Chiron did not lie.
Too soon, I’m hefting a shield against my chest. My breath fills my helmet with clammy warmth and makes the metal stick to my temples. The fear will never go away, I realize. Not truly. I just need to learn to fight alongside it.
I’ve been paired with the Thracians, to be lost among their number. I make too easy a target, Menelaus and Agamemnon having ordered their men to single me out among the fray.
Banners flap in the air above the approaching army. I spy the Myrmidon black and Agamemnon’s lion. My breath releases in a whistle. Achilles was said to have refused to fight. Either there are defectors among his own men, or something changed among the Achaeans that rallies him to battle now.
They begin to charge. Hooves thunder around me. Roars fill the air.
I join the Thracian charge with a high-pierced scream.
We collide with the Achaeans. I’m slicing, cutting, and slashing my way through the line.
In the back of my mind, Paidonomos Leonidas yells orders.
“Dive,” he would tell me.
I slide beneath a Myrmidon’s swing.
“Don’t let your back face them.”
I’m spinning, dory jabbing and slicing in quick succession. Blood spurts, spraying my face.
“Never stop.”
I keep running. My breath is carefully measured. I’ve been training for this my entire life.
More of Achilles’s Myrmidon banners surge forward, aiming for me in the crowded fold. One cuts through the Thracians with vicious grace. With a single spin, he’s cut the back of their knees. My allies fall to the ground. He jabs for me and I parry his swing. His sword thunks into my dory.
I nearly lose my grip when he wrenches away. The wood of my dory threatens to shatter and snap.
My attacker leaps to his feet just as I do. His movements are a mimic to my own, perfectly honed over twenty-one years.
Pyrrhus.
Myrmidon helmet on his head, his leather armor painted with the teal dolphin of Achilles’s army, Pyrrhus angles his sword directly at my neck.
I nearly drop my spear. Despite the chaos reigning around us, I ask, “Why do you wear Myrmidon armor?”
I know his answer before he even says it. “Because, in retribution for your betrayal, Menelaus banished Alkaios and me from Sparta.” There is no love in his voice, only cold and hate. “They whipped us both. Burned our homes down. Banished Alkaios’s wife and sold her to Agamemnon’s men.”
My knees threaten to buckle. “I had no choice, Pyrrhus. I had to protect Helen.”
“How is helping the Trojans steal her away protecting her?” he roars.
He lunges forward and I have to roll from his swing. The metal hisses in the air above me.
“Bloody hell, Pyrrhus.” I crouch. “You could have killed me.”
An Achaean aims for me. I deflect the man’s wild swing. I stumble backward from his next blow.
Pyrrhus does nothing to stop him, only watching. His chest heaves, fingers tight around the hilt of his sword.
I drop to my knees and slice above my enemy’s kneecaps. Blood sprays my chest, coating me in gore. His scream burns into my ears as he falls. I grab the man’s head and drag my sword along his neck. He thuds to the ground.
I meet Pyrrhus’s wild gaze. His nostrils flare, and I cannot decide if, should he attack me, I would protect myself or let him skewer me.
He leaps across the space again, sealing my choice. The sword slashes, catching my cape. Fabric tears and I’m jerked back. Betrayal flashes through me, a hurt so vivid it’s as if he actually managed to stab me.
He pulls back and slices through the air again. I spin as Hermes taught me. My dory meets his wrist with a crack loud enough to be heard even above the roaring battlefield.
His face contorted with pain, he switches hands and swings the sword. I ram my shield into his bad arm before he can take a swipe.
“Stay down,” I command, but cannot help the pleading tone that edges into my voice. “Wait until the battle dies off and then go back to camp. I’ll ask the gods to heal you.”
He climbs to his feet. “I don’t want anything from them, or you.”
I shove him down again. I make sure to hit his bad arm. Yelling and clutching his wrist, he crumples to the ground.
He pants. The pain must be blinding. Even a Spartan can continue through only so much. The bone will be shattered, every movement fracturing it further and pushing it through muscle, skin, and tendons.
“Stay down,” I say again. “Or one of these men will kill you, and I won’t be around to protect you.”
“You’re a traitor,” he says, spitting at my feet. “I should have thrown you from the cliffs long ago.”
I stride forward and yank him up by the cuff of his armor. My face is so close I can smell the wine on his breath. Only a fool drinks before battle.
“And I should have let you remain a stag for the rest of your days.”
Even as the words tumble from my mouth, I know I don’t mean them.
But they’re said and my brother’s face hardens. Stone, unfeeling and without even a hint of love.
I drop him and spin, losing myself in the bloody fray. Tears, not from exhaustion or pain, pour down my cheeks.
Every muscle in my body aches. I drag the shield across the sand, limping toward the gates of Troy. I turn for a last look at the retreating Achaeans, kept firmly from ever breaching the line toward the gates, but find no sign of my brother.
His words and curses echo through me, ringing with painful clarity.
I am a betrayer to both Sparta and my family. A sob catches in my throat.
“Why the mournful face?” Lyta jogs across the sand. There’s a gash on her upper arm, and her own shield is nowhere to be seen.
“My brother was out there.” I raise my face to the sky, fighting back more tears. “He tried to kill me.”
She inclines her head. “My father has threatened to kill me. Multiple times now.”
I don’t mask my irritation. “Did you ever have a good relationship with him?”
“No,” she allows. “But this is war, Daphne. Not a training yard tussle.”
“I always thought that wars were just bloodshed and death,” I say. “Not irreparable endings of another kind.”
“Wars are messy.” She shrugs. Her shoulders sag and a grimace flickers across her face.
I drop my shield. I take her wounded arm and pull it across my shoulders, taking her weight as well as mine. A contented sigh escapes her.
Lykou strides in front of us. His leathers are torn, and his arms stained with blood.
“Wolf,” Lyta calls after him. “Black wolf!”
He turns mid-stride, not even looking at me. He gives her a curt nod before continuing to the wall.
“That was meant to sting,” Lyta says with a mock wince.
I look down at our feet. “I hurt him far worse.”
We’re silent for a few moments as we limp across the sand, the only sound the swishing of our feet and the hoplites gathering the fallen weapons around us.
Finally, Lyta releases a long, weary sigh. “They don’t talk about love in Sparta.”
I glance up. “No. Women are often matched up with those they believe will create the strongest children.”
“Spartans are a bunch of stone-headed, piggish oafs,” Lyta mutters.
We continue walking, my friend leaning more and more into my side the closer we get to the wall.
“Just because someone loves you, Daphne,” she says, voice soft, “doesn’t mean you have to love them back.”
We pass under the arched gate and I help her down on a set of steps.
“Amazons may not marry for love as well, but that doesn’t mean I do not know that particular heartache.” She grimaces. “I’ve lost two lovers to battle. Both were vibrant and ferocious, lovely on the battlefield and off. I lost one woman and thought I would never feel again. Finally opened up my heart to Evandre, only to have her stolen from me by Thanatos.”
Her lips tremble.
“Penthe sent me to find the girdle to end my grieving. And then I met you.”
She chokes a short laugh. “Don’t worry, this isn’t some misguided way of flirting.”
“Thank you for telling me,” I say, rubbing her unwounded arm. “Even with a war raging around us, it is easy to feel alone, especially in matters of the heart.”
I let her rest a few moments more before helping Lyta the rest of the way to her palace.
The next morning, the smoke from Achaean burial mounds still spirals into the air, creating a gray haze that stains the horizon. From atop the wall, Lykou, Helen, and I look out on the army gathered below, looting the temples, soiling Troy’s once pristine beaches.
“Disgusting.” Helen shakes her head, dark hair dancing around her tan face. “Agamemnon is a disgrace to his own kingdom. The laws of warfare mean nothing to him.”
The day is hot and heavy already, sweat slicking my skin. Judging from the lackluster movement among the Achaean army, we might have a short respite from bloodletting. Thank Tyche.
“I need to train some more.” I swing my arms overhead and dip to the side in a deep stretch. “Will you come down to the training arena?”
“No, but you can go and Lykou will stay to watch over me.” Helen shakes her head again. “I’m having breakfast with Hector’s wife. I will come down afterward.”
There is a hitch in her voice that speaks to the lie in her words, but I don’t remark upon it. A moment alone is what she truly wants.
I thud down the palace stairs, an ache to call for Apollo growing in me. He would come, in an instant. It would neither help nor ease the ache, though.
I don’t make my way to the training arena, instead pulling the pipes from beneath my shirt once I descend the wall’s great steps. Before I can even rest my lips around the instrument, the flutter of Hermes’s wings echoes all around me.
Apollo said that this city is protected by the wall, his ichor spilled into every stone. Ares cannot set foot in this city with ill intent unless invited in through the gates. Which is why the Erinyes remained in flight during their attack on the Trojans, and is perhaps why I can actually trust Hermes despite every part of myself screaming otherwise.
His face is mere inches from my own when I turn around. “Your form was sloppy out there.”
“I was hoping you could tell me some things.”
Hermes groans and throws his hands into the air. “And I was hoping for a bit of a tumble, not some more boring conversation.”
“I’ll train with you,” I allow, and he turns to face me once more. “But I want some answers first. And don’t call it a tumble. That—”
He’s suddenly pressed against me on the narrow stairway, heedless of the soldiers marching past, his lips nearly touching my own. His fingers brush my cheek, trailing down my neck. “That what? Brings images too hot for your mind to handle?”
My hands rise between us and shove hard against his firm chest. He barely stumbles.
“If you’d let me finish, you would have heard me say that it”—I swallow, suddenly too warm—“that you make it sound like a squabble rather than preparing for battle.”
“What is war if not a squabble of epic proportions?” Hermes waves a hand through the air. “All right, all right. Come.”
I let him lead me through the bustling, crowded city, to a house close to the center. It has no windows, and only a small doorway. I step through, expecting to find a storage room but instead my feet slosh in a cold puddle. Water drips overhead, falling on my brow and shoulders, and when I look up, blue and green stalagmites reach down toward me.
Shivers wrack my frame, and not from the chill air. “Where did you take me?”
“I didn’t take you anywhere, if we’re being quite clear.” He turns to me and frowns at my face. “We’re not in Tartarus. I’ll never return there.”
I release my breath in a long, shrill whistle. “So where…?”
“A cave below Mount Kyllini,” he says with an errant wave of his hand. The chill immediately dissipates, the cave brightening at the fissures in the stone around us with a warm, amber light. “I’m the only Olympian allowed here without permission.”
“Olympian gifts,” I muse, peering into the corners of the cave. Now that it isn’t full of shadows, his trinkets are within view. Items from all corners of the world litter the grand space. Not a single one recognizable. The floor around us is covered with a cascade of glittering coins, most I don’t recognize, and carpets threaded with vibrant colors. There are also plants, vines winding their way up the wet walls, and lights glowing from painted boxes. No jewels, though, or anything else that would immediately be considered valuable. No, everything here is a curiosity, which is exactly why Hermes added it to his collection.
“Did you take tips from the Sphinx of Thebes on interior decorating?” I wander over to a long oak table at the far end of the cave. “Or is hoarding something that she learned from you?”
“You tease me now, but wait until you try to squirrel away half of my belongings.”
I scoff. “Because none of these are stolen?”
On the table, jewelry and weapons gleam in the low light of the cave. Rings and necklaces and amulets are carefully separated and placed on white furs. Swords and spears glow beside them, shined and spotless. None of the metal is aged despite the damp of the cave. My fingers dance above them.
“Tell me about these.”
Hermes is beside me in a flutter of wings. His chest puffs out, a smug smile dancing on his lips. “Which ones?”
Softly, I say, “All of them.”
He chuckles. “We don’t have time for that.”
I point to a necklace made of a single ring of amber. “That one?”
“That particular bauble belonged to a powerful woman far, far north of Greece. A trickster friend of mine actually stole it first, so I don’t feel guilty for taking it.” His mouth quirks to the side. “I left a replica in its stead. The original owner now wears it.”
I point to a ring, boring and noteless. It is a single band of gold. “And that one?”
“The Ring of Gyges,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if I have any idea what that means. At my blank expression, he puffs up his cheeks and sighs. “It can grant the wearer invisibility.”
My eyes widen. It would give me just the edge I need to turn any battle. I reach for it.
Hermes slaps my hand hard enough to make my eyes water.
“Don’t touch anything.” His voice is stern. “Touch anything here without my permission, and this table is cursed to steal a memory from you.”
“That’s horrifying.” Still, I’m drawn to the table and what each priceless item might represent. The power on that wooden surface practically emanates in waves, making me hungry and thirsty all at once.
“Here.” He picks up a plain gray stone. “Since you seem to love wolves so much.”
He tosses it to me. The moment the rock lands in my palm, howling erupts around me. They pierce the darkness and echo around the cave, growing louder and louder.
I throw it back to him with a gasp. “What in Olympus was that?”
“This is Gjöll.” Hermes slaps it back on the table. “I borrowed it from the same kingdom as that necklace.”
“Borrowed?” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. “You stole it.”
“Semantics.”
I mutter a curse under my breath.
Hermes steps in front of me and raises an arm. “How about we look at my garden instead.”
He points to a collection of flowers and herbs growing in the single beam of sunlight that filters down into the cave. Bowls with nectar and bushes of fruit reach toward the blue and gray ceiling.
“How many of these did you steal from Demeter and Persephone?” I stroll over to the flourishing patch of green.
“Two or three.” His smile is nothing short of smug.
Hermes points to each patch in turn. “We’ve got haoma, Yao grass, and some peaches that would get me in a lot of trouble if you ate.” He turns. “Ambrosia, if you ever want to dabble with immortality. Over here I’ve got Sanjeevani if you’re ever feeling particularly ill. And—”
“Is that my golden apple?” I exclaim, spotting a glimmer of gold.
“It could have been anyone’s. Honestly, Daphne. You think I haven’t stolen one from the tree before?”
“I can tell when you’re lying, Hermes.” I snatch it up and shove it into his face. “When did you take this?”
“It was just sitting in your bedroom back in Sparta.”
“You sneaky little rat.” Indignation makes my skin crawl.
Now it is his turn to cross his arms over his chest. “Did you want Ares to find it after you left? I’m sure his daughter Eris could use it to stir up quite the fuss.”
“No. Better here than in his claws.” With a resigned sigh, I toss it back into the garden. “How did you even come by all these things?”
Hermes shrugs and begins to walk toward a pair of cushioned klines. “Zeus is a paranoid man. He sees betrayers in every corner and doorway. One of my Olympian duties was to travel the world and search for enemies. I collected everything here on such forays.”
“Impressive.” I don’t fail to note the smugness that upturns a corner of his mouth. “And your powers kept you from being caught, as they do now?”
“Well, I’m fast. And…” He points to a patch of white flowers in his garden. They droop, heavy with their petals, stalks a lovely dark green. “That plant keeps me immune to the magic of other gods. Moly, it’s called.”
I reach for the plant, keenly aware of the Midas Curse now resting on the back of my neck. “I would love that kind of freedom.”
He slaps my hand away. “Oh, no, no, no. Moly is poisonous to mortals. Tastes absolutely vile to immortals, too, but not being imprisoned by Zeus is worth a few moments of dry heaving. Although, being immune to their magic will not keep me from getting stabbed in the gut like a skewered goat. That’s where my speed comes in handy.”
“Are your gifts shared with your siblings? What makes you more or less powerful than any of the others?”
Hermes sits back on one kline, the fabric a sea-foam green threaded with silver and gold. “Has Apollo not explained the particulars of our powers yet?”
I take a seat opposite him on a round cushion. “We don’t really talk much these days.”
He leans back, throwing an arm over his face. “Ah yes, too busy canoodling, I’m sure.”
The memories of Apollo’s kisses, warm and intoxicating, flash in the back of my mind. A gasp against his lips and his hands entangled in my hair. Our chests pressed against each other. All interrupted before we can get too far. Before I can let myself go too far, rather. I release the fist curled against the pit of my stomach.
“None of that, either.”
Hermes sits up, peering at me before shaking his head. “What Apollo has been neglectful in sharing, I guess I can amend. Olympians have many gifts, but we each have our strengths, too. I am the fastest of my brethren, obviously. It is why I was Zeus’s messenger. To travel long distances quickly, it would take me a fraction of the power it takes Apollo. Even longer for him when our powers are dissipating as they were last summer, which is why crossing all the corners of Greece took you two so long. But I guess it was hardly comparable to the speed at which a mortal travels.” He clucks his tongue and reaches for a small vase that smells strongly of wine. “I have some limited control over the earth, from my mother’s side, but nowhere near as much as Demeter or Persephone.”
“And Aphrodite?” I try not to sound too curious. “Or Poseidon?”
“If you were trying to deflect from your obvious prying about Aphrodite, you should have picked a different god to name than Poseidon. Everyone knows his gifts. Controller of the sea and shaker of the earth, and all that.” He frowns. “Why are you curious about Aphrodite?”
I return his rare honesty with my own. “I was told that she would be willing to do anything to protect something within Troy.”
“Her son, Aeneas,” Hermes says without hesitation. “She thinks he’s a well-kept secret, but the whole of Olympus has known about his existence for the last two decades. Or is it three? I lose track of all the Olympian bastards. She would do anything to protect him, and her gifts are of a much more subtle variety. A turning of the head here, a forcing of the gaze there.”
I swish my hands to and fro. “Or a pointedly placed lovers’ squabble?”
“She would need a touch of Eris’s magic, but yes.” Hermes’s answering grin is wicked. “Thinking of stirring up trouble, Daphne?”
“And where did these gifts come from?” I ask, ignoring him as I pick up a handful of coins, letting them slip through my fingers and clink to the cavern floor. “You said last summer, both you and Ares, that you didn’t deserve your powers. What does that even mean?”
“That is the question everyone seems to want answered.” He quirks his mouth and takes on a nasally tone as he repeats, “ ‘What does that even mean?’”
“I don’t sound like that!”
He ducks as I throw coins at his head. “I’ve struck a nerve. Or two.”
“Or three.” I sigh, brushing aside the curls in my face with a frustrated hand. “Do you ever reply with a straight answer?”
This time, he isn’t nearly quick enough to avoid the coins I fling at his face. This makes the roosters dancing on his brow and shoulders flare out their wings and open their beaks in noiseless squawks.
I point to the tattoos. “And those? How come only some of you have them?”
“All these questions seem cyclical.” Hermes glances at his hand, on which a tattooed snake slithers around each of his fingers. “I, and the others you’ve seen, got these from a god you have never even heard of. His name is Acat.”
The air leaves my chest in a great huff. “Was he banished from Olympus?”
“No,” Hermes says. “Because he was never of Olympus. In fact, he has set foot in Greece only once, and that was hundreds of years ago.”
“What are you saying? That the gods of Olympus aren’t the only ones?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying.” Hermes takes a long drink of wine. He licks his lips and sets the jug back down. “I will take a long and insufferable high road now by telling you this. I may have my own squabbles with my brother, but do not blame Apollo for not being honest with you about this, as that golden armor you wear could potentially bring every word you hear and say back to Zeus’s ears. Zeus will kill you if he thinks you know too much.” He points to my abdomen and smiles, baring perfectly white, straight teeth. “But I’ve found a way around that. Even if Apollo is too… slow… to yet.”
“Too slow?” I arch a brow. “Your insults were much sharper last summer.”
“As was your bite,” he says tightly. “What happened, between you and Nyx, what it stole from you… I cannot apologize enough.” His gaze, steady and unrelenting, doesn’t leave mine. “But I would do it again.”
It’s an effort to keep my voice level. “Why?”
“Zeus does not deserve the power he wields.” Hermes snatches up the jug of wine once more and takes a swig. “And neither do his kin.”
“Including you,” I point out. “Whatever happens to him seems to happen to all. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?”
“To an extent.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Because you actually love the power.”
“Of course.” Hermes raises a hand and swishes his wrist. The snake leaps from his fingers, a great beast with jade and cobalt scales. It dances in the air, spiraling higher and higher, with each turn another plant blossoming in his cave. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilt for how I got these gifts.”
“And how was that?”
He snaps his fingers and the snake disappears. It reappears on his arm, slithering around and around before climbing beneath his chlamys. I flinch when he leans forward, suddenly planting his elbows on his knees. “Zeus will not hesitate to kill you for the answer. Is it worth the risk to know?”
I raise my chin, trembling slightly. “You tell me.”
“That sharpness that Nyx stole from you.” Hermes leans back again. “It was replaced with fire.”
I say nothing, waiting.
Finally, voice low and deep as though he still fears that Zeus listens, Hermes says, “Before Prometheus found himself chained atop Mount Kazbek and Hades was delegated to the Underworld, the magic of the Hesperides was wild. An uncontained thing, almost as it was last summer if the Muses had been taken from their garden any longer. Some tell of the Hesperides as women. In a way, the Hesperides and the Muses are the same in such stories, but the trees the Muses protect, including the one from which you carry a golden apple, are the true Hesperides. There are three, of which the Muses take much care.” He holds up a finger. “The first, Hespere, a tree with golden fruit that bestows life. The second”—another finger joins the first—“is the tree of the seasons. Erytheia never bows, never dies. And the third, Aegle, is the oldest of the three.
“Aegle was born with the dawn of time, when the great powers of the world converged and exploded anew, creating what you and I know today. With its birth came the other two, and magic was born.”
Dimly, I’m aware of a war a world away calling to me, but I cannot leave. Not when I still have so many questions.
“And so the magic was shared,” Hermes goes on, “spread far and wide. But with all power comes greed. Wars were fought for the power, great beings from all corners of the world converging upon Mount Olympus where the trees first sprang. Zeus rallied his allies, my family, and to secure his victory, he made a deal with the titans. Together, Zeus’s family and the titans struck down their enemies, one by one. But before the titans could take their place atop Olympus, Zeus betrayed them and a new war began.”
“The war with the titans.” I nod. “Ligeia told me of this. The Titanomachy.”
“Ah yes, a great clash among titans and gods. There were betrayers on both sides. Nyx aligned with the titans, Oceanus and Themis with the gods.” Hermes smiles, a harsh line across his handsome face. “The tales of it you mortals have spun over the centuries are not so far off the mark. You have Prometheus to thank for that, for which he was punished as you saw.”
“Ligeia told me he was punished for bringing fire to mortals.”
Hermes gives me a disappointed look. “And you actually believed that? No, that was a story spun by Hera to make mortals feel dumber than they actually are. Of course you’ve always had fire. Prometheus did not like the punishment Zeus chose for his kin. He was a titan himself, remember? One of many that defected from the side of the titans to the side of the gods. He felt betrayed by Zeus, having been promised that his friends and family would not be harmed, and so he brought a different sort of fire to mortals.”
“Stories,” I say softly.
“Yes.” Hermes nods. “And they spread across the world like wildfire. The allies Zeus made during the great Titanomachy, such as the one who gave me these tattoos, turned their backs on Zeus. They had their gifts from other sources, all over the world. They had no need for betrayers and the paltry-by-comparison gifts that Mount Olympus has to offer.”
“And Zeus punished Prometheus by chaining him up on Mount Kazbek.”
“Actually, that was all Prometheus’s idea.” Hermes chuckles. “You’ve experienced his divine gift. Knowledge. He saw that Zeus would punish him, a fate much worse than his siblings, and instead cursed himself to that lonely crag. None but him know how to break those chains.”
“Clever. No doubt Prometheus knew that he would also be stuck there for hundreds of years?”
“Perhaps.” A shrug. “But no worse than the fate of his titan kin.”
“Who are supposedly in Tartarus.” My eyes narrow. “Why didn’t I see them down there?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps this brings us back to your first question. Why Troy?”
He snaps his fingers, and I’m thrown from my seat, from the comfortable, cool darkness, to a sunbaked rooftop of Troy. I roll across the clay surface, hissing when it meets my bare skin. The sun beats down upon me, blinding compared to the cavern.
“You are such a wretch,” I grumble, climbing to my feet and ignoring the hand Hermes offers me.
“Consider it my retribution for stabbing me in the back,” he replies, brushing nonexistent dirt from the front of his peplos.
“You deserved it.”
“Do you truly believe that?” Hermes stares me down. “After what I told you?”
“Depends”—I cannot meet his eyes—“on if the gods of Olympus are actually any worse than the titans they wrested the power from. On if the titans deserved the punishment Zeus dealt them. And”—I finally turn to him—“on whether you’re telling the truth or not.”
A breeze stirs, pulling my curls from their plait and whipping them around my face. His own dark, wiry curls, long to his shoulders and now in thin braids, swing between us.
“Do you doubt Apollo as much as you doubt me?” He asks, voice tight.
“The man who could lift my heart or shatter it in a single second?” A gaping maw threatens to open beneath my feet and swallow me whole. “Of course.”
Therein lies what keeps me from giving in to the feelings I have for Apollo. The power he and his family have, and how powerless I am against it.
Hermes blinks and steps away. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops, pointing over my shoulder. “Time to don those leathers again.”
I turn to see what he points at. On the horizon, glittering beyond the far hills, metal reflects in the high sunlight. It ripples, shifting and slithering like a snake between the foothills. Likely just beyond what the scouts of Troy can see.
“I need to get ready.” I turn to climb down from the roof when Hermes catches my wrist.
Compared to the scalding heat of Apollo’s touch, Hermes’s hand is cold, a balm against the scorching sun above.
“Wait.” He reaches for the blade at his hip.
I wrench away, rolling across the roof and leaping into a fighting stance. Hermes only gives me an exasperated look and unhooks the sword. With an easy grace, he flips it, catching it nimbly by the blade and angling the hilt toward me.
“You can have this until Hephaestus gets off his ass to forge you proper armor.”
Tentatively, I accept the sword. It is pure gold, iridescent in the light like molten metal. “The Adamantine sword. I thought it was lost with Perseus?” When he slayed Medusa, I don’t add.
“It can put a target on your head if you’re not careful. That sword has made lots of enemies, for an inanimate object.” Hermes takes a step back. “But it will withstand any blade Ares might attack you with.”
Without a word of goodbye, I turn and begin my descent of the roof toward the army that wants to take my head just as surely as Perseus lobbed heads off with this very sword.