by Rick Riordan
But could she use that weakness against the spider? Maybe if she stalled for time…though she wasn’t sure how stalling would help. Her friends wouldn’t be able to reach her, even if they knew where to go. The cavalry would not be coming. Still, stalling was better than dying.
She tried to keep her expression calm, which wasn’t easy with a broken ankle. She limped toward the nearest tapestry—a cityscape of Ancient Rome.
“Marvelous,” she said. “Tell me about this tapestry.”
Arachne’s lips curled over her mandibles. “Why do you care? You’re about to die.”
“Well, yes,” Annabeth said. “But the way you captured the light is amazing. Did you use real golden thread for the sunbeams?”
The weaving truly was stunning. Annabeth didn’t have to pretend to be impressed.
Arachne allowed herself a smug smile. “No, child. Not gold. I blended the colors, contrasting bright yellow with darker hues. That’s what gives it a three-dimensional effect.”
“Beautiful.” Annabeth’s mind split into two different levels: one carrying on the conversation, the other madly grasping for a scheme to survive. Nothing came to her. Arachne had been beaten only once—by Athena herself, and that had taken godly magic and incredible skill in a weaving contest.
“So…” she said. “Did you see this scene yourself?”
Arachne hissed, her mouth foaming in a not-very-attractive way. “You are trying to delay your death. It won’t work.”
“No, no,” Annabeth insisted. “It just seems a shame that these beautiful tapestries can’t be seen by everyone. They belong in a museum, or…”
“Or what?” Arachne asked.
A crazy idea sprang fully formed from Annabeth’s mind, like her mom jumping out of Zeus’s noggin. But could she make it work?
“Nothing.” She sighed wistfully. “It’s a silly thought. Too bad.”
Arachne scuttled down the statue until she was perched atop the goddess’s shield. Even from that distance, Annabeth could smell the spider’s stink, like an entire bakery full of pastries left to go bad for a month.
“What?” the spider pressed. “What silly thought?”
Annabeth had to force herself not to back away. Broken ankle or no, every nerve in her body pulsed with fear, telling her to get away from the huge spider hovering over her.
“Oh…it’s just that I was put in charge of redesigning Mount Olympus,” she said. “You know, after the Titan War. I’ve completed most of the work, but we need a lot of quality public art. The throne room of the gods, for instance…I was thinking your work would be perfect to display there. The Olympians could finally see how talented you are. As I said, it was a silly thought.”
Arachne’s hairy abdomen quivered. Her four eyes glimmered as if she had a separate thought behind each and was trying to weave them into a coherent web.
“You’re redesigning Mount Olympus,” she said. “My work…in the throne room.”
“Well, other places too,” Annabeth said. “The main pavilion could use several of these. That one with the Greek landscape—the Nine Muses would love that. And I’m sure the other gods would be fighting over your work as well. They’d compete to have your tapestries in their palaces. I guess, aside from Athena, none of the gods has ever seen what you can do?”
Arachne snapped her mandibles. “Hardly. In the old days, Athena tore up all my best work. My tapestries depicted the gods in rather unflattering ways, you see. Your mother didn’t appreciate that.”
“Rather hypocritical,” Annabeth said, “since the gods make fun of each other all the time. I think the trick would be to pit one god against another. Ares, for instance, would love a tapestry making fun of my mother. He’s always resented Athena.”
Arachne’s head tilted at an unnatural angle. “You would work against your own mother?”
“I’m just telling you what Ares would like,” Annabeth said. “And Zeus would love something that made fun of Poseidon. Oh, I’m sure if the Olympians saw your work, they’d realize how amazing you are, and I’d have to broker a bidding war. As for working against my mother, why shouldn’t I? She sent me here to die, didn’t she? The last time I saw her in New York, she basically disowned me.”
Annabeth told her the story. She shared her bitterness and sorrow, and it must have sounded genuine. The spider did not pounce.
“This is Athena’s nature,” Arachne hissed. “She casts aside even her own daughter. The goddess would never allow my tapestries to be shown in the palaces of the gods. She was always jealous of me.”
“But imagine if you could get your revenge at long last.”
“By killing you!”
“I suppose.” Annabeth scratched her head. “Or…by letting me be your agent. I could get your work into Mount Olympus. I could arrange an exhibition for the other gods. By the time my mother found out, it would be too late. The Olympians would finally see that your work is better.”
“Then you admit it!” Arachne cried. “A daughter of Athena admits I am better! Oh, this is sweet to my ears.”
“But a lot of good it does you,” Annabeth pointed out. “If I die down here, you go on living in the dark. Gaea destroys the gods, and they never realize you were the better weaver.”
The spider hissed.
Annabeth was afraid her mother might suddenly appear and curse her with some terrible affliction. The first lesson every child of Athena learned: Mom was the best at everything, and you should never, ever suggest otherwise.
But nothing bad happened. Maybe Athena understood that Annabeth was only saying these things to save her life. Or maybe Athena was in such in bad shape, split between her Greek and Roman personalities, that she wasn’t even paying attention.
“This will not do,” Arachne grumbled. “I cannot allow it.”
“Well…” Annabeth shifted, trying to keep her weight off her throbbing ankle. A new crack appeared in the floor, and she hobbled back.
“Careful!” Arachne snapped. “The foundations of this shrine have been eaten away over the centuries!”
Annabeth’s heartbeat faltered. “Eaten away?”
“You have no idea how much hatred boils beneath us,” the spider said. “The spiteful thoughts of so many monsters trying to reach the Athena Parthenos and destroy it. My webbing is the only thing holding the room together, girl! One false step, and you’ll fall all the way to Tartarus—and believe me, unlike the Doors of Death, this would be a one-way trip, a very hard fall! I will not have you dying before you tell me your plan for my artwork.”
Annabeth’s mouth tasted like rust. All the way to Tartarus? She tried to stay focused, but it wasn’t easy as she listened to the floor creak and crack, spilling rubble into the void below.
“Right, the plan,” Annabeth said. “Um…as I said, I’d love to take your tapestries to Olympus and hang them everywhere. You could rub your craftsmanship in Athena’s nose for all eternity. But the only way I could do that…No. It’s too difficult. You might as well go ahead and kill me.”
“No!” Arachne cried. “That is unacceptable. It no longer brings me any pleasure to contemplate. I must have my work on Mount Olympus! What must I do?”
Annabeth shook her head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just push me into Tartarus or something.”
“I refuse!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Kill me.”
“I do not take orders from you! Tell me what I must do! Or…or—”
“Or you’ll kill me?”
“Yes! No!” The spider pressed her front legs against her head. “I must show my work on Mount Olympus.”
Annabeth tried to contain her excitement. Her plan might actually work…but she still had to convince Arachne to do something impossible. She remembered some good advice Frank Zhang had given her: Keep it simple.
“I suppose I could pull a few strings,” she conceded.
“I excel at pulling strings!” said Arachne. “I’m a spider!”
“Yes
, but to get your work shown on Mount Olympus, we’d need a proper audition. I’d have to pitch the idea, submit a proposal, put together a portfolio. Hmm…do you have any headshots?”
“Headshots?”
“Glossy black-and-white…Oh, never mind. The audition piece is the most important thing. These tapestries are excellent. But the gods would require something really special—something that shows off your talent in the extreme.”
Arachne snarled. “Are you suggesting that these are not my best work? Are you challenging me to a contest?”
“Oh, no!” Annabeth laughed. “Against me? Gosh, no. You are much too good. It would only be a contest against yourself, to see if you really have what it takes to show your work on Mount Olympus.”
“Of course I do!”
“Well, I certainly think so. But the audition, you know…it’s a formality. I’m afraid it would be very difficult. Are you sure you don’t just want to kill me?”
“Stop saying that!” Arachne screeched. “What must I make?”
“I’ll show you.” Annabeth unslung her backpack. She took out Daedalus’s laptop and opened it. The delta logo glowed in the dark.
“What is that?” Arachne asked. “Some sort of loom?”
“In a way,” Annabeth said. “It’s for weaving ideas. It holds a diagram of the artwork you would build.”
Her fingers trembled on the keyboard. Arachne lowered herself to peer directly over Annabeth’s shoulder. Annabeth couldn’t help thinking how easily those needlelike teeth could sink into her neck.
She opened her 3-D imaging program. Her last design was still up—the key to Annabeth’s plan, inspired by the most unlikely muse ever: Frank Zhang.
Annabeth did some quick calculations. She increased the dimensions of the model, then showed Arachne how it could be created—strands of material woven into strips, then braided into a long cylinder.
The golden light from the screen illuminated the spider’s face. “You want me to make that? But this is nothing! So small and simple!”
“The actual size would be much bigger,” Annabeth cautioned. “You see these measurements? Naturally it must be large enough to impress the gods. It may look simple, but the structure has incredible properties. Your spider silk would be the perfect material—soft and flexible, yet hard as steel.”
“I see…” Arachne frowned. “But this isn’t even a tapestry.”
“That’s why it’s a challenge. It’s outside your comfort zone. A piece like this—an abstract sculpture—is what the gods are looking for. It would stand in the entry hall of the Olympian throne room for every visitor to see. You would be famous forever!”
Arachne made a discontented hum in her throat. Annabeth could tell she wasn’t going for the idea. Her hands started to feel cold and sweaty.
“This would take a great deal of web,” the spider complained. “More than I could make in a year.”
Annabeth had been hoping for that. She’d calculated the mass and size accordingly. “You’d need to unravel the statue,” she said. “Reuse the silk.”
Arachne seemed about to object, but Annabeth waved at the Athena Parthenos like it was nothing. “What’s more important—covering that old statue or proving your artwork is the best? Of course, you’d have to be incredibly careful. You’d need to leave enough webbing to hold the room together. And if you think it’s too difficult—”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Okay. It’s just…Athena said that creating this braided structure would be impossible for any weaver, even her. So if you don’t think you can—”
“Athena said that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Ridiculous! I can do it!”
“Great! But you’d need to start right away, before the Olympians choose another artist for their installations.”
Arachne growled. “If you are tricking me, girl—”
“You’ll have me right here as a hostage,” Annabeth reminded her. “It’s not like I can go anywhere. Once this sculpture is complete, you’ll agree that it’s the most amazing piece you’ve ever done. If not, I will gladly die.”
Arachne hesitated. Her barbed legs were so close, she could’ve impaled Annabeth with a quick swipe.
“Fine,” the spider said. “One last challenge—against myself!”
Arachne climbed her web and began to unravel the Athena Parthenos.
A NNABETH LOST TRACK OF TIME.
She could feel the ambrosia she’d eaten earlier starting to repair her leg, but it still hurt so badly that the pain throbbed right up to her neck. All along the walls, small spiders scuttled in the darkness, as if awaiting their mistress’s orders. Thousands of them rustled behind the tapestries, making the woven scenes move like wind.
Annabeth sat on the crumbling floor and tried to preserve her strength. While Arachne wasn’t watching, she attempted to get some sort of signal on Daedalus’s laptop to contact her friends, but of course she had no luck. That left her nothing to do but watch in amazement and horror as Arachne worked, her eight legs moving with hypnotic speed, slowly unraveling the silk strands around the statue.
With its golden clothes and its luminous ivory face, the Athena Parthenos was even scarier than Arachne. It gazed down sternly as if to say, Bring me tasty snacks or else. Annabeth could imagine being an Ancient Greek, walking into the Parthenon and seeing this massive goddess with her shield, spear, and python, her free hand holding out Nike, the winged spirit of victory. It would’ve been enough to put a kink in the chiton of any mortal.
More than that, the statue radiated power. As Athena was unwrapped, the air around her grew warmer. Her ivory skin glowed with life. All across the room, the smaller spiders became agitated and began retreating back into the hallway.
Annabeth guessed that Arachne’s webs had somehow masked and dampened the statue’s magic. Now that it was free, the Athena Parthenos filled the chamber with magical energy. Centuries of mortal prayers and burnt offerings had been made it its presence. It was infused with the power of Athena.
Arachne didn’t seem to notice. She kept muttering to herself, counting out yards of silk and calculating the number of strands her project would require. Whenever she hesitated, Annabeth called out encouragement and reminded her how wonderful her tapestries would look on Mount Olympus.
The statue grew so warm and bright that Annabeth could see more details of the shrine—the Roman masonry that had probably once been gleaming white, the dark bones of Arachne’s past victims and meals hanging in the web, and the massive cables of silk that connected the floor to the ceiling. Annabeth now saw just how fragile the marble tiles were under her feet. They were covered in a fine layer of webbing, like mesh holding together a shattered mirror. Whenever the Athena Parthenos shifted even slightly, more cracks spread and widened along the floor. In some places, there were holes as big as manhole covers. Annabeth almost wished it were dark again. Even if her plan succeeded and she defeated Arachne, she wasn’t sure how she could make it out of this chamber alive.
“So much silk,” Arachne muttered. “I could make twenty tapestries—”
“Keep going!” Annabeth called up. “You’re doing a wonderful job.”
The spider kept working. After what seemed like forever, a mountain of glistening silk was piled at the feet of the statue. The walls of the chamber were still covered in webs. The support cables holding the room together hadn’t been disturbed. But the Athena Parthenos was free.
Please wake up, Annabeth begged the statue. Mother, help me.
Nothing happened, but the cracks seemed to be spreading across the floor more rapidly. According to Arachne, the malicious thoughts of monsters had eaten away at the shrine’s foundations for centuries. If that was true, now that it was free the Athena Parthenos might be attracting even more attention from the monsters in Tartarus.
“The design,” Annabeth said. “You should hurry.”
She lifted the computer screen for Arachne to see, but the spider s
napped, “I’ve memorized it, child. I have an artist’s eye for detail.”
“Of course you do. But we should hurry.”
“Why?”
“Well…so we can introduce your work to the world!”
“Hmm. Very well.”
Arachne began to weave. It was slow work, turning silk strands into long strips of cloth. The chamber rumbled. The cracks at Annabeth’s feet became wider.
If Arachne noticed, she didn’t seem to care. Annabeth considered trying to push the spider into the pit somehow, but she dismissed the idea. There wasn’t a big enough hole, and besides, if the floor gave way, Arachne could probably hang from her silk and escape, while Annabeth and the ancient statue would tumble into Tartarus.
Slowly, Arachne finished the long strips of silk and braided them together. Her skill was flawless. Annabeth couldn’t help being impressed. She felt another flicker of doubt about her own mother. What if Arachne was a better weaver than Athena?
But Arachne’s skill wasn’t the point. She had been punished for being prideful and rude. No matter how amazing you were, you couldn’t go around insulting the gods. The Olympians were a reminder that there was always someone better than you, so you shouldn’t get a big head. Still…being turned into a monstrous immortal spider seemed like a pretty harsh punishment for bragging.
Arachne worked more quickly, bringing the strands together. Soon, the structure was done. At the feet of the statue lay a braided cylinder of silk strips, five feet in diameter and ten feet long. The surface glistened like abalone shell, but it didn’t seem beautiful to Annabeth. It was just functional: a trap. It would only be beautiful if it worked.
Arachne turned to her with a hungry smile. “Done! Now, my reward! Prove to me that you can deliver on your promises.”
Annabeth studied the trap. She frowned and walked around it, inspecting the weaving from every angle. Then, careful of her bad ankle, she got down on hands and knees and crawled inside. She’d done the measurements in her head. If she’d gotten them wrong, her plan was doomed. But she slipped through the silken tunnel without touching the sides. The webbing was sticky, but not impossibly so. She crawled out the other end and shook her head.
