“Oracular insight?” Kalypso asked.
“Call it that.”
Oh, but if he had seen a war, it meant that one must impend. Or perhaps, rather, he had seen himself warn them of this very moment, and thus relied upon his statement that a war would fail to know it would. Prescience was always so twisted, bent back upon itself.
Either way, there was no aid for them here.
Despite not having spoken in the climb up the mountain, somehow the silence seemed even deeper as they returned to Kalypso’s estate. Kirke had to wonder, over and over, what Prometheus thought he would do against Morpheus. A weaker Oracle could not see a stronger, but oneiromancer dream stalking was different, and, so far as she knew, Prometheus had no such abilities.
By tacit accord, she and Kalypso wandered the grounds aimlessly, neither quite able to meet the gaze of the other.
Was this what it had come to? All their plans to right the World, all their experiments, the long summer nights of making love, the dreams of time when Nymphs could choose their own Fates … Dwindled-down embers before they had the chance to even catch flame.
Like unspent tinder, they would blow away in a strong gust, and all they had sought would be forgotten. Maybe they had never had a chance. Or maybe … maybe she still could, but she needed to perfect the Nectar, no matter how long that took. And clearly, Kirke could no longer do that here, with Kalypso.
They drifted into the garden, where Kalypso knelt and poked at the moly crop. The little white bulbs just eased out now, ready to bloom. After a few moments, Kalypso rose with a sigh. “What about your father? He has forgotten, hidden his strength, but surely it remains there, quiescent.”
Kirke could barely stop herself from scoffing. Once the most radiant of the Lords of the Ouranid League, her father’s fall had been tragic. Watching it had torn her to pieces, even as his most precious children, Artemis and Apollon, had sided with his enemy. “He won’t act against Zeus.”
“He lost his status in the Ouranid League,” Kalypso objected, as if Kirke could ever forget.
Kirke huffed. “After he betrayed them for Zeus, yeah. He won’t take any step that might risk him losing what remains of his empire. My father yet controls Helion, Thrinakia, and numerous smaller islands, you know? He is the most powerful Titan outside of Olympus. You think he’d jeopardize that?”
“Not even if it meant the chance to rule instead of licking Zeus’s sandals?”
Kirke folded her arms. “We don’t have any moves left right now. The best we can do is lay low and hope Zeus and his minions won’t associate us with the Nectar.”
“They just murdered my mother!” Kalypso blurted. “You want me to lay low? Shall I perhaps fetch a rod for them to beat me with while I’m at it?”
It was always going to come to this, and Kirke couldn’t help but glare at Kalypso. “You think I’ve no quarrel with them? But if you don’t want to join the Pleiades in the Underworld, you have to bide your time. Sell what’s left of the stock. We cannot afford any chance of discovery right now. I can always make more when things have quieted a little.”
“You’re leaving.” Kalypso fair spat the words in accusation.
“For now. Laying low, remember.”
The look of betrayal upon Kalypso’s face ripped straight into Kirke’s heart. But before she could say aught more, the other Nymph stomped into the house.
With a resigned sigh, Kirke paused long enough to pull up two of the moly herbs. She’d need the seeds to plant more crops wherever she ended up.
And she needed some damn wine. A lot of wine.
One thing was clear: she needed to get off Ogygia as soon as she could figure out a destination.
12
Pandora
1570 Silver Age
After a fortnight of living in the Aviary, Prometheus still had not made any effort to touch Pandora. Though, in moments of self-reflection, she had begun to wish he would. Nor did she think it from lack of desire on his part, for he seemed interested in her, almost affectionate at times. Mulling it over, all she had come up with was that, perhaps, he thought her so wounded by the past as to need convalescence from it before she could claim aught substantial in the present.
The thought, once it had occurred, had haunted her like the screeching voice of a Fury, nagging and needling in every private moment. As now, when she walked in the spice fields outside Marsa, trying to slow her mind by speeding her heart, if only a bit.
A farmer waved to her as she passed and Pandora returned the gesture.
When word had come of the events in Atlantis, a kind of hysteria had blazed through the town. People hid in their houses. Others drowned their growing consternation in wine houses. She’d heard one fisherman had loaded up his family and made to sail for Neshia, though she couldn’t imagine a fishing boat could make the voyage across the Thalassa.
And then, almost as fast, when naught came of it all, the madness had burned out, the fever of it broken overnight. The Pleiades were murdered. Zeus was a despot. And life continued much as it ever had, the atmosphere of dread unsustainable even in the wake of such turmoil. Aught could be passed over, so long as it did not come here.
Perhaps that was one reason Zeus forever retained power. Those not directly affected by his depravities could only maintain umbrage for such a short time. Oh, wasn’t it awful what happened to Europa? Oh, poor Kelaino! I hope it won’t disrupt the salt shipments, dear.
But for Pandora, her nights remained restless. Her dreams had become turbulent maelstroms of violence from both then and now, haunted by the vague sensation that something saw her, stalking the shadows of her sleep. Could Morpheus be hunting her, even now? Or
