Styxx (DH #33) (43 page)

“And I see the faces of all those I couldn’t save. The faces of those who stared into my eyes as they died by my hand. Who am I to stand as their executioner?”

“You are Styxx of the House of the most famed Aricles, the prince and heir of Didymos. And one day, you will be king. Who better to rule the kingdom than a man who realizes he isn’t a god and who knows the value and sacrifice of those who serve him and protect his people?”

“I don’t feel like a prince, Galen.” He felt like a tired whore.

“And that, Highness, is what makes you the worthiest to wear your father’s crown.”

Styxx laughed bitterly. “I wish I saw myself through your eyes.” His saw only his flaws and shortcomings.

To his shock, Galen pulled him forward until their cheeks touched and held him in a fatherly embrace. Then Galen kissed his head and released him. He set his wine down on Styxx’s desk and retrieved his flute. “You should try and sleep, Highness. The morning light will bring more battle to our swords.”

And more ghostly shades to haunt and plague his conscience …

May 24, 9531 BC

Invisible to the humans around her, Bethany picked her way through the Greek camp, looking for Hector. She kept hearing his name, but every time, it was another soldier they called. Apparently, it was an extremely popular name among the Greeks.

Frustrated and angry, she paused as she found herself outside Prince Styxx’s tent that was guarded by four men.

Really? The Greeks hated him
that
much?

Disgusted, she glanced around at the men who slept in the open and fought for him while he used them to bring comforts from home at their expense and effort. And one of those packhorses was probably her beloved Hector. Her anger rising at his pompousness, she entered the tent, and froze.

This was not the lush environment she’d envisioned for a young prince. The tent was empty except for a strategy desk, maps, a handful of folding chairs, a small washing basin, his arms mannequin, and a plain soldier’s pallet on the ground.

He didn’t even have a pillow.…

Already dressed in his black armor, Styxx was lacing on his greaves. Alone.

Where were his servants?

His hair was much shorter than it’d been months ago when she’d first seen him fighting with Athena. He’d cropped it so short that it held no hint of his thick blond curls. And he was no longer clean-shaven. Because of the helmet he’d worn yesterday, she hadn’t seen that his sculpted cheeks, upper lip, and chin were covered with dark whiskers. He smelled of oil, blood, sweat, leather, and horse. A far cry from Hector’s pleasant masculine scent.

As he armed himself, there was no fear in this prince. Only a quiet torment that tugged at the edges of her heart. His eyes were shadowed with an inner turmoil and a raw intelligence that few mortals held. He looked far wiser than his young years.

As he straightened up, he grimaced and placed his hand to his injured side. He took several quick, ragged breaths before he expelled an elongated one and subdued his misery. He reached for his swords and buckled them on. His heavily defined biceps and shoulders rippled with every move he made.

Why do you fascinate me so
? She couldn’t understand it, especially since her heart was already claimed by an innocent, sweet boy. It made no sense. Perhaps because the prince and Hector were about the same height. And their voices were similar …

Both were blonds with lean, ripped bodies.

Bethany sucked in her breath as the comparison slapped her again.
Are
you
my Hector?

Could it be?

No. It wasn’t possible. Why would the prince pretend to be a merchant’s son to spend time with a blind fisherwoman? A man of Styxx’s station would be quick to let her know he was wellborn. And he would
never
deign to beg a commoner to run away with him. Why would he when he owned the world in which he lived?

Everyone knew how much the king of Didymos loved and cherished his heir. The exceptional quality of his armor and horse said as much.

No priest would hazard to mar this man’s body or his beauty with red-hot brands.

Not to mention this powerful, fierce beast would never be clumsy enough to fall from his horse and stumble alone through the woods to find her fishing spot. Her Hector was hesitant and sweet. Bashful and unsure. There was no uncertainty in the prince’s movements. This was a man who was confident in his role and place.

Ferocious.

No one would have ever dared to rape
him
.

And Styxx would never deign to ask to kiss a lowly peasant girl. He’d take it if he wanted it, and dare anyone to punish him for his actions. And while he’d declined her offer yesterday when she’d been disguised as a young Atlantean woman, he held such powerful sexual magnetism and prowess that it was obvious he was well tutored in the physical side of Agapa’s domain. Most likely, the girl hadn’t been pretty enough for his tastes.

Or, more probable, too far beneath his station for him to touch.

Unaware of her presence, Styxx tugged at the laces of his vambraces to make sure they were tight. Rolling his shoulders, he reached for his helm and shield then left the tent.

“What are you doing here?”

Bethany looked over her shoulder to find Athena watching her. “Checking out my next victim.”

Athena laughed. “You won’t defeat my champion. His is a core of steel the likes of which you can’t fathom. He has the heart of a Titan and the mind of a philosopher.”

“All mortals fall eventually.”

“As do some immortals.”

Bethany glared at her. “You have brought your army onto our shores. Do you really think we’ll let you come any closer?”

The mocking smile on Athena’s face made her want to yank out the bitch’s hair by its roots. “You didn’t
let
us come this far. I do believe we’ve done it with you battling us every step of the way. And we will continue onward. The Greeks love my chosen prince. They will follow him anywhere.”

“Then let them all follow him to your Elysian Fields.”

July 27, 9531 BC

Styxx paused in the garden of the Agriosan—the sacred temple of Bet’anya Agriosa, the Atlantean goddess of misery, wrath, and the hunt. She was said to be the right hand of Dikastis, their god of justice. And she was the goddess the Atlanteans prayed to whenever they’d been wronged. The one who meted out justice and retribution. Testament to their belief in her were the numerous
katadesmoi
—curse stones and tablets and lead sheets—that littered her altar and gardens. Each
katadesmos
held the specific action the invoker wanted the goddess to take against the person they felt had done harm to them.

The harsh curses outlined in Atlantean in extremely vivid detail made him wonder how many
katadesmoi
Ryssa had inscribed for him at home in Didymos.

Unwilling to speculate on so great a number, he frowned at Bet’anya’s statue at the end of a large outdoor atrium pool that reminded him of Athena’s in Didymos. The Atlantean goddess was tall and slender, dressed in a sheer peplos that showed the outline of a perfect body while running. She held a shield decorated with a winged horse in one hand, and a spear in the other, angled over her shoulder as if she was about to throw it. A mop of unruly curls spilled out from beneath an Atlantean helm that had been pushed up on her head to expose her beautiful features. At the opposite end of the pool was the statue of a fierce male soldier who faced the goddess.

Dressed only in a chlamys that fell from his left shoulder, he stood proud and defiant in a helm very similar to the one Styxx wore. His long hair spilled just past his right shoulder. He held a xiphos in his right hand while his left held a quiver of arrows.

“Is there something I can do for you, Highness?” a priestess asked nervously.

Styxx turned slightly to see the tiny woman who barely reached mid-chest on him. He offered her a slight bow. “Forgive me, priestess, I meant no disrespect to your goddess or you. The temple door was open and I was curious about the city’s patron.”

His army had defeated the Atlantean city of Bettias two days ago and were awaiting reinforcements to hold it before they continued onward to the mainland. Since their occupation began, they’d been bringing wounded Atlantean soldiers to the temple next door that belonged to the Atlantean god of healing. Styxx had overseen the last of their wounded deposited into the priests’ care just a short while ago, and as he’d started back for their camp, he’d spied this temple.

For some unknown reason, he’d been drawn to it.

“Are you familiar with our gods?” she asked.

“I have limited knowledge, but no real understanding. Such as the two statues here. I assume she’s the goddess the city’s named for, but I have no idea who the soldier is.”

“It’s a wise man who admits what he does not know and who doesn’t pretend to know something he’s ignorant of.” The priestess smiled. “Theirs is a tale of supreme heartbreak, Highness. And it’s why Bet’anya’s the goddess of wrath and retribution. Before Dikastis was consecrated to our pantheon, Bathymaas was the original goddess of justice and order. The daughter of Chaos, she was born from the light powers to balance out her father and to keep him on the side of good. During the first war of the Chthonians, Bathymaas assembled a team of seven warriors called the
Ē
peron.”

“As in
υπερασπίζω
?” he asked.
Ē
peraspizo was the Greek word for “vindicate” or “defend.”

She nodded. “The
Ē
peron was made up of two humans, two Apollites, two Atlanteans, and a demon who trained and led them. Theirs was a sacred band charged with protecting the intelligent species of the earth from all threats. Hand-selected by Bathymaas, each one was the epitome of courage, strength, integrity, and decency. The best of their species. And during the Chthonian war, they fought in defense of the innocent.”

Styxx studied the male statue. “Was he the demon who led them?”

The priestess shook her head. “He was the greatest hero of the war. Indomitable and intrepid. It was said no army could defeat him and no hero could kill him. Not even the collective Mavromino—the darkest of all powers. And in honor to the goddess he served, he took a vow of virginity. His heart and soul belonged to Bathymaas alone.”

Frowning, Styxx was confused by her story. “I don’t see where the heartbreak comes in.”

The priestess pulled a handful of herbs from her pouch and dropped them into the flames at the goddess’s feet. “Our virgin goddess fell in love with her hero, even though it was forbidden, and that it’d been foretold that should she ever know a man carnally she would be punished severely.… All she could think about was how much he meant to her. They kept their relationship secret until one day, an enemy discovered it. Jealous and angry, their enemy spread word to all of what the two lovers had done. To protect his lady’s honor, our hero challenged their betrayer to combat. But before he had the chance to battle and restore the goddess’s good name, a jealous god who’d wanted Bathymaas for himself tricked her into shooting an arrow of lead into her beloved’s heart. He died in the arms of his goddess, swearing to her that if it took him ten thousand lifetimes, he’d return to her and that he’d never love anyone save his precious Bathymaas.”

Styxx flinched in sympathetic pain. He well understood that sentiment and would do the same for his own lady.

“When he died,” the priestess continued, “he took her heart with him to his grave. She, who had been a goddess born of light, embraced the darkness with everything she had, and she went after the god who’d taken her hero from her. That was the moment when ruthless retribution was first born. Yet she couldn’t kill the god—not without destroying the world. And even though the other gods warned her of this, she didn’t care. She refused to stop until justice had been served and she bathed in the blood of the god she hated.”

“I take it, since the world is still here, that they stopped her.”

She nodded. “With no choice, the other gods banded together to kill her. They chased her deep into the desert where they cornered her, but before they could take her life, her father, who was a primal god, stopped them. He removed one half of her broken heart—the part that had belonged to her hero—and had her reborn as Bet’anya, which means House of Misery. It is said that she will be a goddess of darkness until the day her Aricles is reborn and makes her heart whole again.”

Styxx frowned at the familiar and unexpected name. “Aricles?”

The priestess inclined her head to him. “He was the brother of the prince who founded your royal lineage. After he died, his younger brother took his name to honor him.”

That baffled him even more. “And so you honor a Greek hero in the temple of your Atlantean goddess?”

Her eyes flared with indignation. “Atlantis has
never
honored any Greek.”

But if that was true … “Are you telling me I’m Atlantean?”

“Didymos was our outermost island at one time.”

Strange … he’d never heard that before and he wasn’t sure if he should believe it.

“If you doubt me, Highness, there are maps still in existence in the city’s capital building that show it.”

Fascinating. “When did we become Greek?”

“Twelve hundred years ago, the king married a Greek princess. His heir was just a babe when he died and the queen invited her brother to rule until the child was old enough for the throne. Her brother immediately began converting the Atleantean temples to your gods, and the child grew up with them and their ways, thinking himself Greek. His mother never told him differently. Didymos has belonged to Greece ever since.”

Styxx started to deny it, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Didymos was physically closer to Atlantis than Greece—which was why it was so important to hold it strategically. It would also explain why the Didymosian temples had more in common with Atlantean temples than Greek. “Am I part Apollite, then?”

“No. Your lineage was pure Atlantean. From one of our oldest houses. But sadly, your blood is polluted now. There is very little Atlantean left inside you.”