Lore

by Alexandra Bracken

“You predictable idiots.”

The sight of the girl bowing before that pig with respect he didn’t deserve, in the hope of nothing so much as pleasing him, made her want to scream.

But . . . maybe not. Her mother was dead, and while grudges could feed themselves over centuries, memories faded at the pace of years. There was no one here who cared to remember Helena Perseous. No one but her own daughter.

With a quick look around to make sure no one was eyeing her, Lore stole a goblet of wine, downed it, and then began to assess the feast laid out in front of her.

The new Apollo didn’t reside in the House of Theseus, but the House of Achilles.

Lore knew to turn even before she heard the faint gasps. A sudden warmth passed over her skin, an incendiary power that set every nerve in her body ablaze. He descended the stairs the way the first ray of sunlight breaks through a window at morning. His form was immaculate—tall, corded with muscles, and a face that echoed in the sweetest part of her memory. Castor.

My golden.

Like her name in the fighting ring ;)

She saw the edge of a shield held firm in front of her, repelling the darkness. A wing made of golden light. Bright eyes reflected in the blade of a sword. She had kept the dream to herself. Now, it seemed, the Fates were ready for her.

“It will feel very hard at first,” her mother told her, buttoning her up. “Take heart, and don’t be discouraged. Everything will come to you in time. You are a daughter of Perseus.”

When they emerged from the station, the streets were as unfamiliar as they were thrilling.

She would train as long and as hard as it took to achieve areté—that perfect combination of courage, strength, skill, and success—and, one day, kleos. Her destiny was a gift, and now she would manifest it.

They just don’t know you, she thought. You have to prove yourself, like the stories say.

Lore met his dark eyes, narrowing her own. The boy looked exhausted to her, but he was here, even if the others clearly thought he shouldn’t be.

There are always rivalries between the houses, she thought. But with her and Castor, there would be none of that.

Lore nodded to Castor. He nodded back, his gaze soft but intent. She liked him. His calm made her calm, too.

This was all part of the training. It hurt, but it was necessary.

She looked to Castor again, only to find that he was already looking back.

“This is the most important teaching you will take from this hall,” the instructor said. “You must learn not to fear pain, or else it will shackle you and strip your courage. Fear is the greatest enemy.”

to fall. He glanced at her again and forced himself straighter, as did she. Don’t fall, she thought. I won’t, his gaze promised. And as long as he wouldn’t, neither would Lore.

“Your father and mother may have delivered you into your bloodline,” the instructor said. “But they are not your family. Those around you are your sisters and your brothers. Your archon is your guardian, your light, and your leader. He is your patér. Your true father. It is for him that you learn pain. It is for him that you bleed.”

She would have honor and glory. She would attain kleos and restore her house. There was nothing more important than that. The House of Perseus would rise again, and her name would be legend.

Castor backed into her, still shaking. She caught glimpses of him between the blows, between the looks of disdain and amusement around her. Snot and blood poured down his face, and he was blinking, trying to clear his vision. She gripped his wrist, steadying him. They would not fall. Together, they would prove themselves. They would prove that they deserved to be there.

Lore realized she was still holding Castor’s wrist, but was too afraid to let him go.

Long sinks ran along the edge of the room, and there were shower stalls at the back. Lore picked up one of the nearby washcloths and, after wetting it, began to clean the blood from his face. Castor did the same for her, his touch gentle. Their eyes met, and they grinned.

Castor—the new Apollo—seemed to be concentrating on keeping his arms relaxed at his side and his head high, but now and then he glanced down, as if afraid he might trip. His fingers curled one at a time, only to uncurl again, over and over, with each step.

The new god’s face was devoid of the teasing grin he’d flashed her during their fight. It was devoid of anything; if she hadn’t seen the flicker of worry in his eyes, she might not have recognized him as Castor at all.

She’d seen a ghost in place of a god.

As if sensing her, the new god began to turn in her direction, but was interrupted.

When Lore looked at the chair again, all she could see were the many ways it could be made lethal to a mortal god.

If there had ever been anyone who might have had a shred of hope in not having their newfound divinity go to their head, it would have been him.

It had likely been decades since someone had spoken to him in such a tone, and Lore decided to let herself enjoy it, just for a little while longer.

Lore wondered where one might procure a poisoned shirt in this day and age, and how well it would hold up in its gift wrapping when she mailed it directly to Philip Achilleos.

The parthénoi were those young women kept from the Agon, never to become lionesses hunting for their bloodline, but existing solely to ensure its survival through the birth of yet more children. Becoming one of them, never being allowed to participate in the Agon, had once been Lore’s greatest fear, before she knew there were far worse things to be afraid of.

Prisoners, she thought, venom pumping through her veins. That’s all these girls were. That was all the...

“They are charming,” Castor said, a dark expression on his face. “However, I forbid you to offer them to anyone of this bloodline—or any other—until they have reached adulthood, and may choose their partners for themselves.” The band of fury tightening around Lore’s chest released all at once.

“It is a despicable practice to promise children in marriage while they should be focused on learning their letters and playing with their toys. We have long since stopped the grooming of young boys. All children should be protected from it,” Castor said, his voice growing louder with each word. “You are archon of this line, Patér, but I am its god. If you wish to receive my blessings, this is what I ask of you.”

now THIS is a man

The only thing hunters despised more than dishonor was change.

“I wish to use it in honor of the mortal mother who named me. Is there some rule I am unaware of, or are you questioning both the quality of the name and my decision?” Lore released a soft sigh. Are you trying to get yourself killed?

Don’t let me down, assholes, she thought. Don’t let him die.

She had stopped believing in the Fates years ago, but she could see it so clearly in her mind then, the gleam of their blades as they gleefully cut away everyone and everything until she had nothing, and no one.

“Get a grip, you blubbering wine sack,” Lore muttered.

But she wanted the one person who had always been able to settle her, whether it was her temper or fear. She wanted the one person she had always been able to look to, knowing she’d find him there. She wanted Castor.

The dog had been Castor’s constant companion, practically from the time the boy had been small enough to ride on Chiron’s back. He’d faithfully trotted after her and Castor like a beleaguered nanny on their many adventures through the city.

“Enough,” Castor said, the word strained. He was now so close that Lore could smell the incense smoke clinging to his skin. For a moment she was sure the new god’s eyes had flicked up to meet hers, but he moved toward the bed. “I would like to rest before we travel.”

He turned, knocking his knee into the trunk at the foot of the bed, and he swore. Lore would have laughed at the sight of a powerful god hopping and grimacing, except that his motions seemed even stiffer than they had before.

Chiron growled as Castor tried to approach him, offering his hand the same way Lore had. The dog’s lips pulled back, his snout wrinkling viciously. Castor didn’t pull his fist back until Chiron lunged, snapping at his knuckles. “You know me,” he whispered. “You do.”

Of course Chiron didn’t remember him. This wasn’t the boy he’d loved so fiercely and protected. This was . . . something else.

“Oh, damn you!” She gripped the front of Castor’s robes, shaking him. “You could have avoided that easily—snap out of it!” His head lolled back. She pressed an ear against his chest, but couldn’t hear anything over her own heartbeat. “Castor?” she said, shaking him. “Cas!” He didn’t respond. Lore pressed the heel of her hand against his chest, driving it down and down and down. Castor surged up, gasping. He twisted onto his side, disoriented, his legs and arms sliding against the carpet. “Cas . . .” Lore began, reaching for him.

Castor’s arm banded over her chest like a steel bar.

Black gathered at the edge of her vision as her air supply was cut off. There was no emotion in Castor’s face; it was as if he, too, was acting on pure instinct now, his body striving to survive.