by Liz Meldon
When she and Enbarr reached the midway point between the shoreline and the island in the center of the lake, Athena realized precisely what the warriors in the boat were doing.
They were chasing Pan.
Poor Pan, moving so very slow, had tried his luck in the water rather than on land. Athena steered Enbarr toward the satyr’s barely visible head, his wild locks drenched and his curled horns especially prominent. She used one dagger on the warrior poking at Pan’s head with a wooden oar, and the second for the coward who sought to turn his bow on her. He fired as soon as the blade embedded itself in his neck, but she dodged the arrow with ease, leaning down to scoop the struggling satyr out of the water.
“Athena!” he cried, turning back and hugging her torso when she placed him before her. While Pan was usually the last deity in the pantheon she would wish to embrace her, she let him, lake water soaking through her bloodstained dress and washing down Enbarr’s sides. “I thought you were done for!”
“And I you,” she told him. “The others are gone.”
“Savages,” Pan growled, eyeing the flames over her shoulder—and the weeping forest and the stoic mountains, through which a howling wind tore, screaming across their quiet passages. “All of them. I would see their heads on spits before the night is through!”
“Home first,” she murmured, bracing herself as Enbarr hopped from lake to land. Straight ahead, the stone stairwell connecting the worlds presented itself, swallowing the trio an Enbarr’s massive hooves climbed upward—graceful and nimble as a nymph—before the Phantom Queen had a chance to trap them there for good.
One moment the cries of soldiers and roar of flames and howl of winds assaulted her—and the next, silence. They were back where they had started, a land in perpetual fog, walking amidst the dead. How fitting. Athena slowed Enbarr to a halt some distance from the passageway, sliding off him as Pan prattled on about vengeance and murder and glory and fairy women. She stumbled forth a few steps, then fell to her knees and expelled a pulse of power so unusual, so unrestrained, that every grave marker as far as the eye could see cracked and shattered. Pan fell quiet. The ravens stopped shrieking.
Athena yearned to fall forward and weep, to drench the soil with godly tears so that perhaps something might grow here—the beginnings of a Greek invasion in a foreign land. But she didn’t. Instead, she pulled her emotions back, retracting her power, her influence, with the knowledge that Morrigan would use it to follow her. Expressionless, Athena clambered onto Enbarr’s back, Nocta still clutched close while Pan clung to her, shivering.
Two sharp kicks and they were off, headed for Rome and for sanctuary with the speed of a powerful eastwardly wind. In their wake, the fog thickened and crawled forth, dragging itself across the lands after her, pursuing her. And when the grey-eyed goddess drifted off to sleep, only for a moment, it was there in her mind too.
The Phantom Queen had left her mark.
There was no going back to the way things once were.
Never, ever again.
Chapter 10
“I cannot say I didn’t expect something of this nature to transpire.”
Athena twisted her hands together. She stood before a council of her male relatives: Zeus, Ares, Apollo, Poseidon, Dionysus, and Hephaestus. Normally she had a seat on this council, one of the few women ever invited to discuss the important matters of the pantheon. While Hera and Artemis—and occasionally Aphrodite—had their strengths, their opinions in the grand scheme of things were seldom valued. Athena had earned that right. Through centuries of gut instinct, keen intellect, and insightful military plays, sometimes against the men in this chamber, Athena had become a necessary figure on her father’s council.
But today she stood before it, the chair at Zeus’s right occupied by her brother Ares instead. He hadn’t said much while she divulged the bloody details of her western adventures, all of which culminated in the brutal massacre of nearly all her traveling companions. Her uncle spoke. Her brother Apollo lamented Nocta’s death harder than the others, perhaps because he alone knew it was that death that touched her the most. Her father patronized, though Athena thought his criticisms lacked merit—while he had warned against putting trust in Morrigan, he had given no indication that he worried something this foul would occur. The others chimed in when they could. Ares seethed. She could see it in the tightness of his lips and the whiteness of his clenched knuckles.
“A great shame,” Poseidon said, sighing, “to have failed so spectacularly, sweet niece.”
Athena’s eyes narrowed slightly, knowing a small part of him relished her failure. Apparently, he had not let go of their squabbles over Athens, even centuries after she had been chosen as the city’s patron deity. Spiteful bastard.
“Leave us, daughter,” Zeus ordered. “I am afraid you are too close to the situation to discuss what must come next—”
“That is where you are wrong,” she told him. Eyes roved over her, and why shouldn’t they? While she had been in Rome several long days already, Athena still wore the blood-soaked dress she had that fateful night—if only to paint a more vivid picture. “I have insight into the situation. And despite all that has happened to me, despite the grave insults I’ve suffered, I see no call to arms in our future… and that is where I fear this council will lean in my absence.”
The last thing she wanted was to start a war between two great godly houses. Not that she and her father couldn’t crush Morrigan and Dagda on the battlefield; but it would be a senseless bloodbath that would solve nothing. More gods didn’t need to die for the greed of a witch and her enslaved king.
“We are capable of finding a reasonable course of action, sister,” Apollo interjected lazily. “Have faith that we can act with and without you in these matters.”
“Rest now,” Hephaestus said. Athena’s gaze raked across him, taking in the soot-stained hands and the burned edges of his garments, the way the hems hid his gnarled leg deformity from sight. Why he had left his workshop to take his seldom-used seat on the council was beyond her. The kindness in his eyes as he assessed her made her want to scream. “You have been through so much, Athena. It is not that we do not want your thoughts on this matter, but that we feel you have earned at least a few days of peace.”
“I do not want to rest,” she pressed. “I want to come to a resolution, honour our dead, and then I wish to carry on to Odin’s kin in the north.”
The men before her chuckled, all save for Ares.
“Athena, you cannot seriously want to continue this endeavor after—”
“After the misdeeds of one woman?” She lifted her chin, their laughter rolling off her. “Of course I do. Despite everything, I still believe strongly in unifying to fight a common enemy. I will go with more warriors. I will learn from my mistakes. I studied seidr in the north with Odin’s wife Frigg. I know for a fact I am a friend there—”
“You thought you were a friend to Dagda, too,” Zeus countered gruffly, “yet look at all that has occurred. I will not allow it to happen again.”
“Father—”
“Go,” he ordered, leaning forward in his seat and gesturing to the door across the hall. They held council in one of Dionysus’s villas near Mount Albus. As far as the eye could see around the expansive estate, vineyards thrived under her brother’s watchful eye, tended by a vast army of human servants eager to do his bidding if it meant currying his favour.
Athena wished they had met in Rome. At least there she had more soldiers to call upon to prepare for her next departure.
For she couldn’t sit and dwell. While her heart hoped that Lugh would make good on his promise, Athena knew she couldn’t wait and see. All she needed was to ensure no rash decisions were made by the others, then reassemble a new traveling party before moving north. She had to work. She needed a purpose—a distraction. And this was still a worthy one.
“Father—”
“Out.” Zeus’s voice rattled the stone fo
untain, ever trickling with purple wine, in the corner. Pan had passed out drunk beside it before the proceedings had even begun, still frazzled from the whole ordeal and relying more heavily on wine than usual to cope. He’d barely had a chance to agree with Athena’s story before the drunken snores and nightmare-induced twitching started.
When Athena met her father’s gaze, bold as ever, he exhaled deeply, combing through his lustrous white beard. “For your own good, child. Get out.”
Lips pinched, Athena departed without a word. She yearned to stalk about the vineyards—alone—to let her temper cool, but she only made it a few steps from the council chamber doors before a mass of red curls darted in front of her.
“I’ve been waiting,” Aphrodite gushed, grabbing her hands and pulling her aside. “How do you fare?”
“Fine.” Athena had no intention of discussing any of her recent tidings with an empty-headed love goddess. The woman stood before her in a gown so sheer every curve and freckle caught the eye. “Why are you here?”
Aphrodite gestured to the door, rolling her eyes. “My husband saw fit to drag me along.”
As if the wretch would miss an opportunity to welcome Ares between her thighs. Athena scoffed louder than she intended, though Aphrodite hadn’t even the decency to blush. And why should she? She had no shame in her lusts, her desires.
“Tell me,” the love goddess insisted, her words dropping to a juicy whisper, “did you see Lugh in your travels?”
Shock prickled through the grey-eyed goddess at hearing his name again, for she had left out the god from her tales with the council. Athena had tried so hard not to think of him, not to remember the feel of his lips against hers, not to imagine his starlight armor and his golden curls and the way he had attempted to prove his love.
And how weak he had made her.
Athena hastily yanked her hands back. “What?”
“My whisperers told me he was a resident of Tuatha Dé Danann,” Aphrodite continued, perfectly shaped brows lifting slightly. “The way you spoke of him before, I sensed a lover for you at last, so—”
“Hebe is dead,” Athena said, punctuating each word and fixing Aphrodite with the foulest glare she could muster. Every drop of venom she had spared the council suddenly flooded toward a new victim. Aphrodite’s full lips parted softly, her expression falling as Athena hissed at her. “You think I have time for such frivolities? I know they are all you deal in, but there are real problems, real concerns. I am trying to save this house from utter ruin at the hands of the Cult of One, yet you think I traveled to a foreign court, the very same that tried to kill me and all of my companions, so I could finally find a lover?”
“I…” Aphrodite batted those thick lashes at her, mouth falling open just a little wider. “Athena, no, I merely wished to—”
“You really are as vapid as they all say, aren’t you?” Athena looked down her nose at the love goddess for one moment longer, then stormed down the hall, fighting streams of hot, angry tears, and barked at a pair of loitering wild-eyed maenads to get out of the way before losing herself in a sea of grapevine and sky.
* * *
“You owe me a new cupbearer.”
Hera kept her back to Athena as she fed her grazing peacocks. The males gathered close, pecking at the seed she dispersed for them by hand—like she was feeding a flock of chickens. Their tail feathers, highly sought after and splendorous, fluttered in the afternoon breeze like waves on the shore. Hypnotizing, to the lesser mind. Athena had sought out the queen of her pantheon to make her apologies, not to get swept into her austere surroundings.
Hera’s wrath was legendary, and it was not saved strictly for Zeus’s human lovers. None were spared. Athena had inadvertently rid her of a beloved cupbearer and a daughter. The goddess’s calmness, strolling through her private gardens with an army of eager peacocks trailing after, struck Athena as odd—and concerning.
“I will not deny that my ignorance led to her death,” Athena said, head bowed—subdued. Her clothes matched the humble image she sought to portray: mute and shapeless, she paled in beauty next to Hera. And that was the point. After years of constant betrayal by her husband, Hera succumbed to petty jealousy and angered quickly in the presence of women she perceived to be more beautiful. Athena had always thought she was nothing compared to the women in her house, but she hadn’t wanted to give Hera yet another reason to punish her.
Hera glanced back, eyes wide. “You willingly admit to ignorance?”
“I do not deny it.” She knew Hera wanted her to fidget under her stare, but she stayed still and true, hands clasped before her. “I underestimated my friendship with Dagda and his consort. I will not make that mistake again.”
“I don’t think your father will let you.” Hera’s head tipped to one side momentarily, considering her, and then she gave a small smile and turned away. “I would be surprised should he ever let you leave Rome again.”
Athena clenched her jaw. The woman was baiting her, willing her to break this repentant façade and snap. Not today. With Nocta’s broken body given into the hands of her solemn uncle Hades, she had already begun to pack for her journey north and had every intention of leaving within the next moon cycle, whether she had her father’s permission or not. Athena had to go. Sitting in Rome, even amidst the vast stretches of her empire, would be the death of her mind and spirit.
“My Queen, I came here to express my deepest sympathies and sincerest apologies,” Athena told her. “I wish to place myself in your debt until I have repaid what I have taken from you.”
Hera tossed another handful of seed onto the manicured grasses. The birds rushed forward in response, making gentle rumblings as they ate—utterly content.
“I have no need for your services,” Hera remarked, her golden waves rolling long and unfettered down her back. Yet one of her hands curled into a fist as she watched her prized peacocks, and Athena felt the air go still. “But one day, perhaps.” She lifted her emerald gaze to Athena’s, the fire within it frighteningly unreadable. “I’m sure I will have great use for your particular skillset, grey-eyed Athena, in our future battles.”
Her brow furrowed. “Future battles?”
“A representative from King Dagda’s court arrived in Rome today.” Hera emptied the bag of feed at her feet, then stepped back as the peacocks pounced. Athena’s heart dropped into her stomach at the news of a representative—for who else would arrive so swiftly but Lugh, fulfilling his promise?
“Oh?”
“And I sent your brother to greet him.”
Athena’s blood ran cold. “Which brother?”
“Why, Ares of course,” Hera said with a sniff, examining her nails. “He took Phobos and Deimos with him.”
Athena opened and closed her mouth hastily, her humbled persona finally crumbling as her mind raced. “You thought it wise to greet a representative of a foreign court with the patron gods of war, fear, and terror?”
Phobos and Deimos, twin sons of Ares and Aphrodite, could cause just as much damage as their father. Even if Lugh carried his unbeatable weapons…
Hera smirked. “I thought it appropriate.”
“But certainly not wise,” Athena snapped before turning and hurrying from the queen’s private gardens. Past the trickling waterfalls and lounging servants. Beyond the grazing herd of pure white cattle. Away from Hera’s villa, the largest in the pantheon. Athena ran as fast as her bare feet could carry her, until finally, a far-reaching pair of black owl wings desperately spirited her away to Rome, hoping that she wasn’t too late.
* * *
For all his blustering and wild warmongering, for all the instances where flighty fancy took charge over his reason, her brother Ares had a few particularities that made him easy to track. He had favourite training arenas, preferred swords. His son Phobos was always by his side in battle, always second-in-command, no matter how many talented warriors rode alongside them. Both stubbornly set in his way
s and prone to bouts of rage-fueled improvisation, he truly was one of the most frightening gods of her house. Athena loved him dearly, but she had clashed with him many times in centuries gone by.
She located Ares and his boys in one of the training circuses on the outskirts of the main city, where her brother often brought his newer horses to break them in before his attendants lashed them to his chariot. There were other tracks, both in this realm and the next, where one could properly train steeds to be servants of the gods, but Ares preferred this one amongst the mortals. It gave him the opportunity to watch and learn—and to intimidate, apparently. Whether those employed at the facility, built to mirror the Circus Maximus within the city limits, knew they served the god Mars, Athena couldn’t be certain; she had never asked.
Today the circus was without its usual flurry of activity. No servants scurried about. No other horses waited with their handlers along the sidelines of the narrow, oval track. She saw three distinct, familiar shapes below—and two battered corpses nearby, blood splattered across the dirt. Her owlish cry pierced the uneasy silence as she descended, and when she reached ground level, she landed hard on two feet.
“What have you done?” she demanded, her body gripped with cold fear as she strode purposefully across the hardened earth, headed straight for the bodies. Ares waved his sons away, all three coated in the grime of battle.
“I was sent to greet the emissaries from Dagda’s court,” he said, voice steely yet distant. “I think I honoured them justly.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” She fixed him with a glare, fighting the way her body longed to tremble. The fallen warriors—men, as far as she could tell—were mashed and pummeled and gutted beyond recognition. “This is an incendiary response, brother! You cannot—”
“They tried to kill my sister!” Ares hurled his sword into the ground. The impact cracked across the entire oval track, splitting the stone wall on the other side. His eyes blazed, his bare chest heaved, and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. “They tried to kill Athena, my most beloved sister! And succeeded in taking my sweetest sister, the most innocent of us all. That… That was incendiary. I will send these bodies back in pieces for what they have done to you both.”
