by Liz Meldon
You have no power here.
“Goddess?” Felix’s voice, tense and raspy, broke her concentration. She found him alert with his weapon drawn, but Athena shook her head.
“Stay,” she ordered, “and be mindful.”
He nodded stiffly, jaw clenched. She hadn’t expected to walk into a room so heavily fortified, yet here she was, pushing forth with nothing but her wits.
And a blade strapped to each ankle.
The door opened soundlessly for her, and Athena entered a dimly lit room. Unlike the rest of the palace, there were no decorations—no rugs, frescoes, paintings, vases, or greenery. Just a small domed room made of ancient grey stone. The monarch and his mistress sat around a circular hearth in the center, their chairs on opposite sides. Wooden thrones. There was one for Athena too, and she took her seat as an immense fire crackled before her within its stone holdings.
No one spoke. There were no haughty greetings, no king of kings uttered from her lips. Morrigan’s magic was an oppressive presence inside the great door, which swung closed and bolted on its own accord. This was to be no casual discussion, no conversation amongst friends. That much was clear. Athena drew a deep breath—if only to prove she could, what with the Phantom Queen’s essence closing in on all sides. She hadn’t felt it since she had arrived at court. Sure, there had been something in the air, a prickling sensation that told her this was not a realm for mortals, but nothing like this. This was a silent attack. A warning.
Unwilling to be cowed, Athena pushed back with a vibration all her own, until finally she didn’t feel as though she were being squeezed from all sides like a pressed fruit—like the walls weren’t closing in on her, compressing her to nothingness. Morrigan’s brow twitched slightly, the only indication that she felt Athena’s assertion of her will.
Hecate would have made a fine companion for a meeting such as this. For all her planning, how foolish of her to think she would not need a witch in the house of one of the greatest witches all the realms had ever seen. Athena had power, influence—it was divine right, after all—but she was no witch. Not like Morrigan.
“Am I really to be treated with such hostility?” Athena croaked, an unexpected lump in her throat quieting her anger. She looked between the pair. “Are we not all friends here?”
“Enough,” Dagda ordered, tapping his great staff on the ground once, twice, thrice. Morrigan’s mouth curved into a cruel smile, teeth catching the firelight, until she relaxed into her wood throne. Then, like the snap of one’s fingers, her power retracted, its lingering tendrils caressing Athena’s figure as it withdrew. The grey-eyed goddess gave no indication that she felt it, but she was grateful to be entirely covered as her skin prickled.
She fixed the Phantom Queen with a stony look before shifting her attention to the one who actually mattered. Dagda continued to watch the fire as though nothing had happened. For the first time since she arrived, his youthful features were not smug. His beard was combed, his hair drawn back tight. For once, his centuries of age shone through.
“You wish to form a council amongst the pantheons,” he said gruffly. “Why?”
“The Cult of One,” she told him without hesitation, “is spreading. Our empire is as susceptible to this outbreak as yours. His worshippers are fanatical—”
“All worshippers are,” Morrigan quipped. Athena pressed her lips together briefly before continuing.
“They are burning temples. While there are sanctions, the Roman emperor seems to have stopped truly punishing them. They are taking our people…” For a moment, she swore she saw figures in the flames. A battle. Soldiers carrying banners surged forth over the hills. Swords and shields clashed. Beasts reared back as two great figures, larger than the rest, collided in the midst of the chaos.
And then, with a blink, they vanished.
“Why should the rest of us shoulder the burden of Zeus’s house?” Dagda asked softly. “Have you not absorbed enough pantheons to contain this?”
“Respectfully, the plague is beyond our grasp now.” Athena thought of her travels to the mid-east of the human realm with a frown. “The Cult of One has roots now. Its worshippers mean to convert the world. I’ve seen it.”
“You have the gift of Prophecy?” Morrigan chuckled dryly. “I think not, child.”
“This problem is a concern to all of us,” Athena stressed, wishing she could shove the witch’s face into the flames. “The traction it gains in the empire is a threat to everyone. Romans are conquerors.” And for that, Athena loved them. “They are butchers. And they will spread this new religion to the east, west, north, and south.”
Dagda shrugged. “Then why not kill them?”
“I have no interest in desecrating an entire human civilization.” And losing the bulk of her worshippers in the crossfire. Athena swallowed an exasperated huff. “This is a matter that will affect us all, and for once, we should come together. A unified front is the strongest counterattack, lest they pick us off one by one.”
“You give these humans too much credit—”
“And you do not give them enough,” Athena insisted, springing to her feet. She pressed her hands to the stone wall encircling the fire, leaning over the flames to meet Dagda’s eyes. “Should my worries be for naught, what harm will a council of representatives pose? I have traveled between the houses. We are more alike than any of us care to think. It would be for the benefit of us all to form alliances. To be brothers and sisters, not strangers.” She glanced between the pair. “For we all know, there may be more dangerous creatures than humans to contend with.”
The titan threat to her family had always been at the back of her mind. Primordial creatures whom her father had pushed off the seat of power an age ago—ones who certainly didn’t need human worship to flourish. And hers was not the only house to face such threats. After all, Dagda and the Tuatha Dé Danann were not the first rulers of this land.
“You are at peace now,” she whispered, willing her voice to quiet the flames. The room darkened. “At peace, but alone. Would you not rather have an alliance of brothers, stronger than your elves and sídhe, in times of war?”
Dagda grunted, and Athena retreated into her seat as the fire surged again, propelled by a sudden pulse of the Phantom Queen’s magic. Morrigan’s smile sharpened when the grey-eyed goddess scowled at her.
“The thought of allies for future wars appeals to me more than this inane fight against some cult,” Dagda admitted after a few tense minutes had passed. Athena had used the silence to build up her defenses against Morrigan’s magical inquiry into her being, the witch’s invisible little needles prodding and poking wherever she was weak. At the sound of the king’s voice, however, the torment ceased.
“Then you will appoint a representative to my council?” she asked. He nodded grimly.
“I will consider it tonight and give my response tomorrow.” He tapped his staff once, twice, and thrice again, but his demeanor remained dour. “You fret too much over the comings and goings of humans. Cults of this nature arise all the time. They have done so before, they will do so again. Give it a century and you will watch them eat each other.” He chuckled and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he watched the flames. Athena’s eyes narrowed at the fire when a shape flickered through it again, but it was clear that this figure was not meant for her. Sprightly shadows danced over the king’s face, his smile slowly mirroring that of his Phantom Queen. “We are the true gods, Grey Eyes. The humans will never turn from us…”
Athena’s hands furled to fists, wishing he had the sense to truly see.
“I only hope that my fears are baseless, king of kings.”
“I’m sure they are.” It was Morrigan who replied, her voice no longer the maiden but that of the crone. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
Nodding, Athena rose and strode for the door with the sense that this fleeting conversation had changed things.
For the better, s
he was unsure, but things certainly couldn’t get any worse.
* * *
“What do you make of all this?” Dagda studied Morrigan from across the flames, his mouth twisted into a smirk. He couldn’t believe that a single member of his flock would stray—not for a moment. Humans needed gods, not a single god. How could one being govern both war and grain? Love and death? Childbirth and the sea? No. It was inconceivable. Athena had always been the smartest of her house. Her prowess in battle was legendary, as was her vow of chastity. Dagda had been nudging Lugh in her direction since the day of her arrival—and the golden-haired dolt went all too willingly—in an effort to unnerve her, yet her resolve remained absolute.
The pantheons could never be brothers. Wartime allies, perhaps, but even so, Dagda had never had ties to any house other than Athena’s. No one had ever ventured to his lands in the west as she had. No one had ever tried.
She was not the only legendary fighter, of course. There were others: Týr, Maher, Kovas, Chi You, Perun… The list was never-ending, growing with each passing year. Perhaps an alliance was not inconceivable should it work in his benefit.
“I have no fears of this Cult of One,” he told Morrigan, holding a hand out to the fire. Images danced before him, images of a crowned figure riding atop a great flaming beast. Over corpses and crushed skulls. A gift from his lady, the revered Phantom Queen of the emerald isles. She had the gifts of foresight and prophecy, and her ability to predict the tides of war surpassed any he had ever seen. His eyes flicked up to her face. What was not cast in shadow was young, beautiful—as it always was in the realm eternal. But her eyes—her eyes bore the centuries within them. Storm clouds and revelry and death. How he loved her—indeed, as he loved all his mistresses. The king tilted his head to one side, waiting. “Do you see an alliance with the other houses?”
“I see war,” she whispered, the air suddenly thick with her presence. Dagda sat up, inhaling deeply while he still could. She was falling, fading fast, slipping into the ether as the strands of their great future played out before her. Those weathered eyes were distant now, out of reach—yet terrible all the same. Morrigan blinked slowly. “I see victory.”
“For whom?” Her power held him still, despite his racing heart. “For me?”
Faster she blinked, easing out of the trance just as quickly as she had fallen.
“The house of Zeus is weak if his own daughter approaches us with fears of defeat,” Morrigan told him, settling back in her chair with a deadly grin. “He holds a territory so vast in the lands of mortals and gods. Yet his people rebel. A crack in the once all-powerful. Weakness. She searches for allies because she senses her family’s doom.”
Dagda’s eyes widened with understanding. Morrigan threaded her long, bony fingers together, the visage of the beautiful maiden fading there too, taken during her visions.
“You must strike them down before they gather the other houses to them,” Morrigan said, her calm collectedness a stark contrast to the sudden bloodlust clouding his vision. “Break them. For too long the house of Zeus has reigned supreme. They have absorbed lesser houses for centuries… Yet now their humans desert them.”
“You foresee a conquest.” Dagda nodded, the idea more appealing with each passing second. “A new empire under our command.”
“Replace their shrines with ours,” she hissed, tongue flicking out between her sharp teeth, “and our power will be infinite. Fueled by their thousands of humans, we will take until we are satiated.”
“And this so-called cult?”
Morrigan’s eyes sparkled with delight as she reached forth into the flames and retrieved a burning ember. Holding out her other hand flat, she placed it in her palm, the heat searing her flesh black.
“We will do what the dying house of Zeus cannot,” she said. “We will annihilate our enemies, one by one…” And she crushed the flickering ember in her fist.
The pieces fell to the floor in a shower of flame as Dagda surged around the hearth and took the Phantom Queen in his arms, a lust for war pounding through his veins.
Chapter 8
“Stay here, sweetling,” Athena murmured, stroking Nocta’s rounded back. If her little owl could huff, he might have. Clearly, his wings yearned to soar over the rustling forest canopy one last time as the sun sank deeper behind the distant mountain range. Yet something in the forests seemed sinister today. The darkness felt more oppressive—palpable, not of nature. Purposeful, perhaps.
No matter. Tomorrow she and her party would set out to meet Odin’s pantheon in the north, to the lands of ice and frost and up the world tree to Asgard, home of the Norse gods. Athena planned to ask Odin, the one-eyed wanderer, if they could visit Valhalla, too, as she knew there was a better chance for Hebe to see the Valkyries there.
For now, she had one last night in the Otherworld with Dagda and his people. With Lugh and his sorrowful eyes, searching hers out in a crowd. She knew they ought to speak before she departed. Words unsaid still hung between them, but Athena suspected there was some truth to Sia’s sentiment. She had let herself grow distracted with an old flame, a man who enthralled her with his mind and enchanted her with his dashing looks. She should have focused more on the task at hand. Playing the diplomat certainly shouldn’t mean losing herself in the visit.
Yet she desperately wanted to say something.
The temptation to invite him along on her journey played across her thoughts often. While it appeared he had made himself a home in Dagda’s royal court, putting his many talents to use in all manner of things, perhaps Lugh would want to see the world again by her side.
She shook her head, fiddling with Nocta’s tail feathers. Their travels before had been solely for intellectual curiosity, a quest for greater knowledge. There had been no pressing deadline. The fate of her house hadn’t hung in the balance. Athena had been free to enjoy her time with Lugh then. It had been easy. Carefree.
Not so now. Sia had been right. Lugh was a distraction, one she would fall harder and harder for the more time they spent together. While she would recommend him as Dagda’s representative for her council, thus creating the opportunity for more time together in the future, she knew she couldn’t bring him along now. There were many challenges on the road ahead, many opportunities for pain and disappointment, but a broken heart courtesy of Lugh’s charm was not something she even cared to entertain. For it could happen. Love was flighty and difficult. In a blink, it could shatter.
Yes, it was best to keep her ideas of reuniting as travel companions to herself. For Lugh made her vulnerable. And for now, Athena needed to be impenetrable, unbreakable. Vulnerable just wasn’t in her vocabulary, not on this journey.
Nocta hopped to the far side of the window ledge, then swiveled his head back to her. While Lugh’s armor reflected starlight, Athena saw whole galaxies in Nocta’s round eyes.
“You are the only man for me, sweetling,” she cooed, crouching down to rest her folded arms on the ledge, chin on her clasped hands. “Forgive me, my love, but you cannot fly tonight. This realm feels distant to me today.”
The owl continued to stare for a long moment, then turned away and started grooming himself. His flight was forgotten, but Athena certainly wasn’t forgiven. So be it. Rolling her eyes, she stood and added some last-minute wardrobe pieces: daggers sharp enough to skin a god on each ankle, good sturdy boots for running, and thick leather guards for her wrists. They stretched from the middle of her palm to just below her elbow. She dressed as if going to war—for that was how she felt after her meeting with Morrigan and Dagda. The king of kings hadn’t given her a response yet, but instead invited her to a private dinner that evening, organized by Lugh, with only a few members of the royal family. Only Athena had been invited. The others in her company—excluding the servants, who were readying their beasts and gathering supplies for the journey tomorrow—would feast with the rest of the court as usual.
All but Felix. After shooting Nocta on
e last look—stay put—Athena slipped out of her room and found the Roman soldier waiting, ready to accompany her to the same room as last night.
“Something feels wrong,” he grunted as they traversed the oddly silent halls. “I don’t know what, but—”
“I feel it too.” Her eye caught the glint of torchlight on armor down a nearby corridor, but when she moved back to confirm, the space was empty. Her frown deepened. “I awoke feeling as though we were unwelcome guests this morning.”
“Yet nothing has changed,” he added as they fell back in line beside one another. “We played games all day. They treat us the same…”
“And yet not,” Athena finished for him. As they neared the door with all Morrigan’s etchings, this time standing half-open and waiting, Athena stopped and took Felix by the shoulders. “Keep an eye out. While I dine, check on the others. Something here makes my stomach turn.”
“I will not leave you, goddess—”
“You will follow a direct order,” she said sharply, then gave him a little shove in the opposite direction. “Go.”
Behind, through the doors, Athena could already hear the mutterings of hushed conversation. She was not the first to arrive at this exclusive affair. When still Felix hesitated, she lifted the hem of her dress, dark orange like the last whispers of a setting sun, to reveal her daggers.
“I fear not for myself.”
“I do,” Felix insisted. Yet after a final pointed look from the grey-eyed goddess, he disappeared, jogging down the corridor with one hand resting on his sword.
Athena drew in a deep breath to compose herself. After all, he was right. The day had been wasted playing more games, lounging by the lake—swimming in it, for Hebe and Sia, while Pan grazed on the tall grasses nearby. The court had joined them in the afternoon, with Lugh sitting beside Athena in silence as she read one of the palace library’s fattest tomes on the history of the isles. All the while her cheeks flamed at his proximity, yet neither had said a word.
