‘You never wanted me to succeed.’
‘That is not true.’
Telamon and Atalanta began to move towards their weapons.
‘This is a trap.’ The ache in Danae’s chest burned into a furnace. ‘You’re keeping me here until he comes, aren’t you?’
Metis’ eyes shone with tears as she shook her head. ‘I am on your side … all I ask is that you spare my daughter. She can change, I know she can. If I can only teach her like I have taught you, show her the way of the Mother …’
You know what you must do, said the voice.To fulfil your destiny.
A high-pitched keening rang in Danae’s ears, her insides hardening to iron. ‘They are all complicit! They all hoard life-threads and murder mortals.’ Her own life-threads thrummed through her body, like a stampede. ‘Your daughter has an ocean of blood on her hands. Every person her priestesses condemned, every family starving to pay her temple tithe, every mortal she drained to sustain her power.’
‘I can bring her to the light,’ Metis whispered. ‘Please … have mercy.’
Her love obscures the truth, said the voice.A mother would never let you harm her child.
Persephone blazed into Danae’s mind, twitching as the last of her life drained away. She could almost feel the goddess’s blood lapping over her feet, washing over her limbs until it smothered her. Then the imprint of bony fingers raked across her scalp and the ghost of a memory whispered,Hello, little Titan.
The stone floor cracked. Dust and shards of rock fell from the ceiling, the hut shaking as life-threads pulsed from Danae into the ground.
‘You preach the way of the Mother but all you care about is your own miserable life. How dare you hide on this barren rock rather than use your power to right the world you helped wrong. While you make little rock piles from the safety of your island, people are dying at the hands of the false gods.’ Her hands shook as she stretched a finger towards Metis. ‘You are a coward.’
‘Control yourself!’ shouted Metis.
But all Danae could see was burning gold.
‘Out!’ yelled Atalanta. ‘Everyone out!’
Metis threw out a whorl of life-threads from each hand to twist like vines around Danae. She was thrown backwards through the entrance. Then Atalanta and Telamon burst from the hut, hauling Heracles between them.
Danae lay on the ground, Metis’ power binding her own. There was no space for breath, for patience, for asking, as rage burned through her soul.
As she struggled, the violence in her body trickled away, leaving weariness in its wake. Then the pressure holding her evaporated.
There was a colossal crash, and Metis’ hut imploded in a cloud of dust and grit.
Metis released her, and Danae pushed herself to her feet, facing the wreckage of the stone hut, now nothing but a pile of boulders. Telamon, Atalanta and Heracles stood together on the edge of the hillside, their faces smeared with dust.
‘Look what you’ve done,’ Metis spat, her forehead bloodied by a falling rock. ‘I should have known, the day I caught you draining the ichor from that lizard –’
Danae barked out a bitter laugh. ‘Not the damned lizard again.’
‘It matters!’ Metis’ chest heaved. ‘If you still don’t understand that, then perhaps Gaia made a mistake.’
‘Come now,’ Telamon edged forward, his hands raised, ‘let’s not say things we’ll regret …’
The hillside groaned, and they all staggered back as the remnants of the hut collapsed, belching ash and smoke into the air.
Night had come. A sliver of moon hung in the sky, a twin to the crescent bruises marking Danae’s palms. The others were silent, the aftermath of the fight splattered across their faces like tar thrown at a fresco.
Metis regarded Danae with ice-cold fury. ‘When dawn comes, you will all leave.’
Danae lifted her chin. ‘Gladly.’
33. A Gilded Cage
Two weeks after Hermes brought news of Hades and Persephone’s demise, Hera trod the mosaic path through the sprawling central garden, the heat of the stones radiating through her sandals. Around her, the walls of the palace of Olympus reared into the sky, a seamless monolith of shining marble balustrades and golden columns. She, Zeus, Poseidon, Hades and Demeter had dragged the stone from deep within the earth, sculpting it with the power of their life-threads. It had taken a decade to complete, and thousands of mortal slaves had been sacrificed, their ichor the Olympians’ chisels.
