Discord’s Apple (34 page)

“I defer to your wisdom, old friend.”

“Your face,” the old man said. “It’s just like it was. Oh—” His eyes widened, a new realization overcoming him. “It isn’t you. You—you’re Athena in disguise. My lady, you’ve made yourself look like Sinon—why? What message do you have for me?”

“I’m not—Odysseus, my lord, I really am—” He looked away, tears pricking his eyes. He should not have come. He should not have disturbed an old man with ghosts.

He straightened. He tried to make his gaze and manner as imperious as Athena’s. “Rest easy, my friend. I only wished to look upon you and see that you are well.”

“I am well. But tired. Very tired, and haunted by too many ghosts.”

Sinon squeezed the old man’s shoulder, then returned to his room, where he lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling.

The next morning, Telemachus’s mood seemed subdued. Or Sinon may only have imagined that it was. His family acted no differently, as they would have if anything had been wrong. Prometheus was the same, but he no longer carried his leather satchel. So Telemachus had accepted the task of guarding the artifacts. Sinon wondered what the immortal had told him to convince him to say yes. Perhaps the man felt some sort of overwhelming sense of duty.

The family breakfasted. Odysseus didn’t join them. After, Telemachus saw them off at the gate of the manor. He offered them a few days’ provisions. They accepted, as befitted the laws of hospitality. When Sinon blessed Telemachus and his house, he did so without calling on the gods, so the words would be true. Outside Olympus, no one had noticed the destruction of the gods. And what did that say?

Prometheus commented on this, as they walked the road to the village. “You didn’t name any gods to bless him.”

“Of course not.”

“It sounded strange, don’t you think?”

He hadn’t called upon the gods in a long time. It didn’t sound strange at all. He shook his head.

“What will you do now?” Prometheus asked.

Before coming here, Sinon had thought he might settle down, farm, find a wife, as he’d been destined to do at his birth. But he couldn’t do that now.

He could see the ocean from here. “Maybe I can hire onto a boat. See if I remember how to sail. Travel to the ends of the earth. How does that sound?”

“It sounds marvelous,” Prometheus said. “I commend that plan.”

Which, surprisingly, made Sinon feel a little better. “What will you do?”

“I think I’ll travel as well.” He didn’t look across the water, though, but up, neck craned back, squinting into the sun. “To the sky, the stars. There are other worlds than this one. I’d like to see them.”

He would go to live among the constellations, the myths and legends preserved in the night sky. A fitting end to his story. In the coming nights, Sinon would look for a new collection of stars.

“Will you ever return?”

“I doubt it. I don’t think humankind needs my help anymore. Or wants it, really.”

They reached a fork in the road, one branch leading to the village and the other leading to the hills, where shepherds took their sheep and goats to graze. Prometheus offered his hand, and Sinon gripped his wrist, as if they were two friends on the road, and nothing more.

“I leave you here. Live well, Sinon of Ithaca,” Prometheus said, then departed along the path that led to the hills.

Sinon watched him for a moment, thought of running after him, to beg him to take him along—
there’s nothing left on earth for me now.
But Prometheus’s departure seemed much like a dismissal. If the immortal had wanted a companion, he would have offered to take Sinon along.

Sinon went to the village and the ocean, hired onto a ship setting sail for Egypt, and left Ithaca forever.

Evie awoke cradled in Alex’s lap. She curled around the box, covering it with her body. He draped one arm across her back, and with the other hand he stroked her head, running his fingers through her hair. He was singing softly, absently, the notes faltering. The words were lilting—Greek.

He sat propped against a slab of gray rock.

She stirred. He drew his hands away; she missed them. She could have stayed cradled with him forever, and with him, that really meant something.

Their rock was one of many set in a wide circle. They were old, lichen covered, weathered. Lintels joined some, and broken slabs lay about. Farther out, lower marker stones were scattered on a plain of green grass, the color deep and striking against the slate of the stones, and the rolling gray clouds of the overcast sky. The breeze was warm, summerlike. It should have been—it used to be—December. It should have been cold.

Merlin had sent them to Stonehenge—but it wasn’t, because the plain overlooked an ocean. A cliff sloped down to a rocky beach where waves rushed and crashed. The air smelled of salt and seaweed. There were no roads, no gift shop, no barriers to keep out the graffiti artists. They were cast into a desolate world. A desolate time.

“What is this?”

“I think it’s Stonehenge. Or it used to be Stonehenge. Or it will be—” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I used to be able to recognize it when the gods played with time.”

She started to sit up, then changed her mind. The moment was so peaceful, she should be able to rest. Like Tess of the d’Urbervilles, who slept at Stonehenge before they came to hang her.

“It’s all gone,” she said, her face pressed against Alex’s thigh. Irrationally, she thought of her laptop on the coffee table. She laughed, and pinched her nose to keep the sound from turning into a sob. “I’ll never find out what happens to Tracker.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not really. I keep writing to see what happens next.”

“Then tell me. Tell me now what happens to her.”

She did, the last pages of storyline, Tracker’s trek across Siberia, her loneliness, confusion, the desperation as she signaled for the helicopter, betting her life that whoever she called would help her and not kill her, and that moment when she saw the American flag, the symbol she’d devoted her life to, and didn’t know if it meant she was saved or damned. And she didn’t know what happened next. She hadn’t decided if the men in the helicopter were good guys or bad guys. It was such a little tragedy.

“I can’t decide if the end should be happy or sad,” she said. “By all rights, Talon should step out of the helicopter and save her. That should be his uniform she sees. But it seems too easy. She spent the whole book learning how to save herself.”

“I think it should have a happy ending. She learned to save herself, yes. But she can still get help now and then,” he said. “I’d like your story to have a happy ending.”

Me, too,
she thought. “I hope Arthur and Merlin are okay.” She didn’t think she’d ever see them again. She and Alex had been yanked out of the old world and brought to a new one. She hoped they arrived here, too, and were just somewhere
else. And Bruce, and everybody, and the world could get back to normal.

“I imagine they are,” he said absently. His touch against her scalp was hypnotic, and she let it lull her.

He said, “Was it worth it? Was that what you were meant to save?”

“Yes.” It had to be. It had to be enough. She stroked the edge of the box. It called to her; it was hers to keep and protect.

“What is it?”

She sat up, but stayed close to him, tucked under his arm. “Pandora’s box.”

His whole body tensed, a panicked flinch. “And that’s supposed to save us?”

“Shh.” Her father had been right. About everything, and the instinct spoke true after all. This was everything. They had saved it all. She unhooked the latch and opened the box.

Alex jerked, trying to reach around her to slam the lid shut, but she shifted, blocking him.

“It’s okay. You know the stories—it has only one thing left inside. The only thing worth saving.” Inside, resting on a piece of raw wool padding, was a small gem glowing with pure white light. No larger than a thumbnail, yet it filled her whole vision. “It’s hope.”

She closed the lid and latched it. The clouds swept across the sky, part of a storm, but the storm was passing. Low rumbles of thunder were distant.

“Wait here.” Alex eased away, preparing to stand. The back of his T-shirt was still covered with blood, where Robin had stabbed him. The blood shone wetly—was still damp. So not too much time could have passed.

When he saw her staring at the mess, he grumbled, and pulled the shirt off, showing his tanned, muscular body that had been fighting for three thousand years.

He still had the sword he’d claimed in the Storeroom.
Holding it ready, he moved a dozen paces away and looked intently up the coast.

A figure approached, a woman in a black evening gown, a chiffon scarf dancing behind her in the wind. She should have had trouble walking across the soft earth in high heels, but she came with smooth, untroubled steps, her chin lifted, her arms easy at her sides.

Alex waited in a ready stance, standing guard. There, at last, Evie saw it: the Greek warrior who must have stood on the beach before Troy, his body sculpted, the muscles of his arms tensed, holding his sword at the ready, gripped easily in his hand. His face was calm.

The woman stopped, her gaze resting on Evie, who clutched Pandora’s box, then on Alex.

“You live,” she said, smiling. “It took me forever to find you. Relatively speaking.”

“But it’s only been a few—,” Evie began, but Hera silenced her with a look that clearly made a comment regarding Evie’s ignorance.

“I’ve vowed to protect her,” Alex said, indicating Evie over his shoulder. “If you come any closer, I will strike you.”

“Me? You worshipped me at your hearth fire when you were a boy. Your mother held your hand to help you light the offering. And you would strike me?”

“I’ve learned so much since then. We’re no different, you and I.”

She reached, like she was going to touch his cheek. He recoiled, leveling the sword’s point as a barrier between them.

“Oh, we are different. You are still afraid, and I am not.”

She slashed with her hand, an arc of motion across his middle. He parried, but she cut him without touching him, without coming close to his sword. The skin parted. Blood welled and dripped. He grunted and stepped back, holding his belly with one hand, keeping the sword leveled with the other.
Then he straightened, ran his hand along the wound—and he was whole. The cut healed. Gripping the sword two-handed, he lunged, driving the point at her.

As easily as she might have touched the wind, she pushed his arm aside, stepped out of the way, and threw him. He flew back, smashing into one of the standing stones. A bloody wound flowered on his temple.

He looked up, glaring. His breath came hard, hissing through clenched teeth. He scrambled to put himself back between Evie and Hera.

Evie watched, awe-filled and trembling. She—her family—weren’t supposed to be part of the stories. They were keepers of the stories. But that world was gone now, wasn’t it? Magic was real, all the sparking, hand-waving, spell-weaving magic of the stories was real.

Hera raised her hand, and with the motion Alex levitated. Hovering a foot off the ground, he struggled in an invisible grip, cutting with his sword, kicking with his feet. She flattened her hand, and he slammed back against the stone and stayed there. His arms wrenched back, wrists against the stone, riveted as if held by chains. He grimaced with the pressure and dropped the sword.

They’d escaped. They’d earned a happy ending—as happy as the situation allowed. But Hera had found them. It wasn’t fair.

Evie hesitated, part of her wanting to run away, take what was left of the Storeroom and try to escape, to protect it.

But she couldn’t leave Alex.

“Let him go,” she said. Fear made her voice soft. “Leave him alone.”

He decided he wanted to die when he heard of the Great Alexander’s death. There’d never again be anyone worth following,
worth dying for. He fought in the army that had conquered every corner of the world his people knew at that time. He gladly followed the general who reminded him so much of the heroes of his youth, the legends who occupied so many songs and stories. He’d thought perhaps another age of legends was upon them. But history had replaced mythology, Herodotus instead of Homer, and Alexander died. Sinon took his name as a memorial and began to look for a way to die himself. Because it was the only work he knew, he fought as a mercenary in a hundred armies over the next thousand years. He never found another hero to follow.

But he would follow Evie.

After all this time, Sinon—Alex—found he was afraid. He didn’t want to die after all. Evie stood nearby. She seemed waiflike in her jeans and sweater, her brown hair tangled in the breeze, her skin pale, chilled. He wanted to tell her to run. But where could she go? Hera would find her. He had to protect her.

Fine job of that he was doing, pinned to a slab of rock. He hadn’t dealt with the gods on their terms in a long time. He’d forgotten what they were like—children, pulling the wings off flies. How could the fly fight back?

Hera turned her hand, and he slid to the ground, his back scraping on the stone. His feet touched earth again, but he remained immobilized. Step by easy step she approached, and he realized she could kill him. All that remained was to see how she did it.