Thalyria today. Attica, Atlantis, or even Tartarus tomorrow.Who knows?
I’m a pawn. Griffin is a pawn. Probably in what was a moment of curiosity for them, the Gods threw idealistic optimism and bleak-hearted cynicism together and waited to see what would happen next, which one of us would temper the other.
Are they surprised to find that Griffin’s loyalty and steadfastness won out over my distrust and doubt? If they are, they’re idiotic and, once again, don’t understand the human heart. What every person longs for is a connection, whether they’ll admit it or not. I’ll bet even Mother does, deep down, somewhere in her most secret and lonely thoughts.
I stop and reach out but don’t touch the image of Griffin, too afraid of disturbing the magic with my dried blood. I need to get back to him, to what we’re meant to do. My speculation about the Gods and their motives is worthless if I’m stuck on a cliffside in Tartarus. In fact, my guesswork doesn’t matter at all, because the Fates have already laid down their map. All that matters is whatIdo next. Which pathIchoose.
And I know exactly where I’m going, which means I need my wings back.
I watch Griffin through time and space and magic, mentally commanding my obstinate wings to spring free. I demand forcefully. I coax. I try using compulsion on myself, but apparently I can’t control my own mind, at least not in that way. My heart and psyche converge, and I focus so intently on Griffin, yearning for him, that tears cloud my vision. Nothing I do works. Hours pass with no more success than before, and fear and anxiety at my lack of progress start to creep through me like a poisonous vine.
Apart from when the wings were shocked out of me by some Olympian force, I’ve only felt any evidence of them with Griffin—when something he did made me feel treasured, or needed, or loved. He’s here with me now, in a sense, but it’s not the same, and it doesn’t give me whatever magical potion of emotion I need to set my wings to beating.
I worry my lower lip with nervous bites. I pace. I curse. Griffin sits like a dark statue in the night-blanketed room until dawn finally breathes pale colors across his face. He looks awful, like he hasn’t slept in weeks.
I don’t know what to do. Ares smacked me in the chest, and my wings popped out. I thump my own chest. Again. Harder. It doesn’t work.
Not entirely sure it’s a good idea, I point a lightning bolt at myself. I let fly, and the hot, bright flash of magic doesn’t do anything to me, not even singe my grubby clothing.
Bollocks! Bollocks again!
I turn to Prometheus. The eagle will be coming soon, and the Titan is watching me with a sort of blank insistence that makes me wonder if he sees anything at all.
Our eyes meet from across the short distance of sheer cliff, and my heart turns over heavily in my chest. He’s suffering. He’s so close to me, but so completely unreachable as well.
“Fly,” he whispers for the hundredth time.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Any ideas how?”
“Fly,” he says with more intensity, his eyes wide and emphatic now.
Huh. He’s as helpful as everyone else.
CHAPTER 27
Four and a half Thalyrian days, two livers, and no wings later, I make a shallow slice across my palm, dip a finger from my other hand into the gathering pool of blood, and then draw a second square of symbols onto the cliffside wall. When myopenis complete, I think of Ianthe.
The magic is so easy with just a small trace of my blood. She appears before me instantly, and I exhale the restlessness I’d been harboring in my chest since the moment she left with Lycheron. I’d needed to see her, to be sure she was all right.
Her head is tipped forward for the moment, and her loose hair obscures my view of her face. She’s in a dress unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, like she’s wrapped in a fluffy, white cloud from the neck down. It’s cinched at the waist with a ropelike sash, and to be honest, I’d want to live in a garment like that if I had one. Maybe it’s Nymph gear, or something Lycheron picked up somewhere else. Magical creatures aren’t bound to their world like humans are. Olympus is their universal hub, just like for the Gods.
It’s well past dusk wherever she is on the Fisan border, and another day in Thalyria is crawling toward night. Unlike Griffin, who only sits in the dark, Ianthe moves from candle to candle, illuminating her tent. Her surroundings look comfortable, truly cozy and warm. I see a table and chairs, a bathing corner with a big brass tub it must have taken a few Ipotane to carry in there, a pile of books, and a chest for clothes.
Lycheron gains a few points in my book—and Iamkeeping score—because he obviously supplied Ianthe with whatever she needed after she left us with nothing but the clothes on her back, not even her protective pearls.
I touch them at my waist. Even here, I wear them to protect Little Bean from outside influences. No compulsion can get through them, no mind control or planted thoughts. Mother can’t reach my baby. With any luck, the Gods can’t, either.
In Ianthe’s tent, the remnants of a one-person meal wait on a tray, ready to be taken out. Ianthe obviously ate alone, and I wonder where Lycheron is. He didn’t look like he was planning on letting her out of his sight when he galloped off with her…what? Two months ago now?
Of that time, I’ve been in Tartarus far too long. The tangle of nerves in my abdomen draws ever tighter, and it isn’t Little Bean doing something odd. She only kicked that once, and if I couldn’t feel the steady hum of her life force inside me, I’d be terrified she was gone. She’s just not growing here, not changing at all while I try to figure out how to get us both home.
Far from me and yet only a few feet away, Ianthe moves a painted screen of folding panels off to one side and then lights the candles near the previously concealed bed. It’s not so much a bed as a large pallet of cushions and furs, the luxurious pile thick enough to be nicely raised off the rug-covered ground. It looks like something a weary body could sink into and not want to get out of for days. The bulky, warm weight of the golden fleece crowns off the bedding, sprawled haphazardly across the top.
The tawny, one-of-a-kind treasure reminds me so much of Kato that something painful roars across my chest. My heart screams, and it’s all I can do not to scream along with it.
Blinking hard, I push past the tear in my soul and focus again on Ianthe instead, watching her as she continues to chase the shadows from her snug little corner of the world. When she finishes her tasks around the tent, she sets the candle she was using to light the others down on the table and then looks up, seemingly right at me.
I take in every detail of her face. The straight nose, the green eyes, the small but stubborn chin. I miss her. I lost her too soon and then found her too late. I fear our time will never come.
