Carrie Vaughn - Discord's Apple

Athena and Apollo had aligned against each other during Troy. Now they aided each other. The alliances of the gods were transient things. Sinon supposed he ought to have been grateful Apollo had not tired of him after all these years and disposed of him in some horrible manner suitable for the tales of bards.

If only Apollo had tired of him years ago and set him free.

Incongruously, he thought of praying. He ought to pray to someone, as he had when he was a boy, as he’d been taught by his parents. Thank Zeus, they said. Or, Bless us, Apollo. But there were no gods—he knew that. Only people with more power than they knew what to do with. If he lived for a few centuries, he might learn the tricks of their power, find a little power of his own, become his own god. The god of lies, the god of slaves, the god of lost hopes. He could build shrines and have people worship him.

No. If having all that meant he’d become like them—no. All he’d ever wanted were good friends fighting at his back and a little honor to take home with him when the war was done. A lovely woman to mother children for him, to carry his honor in later years.

He hooked his finger under the chain around his neck and pulled. It dug into his skin, pinching. But it didn’t break. It didn’t come off.

He heard footsteps approaching, the gentle slap of leather sandals on the tile in the hallway. He hurried to his feet, his blood racing. He held the sword ready.

The footsteps stopped.

No guests were staying at the palace. Another servant would not be so stealthy. Sinon had been quiet; the intruder shouldn’t have heard him. He was just around the corner. Sinon could almost hear breathing. He kept his own mouth closed, drawing quiet breaths through his nose.

He inched to the edge of the wall to steal a glance at who was there. Quickly now, look around and duck back—

What he saw made him hesitate.

An old man stood there. He held a dark cloak wrapped around him. His thick gray hair swept behind his ears. The mouth within the beard frowned.

It was Zeus.

Sinon lurched back, holding the sword before him like a shield, almost falling as he stumbled on his own feet. Putting his arm out, he caught his balance. The pose he struck wasn’t graceful—his legs were splayed, his back hunched. He stared as if a hydra had just reared before him.

They regarded each other for a moment, the old man standing calmly, Sinon gripping the sword in a defensive stance. Zeus pushed back the edge of his cloak, revealing his hand. Sinon flinched, as if warding a blow. Then they froze, once again waiting for the next action.

Gesturing to the doorway, Zeus said, “Have they already gone?”

The hairs on the back of Sinon’s neck stiffened. He nodded.

“May I pass through?”

This was Zeus, King of the Gods. He could strike Sinon down with a thunderbolt. The Greek warrior held his sword ready out of sheer habit and principle—it was what one did with a sword. He couldn’t stop the god! But the god had asked.

For a choking moment, Sinon wondered what it would be like to be a child, with this man as his father. He could go to him with his hurts, cry on his shoulder, and he would not be mocked. His fears would be smoothed away.

Sinon saw himself being held by this man and comforted. Zeus the Father.

He looked away and shook his head. It was a trick. Zeus was making him feel this way. Just as Apollo made him feel desire and pleasure.

Zeus said, “The one thing we cannot do is make mortals feel anything. We can seduce, cajole, trick, and bribe, but we cannot force. We can enspell, but spells fade. In the end, your emotions are your own.”

That made the war within his heart that much worse. The loyalty, the hatred, the despair, the love, the memories—they all belonged to him, and he could blame no one else for them. Sinon bit his cheeks to keep from crying out.

Zeus said, “If you’re not held by some oath to try to stop me, please let me pass.”

Sinon was Apollo’s slave. The chain around his neck made him so. But Apollo had never broken him; he’d never laid oaths upon him or demanded fealty. He’d depended on Sinon’s . . . friendship. His honor.

“What’s going to happen, my lord? What will you do to him?”

Zeus studied him, and his gaze was like Athena’s, heavy and searching, until Sinon felt that his heart as well as his body was naked before him. Sinon’s back bowed. He breathed hard, as if he carried a great weight.

“Are you his friend?”

Sinon started to shake his head, then said, “I don’t know.”

“A slave, then. How long has he had you?”

“I don’t know. He took me the morning after Troy fell.”

Lips pursed, Zeus nodded. “More than forty years. If my plan works, you’ll be free to leave here.”

Forty years. He should be an old man. Why didn’t he feel the press of age?

A generation had lived and died without him.

He could not keep grief from cracking his voice. “My lord, where would I go?”

Zeus said with kindness, “Wherever you want to. Let me pass, son.”

He was still, in some deep part of him, a soldier. He’d been given an order, and he trembled with the thought of breaking it.

But what exactly had Apollo said as he left? Stop anyone who tries to come out of the passage. He’d said nothing about keeping someone from entering.

Feeling as weak as a newborn, yet vaguely relieved that he had made a decision that would not require him to try to fight the Father of the Gods, Sinon lowered his sword. He knelt, head bowed. Turning the sword in his hand, he rested its point on the floor.

He remained there, honoring the god.

“Close your eyes, child.”

Sinon shut his eyes tightly. He felt a touch on the back of his head, like that of a father ruffing his child’s hair.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. When he awoke, the sun was rising. He lay on the floor, curled on his side, the sword near to hand. Evidently, he’d collapsed where he knelt and slept through the night.

At once, he sat up.

The sun was rising, meaning that it had set and that night had come to the Sun Palace.

Evie went to the Storeroom.

The instinct assailed her as soon as she crossed the threshold.

It’s not hers.

“I know, I know,” Evie murmured. She was speaking to herself, because the whispering voice was her own.

She opened the drawer that held fruit: dried fruit, jeweled fruit, some pomegranate seeds in a little crystal box—the ones Persephone hadn’t eaten. She had to dig in the back of the drawer for the apple of Discord, as if it hid from her. Her fingers skittered off it as it rolled away. She used both hands to trap it and pick it up, then secured it in the pocket of her army jacket, where it lay like a lead weight.

When she turned to go back to the door, the Storeroom had become a mess: boxes pulled into the aisles, flagpoles toppled across her path. Evie had to wrestle through the mess, shoving crates back into place, straightening spears and poleaxes out of the way. The shafts of wood were slippery, and she never imagined she could be so clumsy. She kept knocking things over.

This was taking too long. She slumped against a set of shelves and glared at the would-be museum pieces around her.

“I’m in charge of this place, aren’t I?”

Only when your father dies. She didn’t want to be in charge of it, not ever, if she had to watch Frank die.

She pushed on. It shouldn’t leave here.

“What difference does it make? Hera gets the apple, she starts a war that’s going to start anyway.”

There is no story for this.

The apple belonged to Aphrodite; that was how the story went. Paris had given it to her. She might return for it someday.