“The names of the three Fates are as follows: Clotho, who spins the threads of mortal lives; Lachesis, who measures their allotted lifetimes; and Atropos, who cuts them off. These facts alone have been confirmed since the Olympians’ Return. Unlike the majority of the beings recently returned to our world, the Fates have made no public appearances, sought no worship, and arranged no book deals. We have, in effect, only a single laconic press release and the other Olympians’ word that they even exist.”
—A Mortal’s Guidebook to the Olympians’ Return
“The Fates are not Zeus’s daughters. The ancient Greeks just made that up because they couldn’t stomach the idea of women in charge. The Fates are . . . beyond.”
—Athena’s Little Book of Wisdom, p. 872
“WE MUST ENTERTAIN THEM,” Clotho whispered.
“Briefly,” Lachesis agreed.
“It will end, soon enough.” Atropos answered.
They nodded, together, to the sound of shears.
The Fates had always been. The Fates will always be. It was clearly printed on their pamphlets and on the gateway to their abode, and anyone wishing to argue the point did so at his or her peril.
No one could disprove it, after all. None (who were talking) could recall a time when they did not exist, and none had any conclusive evidence that they would cease to be in the foreseeable future. The Fates were as old as memory, as omnipresent as time, as unceasing as—well, you get the point. Lather with awe, rinse with amazement, repeat. Show some respect is the concept we’re trying to get across here.
The Fates toiled, currently, in a serviceable room above a convenience store at the intersection of the two parallel streets of Sparkwood and 23rd on the eastern side of Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. No doors led into the Room. No doors led out. No one in the area could look at the space above that convenience store and tell you what was inside, what caused the strange lights to shine out of the shaded windows at precisely 9:53 p.m. every Thursday, or why no one even remembered a second story being built. These were not the sorts of things people near the Room wondered if they knew what was good for them. These were not the sorts of things people wondered even if (as was more often the case) they did not know what was good for them, either—for the simple reason that no one was fated to do so.
Or at least not yet. There would eventually come a time when someone would wonder. Someone would care. Someone would have a spare moment in the middle of a Tuesday evening when there was nothing much else to do and the good shows didn’t come on for another hour, and someone would try to investigate. In that moment, the Room would be gone. There would be little fanfare. The Room would simply move itself elsewhere in a way that would please Heisenberg, were it possible to simultaneously find him and ask his opinion.
“He is coming, then,” spoke Clotho.
“We all know this,” Lachesis remarked. “Why do you announce it?”
“Because it is too quiet.” Clotho’s eyes did not rise from her spindle. “And because you told me I would.”
Lachesis measured the length of the life of a man, into which Clotho had already spun the inability to properly use an apostrophe. He would be born in New York, spend most of his time in London, and get beaten to death by a drunken horde at a proofreaders’ convention. “Ah. Yes. I knew this.”
“You offer humor.” Atropos cocked her head to one side, considering. “I express my amusement.”
The others fixed her with a stare. “Exuberant,” one observed.
“Calm yourself,” said another. “He comes by the moment.”
The Fates resumed their work, anticipating.
Lachesis halted. “Where is Poppy?”
“In the back.”
“Vexing.”
“Easy now. He arrives.”
Apollo stepped from the portal into the Fates’ abode. The transition was utterly unremarkable. He wasn’t dizzy. There was no amazing light show or tumbling through any twisting conduits of swirling mists. In fact, there was no feeling of movement at all. It just worked, transparently, akin to the way that all software is supposed to work but never does. It was completely non-disorienting. In fact, it was so non-disorienting that it actually could be said to be orienting, were it not for the fact that its unexpected unremarkability was, in itself, so darned disorienting— which might possibly explain why this narrative goes to such lengths to describe something so unremarkable.
Apollo took a moment to blink as his eyes adjusted. The light was dimmer than the distant chamber on Olympus from whence he’d come, yet more florid. He stood amid a haze of color that shined through—or was emitted from—a wall of stained glass behind him. There was no portal there, no evidence of anything he’d actually stepped through, just glass and the distinctly bothersome thought that he might not be able to return under his own power. As he’d asked of her, Artemis had opened the door for him without following. If the Fates decided they didn’t want him to leave, he might be stuck.
So that was swell.
The Room was perfectly cubical. The really mind-boggling thing— and this was when the legitimate disorientation set in—was that the walls contained a space much larger than geometrically possible. A regulation soccer game could be played within the space between them, provided one removed the spiral staircase and table after table covered in carefully wrapped strings. Yet, somehow, the walls themselves appeared to measure no more than twenty feet long. It gave the distinct impression that if M. C. Escher attempted to walk a tape measure across one wall, he would throw up.
The less said about the Möbius balcony that encircled the place, the better.
While a god could gaze at the Room without going mad, Apollo in his diminished state figured he should stop gaping and get down to business before his eyeballs needed a Dramamine.
In the center of the room sat the Fates, beautiful crones of youthful maturity who paid him no heed as they spun, measured, and cut threads at a hummingbird’s pace. Figuring he couldn’t go wrong with proper etiquette, Apollo approached a few steps, bowed low, and addressed them.
“Honored Moirae, to whom wise Zeus gave greatest honor, weavers of destiny, ladies of Fate, I seek an audience. May I approach?”
The three turned their attention to him, continuing their work even so. Their eyes were clear black orbs, sharklike and deep.
“You have come,” spoke Clotho.
“You may approach,” spoke Lachesis.
“You will be disappointed,” spoke Atropos.
Apollo nodded, doing his best to hide his discouragement. “Then I thank you, for without disappointment, how can we know joy?”
The Fates were unimpressed with his dime-store philosophizing. He focused on why he came. “Ladies of Fate, I have come regarding Father Zeus’s murder, though I expect you may already know that. I must ask: Do you know how he was killed?”
Lachesis cocked her head. “Do you speak of the means or those responsible?”
“I refer to the means, but if you know the responsible party . . .”
The answer, when it came, was simultaneous. “No.”
Atropos was right; that was disappointing. “To the former,” he asked, “or the latter?”
“The latter,” spoke Atropos.
“As to the former,” Clotho began, “we suspect.”
“But we do not have confirmation,” Lachesis continued.
“Yet,” Atropos finished.
“Do you know of a living weapon that might end an immortal?” Apollo tried. “Pewter skin, perhaps this big, with glowing red eyes and a stinger?”
The three Fates quickly glanced at each other before Clotho and Lachesis turned back to their work. Only Atropos regarded him now. “You believe this to be the weapon that slew Zeus?”
Apollo hesitated. So far they’d answered his questions without a price, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Best to hold on to any answers he could trade for as long as possible. “I suspect.”
“But you do not have confirmation.”
“No.”
Atropos turned her attention completely to her work. Any minute now, Apollo expected, she would ask the source of his suspicion. In the meantime he pondered the wisdom of using that particular piece of knowledge as a bargaining chip. He was still pondering when he realized that she wasn’t going to ask at all.
“You would know more,” Atropos spoke finally.
“I would,” he answered, summoning up a few persuasive talking points. “Zeus was the king of all of us, more powerful than the rest of the Dodekatheon put together. An artifact that may slay a god represents a grave danger to all, to say nothing of the justice required for the murder of a king.”
Atropos regarded him with the boundless compassion of a stone wall. “Passionate entreaties hold no meaning in this place, godling. There is only what has been, is, and will be. You will ask each of us three more questions. No more. Then your time in this place will be ended.”
Ended?
He only barely managed not to speak it, lest he waste a question like some half-wit fairy-tale lummox. Apollo paused to consider the best use of the unexpectedly generous offer. Atropos had asked no price for their answers; he’d come expecting that much at least.
Of course, there was that ominously ambiguous “ended” bit. Don’t count your chimeras before they hatch, Apollo. Did chimeras hatch? He couldn’t recall. That was unsettling.
“Time is limited, godling,” Atropos warned. “You will ask your questions now.”
Apollo wished she wouldn’t call him “godling,” but he’d have to worry about his self-esteem later. (Styx! Even having to worry about that at all was humiliating.) Not without effort, he pushed his ego aside and seized on his first question.
“The living weapon I described: What is it?”
“The UnMaking Nexus,” Atropos said. “It was created long ago, commissioned in the last days of the Titan War, carved from a meteorite drawn of Saturn’s rings and imbued with the power to destroy an immortal. It was not completed until after the war and, as such, never used.” She gave the slightest scowl. “Disappointing.”
“Until now,” Apollo suggested.
“Perhaps.”
“Er, that was not a question.”
She nodded. “Nor was that. You will now ask your second question of Atropos.”
Great. Third-person. Atropos had some sort of slightly more lively Miss Manners thing going on. “Very well, then. Second question: Who created it?”
Shears ended more than fifty threads in rapid succession before the answer came. “It was our work, commissioned by Zeus.”
Again, he hesitated, absorbing that. If the Fates created the UnMaking Nexus, they might very well still have possession of it. It was even possible they were at the heart of the entire assassination. It hadn’t occurred to him until then. He cursed his exuberance in coming to the Fates so heedlessly.
Except, he thought, they claimed to only suspect that it was the weapon that killed Zeus, and the Fates did not lie . . . as far as he knew. Then again, he wasn’t exactly the right person to judge that for sure, and there was still that “ended” bit. Time for another question.
“What happened to the Nexus after you created it?”
“We presented the weapon to Zeus. Having no more use for it, he kept it secret. We know neither where nor how. You will ask no more questions of Atropos.” With that, she gathered up a corded group of threads, cutting through them all in one snip.
“Clown-car pileup,” she explained.
Apollo wondered whom he was to ask next. He then pondered what he was to ask next before catching Clotho’s stare from across the flying shuttle on her spinning wheel. Beginnings were her specialty. Zeus, he recalled, would begin again—if returning from death could be termed as such. Time to focus on that for the moment. After all, if the Fates were participants in Zeus's death, Apollo wasn’t likely to get out of the Room himself anyway. He may as well assume the Fates were at least still neutral.
He’d deal with the philosophical topic of optimism in the face of fatalism some other time.
“Is the effect of the Nexus permanent?” he asked of Clotho.
“To the unprepared, the UnMaking Nexus is utterly fatal.”
Now that sounded promising. “To the unprepared?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
“Yes, to the unprepared. There is a loophole, for those who are aware of it and prepare to use it. Immortality is the steel beam to the fragile mortal straw; it is not so easily and utterly broken. A resourceful immortal may yet return, should events play themselves out in time.”
“I assume you told Zeus of this loophole when you gave him the weapon.”
Clotho watched him as she worked, the corners of her lips turning into a faint smile. “You may assume what you wish, but assumption has little effect on reality outside of the stock market.”
“I actually meant that as a question.”
“Then you must ask it of Lachesis. You have asked three of me already.”
Apollo opened his mouth to protest as he made a quick mental tally and realized . . . Damnation.
“If my expressing contrition will aid your acceptance of this,” Clotho told him, “then I shall do so.”
Apollo frowned, deciding he was a half-witted lummox after all. At least he was still smarter than Ares. It was petty but comforting. “No, that’s all right. Thank you, Clotho.”
She nodded and turned away. Lachesis raised an expectant gaze from amid a tangle of threads, looking like nothing more than a kitten at play amid the lives of mankind. Apollo filed the metaphor in a mental drawer for later poetical expression. Or was it a simile? By the Styx, being diminished in this room was affecting his wits.
It occurred to him that the question of whether or not the Fates told Zeus of the loophole was moot. If Tracy’s vision was to be believed, Zeus was aware of it and even took steps to use it to protect himself. All well and good for Zeus, thought Apollo, but what if Ares and the others came after him with it?
“Hello, Lachesis.”
Lachesis merely met his gaze as she worked. All right, then.
“The loophole that keeps the Nexus’s strike from being fatal: How can I use it to protect myself?”
“You cannot, godling. You are diminished and no longer possess sufficient power to protect yourself. You will enjoy the irony.”
Ah, yes. Enjoy. Right. Prediction or demand? “If I’ll enjoy the irony, it will be at a far future date, I am sure.”
He sighed. So he was vulnerable, with no way to keep himself safe from a strike. On the other hand, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. “How is the god-killer used, exactly?” If he knew how to keep them from using it on him in the first place . . .
“With malice.”
“I was rather hoping for something a little more specific.”
“I am measuring life-threads for 255 mortals per minute, estimated. You will allow that I am somewhat preoccupied and will wait for the rest of the answer to your question in due time, godling.”
“Right. Sorry. You do it well, Lachesis.”
“Compliments are irrelevant.” Her lithe fingers rapidly drew out a number of threads along a measuring stick, knotted each at the ends, and set them aside for Atropos. “As the UnMaking Nexus is a living weapon, it must be fed before it may strike. It must be placed in a saucer of immortal blood and left alone. The blood must be of equal or greater generation to the intended target to ensure success. Once it has absorbed the blood, it will strike at the nearest immortal it can find. No further targeting can be effected.”
“That sounds a bit imprecise, like more of a grenade than a sword or an arrow.” He made sure it wasn’t a question, but if it coaxed a little more information from her, so much the better.
The eyes of Lachesis narrowed. “As we informed Zeus, when you craft a living weapon capable of slaying a god, you may criticize. Until then, you must accept what is.”
“On the contrary, it was no criticism. I might be at risk from this weapon, so it’s good to know that it can’t be easily aimed.”
“On the contrary?” she repeated. “So now you are arguing with the Fates. None argue with Fate and win, godling.”
“I wasn’t—that was not my intent at all, Lachesis.”
She turned her attention back to her work. “And now you correct me. You learn nothing.”
Apollo had to fight off the urge to waste his last question by asking if she was screwing with him. If she was trying to get him to do that, then she was screwing with him indeed. “I am but a youth compared to you, Lachesis. My wisdom is not nearly so grand.”
“So now you call me old? A crone, perhaps, unworthy of your respect?”
“You are old, Lachesis. As old as time, some say. None are more worthy of respect than you and your sisters.”
He smiled.
She stared.
“You are about to ask your final question of me,” she said at last. “Continue.”
Yes, now that you’ve gone and ruined my train of thought . . . He suddenly recalled something Thalia said back at the camp. “Which of the other Olympians have learned what knowledge from you about the Nexus?”
“You try to combine many questions into one.”
“I combine many inquiries into one question,” he said. “A subtle difference.”
“Argumentative.”
“Only slightly.”
“Impudent.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
Lachesis simply stared at him. Apollo stood his ground and said finally, “I would ask your forgiveness for any perceived impudence, but I am told that passionate entreaties hold no meaning in this place. Regardless, if my expressing contrition will aid your acceptance of this, then I will do so.” He fought the urge to wink. She turned her gaze back to the threads, measuring, measuring, measuring.
He waited.
“Upon taking his brother’s throne, Poseidon came before us with questions of his own.” Apollo simply waited this time, hoping for more, appreciating the rhyme. “He learned nothing.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “So then either he knows nothing of the Nexus at all . . . or else he already knew about it and you didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”
“Statements,” Lachesis said.
“Statements I would be deeply grateful for responses to, in truth,” he said, nodding. It was worth a shot.
She stared, perhaps predictably. “You used already twice in the same sentence,” she added finally.
“. . . Yes. Thank you.”
He looked around, trying to think of how he might glean any further information—if indeed the three held any that might be of use to him. He swiftly realized that looking around was exactly the wrong thing to do if he didn’t want the visuals to bend his mind to distraction.
“Marble floors,” he stalled. “Nice.” A bit cliché too, though he supposed the Fates probably did start using marble before the Olympians were even born, so he’d have to cut them some slack. In any case insulting their decor wasn’t likely to help his situation.
Or maybe it would. The Fates were tough to predict.
“You have asked your three questions. That is all you will ask of me. Now you will move on.”
Apollo nodded, frustrated that no grand ideas were coming to him. “Right, so I guess my time here is ended.”
“Incorrect.”
“Atropos said I would ask three questions of each of you, and then my time would be ended.” He had to stop a moment to reform the question he wished to ask into a statement. “I have asked three questions of you, Clotho, and Atropos.” He supposed he could have risked a fourth question, but as prickly as Lachesis was being, he thought it unwise. The Fates were under no obligation to let him go, after all.
“You do not understand.” With that, Lachesis turned from him, putting on a pair of earphones and listening to some unknown music. The conversation appeared to be over.
Yet, Apollo realized, he was still there and still un-“ended”. Immediately another question leaped to mind: What now?
The question of what sort of music the Fates liked to listen to leaped up immediately after that but got smacked down as pointless color.