Wings of Fury

by Emily R. King

  I nearly flew at him for daring to suggest that our mother would have chosen his company over ours, but pure disgust held me back. “She hated you, just as I hate you.”

  “Althea,” Cleora scolded, returning just in time to hear my vitriol. “You’re speaking to the God of Gods.”

  “A god you have always detested,” I rejoined. “What has he done to you, Cleora? He dressed you up like you’re a doll.”

  “Has he made you one of his honor maidens?” Bronte asked.

  “No! He would never.” Cleora looked to Cronus. “Shall we tell them?”

  “Yes, it’s time. Let’s ease their concerns.”

  “Tell us,” Bronte said, crossing her arms over her chest. I admired her tenacity. Every time Cronus spoke, my stomach spun around like a whirlpool.

  He rose from his throne. Standing, he was taller than any of us. He sauntered forward with the utter certainty of his supreme station, reminding me of Zeus’s newfound poise.

  “As I told Cleora, you three sisters are of noble birthright.” Cronus bowed his head as though we were the gods and said reverently, “You are not mortal women. You are goddesses . . . My daughters.”

  A laugh burst out of me. The absurdity of his claim didn’t merit another response.

  Cronus rested a solemn hand on my shoulder. “You’ve always known you were different. The shape of your soul is very familiar to me.” As he touched me, my shoulder blades began to burn, and my shadow, cast across the floor in the low-setting sun, sprouted wings. I looked over my shoulder and saw nothing, but a vast power flapped like a caged bird inside me, thrashing to escape.

  Cronus moved on to Bronte, touching her shoulder next. “You’ve always felt steadier when connected with the earth. Your soul grounds you.” Her own shadow shrunk and transformed into the shape of a small winged dragon.

  She twisted from his grasp. “What trick is this?”

  “No trick. You are my daughters. Goddesses and Titanesses.”

  General Decimus snapped straight, his posture rigid. If this was true, which I very much doubted, he had tagged a daughter of the Almighty.

  “You devoured your children,” Bronte countered.

  “A necessary rumor, which I fabricated. Show them, Cleora.”

  Cleora removed her sandal to show us the mark on the bottom of her heel. “This tiny scar is from Father pricking our feet with the adamant sickle as infants. The power of the adamant divested us of our godly strength so that he could hide us from the Titans seeking his throne.”

  “Many in our family wish to be my successor,” Cronus explained. “The younger Titans are the greatest trouble. Helios, Selene, and Eos have been plotting against me for decades.”

  My head whirled with countless doubts, yet Cleora believed this folly. I needed to understand what he’d told her so that I could reverse his brainwashing.

  “Divested,” I said. “So our godly strength is . . . ?”

  “Locked away for safekeeping.” Cronus returned to his throne and stroked the breast of his black vulture. “I did you a charity, sending you into the world as mortals. It’s a simpler, kinder life.”

  “A charity?” I retorted. “Women in the world you built are so starved for kindness that they will accept it from a monster.”

  “Your mother used to say the same,” Cronus drawled.

  “Stavra Lambros taught us well,” I shot back.

  “I speak of your true mother,” he said. “Stavra raised you three, but she did not birth you.”

  Again, my tongue buckled under a landslide of questions and doubts.

  “Those lioness trinkets you wear?” he went on, indicating my arm cuff and Bronte’s necklace. “Symbols of my consort, Rhea. She wanted you to have something of hers when she handed you over to be raised by mortals.”

  Bronte gripped her necklace in both hands. “Our mother is Stavra Lambros.”

  “Mnemosyne altered Stavra’s memory so that she would believe, with her deepest conviction, that she had birthed the three of you. In truth, she fostered you as infants.” Cronus smiled sweetly at Cleora. “My dearest daughter, who is your mother?”

  “Rhea,” she replied without pause.

  “And who is Stavra Lambros?” he prompted.

  Cleora appeared conflicted for just a moment, then replied, “She’s the servant who fostered us.”

  “That’s enough,” I said. “I want to go back to my chamber.”

  “As do I,” Bronte snapped.

  Cleora put on another forced smile. “You must be tired. You’ve both traveled far to get here.”

  “Come with us, Cleora,” Bronte said.

  Cronus set his elbows on the armrests of his throne and pressed his fingertips together. “Cleora promised to play for me a little longer. Didn’t you, daughter?”

  Cleora nodded demurely. “Yes, Father.”

  I could not fathom what I was seeing. After everything Bronte and I had gone through to get here, Cleora was choosing him over us.

  “Cleora, how are you over your fear of him?” I asked. “You nearly burned your face with chastity crosses to avoid his attention.”

  She shook her head sadly as though she wished I could understand. “I was wrong about him, Althea. Father is generous and kind. He promised that I would never have to marry. I have a future in the palace, a real life that doesn’t include running a kitchen or swearing allegiance to Gaea, an absentee goddess.”

  “Is this true?” Bronte asked the Almighty.

  “Cleora shall remain a virgin goddess, forever pure and unspoiled,” he answered.

  “Nothing could ever spoil her,” I retorted. “She’s perfect no matter what she does or doesn’t do with a man. And since when have you thought so little of Gaea, Cleora?”

  “Father has been good to me,” she answered, her voice small.

  “Then why does he keep you from us?” Bronte extended a pleading hand toward her. “You’ve missed us. I know you have.”

  I saw it then, Cleora’s glimmer of uncertainty. She was inside there somewhere, buried beneath the costume and the timid voice and the fake smile.

  The black vulture squawked and ruffled its feathers.

  “You’re upsetting Sophus with all this talk of leaving, Cleora.” Cronus pet the bird’s head. “You know how he adores you.”

  Cleora went to the vulture and began stroking its head.

  A smug smile peeled back Cronus’s lips, revealing his sharp teeth. “General, return my daughters to their chambers. We’ll finish this discussion after they’ve had time to think about how much better their lives will be once they accept their heritage.”

  Bronte and I started to leave slowly, then accelerated our pace to get away from him. We were still within earshot when Cleora began to play her lyre again.

  Bronte whispered so as not to be heard over the music. “You know what you told me about Mnemosyne? I think she might have altered Cleora’s memory.”

  I loathed to think that was true, yet it was the only possibility I could accept. I did not know who that woman was, but she was not our sister.

  23

  My request to see Bronte was ignored three times. After leaving the great hall, we were returned to our respective bedchambers with no indication when we would see each other again. I needed to talk to her about Cleora and how we could find a way out of here.

  I called through the door to the guard, asking yet again to see Bronte. On a whim, I asserted my supremacy as a Titaness and goddess, which felt like complete nonsense, but this soldier was intimidated enough to seek out a real answer to my petition, rather than ignore it. He returned after gaining approval from his superior—Decimus, no doubt—and escorted me down a grand double stairway to the solarium on the main floor.

  Pausing at the doorway, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. With little moonlight shining through the high, open ceilings, I could not see anyone inside, but I could hear my sister singing softly.

  “Bronte?” I called.

&nbs
p; “Over here.”

  The air smelled heavily of musky flowers, spicy herbs, sweet almond trees, and freshly tilled earth—all scents I associated with my garden-loving sister.

  I rounded the corner of a copse of lemon trees to a lantern-lit area, and pulled up short. Bronte was kneeling on the ground, tending to a garden bed bursting with white and pink peonies. Beside her, also on his knees, with his hands in the dirt, was Cronus.

  Bronte grinned. “Althea, come smell these peonies. They’re divine. Tell her, Father.”

  “That they are,” Cronus said.

  My insides ran cold. “Bronte, what are you doing?”

  “I joined Father and Mnemosyne for supper. They served all my favorite foods and wines and desserts. Then he suggested we come here. He knows how much I adore working in the garden.”

  “You have a tremendous gift,” Cronus said. “And she can sing!”

  Bronte blushed—she blushed—and went back to digging. I had never, in my entire life, seen her blush for a man. Any man.

  Something inside me snapped in two. I stomped over to Cronus and loomed. “What did you do to her?”

  “Do to me?” Bronte interjected. “Father has been good to me. He let me debate philosophy with him at supper. He’s going to arrange for me to meet Prometheus.”

  “Bronte, he’s beguiling you.”

  “Althea,” Cronus said, “I don’t understand your continual ire. I had a pleasant feast with Bronte, and now we’re enjoying the garden together. Don’t be sour.”

  “She despises you,” I snapped.

  “Althea,” Bronte admonished. “Must you be so mean?”

  I grabbed her arm and pulled. “Get up. I’m taking you back to your chamber.”

  “I’m not done here.” She jerked from my grip. “Why are you always telling everyone else what to do?”

  “Pardon me?” I asked, aghast. “I do nothing of the sort. Mnemosyne has tampered with your memories, Bronte. I don’t know how she does it, but this isn’t us.”

  “Because I disagree with you?” She pushed to her feet. “My apologies, Father. I’m no longer enjoying the solarium. I’m going to bed now.”

  He rose beside her and ran a gentle hand down her arm, petting her as he had the vulture. “Sleep well, dearest.”

  And just like that, Bronte stormed out. No apology. Not even a glance back to check that her little sister would be all right, alone, with the Almighty.

  “You didn’t need to spoil our good time, Althea.” Cronus carefully brushed the dirt off his hands. “Bronte was enjoying herself.”

  The Almighty was not what I had anticipated. I had imagined a monster that could not keep his hands off of women, but he did not look upon my sisters or me with desire. In fact, he seemed to look at us with joy.

  “You judge me, Althea,” Cronus said.

  “Absolutely.”

  He chuckled. “You look so much like your mother. I’ve seen that glare from Rhea countless times.”

  “My mother is Stavra Lambros.”

  “Stavra was a loyal servant, but she isn’t your mother.” Cronus waved at two chairs set in a small alcove between cherry trees. I ignored his invitation to sit, but he took a chair himself, crossed his legs, and leaned back, relaxed and self-assured. I wondered if he sat in every chair as though it were a throne. “Rhea often berates me for my treatment of our children. She did not trust that I had your best intentions in mind. I suppose I was so preoccupied with protecting you from the Titans I did not think to consider that life with mankind could also wreak havoc on you. Men’s appetites are insatiable.”

  “You’re responsible for them. You’re their ruler.”

  “I am their god, and an imperfect one at that, but mankind is notorious for disobeying and disregarding its deities.”

  I fell silent, unwilling to offer my opinion. He did not deserve to know my thoughts.

  “As ruler of the First House, my position offers me a rare perspective on others,” he said. “I can discern the shape of one’s soul. Would you like to know yours?”

  I almost said no, just to spite him, but I was intrigued.

  Cronus sat forward and whispered. “The shape of your soul is one I have never seen before.”

  He was baiting me, but I would not ask.

  “Your soul resembles a winged lion,” he said. “Lions are known for their ferocity and majesty. They are the rulers of the animal kingdom, respected for their power, aggression, and might. Your wings are also meaningful. They demonstrate a desire for independence and invincibility. All impressive attributes.”

  His flattery may have worked on Cleora and Bronte, but he was wasting his time with me. “What did my mother, Stavra Lambros, say to you that vexed you? I was told by witnesses that she spoke out of turn in your throne room.”

  Cronus’s demeanor shifted toward sorrowful. “My brother Oceanus had put lies into her head.”

  “You mean he restored her memories.” I was almost afraid to ask my next question, but I couldn’t stop myself. “When my mother learned that we weren’t her daughters, that you had manipulated her memory, what did she do?”

  Cronus rested his chin in his hand, his elbow on the armrest. “She threatened to expose your identities unless I abdicated my throne to Oceanus. When the soldiers came for Stavra that night at the temple, she had planned to tell you and your sisters who you were. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “So you brought her here and forced yourself upon her.”

  Cronus shook his head adamantly. “No, I removed those harmful thoughts from her head. Unfortunately, manipulating a memory is a finicky process. Once is harmless. Twice can be tricky. Three times . . . the results can be unfavorable.”

  “You ruined her,” I accused, “and now you’re doing the same to my sisters.”

  “They’re happier and more content here with me.”

  I backed toward the door. “We were going to start over somewhere else, far away from you.”

  “Happy memories take root in the mind,” he said. “They are the strongest and most difficult to replace. If Cleora and Bronte had truly been content with their old lives, they wouldn’t have forgotten them so quickly.”

  My voice shook with rage. “You’re a monster.”

  “I’m your father, and I know what’s best for you.” Cronus stood and strode over to me. Up close, his penetrating stare was almost immobilizing. “That ring on your hand. Where did you get it?”

  “It was a gift from the oracles.”

  “It is an emblem of my mother. The oracles serve her.” He snatched my hand and ripped the ring off. “Nothing of Gaea’s is welcome in my house.”

  Gaea was the cosmic power behind my string ring? I thought back over every time the ring’s timely glow had influenced me, reassured me. Had Gaea been guiding me all along?

  Cronus crushed the ring in his fist. “Enjoy these final hours with your memories, Althea. Mnemosyne’s strength is immense, but she’s limited to one session per day. Tomorrow she will visit you. Do not resist. It’s much less damaging that way.”

  My guard clasped me by the arm and tugged. I stumbled after him up the stairs and to my chamber. The shutting and locking of the door snapped me out of my horror. I pounded my fists against it until my knuckles were bruised, then sank to the floor and wept.

  The knock came right after the slaves tried to clear away my untouched breakfast plate and wine cup. I had taken the whole night to devise my plan. Before I answered the door, I checked that everything was in place.

  Squaring my shoulders, I opened the door.

  Little arms shot out and grabbed my waist. Cleora and Bronte stood there with a girl who was no older than seven. The girl hugged me tightly with her cheek pressed to my ribs.

  “Althea, it’s you!” She grinned up at me. “Do you remember who I am?”

  I glanced over her wheat-colored head, at my sisters. They watched me in anticipation, but I was too startled to say anything. I had been expecting Mnemosyne.
>
  “We have the same nose,” the girl prompted.

  I looked at her then, really looked at her. Still, I had no idea who she was. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”

  Bronte rolled her eyes. “This is Danica, our half-Titan sister.”

  My jaw quite literally fell open.

  “Let us in,” Cleora said, pushing past me.

  They entered and began moving about the room. Bronte went straight to the food. The girl, Danica, plopped down on my bed and swung her feet.

  “Is this a good surprise?” she asked.

  My mouth bobbed open and shut.

  “She’s speechless,” Bronte said.

  “I was too,” Cleora added.

  Danica giggled. “Yes, but you two didn’t make that face.” She scrunched her nose and let her mouth fall open, mimicking me.

  I shut my jaw. “How . . . ?”

  “I’ve lived here my whole life,” Danica said as though she were decades older. “Father took me in, and the nursemaids raised me.”

  “Father?”

  “Cronus.” She giggled again, then hopped down and pranced around the chamber.

  Cleora reached for the full cup of wine I had poured earlier, but I grabbed it and held it away from her.

  “I’m going to drink that.” I pretended to press it to my lips. I wanted, deep inside my heart, to believe that our half sister had survived, but something didn’t feel right. Cleora and Bronte would not so readily accept a stranger, no matter how adorable she might be, and then sashay in here as though her discovery was just passing news. “Cleora . . . Bronte . . . Do you remember the night Mama died?”

  “Died?” Bronte replied. “She’s not dead.”

  My heart gave a painful squeeze. “I mean Stavra.”

  Danica frowned. “Rhea is your mama.”

  I looked at the girl more closely now. She bore no resemblance to Stavra, or even to Cronus. Something about her felt out of place. I longed to reunite with my half sister, but everything about this felt too convenient.

  “You must have been scared,” I said, “when they took you away from us. You were just learning to walk.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes big and solemn. “I missed you all terribly. Though, in truth, I don’t remember you well. I was very young.”