There were figures moving around it. Twelve specters in hooded cloaks. Eleven stepped back as one moved closer, raising their arms to touch the trunk. The figure’s threads began to flow into its bark, and slowly the cloaked phantom dissolved into the tree. Suddenly, the tapestry around Danae bubbled. The life-threads bulged, then became hands, reaching, grabbing, tearing at the fruit. The remaining figures were dragged down and consumed until nothing stood between the tree and the gluttonous fingers.
A scream swelled inside her, but she had no mouth to release it. They were going to destroy the tree. She could not let that happen.
The pressure became so intense she thought she would explode. Then the tree ignited. Its threads burst into flames and blazed so brightly it was blinding. But she couldn’t look away, she had no head to turn or eyes to close. The hands cringed from the burning fruit, but they couldn’t escape the inferno. Nothing could.
She watched, while everything burned.
15
The Last Daughter
Pain forked across Danae’s skull. Something hard pressed against her face. It took her a moment to realize it was the floor. She was back in her body, inside the chamber of the oracle.
Her thoughts blazed, flames ghosting her vision. It felt like she’d touched the mind of a god.
Something was different. Her head still spun with the heady scent of the room, but the air was cooler, clearer. Then she was yanked off the ground and as the room tilted the right way up, she saw the stone floor was now coated with a fine black powder and tiny pieces of obsidian rock.
The oracle was gone.
The walls of the sanctum were cracked, and a scar ran along the floor where the crevasse containing the oracle had been. It was sealed so tightly, no vapors could escape.
She became aware of voices and movement around her. She twisted to see an armor-clad guard holding her arms behind her back. Four more guards in maroon cloaks rushed in through the now open door, swords drawn, all pointed at her. Behind them was a priestess of Apollo. Then she noticed the Pythia being held against the wall by a sixth guard.
“I don’t understand,” Danae shouted. “Tell me what the vision means!”
The Pythia laughed, her hoarse cackle echoing around the walls. The guard holding her smothered her mouth, then dragged her from the chamber.
“No!” Danae struggled, but her guard held her tight. “Please help me!”
Sobs heaved her chest, her mind still a cacophony of burning gold. She’d come to Delphi believing she would be cured. She’d never dreamed her curse would destroy the oracle.
The cell was damp and devoid of sunlight. The only light trickled in through a grate in the door from a wall-mounted brazier in the corridor outside. It was completely bare and stank of stale human waste.
Danae knew she was underground. She hadn’t felt the warmth of the sun since they blindfolded her, then marched her at sword point from the inner sanctum. She could feel the weight of the city pressing down on her. Every part of her revolted at being below, like she was a dead thing buried in the ground.
She stayed sprawled where they’d thrown her for some time and forced herself to relive what had happened.
She’d touched the oracle. It had shown her a vision: the tapestry of light, the tree, the strange hooded figures, the reaching hands, and her burning them all. While experiencing it, she’d felt so powerful. Now the image horrified her. She didn’t know how she had done it, but she knew she had destroyed the oracle.
The shriek of wood grating on stone pulled her away from the vision and back to the cell. She shuffled away from the door until she smacked into the wall. A priestess stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the flickering brazier light. Four armed guards fanned out behind her, two carrying flaming torches. They shut the door and flanked the entrance, while the other two grabbed Danae’s arms. She had no strength left to fight them.
Slowly, the priestess moved toward her and knelt, placing a small wooden box on the ground. She undid the clasp and opened the lid.
A hiss issued from inside the box. Despite the cold, a trickle of sweat ran down Danae’s back. The priestess reached inside and drew out a snake. Danae would have screamed if her throat hadn’t been locked with fear. The serpent’s scales were bloodred, and a black diamond crowned its flat head, repeating down the length of its body. It moved lazily, winding its way around the priestess’s fingers, clinking her gold rings.
A high-pitched ringing exploded in Danae’s ears. She squirmed.
“Keep her still.” The priestess moved forward.
Finally, Danae found her voice. “No, please! I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry, please don’t...”
The guards tightened their grip.
“It’s just a little scratch.” The priestess spoke as though she were soothing a frightened child.
The rough stone wall raked Danae’s back as the priestess lowered the snake, and pain jolted through her forearm. The guards let go, and by the time she blinked, the priestess was fastening the lid of the box.
Danae looked down at the two red pinpricks swelling on her skin. The priestess sank back on her heels and peeled the veil away from her face. She was beautiful, her skin golden, her irises so dark they were almost black.
