She turned away, unable to hide the surge of feeling flushing her cheeks. Then a hand squeezed her shoulder.
‘Ahh, Lerna,’ said Telamon. ‘So many fond memories: nearly being eaten by a many-headed hydra, being chased from the Underworld by a flock of murderous furies then taken prisoner by a deposed king … joyful times.’
Hylas came to stand on Danae’s other side. ‘We should consider how best to approach the giants when we find them. God-haters or no, they might take some convincing.’
Atalanta leant on the ship’s rail. ‘I vote we ply them with wine. Always helps with negotiations.’
‘Once we’ve tracked them down, we’ll find a way to win them to our cause,’ said Danae. ‘I have faith in us.’
She gazed across the shining expanse of ocean, cracked gold by the sparse rays of sunlight fighting through the clouds. Soon, land would appear on the horizon, and somewhere to the north, amongst the vast reaches of earth, was Mount Olympus.
Just for a moment, the wind turned, and a whisper of whistling song pricked her ears. She smiled.
Finally, she was ready to face her destiny. And she didn’t have to do it alone.
Epilogue: The Day Prometheus Died
Far to the north-west of Greece, in the land of Epirus, lay the valley of Dodona.
Men used to say it was named after the river that flowed through the heart of the land, a gift from the Mother so her children would flourish. At the centre of this verdant valley nestled a grove of oaks. It was older than the gods. Older than the Titans. Older, even, than the dragons.
Before pilgrims flocked to Delphi, before coins were pressed into molten metal and buildings of stone towered over the plains, people would walk from far across the earth to lose themselves amongst those sacred trees and learn the secrets woven through their branches.
But that was long ago, before the old ways were forgotten.
Now mortals thought of fate as an immovable force, herding each person down a fixed path towards an inevitable destiny.
They were wrong.
But there was one man who remembered that the Moirae could be bargained with. For a price.
Zeus had resisted this journey for centuries, ever since Prometheus’ poisoned words first reached his ears. He knew the cost of altering fate was always a devastating sacrifice. Yet now he found himself with little choice.
The trees murmured as he approached the ancient grove, his crimson cloak encrusted with ice from the Caucasus Mountains. Hours before, he had stood beneath a crag on the highest peak, Prometheus’ corpse lying in the snow at his gilded feet.
Zeus slowed before the grove’s towering trunks, staring into the gloom between them. The way was barred by hair-thin strands, gleaming as though spun from liquid starlight. His eyes narrowed. He unpinned his cloak and let it fall in a ripple at his feet.
Breath slow and steady as a moon-tide, he contorted his body between the gaps in the web, careful not to touch a strand with even the tip of a finger.
Three steps in, his foot crunched on the forest floor. He paused. Something lay splintered beneath his golden boot. The remnants of a comb fashioned from bone and pearl. He gazed at it for a moment, then carried on twisting through the strands.
A breeze shivered through the ancient trees, ruffling their leaves and jingling the offerings sewn to their branches.
Gifts for the Moirae, rusted and rotted with time.
Hours passed, and sweat trickled down Zeus’ brow, stinging his eyes. His muscles ached like they had not done for centuries. There was a screech far above, and for a heart-rending moment he thought he had touched one of the strands. Then a dash of white flickered through the canopy. A snowy dove, its voice as harsh as its feathers were beautiful.
Quelling his racing heart, he pressed onwards.
Finally, he came to a clearing free of webs and was able to stand upright and stretch his limbs. In the centre was a vast oak, thicker and taller than its brethren guarding it from the world. Around its base, like a row of bronze teeth, was a circle of tripod cauldrons, their metal rims touching.
Zeus tilted his face to the torso-thick branches shrouded in darkness and waited.
An acorn dropped from the tree, tumbling into the belly ofone of the cauldrons. A clang echoed from within, chiming around the ring of bronze in a dissonant wave.
Out of the harsh, metallic chords came a voice, fractured in three parts.
What brings you to our grove, son of Kronos?
