The silence dragged on long enough Athene finally glanced back. “I saw her,” Mother said, her voice far away and so heavy with burden Athene dare not ask further about her time in the Underworld.
Such a thing, passing among ghosts and wandering in the shadows, that was not for her in any event. Once, in her youth, she had asked her mother whether she ought to pursue sorcery, as Mother had taught Kirke.
“I think that is not your path, and now, knowing all I have learned, I would not send anyone down the road, least of all one I love as a child.” Her words had haunted Athene, especially for their implication that, while she would not condone Athene studying the Art, it was now too late for herself and Kirke. As if there was no way back from such depths and one could only ever delve deeper into the forbidden truths.
Truths like that which this Mithra had promised her.
Well, that was a problem for another time.
“You have made your son king, and now Sisyphus is dead and the Kreiad genos reeling.” Mother laid a hand upon Athene’s shoulder. “Tell me your vengeance is complete.”
Hmm. There was a part of her, now, that wanted to believe that, though her visions had also revealed her flaying Hephaistos’s father. Sometimes, in the dark of night, she latched onto that image to help keep the flame of her hate stoked.
And just as Hephaistos had bound her in orichalcum and left her powerless, so too would she find herself chained before Mithra. “He stole my strength, Mother.” It would happen again. “He stole my honor. Stripped my choices from me and made me his slave. How shall that ever pass? Would the great Hekate tolerate such indignities and wave them away? Would she relegate such things to the past?”
With a groan, her mother slumped down upon the rocks, drawing Athene to sit beside her. “Do you really believe I have suffered no indignities in nigh four millennia of life? Do you think I hold my position on Olympus, such as it is, without having to let lie old grievances?”
Her mother’s words burned in her. Almost … almost tempting. “He and his line must suffer.”
“You can be more than this,” her mother said, eyes hard. “You can be better than this vat of boiling vitriol, Athene. I have seen you as a champion of Man, a protector of heroes.” Heroes like Theseus, going after this Minotaur, whatever that was? There was truth to her mother’s words, and they spoke to her but …
“His line must suffer,” she repeated, wondering if she was trying to convince Mother or herself. She set her jaw. She would see it through, then attend to the future. “Hephaistos has a daughter, does he not?”
Her mother sighed, nodding. “Yes, he does, a young woman in Lydia. Her name is Medusa.”
30
Pandora
201 Golden Age
In the fish-shaped tub, Pyrrha cooed, murmuring nonsense while Pandora wiggled her fingers in the water, creating eddies to amuse the child. She and Prometheus sat on the floor of their room, lounging upon a whale mosaic. The better part of a month had passed since his return, and their conversations now, precious though they were, had begun to amount to the same as Pyrrha’s nascent attempts as speech.
Nonsense to entertain and placate one another. Emotions given voice, even without thought.
“You could stay a lifetime, really,” Prometheus said with the air of a man who knew better. “You could go back at any time.”
“I could,” Pandora said, her own words cutting her chest open. “I could, perhaps whelp a few more babes, maybe wait until silver threads through my hair. Then I ought to be in the best possible shape to scale the slopes of Olympus and confront almighty Zeus. I was thinking, once our grandchildren are born, I will perhaps challenge him to a bout of pankration on his throne room floor. If I can pin him, he must surely release you.”
“Wrestling him may not be the answer. Perhaps something more indirect.”
Every laugh that wrinkled Pyrrha’s face was the most wondrous, most agonizing instant of Pandora’s life. What mother could leave their child behind? How could she ever contemplate such a course? It was inhuman to be forced to this, and she could not forgive the Moirai for whatever part they played in placing her in such a situation.
Fate had twisted her in knots and sliced her to ribbons. And like a fool, she lingered here, somehow believing Ananke would suddenly turn benevolent and take mercy upon her.
But then, weren’t all people fools in the face of destiny?
From her window overlooking the sea, Pandora spied the ships closing in upon Thebes’s harbor, though she had no view of the harbor itself. From this distance, she could not say whether these were the same ones that had assaulted Ogygia just under two months ago, but she suspected so. The island of Kronion formed the Strait of Korinth, which meant the northernmost shore of Kronos’s homeland lay only a short sail away from Thebes.
It was a wonder it had taken him this long to find them. The question now was, had he come for Tethys … or for Pandora and her Box?
Her fingers tightened upon the window’s lip as the ships closed in upon the city that had become her new home. How was it Zeus and his kith forever seemed to deny her any semblance of peace? From the court of Agenor in Tyros, to the citadel in Atlantis, to Ogygia, and now here. “May Hades feast upon your liver,” she whispered at the ships.
Then she grimaced. Hades was probably on those ships, after all, and brother to Zeus. Well then, let them all descend into the Underworld and rot.
Pushing off the window, she strode across the room, swept Pyrrha up from her crib, and raced
