Carver squatted next to her, nodding. This close to the horse figurines, he couldn’t get over how lifelike they looked. Such perfect replicas and yet so static, which was the opposite of what they needed right now. “His brother was only thinking after the fact, after he’d already messed something up and created some big problem.”
“Prometheus is theforethinker. Epimetheus is theafterthinker.” Looking over at him, Bel frowned. “But I’m not sure how that helps.”
“Pro was always having to clean up his brother’s messes. Ortrying to stop them before they happened, like when Epimetheus stupidly accepted the gift of Pandora from Zeus.”
“The poisoned gift.” She wrinkled her nose as if to sourly sayZeus again.
Carver felt his face twist with the same reservations. The King of Olympus wasn’t the easiest deity to support. Unfortunately, Hera had gone too far in making it personal. If Bel had hesitated before, between cursing Cat, the automaton attack on them, and Hera’s treatment of Cleito, Hera had lost Bel’s potential sympathy. His too. But hadn’t Zeus committed unforgivable crimes against individuals? Just becausetheyhadn’t been the targets didn’t make his actions excusable. But that was also lifetimes ago—and worlds away, in many cases. Zeus’s crimes were far in the past now, ancient history with two thousand years of distant but inoffensive governing of humanity since then. If Zeus had managed to evolve for the better, it seemed that Hera had gone in the opposite direction. She was betraying her sacred duties to humanityright now. She was crossing lines,right now, and that made hard choices easier.
“Pandora came with a jar,” Bel murmured. “We all know she opened it, and everything evil flew out and escaped into the worlds.”
“Everythingevilflew out.Onething stayed in the jar,” Carver said pointedly. “Elpis—hope.”
Their eyes met, and hers widened. “We’reTeam Elpis. Or we were—with Pro.”
His pulse sped up. The quest to try to reverse Hera’s curse on Cat and her unborn child was what made them friends and partners with Prometheus. They’d lived under the same roof but barely spent any time together before that. “Hope stayed in Pandora’s jar and held on. It remained there, waiting and ready for whoever wanted to reach for it.”
“So is Pro telling us we need to try to reach for our horses somehow?Insidetheir jar?” Her brow knitting, she picked up the statue of Arete—or the vessel possibly containing her essence. “The spirit of hope is intangible, but it can be personified. Look at Cat. She’s Elpis, but she’s real.”
“Turned into flesh and bone.” Carver reached for the statue of Zeph, his hand almost trembling. The Elpis connection—the living spirit, contained—seemed so obvious now. He could almost see Prometheus shaking his head and grumbling about it taking them so long to understand.
“We still don’t know how to free the horses and make them life-sized and animate again.”
Carver turned the carving of Zeph over in his hands. The miniature was so realistic, every detail perfect right down to the little swirling cowlick in the center of his blaze. A decade’s worth of friendship, comfort, loyalty, and adventure twisted through him as he carefully looked for a latch or opening, something they might’ve missed before. The flood of memories dug a painful hole in his chest and filled the ache with all the people and places he missed. His throat thickened as he inspected the figurine, not seeing anything new but feeling too much.
After a while, he stood the statuette back on the ground, shaking his head. “I was so sure…” Loss stabbed his heart. Suddenly having Zeph within grasp and not being able to free him brought on an avalanche of grief Carver hadn’t expected at all.
“There has to be a mechanism. Keep looking.” Bel focused on Arete, little flames of concentration licking over her arms and shoulders and glowing in her hair. She pushed on one stiff ear, then the other, then both at the same time. Nothing changed, and she ran her finger down the mare’s black mane from ears to shoulders and then down her back. She pressed on the tail, triedto lift it like a handle, then gently twisted each stiff leg. A soft growl of frustration left her. “Nothing. I don’t understand.”
Despite Bel not having any success, either, Carver picked up Zeph again, systematically poking and prodding from ears to hooves until he finally reached the narrow underside between Zeph’s two front legs. He held his breath, the woods suddenly going quiet around him as all his focus condensed.
There.A light, rhythmicthudagainst his fingertip. His own heart thudded back.
“There’s a heartbeat,” he whispered, turning to Bel. “And where does hope live…”
“If not in the heart?” Her eyes widened, shimmering with magic. She slid her finger behind Arete’s front left leg and waited, concentrating. “I feel it, too.” A brilliant smile blazed across her face.
Holding his breath, his pulse racing, Carver pressed on the spot that barely thumped under his finger. He heard a faint click, and the figurine’s back, seamless a second ago, opened. Hope lurched inside him as a silvery-white smoke rose from the statue, growing, taking form, and then turning into a galloping Zeph. The clomp of hooves was too real not to believe. A knot cinched painfully around his heart. He’d barely let himself think about Zeph, thisfriendwho’d gone everywhere with him for a decade, who’d carried him on his back, who’d protected him, and who’d been loyal to his own detriment more times than Carver could count. But there he was—Zephyrus—in the flesh. Carver’s throat closed over so fast he couldn’t utter a sound.
“Zeph!” Bel called out. She gave a sharp whistle, and the stallion skidded to a halt at the far side of the clearing. He turned, shaking himself out.
Seeing them, Zephyrus trotted back, nickering softly and puffing out a few snorts. He was all geared up and ready to go,even carrying what looked like some weapons and supplies. He tossed his head, as if protesting his long confinement, but he came straight to Carver and stopped just like no time had passed at all.
Carver reached out, his eyes hot and stinging. Zeph offered his muzzle, blowing warm horse breath into Carver’s open palm. Carver lifted his other hand and stroked Zeph’s neck. “Hello, old friend.” His voice wavered, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head against Zeph’s mane and inhaling his warm, grassy scent. He swallowed hard, Zeph’s much-needed presence seeping into him like a healing tonic his mother or sister might’ve made him when he was feeling ill.
Not opening his eyes, Carver heard the soft click as Bel freed Arete from her figurine stable. She greeted the mare with happy words and strong pats, and Arete snuffled and snorted back. Carver didn’t look up. He couldn’t. He just stood there, his forehead against Zeph’s neck and Zeph’s head draped over his shoulder, images of home swimming in his head. The house he grew up in. His village. His family. All the laughter and heartache they’d shared, all the triumphs and losses. All the hope and dread.
Finally, he took a shuddering breath and pulled himself upright. Zeph swung his head to the side and sniffed Arete. She sniffed him back.
“They’re even saddled.” Bel stroked Arete’s nose, smiling. “Pro thought of everything.”
“Check your girth before you mount,” Carver said hoarsely. It was automatic. It was the same thing he’d said to Bel every day for months even though she was as accomplished a rider as he was. He’d done it to annoy her at first. Then it had just seemed…necessary.
“Carver?” He turned, hoping his eyes didn’t look as wet asthey felt. “I’m glad you have your friend back.” She left it at that, but he felt compassion billow off her like the warmth of a winter fire in a home hearth.Hishome. His fire.
He nodded his thanks, his throat too thick to talk.
They checked their tack then mounted. They wouldn’t make it out of the woods tonight, but they’d make good progress. He cleared his throat. “Ready?”
