Wings of Fury

by Emily R. King

  Someone yanked the sack off my head. My eyes adjusted to the light of a massive bonfire. Bronte and Theo stood beside me, their hair a mess. Theo had additional bindings around his ankles, and they had gagged him with a leather muzzle, the type hunters used on their hounds.

  At least a hundred armed warriors encircled us, all women, all of them wearing velos in the same design as mine. They stared at Theo with hard eyes while he gazed straight ahead at the center of the camp. There, in front of the fire, stood two woodland nymphs.

  They wore no masks, and their exquisite beauty was clear in the firelight. Blue sparkles like perfect raindrops decorated their eyelids, cheeks, and foreheads. One was redheaded and the other pale blonde, and their long, wavy hair was adorned with iridescent butterflies and alive with glimmering wings. Elegant robes of evergreen silk flowed around their willowy figures. Garlands of dewy white roses hung from their necks and wreathed their heads in delicate crowns.

  The blonde wore a belt equipped with several hunting knives of various sizes. Colorful tattoos, red and pink roses, ran down her arms and legs. The other nymph was unmarked and unarmed. I couldn’t tell their ages. A nymph’s life span was somewhere between a mortal’s and the gods’. They could have been my age or two hundred years older.

  Euboea addressed the nymphs quietly, then stepped back.

  “My name is Adrasteia,” the redheaded nymph said. She pointed at the blonde. “This is my younger sister, Ida. The tribe you’ve disturbed is the cult of the goddess Aphrodite. Euboea tells me you’re daughters of Stavra Lambros.”

  “Two of them,” Bronte replied. “Cronus has our older sister.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, and about your mother’s passing.”

  “How did you two know each other?” I asked.

  “Stavra and I were colleagues,” Adrasteia replied vaguely. “As a favor to her, your party may stay the remainder of the night. But at dawn, you must leave.”

  “Will you keep the colonel muzzled?” I asked.

  “Words can be more damaging than a sword,” Ida said, more to her sister than to me.

  “A man hasn’t set foot on Crete in decades,” Adrasteia explained. “We honor Stavra’s memory in trusting you to oversee your liege man.”

  “You can remove the muzzle,” I said. “Theo is a well-respected soldier. He won’t act out of turn.”

  “His reputation among men means nothing here.”

  Bronte popped an eyebrow. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but my sister and I aren’t men.”

  “We can vouch for him,” I added. I don’t know why the muzzle bothered me so much, but I didn’t like that Theo had been silenced simply because of his gender.

  Adrasteia gave a flippant flourish of her hand. “The muzzle can come off, but he stays bound.”

  Ida glared as a guard removed Theo’s muzzle. “Why have you come?”

  “We’re looking for someone.” Theo rubbed at his mouth and jaw. “A boy.”

  “Did you not hear us?” she retorted. “We’ve no men here.”

  “We’re not looking for a man,” Theo replied. “We’re looking for a god.”

  The silence in camp tightened, the tribe’s attention on Theo sharp.

  “What is this you speak of?” Adrasteia asked, her voice carrying across the clearing.

  “We know Rhea hid her sixth child from her husband,” Theo explained. “I couldn’t believe it at first, but I served as Rhea’s guard, and what the oracles said fits what I know of their marriage at that time.”

  A few of the warriors gaped at him. I doubted they had ever heard a man talk so much.

  “I’ve heard enough,” Ida said. Between the knives at her waist and the tattoos on her arms, she was intimidating. “Let me muzzle him again.”

  Adrasteia raised a silencing hand to her sister. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “Yes, let’s,” I said coolly.

  Theo hardly glanced at me, though he must have felt my agitation. He could have told me he had been Rhea’s guard earlier, maybe sometime before swords were aimed at us? Or perhaps that was the point. Maybe he never would have told me unless our lives were threatened.

  “My first official posting in the Aeon Palace was in Rhea’s service,” Theo continued. “After the Almighty swallowed their fifth child, she sequestered herself in her quarters for several nights and refused his summons. On the seventh night, Cronus ordered us to bring her to him. We escorted her to his chambers and waited outside the door.” Theo’s gaze and voice both fell flat. “Rhea emerged sometime later. My mother, one of her ladies-in-waiting, met her at the door to her chambers and helped her inside. Rhea hid herself away for two moons, then went to Cronus to tell him she was with child, and she was going south for the duration of her pregnancy. He let her go, but only because she swore to return with the newborn babe. When she left, I was reassigned. Seven moons later, Rhea returned to hand over her infant son to Cronus. But what if she didn’t? What if she gave him a different child?”

  “All conjecture,” Ida declared, her derision increasingly forceful.

  Bronte matched Ida’s scorn with her own. “That was a lot of detail for a guess.”

  Ida narrowed her eyes at her. “Send them away now, Adrasteia. Don’t wait until morning.”

  Adrasteia scrutinized us intently, but without Ida’s venom. “Perhaps you’re right, sister,” she said. “I wish you well, travelers, but we cannot help you. Guards? See them out.”

  The guards pulled the sacks back out.

  “Rhea sent us!” I said, ducking as one of them tried to cover my head again.

  “Wait!” Adrasteia floated over to me, her strides so graceful I couldn’t help but wonder if she was a dancer. “Why did Rhea send you? You best not lie, mortal. I have lived more years than you have seen sunrises. I will know.”

  I held the nymph’s glittering stare. “Rhea has an urgent message for her son.”

  “Give me the message.”

  “She instructed us to tell only him.”

  “Then you will leave having failed,” Ida snapped. “No one demands an audience with His Excellency.”

  That was it. That was the confirmation we were waiting for.

  The Boy God was real, and he was here.

  I steadied my voice. “We’ve spent two days crossing the sea. We’ve no time to waste. We must see him as soon as possible.”

  Ida rested her hands on the hilts of two knives at her waist. “You bluff. You have no message.”

  “All right,” I said calmly. “We’ll tell Rhea you refused to cooperate, and you can explain that to her guards when they come to deliver the message instead.”

  The thought of more men coming to the isle sent murmurs through the crowd of warriors, just as I had hoped. Adrasteia took note of the tribe’s alarm and whispered to her sister. Ida whispered back with increasing vehemence. Their argument escalated until Ida threw up her hands and stomped off.

  “I will send a messenger to His Excellency,” Adrasteia said. She nodded at Euboea, and the warrior sent a messenger off into the woods.

  “Should he accept our request, you will please unbind us,” Bronte said. “I can’t feel half my fingers.”

  “Should he deny your request, you will leave the island and never return.”

  Adrasteia walked to where Ida stood at the outskirts of the group, and the two began whispering heatedly again. Bronte, Theo, and I huddled together. In the firelight, past the wall of warrior women around us, I could see the outlines of big square tents. This was more a camp than an established village, as if they were prepared to pack up and leave at any moment. As though they anticipated that their time here wouldn’t last.

  Theo scratched his face where the muzzle had left lines in his cheek. A piece of grass had stuck in his scruff, and I brushed it away without thinking. Theo cast me an odd look.

  “You had something . . .” I half explained, looking away.

  “What if the Boy God refuses to see
us?” Bronte asked.

  “He won’t,” Theo replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “He won’t refuse his mother.”

  Theo might have been projecting his devotion for his own mother, but then he knew more of the story of Rhea and her son. I only knew that she had saved him.

  Adrasteia floated back over to us, my mother’s velo in hand. I recognized it as mine because the ties on the back were wool, and the warriors used leather ties. “You’ve kept Stavra’s mask in good condition,” she said.

  “Why does the tribe wear velos when there are no men on the island?” Bronte asked.

  Adrasteia scanned the masked women. “They don’t trust outsiders,” she said. “People from their previous lives might be looking for them.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She gave me a concentrated stare. “Didn’t your mother—?”

  “Adrasteia!” the messenger yelled, running into the firelight. “His Excellency will see them right away!”

  Bronte cast a smug look at Ida, who was still lingering at the fringes of camp. The fair-headed nymph deepened her scowl and brought her hands back to two knives at her hips.

  “Release the girls,” Adrasteia said. The guards untied Bronte and me, but they left Theo chained. “I will lead you to His Excellency. Your man stays here.”

  Euboea strode over, the muzzle dangling from her finger. “I’ll watch him.”

  Theo gave no reaction, though disappointment stained his expression.

  “We’ll be back,” I promised.

  Adrasteia and three warriors led us deep into the woods past soaring elms and tamarisks. A bridge spanned a creek with willows, clover, and galingale lining its banks. The messenger hadn’t been gone long, so I anticipated a short walk. After trekking up a steep, rocky path with no end in sight, my bad ankle began to hurt, and it occurred to me that they must have some other means of communicating. Searching the trees, I spotted a line running through pulleys high above. Pegs were attached to the rope for holding messages. A person need only pull one end of the line to send a letter in the other direction.

  Bronte panted beside me as we both tried to keep up with the nymph. Adrasteia wasn’t out of breath, and though her skin was dewy, she could hardly be accused of perspiring. I got the impression she made this journey often.

  Giggling sounded ahead, then I saw lights bobbing through the trees. Adrasteia led us to the opening of a cave. More laughter came from within. Adrasteia went inside while her guard stayed with us. Her voice echoed out.

  “Your Excellency, the visitors have arrived.”

  A male voice replied, not as young as I had imagined. “I changed my mind. Tell them to come back tomorrow.”

  “Your Excellency, they came from Thessaly to bring you a message from Rhea.”

  “They? They who?”

  “Two young women. Sisters.”

  His voice took on a note of intrigue. “Why didn’t you say so? Send them in.”

  Adrasteia waved us forward.

  I swallowed my next breath. This was my first face-to-face encounter with a Titan. Second generation but a Titan, nonetheless.

  Bronte poked me in the side. “You first.”

  “Why me? You’re older.”

  “This was your idea.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Nervous?”

  “No. You?”

  “A little.” She poked me again, half-heartedly. “Do you really think he can help us get Cleora back?”

  I couldn’t say for certain, but there was one thing I did know. “We have to try.”

  Bronte ran her tongue across her upper teeth, then gave a nod.

  Facing the cave, I strode forward to meet the god of my fate.

  10

  At the cave entrance, I was hit with an otherworldly scent—an aroma of the gods. I recognized the fragrance from my childhood and immediately thought of my mother. She would come home from the palace smelling of nectar and ambrosia. When ingested, both were poisonous to mortals.

  Except for the undecorated entryway, the cave was not rustic. Inside it resembled an extravagant tent. Torches cast radiance over the red and purple silks draping from the ceiling to the jewel-toned rugs. Plush floor cushions were occupied by masked maidens in loose chitons with long bronze legs and arms, and full busts. They congregated at the center of the room to fawn over a young man with frizzy black hair. His thin face accentuated a sharp, square jawline and scrawny, shirtless chest. He sat with one leg slung over the side of an overstuffed floor cushion, his arms above his head. A baggy wrap hung low on his hips, covering his legs to the knees, and his left foot was missing a sandal. A maiden massaged his shoulders while two more fed him bits of fruits and nuts from bounteous bowls and platters. He sipped amber nectar from a chalice, and on a separate platter that none of the young women touched was ambrosia, which looked like gooey honeycomb.

  This was the Boy God? The gods were undying and ever young, but he lacked the size and presence of a Titan in every way. He was older than what I would consider a “boy” yet not quite a man. I wagered he was a few years younger than me, perhaps fifteen.

  He lowered his arms and grinned. “It’s been a while since my mother has sent me sisters. You’re prettier than my last pair.” He waved off the maidens and gestured us forward. “Though you’re dirtier than I expected, with a bath and scented oils, you’ll make a splendid gift.”

  “We aren’t a gift,” I said.

  “Oh, right. You’re ‘messengers.’” He winked conspiratorially, the size of his grin doubling. “Go on, then. What’s your message?”

  “We’re—”

  “Come here and deliver it.”

  I shuffled forward.

  “Closer . . . closer . . . there.” He put his hands around my waist and tugged me into his lap. “All right. Deliver your message.”

  I sat with my back straight, every muscle on edge. “I think you have us confused with someone else.”

  “Unlikely. My mother sends me maidens all the time. She believes I should gain experience in all areas of life.” He buried his face in my hair and rubbed the small of my back.

  Bronte threw her gaze to the heavens. “He really is the Almighty’s son.”

  “Pardon?” he said, lifting his head. “I haven’t meant to neglect you. I have plenty of room in my lap for you both.”

  “I’d rather sit on a bur bush,” Bronte snapped.

  He laughed. “My mother knows I enjoy a challenge.”

  “We’re not here to challenge you,” I replied.

  “No? What a pity.” He took my hand in his. “What’s this?”

  I tried to pull away, but he held my left hand fast and touched my string ring.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “That is not nothing.” He showed me his own left hand. There, tied on his middle finger, just like mine, was a ring made of string, identical to my own.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “I don’t recall. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.” He threaded our fingers together, our rings touching.

  A light burst from them, brief but bright, and a wave of dizziness hit me. Rings of residual light floated across my vision, and a faint voice whispered, Moira.

  I jerked my hand from his. The boy scrutinized me closer, as though he, too, had heard the voice.

  “What’s your name?” he asked solemnly, his gaze combing my face.

  “Althea Lambros. That’s my sister Bronte.”

  He sniffed my hair and pushed it away from my neck. “Everyone calls me ‘Your Excellency,’ but you may call me Zeus.”

  “Are you a son of the Almighty, Zeus?”

  “Rhea sent you to ask who fathered me?” He gripped my wrist, his gaze sharpening. “Why have you come?”

  “Oracles sent us,” I replied. “They said a son of the God of Gods was hidden on this island and that we should find you.”

  Zeus’s eyebrows shot up. “What else did the oracle tell you?
”

  “There were three of them, actually. Sisters.”

  “More sisters,” he said dryly. “Were they ‘messengers’ from my mother too?”

  “Messengers of fate. They told me the surviving son of the Almighty would overthrow him and assume the throne.”

  “Did they, now?” Zeus laughed again louder, his retinue of pretty-faced gigglers joining in. He popped a piece of ambrosia into his mouth, then stood, propelling me to my feet. The Boy God towered over me. His height was his only attribute that met my expectation. “You’ve wasted your time, and mine. I’m not who the oracles said I am. Do you have a message from my mother, or shall my guards escort you out?”

  “I . . .” I glanced at Bronte for help.

  She stuttered out a reply. “Well, we, she—”

  Zeus drooped with disappointment. “It’s a shame you aren’t who you said you were. Take them away.”

  “Wait!” I said, dodging the guards. “Cronus has our sister.”

  A sudden seriousness fell over Zeus and his entourage of maidens, hushing them to stillness. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed that even the torches flickered.

  “You speak the name of the God of Gods too openly, mortal,” Zeus warned.

  I raised my chin, unafraid of uttering a name or of this supposed Boy God. “Cronus has taken our sister captive. She is just one of countless women he has terrorized. He reigns without responsibility. Someone must hold him accountable.”

  Zeus started to reply, and his adolescent voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I’m not responsible for my father’s actions.”

  “What about your own?” Bronte demanded. “Is this how you wish to live? Hidden from the world, gorging yourself on food, pandered to by maidens, and guarded by warriors who deserve better than to watch over you?”

  He stretched out on the floor cushion and put his arms behind his head again. One corner of his mouth twisted in a smirk. “Glorious, isn’t it?”

  Bronte kicked his foot, knocking off his other sandal.

  Zeus sat straight up. “Pardon you!”

  She bore down on him and shook her finger in his face, scolding him as she would a misbehaving child. “The secrecy of your existence is a privilege you don’t deserve.”