddess of Wisdom nervously threw a glance behind her, hoping that somehow the act would summon the gorgon. But, of course, it didn’t. So, when she turned back around, Athena set her jaw and cursed the day she ever let Euryale off that island. Where was that ungrateful monster? Here she was, sticking her neck out, trying to ward off a civil war, and the gorgon didn’t even have the common courtesy to show up and present her case. And since she didn’t do that, what sort of answer could Athena give to Zeus? None, sadly.
“I don’t know,” she reluctantly admitted.
“Then my point stands on its own merit,” Zeus said with a triumphant nod.
Athena’s temper flared at the smugness in his voice. She did, however, have enough remaining self-control to realize she needed support, and fast, if this meeting wasn’t going to go completely to Hades. Her gray eyes darted to the other gods, and she started to call them all out by name as she locked her gaze on each one. “And what of you, Dionysus? What would you say if it were your wife and not Euryale?” she asked. “Or Hades, what if Persephone had been broken? And do I even need to ask you, Demeter, what words would flow from your mouth if your daughter came to you with such news?”
To Athena’s utter shock and dismay, not a one supported her. Worse, when Apollo spoke, his words became the death knell to everything she was trying to achieve. “The future is clear to me on this,” he said. “From a certain point of view, what happened to Euryale is indeed unfortunate, but our future would be much darker had it not happened.”
“Unfortunate?” Athena yelled, her hands tightening on her spear and her rational side barely keeping her rage from using said weapon to skewer the god. “This goes beyond unfortunate, Apollo! It’s sick and twisted that none of you are willing to hold ourselves accountable with even an ounce of what we hold the mortals to. How then are we ever superior?”
Zeus, face burning red, went to speak, but Apollo beat him to it, managing to hold up a quick hand that kept Zeus’s words at bay.
“Again, Athena,” Apollo said with a slow calm. “I understand how unfair this feels, and perhaps it is. But the world isn’t always fair, and it certainly can be cruel. Sometimes, for the greater good, we all must endure even the harshest of atrocities.”
“So, you do think it’s an atrocity,” she said, crossing her arms. “You proved my point.”
Apollo shook his head. “I think one could see it as such from a limited view, yes, but a moment of unpleasantness that avoids thousands of years of torment is not an atrocity when compared to what could be.”
The fury in Zeus’s eyes faded, and the Ruler of Olympus settled back with an air of satisfaction about him. “There, you see, Athena? Even Apollo has foreseen my choice was the right one,” he said. “As such, I’m calling an end to this discussion. However, before the matter is dropped completely, I want to assure you that as I said before, we can easily put to rest any fears you have about what she may or may not do.”
Athena tutted. “And what, pray tell, did you have in mind?”
“She will take binding oaths swearing loyalty to Olympus.”
Athena’s jaw hung for several seconds before she snapped out of her shock and laughed. “You honestly think she’s going to do that after what you did to her?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were wrong about who supported you. You will be wrong about this, as well. She will understand what had to be done and will be glad that her actions will also be forgiven without consequence.”
“And if I’m not wrong, and she refuses, what then?”
“Then Euryale will be the author of her own destruction,” he said.
Athena’s eyes scanned the others once more, hoping, praying to the Fates, she’d find support. She found none other than Artemis. Though the Goddess of the Hunt stood quietly with her in spirit, Athena didn’t want to out her sister. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if Zeus didn’t know what Artemis truly felt on the matter, that would be a good thing.
“This is immoral and wrong,” Athena said. “When it erupts in your face, I want you to remember that I never backed down.”
“Noted,” Zeus said. He then chuckled to himself as a new t
hought came to him. “If you would indulge me on one thing before we put the matter to rest,” he said. “What’s your end game to all of this?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you expect me to do, assuming I had committed some sort of horrible crime? Say I’m sorry? Pay reparations to Euryale? Be cast into exile? What?”
Athena felt the knots form in her stomach. She’d thought about this, of course, but sadly, with everyone clearly against her, she hadn’t come up with a good way to address this point, and worse, it likely didn’t matter. Still, she couldn’t not answer. Everyone knew she’d already thought this through.
“I think,” she said slowly. “At the very least, until we come up with an appropriate response, you need to abdicate the throne. Such reckless behavior threatens us all.”
Zeus smirked. “And having no one to oversee Olympus is a good thing in your mind? Or would you rather start a war for the throne so we’re further weakened when Typhon makes his return or Cronus rises from his slumber?”
“Neither,” she replied. “I’ll take on the responsibility, even if it’s temporary. I am the Goddess of Wisdom, after all. Of all the options, it is the soundest.”
Zeus erupted into a bellowing laughter, slapping his knees with both hands with such force that lightning shot out in all directions. “And there it is for all of you to see,” he said, grinning at his fellow gods. “She doesn’t actually care what happened to the gorgon. She only wants the throne. Nothing more.”
“I only want it because you’ve forced my hand,” Athena said evenly. Gods, how she hated being thought so little of, as if she were that petty.
“Ah, I don’t blame your ambition, child,” he replied, face still cheerful. “Like father, like daughter, after all.”
Athena clenched her jaw, but then the lively ring of an Olympi-phone interrupted the proceedings. Reflexively, everyone there checked theirs to see if they happened to be the one getting a call.
“Alex?” Apollo said, answering his phone once he realized his was the one making all the noise. Alex’s panicked voice came through, and though Athena couldn’t make out what he was saying to the god, when the brightness to her half-brother’s face dimmed, she feared the worst. After a few more moments and a brief exchange over the phone, Apollo hung up and filled everyone in. “It’s his daughter, Cassandra,” he said. “Someone put an arrow through her back.”
Chapter A Mother’s Love
Euryale sat next to a bed inside Olympus’s asclepeion, which was on the northern end of Apollo’s temple. There she held her daughter’s tiny hand. She’d never felt more powerless in all her life. All she could do was watch an ever-creeping rot spread across Cassandra’s back, down her arms, and up her neck, while Apollo and his son, Asclepius, tried everything they could to stop it from claiming the child’s life.
“It’s going to be all right, sweetie,” Euryale said, gently patting Cassandra’s head with a wet cloth. Her daughter’s skin burned like fire, and as troubling as that was, it was her breathing that scared Euryale the most—shallow, raspy. Sometimes non-existent.
Cassandra managed to open her eyes halfway. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry we tried to ride the whale.”
“It’s okay,” Euryale said, forcing out a weak smile. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She glanced over her shoulder to Aison, who hid in a corner with his head ducked low, watching everything with a look of guilt only borne by the damned upon his face. “You didn’t do anything wrong, either.”
Despite his mother’s reassurance, Aison shrank into the corner even more, practically folding himself into the shadows. “I should’ve stopped him,” he whispered. “I should’ve…”
“Stop that right now,” she said, harsher than she intended. The gorgon exhaled slowly and softened her tone. “You were very brave.”
Apollo walked around to the head of the bed and placed two fingers on the side of Cassandra’s neck. He left them there for a few seconds before checking her wrists and the back of a heel. He didn’t say what he was thinking, but Euryale didn’t have to ask. Things were dire, even if the arrow had been removed and the wound sutured.
“How long has it been?” Apollo asked, directing his question to Asclepius.
“Twelve minutes and sixteen seconds,” the God of Medicine replied, leaning on his staff and toying with a thick, curly beard. “The restoration spell seems to have worked even less than the previous attempt, which was barely successful.”
“Something is better than nothing,” said Apollo. “How much longer until you can try again?”
Asclepius sighed heavily. “Not for another half hour, I’m afraid,” he answered. “I’ve spent all the energy stored with this wood. But even if I’m successful, without a proper antidote, even if she survives—”
Euryale shot out of her chair, claws digging deep into the edge of the bed. “IF she survives?”
Aison dropped to the ground, curling into a tiny ball and pressing his face into his elbow. Stheno rushed to comfort him, which gave Euryale a moment to steady herself so that when she spoke again, her words, though still full of anger, were at least not as loud.
“You will never speak like that about my daughter again,” Euryale said. “Do you understand?”
For the moment, the gorgon wondered if Asclepius, or even Apollo, would square off against her for talking down to the god in such a fashion. To their credit—or rather, to their exceptional understanding—neither did.
“You have my sincerest apologies, Euryale,” Asclepius replied, his hazel eyes filled with compassion. “Those were ill-chosen words. I’m only trying to help, but at the same time, I want you to understand what’s going on. Lies and misconceptions help no one.”
“I…” Euryale’s throat closed, and she had to clear her eyes and shake her head before she could speak again. “I understand exactly what’s going on, and I sorely wish I didn’t.”
Alex took to his feet and paced. “There’s got to be something we can still do,” he said. “I mean, you turned me to stone, and you flat out died, and that all worked out.”
“It’s not that simple,” Asclepius replied.
“Why?”
Asclepius looked to his father for help, and Apollo gave him a nod before directing a question to Euryale. “Perhaps we should discuss this outside? The details may be…troubling to younger ears.”
Euryale shook her head as new tears streamed down her face. “I am never leaving her side. Not even for a moment. Just tell us. It’s not as if she doesn’t know I’m worried to death.”
“As you wish,” Apollo said. “This poison, whatever it is, isn’t merely attacking her body. It’s attacking her soul. If we don’t find a way to stop it, there will be nothing left to bring back. She won’t even wind up at the shores with Kharon. She’ll simply cease to be.”
“But you can neutralize it,” Euryale said, her voice little more than a begging whisper.
“With enough time to research it and find a cure, absolutely,” Apollo said.
Euryale swallowed hard. Her eyes, cloudy, settled on her near-lifeless daughter. She watched Cassandra’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall…and then, nothing.
The next moment stretched for an eternity, and the world around Euryale became a muted blur of shadow and color, with only her motionless daughter held in clear focus.
“Cassandra?” she whispered, touching her shoulder with a shaky hand.
Cassandra tensed and gasped before settling back into her shaky rhythm of shallow breathing.
“The apnea will grow worse as things progress,” Apollo said. “It also means we have far less time than is ideal.”
Stheno put Aison in his father’s arms and sat in a chair at her sister’s side. There, Stheno leaned over and slid an arm across Euryale’s shoulder to give a warm hug. Euryale leaned into the embrace and smiled as Stheno’s bronze vipers brushed against her cheek.
“How much time do you need?” Stheno asked.
“Eve
ry bit we can get,” Apollo said. “But…”
“But you don’t know how to get it,” Euryale finished.
Apollo nodded solemnly.
At that point, Euryale broke down, unable to hide under the façade of strength she’d erected, not that she had much of one left. Stheno cradled her head as she sobbed and waves of anguish ripped through her soul.
“Why couldn’t it have been me?” she asked, heart tearing. “I would suffer this fate a thousand times to spare her from it—I’d suffer it a thousand times just to even give her a chance.”
Euryale felt Stheno stiffen, and when the gorgon looked up at her, she could see an idea gleaming in her eyes.
“We…we can give her all the time we need,” Stheno said. “Or rather, you can.”
“I can? How?”
Stheno didn’t reply, verbally at least. All she did was point two fingers at her eyes before redirecting them at Cassandra.
“No,” Alex said. “You can’t.”
“She most certainly can,” Stheno replied.
“She’ll kill her!”
“She’ll petrify her,” Stheno corrected. “It can be reversed.”
“Last I heard, only Hera knows how to do that. And I’m going to go out on a limb and say she’s not too keen on helping any of us for anything.”
Apollo nodded gravely. “This is true. Hera has been and still is, the only master when it comes to restoring flesh from stone.”
Alex turned to his wife with a pale face. “Listen to him,” he said, pointing a finger at Apollo. “You can’t do this. We’ll find another way to save her.”
Euryale barely heard it all. She had her daughter’s hand firmly clasped in both of hers, as if Cassandra would slip away forever should she let go for even an instant. Eventually, long after the room quieted, the gorgon quietly addressed them all, her stare never leaving her child. “I’d like you all to leave.”
Apollo was the first to respond. He clasped her shoulder and squeezed. “We’ll be in the next room, trying to brew another cure.”
He left with Asclepius following quietly behind, and when they were gone, Euryale looked at Alex. “You too.”
A Storm of Blood and Stone (Myths of Stone Book 3) Page 10
