by Lentz, P. K.
"I... don't know," Crow answers. "How did you know me? Were we friends?"
My next laugh is sharp. "No," I say. "No, we were not friends at all. We were bitter foes, and in the last seconds that our city stood, I slew you."
"Does that mean-"
"No, Crow," I reassure him, knowing what he fears. "I won't judge you by your acts in a forgotten life, as I have no wish to be judged by mine. Whether we remember or forget our last lives, what you said to me in these mountains was both wise and true: this is a fresh start. In this world, in this life, we can be whomever and whatever we like. No matter what has come before, you are my friend, Crow."
He is silent for a moment, staring, measuring. Finally his face cracks in a smile I find I have greatly missed. "No," he says. "Not friends, Thamoth. Brothers."
He hurries toward me, throwing open his arms. I walk forward on the path to meet him, and in the space between our two parties, Asgardian and Neolympian, I embrace as brother the man, the uncle, whom in another life I battled to the death for my right to inherit the throne of a doomed city.
I embrace Ozymondros.
48. A Changed Man
Word spreads quickly. Within minutes of our entrance through the gates of Neolympus, the city's entire population is out to lay eyes on us. One of the first I see is Kairos, who laughs and throws his arms around me.
"I knew I had not seen the last of you," he says. "Wait." He backs away to arm's length. "It is really you?"
"It is," Crow answers for me.
"Then welcome back, friend," Kairos says.
"It is good to see you, as well," I tell him truthfully.
I spot Iris, difficult to miss with her iridescent hair, she who was the first to have shown me, in Hades, that the Chrysioi are capable of warmth. She does not race up to me, but the look she gives, and which I return, displays as well as any embrace her pleasure at seeing me.
Unanimously, the crowd wishes to know the identities of the strangers I have brought. Crow cuts a path for us, assuring them, "Your questions will be answered, but Ares must be first to know!"
As we walk toward the columned building which is the seat of his rule over Neolympus, I catch sight of Ares standing in front of it, waiting. Behind him, at his shoulder, chilling me, stands Medea, all black curls and blood-red cloak. Flanking them is a pair of spear-bearing Spartioi. I do not relish meeting with Ares and putting to him Odinn's offer—in truth, an ultimatum—and I relish even less the prospect of putting it to him with the witch present.
We draw up to the steps on which Ares, Medea and the sown men stand. Ares smiles the thin smile of his that I have never liked. His sharp eyes gleam. The rest, unsurprisingly, do not smile.
"Lord Ares," Crow says, addressing the Chrysioi ruler as the Chrysioi do—as I never did when I was leader of the Atlanteans. "Thamoth has returned. I tested him, and he satisfied me that he is no impostor. The men with him—and woman—"
Ares raises a palm. "Proper introductions may be made inside, in privacy. Come." He beckons to us. "Crow, I thank you. You may attend to other business."
"Lord Ares," Crow protests, "this concerns Atlanteans as much as Chrysioi. Might I not—
"Thank you, Crow," Ares repeats. "Please do not test my patience."
Crow tenses, and I see his inner struggle over whether or not to yield. As his brother and an Atlantean, I would see him fight back. But in my second unwanted posting as ambassador, I am also present as representative of Asgard. If there are things that Ares feels he cannot say in front of Crow, I would have them said.
I am pondering how I might ask Crow to stand down, even though I haven't that right, when he makes the choice himself by turning wordlessly and walking off. Watching him go, Ares smiles triumphantly, which I find odd. I also take note then of something else slightly odd: a bulk and glint of gold at the collar of Ares' tunic tells me that underneath it he wears the Aegis, the enchanted breastplate formerly worn by his slumbering sister Athena. While living in Neolympus I never saw him don it, although it would make some sense to do so now, when meeting armed strangers.
"Come inside, won't you?" Ares says, gesturing into the columned building which is his smaller but more ornate equivalent of Odinn's palace in Asgard. I let Baldr ascend the steps in front of me, and I share a glance with Gaeira as we fall in behind him. As is her habit, Gaeira's look conveys nothing. As is my habit, I find her look immensely comforting nonetheless.
Our combined party enters the great hall. As we walk its length, our steps echoing, Baldr and the Aesir look about them, taking in with curiosity, admiration, or antipathy—for Asgardian tastes are much plainer—the murals which cover every inch of the interior walls. If they stopped to examine them, they would see that the paintings show the Myriad's conquest of Olympus, Ocean, and Hades. I know the artists, those three sad, beautiful Chrysioi women called Muses whose six sisters did not survive the destruction.
We reach the space in front of Ares' throne and stop there while Ares surmounts the few steps and takes his seat in an overly casual manner. Silent Medea assumes a position by his arm, the two Spartoi having stayed behind at the entrance.
"Ares," I address him, "these men of Asgard can comprehend your words, but you will not know theirs until a simple rite is performed. We have brought herbs—"
Elbow propped on the arm of his throne, Ares waves a dismissive hand at me. "What could these insipid creatures possibly have to say to make that worth my time?"
Immediately I am taken aback by the words and the manner in which they are spoken. They do not sound like Ares.
"Let me hazard a guess," Ares goes on, straightening his back to lift his head higher. "They have come to demand that I, the great, magnificent, virile Ares, lord of all I survey, submit to grovel before some ancient, decrepit, feeble, one-eyed—"
Baldr voices it, the speaker's true name, a heartbeat before I can: "Loki."
The face of Ares cracks into a wide grin. My mind scrambles to come to grips with the clear evidence before me: Loki, the shapeshifter, blood brother of Odinn, has assumed the identity of Ares and thereby the leadership of Neolympus.
A great many questions compete for rule of my tongue. Whilst they battle, Baldr speaks. "Was this part of Odinn's plan?"
Ares-Loki scoffs. "When Odinn sent me here, as anywhere, his plan was to let me make my own plans. Either that or he just never learns, which is equally possible."
I find my voice. "Where is the real Ares?"
"Dead, of course," Loki answers simply. The declaration strikes me squarely in the chest, winding me. "Do you know that that fool owned armor which makes one invincible but for some ridiculous reason did not wear it every hour of every day?"
I look to Medea, who seems decidedly unsurprised. "Why do you just stand there?" I demand of her.
"She has no choice in the matter," Loki answers for her. "Show him, dear."
Medea's hand emerges from her red cloak, grips one of the garment's pleats and raises it to reveal her sandaled foot. I am not sure precisely what I am intended to see, but I do note a fine golden string tied about her ankle. For all I know, she has worn it always. She lets her cloak fall.
"So long as she wears the string, she is bound to his will," Baldr explains.
Loki smiles. "And naturally, her first command is not to remove it or allow it to be removed."
Since first meeting her, it has been my habit not to look long, if at all, into Medea's eyes, for their look chills me. But I look into them now, and although they are as hard and as dark as ever, I see something new in them: a flame of anger fueled by humiliation.
"You cannot long hope to fool all of Neolympus," I say angrily, knowing that with my anger I blur the lines of my loyalty. "If no one else, then at least Ares' wife must see through your deception. Or do you have a string for her, as well?"
Disturbingly, Loki smiles once more. "Ah, the lovely Enyo," he says. "She did surmise last night when I bedded her. Repeatedly. After the eighth time, she asked who I
was, and I told her. She and Ares rarely saw eye-to-eye. Even more rarely groin-to-groin." He chuckles. "She is... amenable... to the change. But in case she does regret the choice, I had Medea place a simple compulsion upon her that will still her tongue—and her heart—should she try to reveal me. I hope she does not test it, for I do so enjoy her."
Hearing him, I am filled with loathing. Enyo is mother only to the shell of flesh I inhabit, and she and I have never shared words, much less any love. But to hear her spoken of thus—
Neither have I ever been fond of Medea, yet I feel sympathy for her. I came here as a man of Asgard, of Odinn, but in this moment I feel more than ever an Atlantean and Neolympian.
"Thor has fallen to our new enemy," Baldr informs Loki.
The shapeshifter frowns. "Dead? Pity. He provided me with so many years of amusement. I shall miss him."
"Tyr assembles a Great Host in Vanaheim," Baldr says next. "Odinn would see the people of this city join it. Can you get them to do that?"
Loki scoffs. "Can I get them... Pfft! They will do as I say. You wish us to join your Host, then it is done!"
"You will be discovered," I grate.
From the throne he has usurped, Loki scowls mockingly at me. "Take a lesson from the fairest of your delegation, yapping pup," he says, "and shut your muzzle." Smiling, he wags a finger at me. "I sired that carcass you wear, and it's not too old to put over my knee!"
I burn to charge at Loki and slash his throat, but enough reason remains in me to stay my hand. No one in this room would permit an attack. The only question is which of them would be quickest to kill me. Baldr? Loki himself? Medea—against her own will? I would hate to think it would be Gaeira, but I cannot discount the possibility.
I am not eager to find out. I must calm myself and look ahead. The time may come when I can cut Ares' stolen face from Loki's head, but it will not be soon, and surely not now.
"You have done well, Loki," Baldr says. "The task for which we came here is achieved. We shall stay the night and leave come morning."
Before Baldr can finish, I am already stalking out of the hall.
49. The Lame Smith
I find Crow outside with a large group of Atlanteans and Chrysioi waiting for word from within.
"What happened, brother?" Crow asks. "Is there to be war between us?"
"No," I tell him. "The right choice was made. An alliance, as I hoped."
"Then what troubles you?"
Apparently I have failed to disguise my agitation. Outwardly, I shrug. "Nothing that can't be fixed by a jug of Kerion's good wine, drunk in good company. Wine is unknown in Asgard, you know. They prefer another spirit."
"And you come without any for us to sample? For shame!" Crow jokes. I begrudge him a chuckle. "You must make it up to us by telling us of the sights you have seen."
"I look forward to it," I tell him. "But there is another with whom I must speak first, in private."
"Who?" Crow demands good-naturedly. "Who comes before your brothers?"
"No one. But there is a matter of some importance I would put to Hephaestus."
Crow sighs. "Suit yourself. There he stands." He points into the crowd. "But do not tarry long if you wish for there to be any wine left."
***
The lame smith Hephaestus is a private soul. He enjoys his work, the company of his loving wife, and little else. I have spoken with him rarely, and heard him speak not much more often. But when he does elect to speak, the Chrysioi listen. He could lead them well, I think, if he so desired. They respect him. As do I, for I owe him my life.
"Hephaestus," I hail. I extend my hand, and he clasps it. His wife Aglaia, on his elbow, smiles warmly. "Might we speak alone? Now, if possible."
He eyes me heavily, pondering, then declines his lined face in a nod. With a kiss on his wife's cheek, he turns and begins limping away, leaning on his walking stick. I follow, looking behind me to see whether the remainder of the Asgardian delegation has yet emerged from the hall. It has not.
Hephaestus leads me to his workshop, a firelit chamber cut deep inside the rock of the mountain with the aid of Medea's magic. There the smith halts and looks at me expectantly.
"I will waste none of your time, Hephaestus," I say. "In case you have yet to hear, the Myriad have come to this world. If not stopped, they will soon reach Neolympus. Odinn, this world's unchallenged ruler, in whose service I have come, assembles an army to stop them. Ares has pledged to join it. But—"
I hesitate. I have not come to discuss with Hephaestus the threat from without; I wish to warn him of a threat from within. Yet I must choose my words carefully if I am to avoid breaking Odinn's prohibition on revealing Loki's deception.
"I have seen much of this new world," I tell the silent smith. "More than any other Neolympian, I know of its native dangers. You met one, I am told, a changeling that assumed familiar form. Other such creatures may come, and next time they may not be so easily thwarted. An enemy capable of wearing the face of another can do vast damage, and there is one person in Neolympus of great importance who makes an easy target, being incapable of protecting herself."
"Athena," Hephaestus correctly surmises.
"Aye. I am sworn to another lord now, but that does not end my concern for Neolympus. Athena must be better protected. If I could, I would take her myself to Asgard, where a means of awakening her might be found. But I know that the Chrysioi would never allow this, and so I put it to you. Secure her someplace where no one, not even those who would seem to be friends, might reach her. In a chamber inside this mountain, perhaps, behind one of your impenetrable locks."
Bloodless lips pursed within his great red beard, Hephaestus glares. "Did you give this advice to Ares?"
I give a non-answer, hoping it will suffice: "Ares is not inclined to listen to me."
Hephaestus glares more in silence, then growls. "It is my leg that's lame, not my mind, Atlantean. I know what you really mean to say by making this request."
I try not to let my breath catch. Have I been so transparent? "What is it that I mean to say?" I dissemble.
Hephaestus paces, scrape-thump, across his workshop. "It is Ares who you fear might harm his sister."
Saying nothing, I wait nervously to see whether he has deduced even more.
He stops pacing and faces me. "Since we came to this place, I have often thought the same. Ares loves his sister... but he also loves power. Were Athena to awaken, she would take that from him. Few, if any, among the Chrysioi would choose his leadership over hers."
I feel relief. He has not guessed, then, from my words or any other clue, that Ares might not be himself. Rather, he has mistrusted the genuine Ares from the start.
"I did not wish to say that myself," I tell him. "But there truly are other threats in this world, as all of Neolympus now knows."
Hephaestus finishes my thought: "They will serve as good excuse to secret Athena away. Ask any of the Chrysioi, and they will tell you her sleeping form is the greatest treasure our city holds."
"Then will you move her?" I ask anxiously.
Hephaestus measures me in another long stare and finally declares, somewhat equivocally, "Aye."
"It must be done in such a way that Ares cannot overrule you," I tell him. "And it must be done today."
Hephaestus glares, appraising me one last time, deciding whether he is right to trust me. "I will act quickly and inform Ares of the deed only after it is done, and publicly. If he wishes it reversed, he will be forced to explain why Athena should be made less safe. The Chrysioi, I think, would side with me."
I nod, feeling relief—and pride. I have struck back against Loki. The damage that he has already done to Neolympus by killing Ares is immeasurable and cannot be undone. But if I can prevent him from harming Athena, then I will have kept alive the hope that one day the false Ares might be deposed, and I will have achieved it without defying the letter of Odinn's command.
One day, I will do more. One day, I shall kill Loki. I am
not certain of how and less certain of when, but kill him I shall. Even though he is blood-brother to the lord I serve and even though he is shielded by the Aegis, I will find a way. The time is not yet right for me to swear a solemn oath to avenge my flesh's father, as Gaeira avenges her family. But when and if the Myriad are defeated, Loki will pay for his crime. Until then, I must bite my tongue and count him an ally against the common foe that would see us both annihilated.
Giving thanks to Hephaestus, I speed back to the surface, leaving the smith to scrape along slowly behind. I would not be late and let my brothers finish all the wine.
50. A Man of Asgard
There is plenty of wine left when I reach the Atlantean barracks. As day turns to evening and evening to night, I drink my share and tell of my journey on the path of the ravens. I tell of my first encounter with Gaeira, of her felling of a frost giant, of Heimdall's fortress of Himinbjorg, the bridge of rainbows and the city of Asgard, of Odinn and Yggdrasil and the Well of Mimir.
There are just two things which I am careful not to tell them, even as the wine loosens my lips: that I met Ayessa and know her whereabouts; and that Gaeira and I are, I think, lovers, or something like it. The first I must keep secret for Odinn, the second to prevent any Atlantean from speaking disrespectfully of Gaeira, as drunken men are wont to do, lest she somehow hear of it and hurt the speaker-if I didn't first.
I awaken the next morning in the barracks to someone insistently nudging me. I open my eyes and learn it is Crow. I do not recall having gone to sleep.
"Thamoth!" Crow says sharply. "Thamoth, wake up. Your friends are here to collect you."
His words banish sleep and send me leaping to my feet. I feel tired, but not miserable. Some blinking and rubbing of my good eye allows me to see clearly, at which point I observe Baldr and Gaeira standing just inside the barracks door. Baldr looks mildly amused. Gaeira looks herself.
"If you are ready, Thamoth..." Baldr says.
