Tethys flowed about the throne room as if guided on some unseen force, gaze perpetually locked upon Pyrrha. Oh, Pyrrha could feel it, even as the Titan stormed across the space behind her. She could sense it, even while she focused upon her own toes. Naught one said at such times could make things any better.
At last, Tethys came to rest in the space before Pyrrha, close enough her breath fell upon the top of Pyrrha’s head. “That you are my guest, Prometheus’s daughter—and that my son Poseidon does still live—makes me consider his pleas for mercy on your behalf.”
Now, despite her throbbing heart, she dared look up at the Titan.
“Exile,” Tethys said, stretching the word to several syllables. “And should I hear of you nigh to my lands again, I will have you hunted. Like a pig, before I roast you upon a spit.”
“Kill her,” Styx implored, quietly, from amongst the columns.
Her mother ignored that. With a wave of her hand, the Telkhines reappeared, and each snared one of Pyrrha’s arms. They ushered her from the palace with such force only their grip upon her kept her from tumbling down the acropolis stairs.
Most sentences of exile began at dawn, but the Telkhines ordered the gates thrown wide and shoved her outward, sending her sprawling upon her face.
“Be well away before dawn,” Sirsir warned.
With a groan, Pyrrha looked up at the mer. Not bothering to answer, she pushed herself up and plodded away. She could have descended the cliff and returned to the harbor, but she half suspected the Telkhines might have orders to harry or even kill her if she tried, so instead, she headed for the river. If she followed it far enough, she would reach Korinth.
Thus, in the predawn blackness, she trudged along, the riverbank on her right and the plains leading to the cliff on her left. There was naught left for her to fear in the night, especially if she didn’t try to look across the Veil. Well, naught save Men, for bandits might prowl the hills to the south, though she doubted any were about so early.
As she walked, though, a shape rose from the edge of the river not far beyond Thebes. It took a moment to recognize her father’s silhouette, his crystal blue eyes.
“Papa.” He had pled with Tethys for her and must have come here before her audience. Knowing which way she would come. He always knew such things.
Without a word, he approached and drew her into an embrace. The warmth of it broke something inside her, and she shuddered. By Nyx, what a night she’d had. Papa stroked her hair as he had done when she was a child.
At last, he held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes with his own vibrant blue ones. “Pyrrha.” Lines of tension marred his face. “You must turn back from the path you have set yourself upon. The Art has broken entire civilizations. It has rendered death on a scale you cannot conceive, blanketing the land in night. I beseech you to give over any further pursuit of this.”
His grip was so tight upon her arms she yelped. Immediately, he released her, looking even more distressed that he’d hurt her.
Pyrrha rubbed her arms for a moment. He didn’t understand. Oh, she knew he loved her, but he’d never understood what she needed. He had answers about her Sight and almost certainly knew more about her mother’s death than he’d ever shared. Always, he held things back from her. A sudden realization settled in upon her. On seeing him here, her heart had leapt, seizing upon the idea maybe she was not alone.
But if he came with her—and he would unless she denied him—he would only hold her back. Enodia was the one true friend she had ever had, for the sorceress alone had offered her power and answers.
“I’m going, Papa. I must make my own way.”
“We can go to Ogygia, I have land there—”
Her raised hand cut him off, and the clapping shut of his mouth, the pain writ upon his visage, it tore through her. Gaia steel her resolve. “I must make my own way,” she repeated.
And there was naught left to say.
14
Pandora
1570 Silver Age
When Prometheus had made his way into the throne room, Hekate guided Pandora in behind him, then around to the side. They took up a position in the shadow of one of a dozen great fluted columns, watching as Pandora’s Titan friend at last came to rest at the foot of the dais.
Numerous other spectators stood around the hall. Zeus’s sycophants, no doubt, come to weather or bask in the mercurial whims of their mad king.
Braziers dangled from great chains running to the ceiling, providing additional illumination, though windows far overhead also let in beams of sunlight that crisscrossed the hall.
Zeus leaned forward, elbow upon his knee, hand stroking his beard. “Your nieces are dead, Prometheus.”
Though she could not see his face, Pandora imagined her friend staring daggers at the king.
“They burned for their crimes and now I grow more tired still of your recalcitrance. Someone betrayed and murdered my son’s loyal lover, and still, you have not told me the identity of the one who will betray me, though I know you have it, Oracle.” The king stood abruptly. “Give me the name! Tell me of my perfidious kith, or the Pleiades’ fate will seem paltry compared to yours!” The king had broken into screaming, but abruptly fell silent and brushed back his hair. “Tell me, my loyal ally. Tell me what the flames have shown you. Where do the traitors hide?”
“I can tell you that,” Prometheus said, “unless your son fights at your side, Olympus itself will one day fall.”
“That is not what I asked!” Zeus roared. The room trembled, the braziers
