"That is what you deserve, you bastard, and it is all you'll ever get from me."
By the light in his eyes, she knew he wanted to strike her. He didn't dare. They both knew who the stronger god was and it wasn't him. He ruled only because she stood at his side. To rise against her would be the last mistake he'd ever make.
By Chthonian law, one god was forbidden from ever killing another. To do so would bring their wrath down on the foolish god who'd angered them. The punishment for such actions was swift, brutal and irreversible.
Right now, Apollymi was embracing her rational thought over her turbulent emotions by a narrow margin. For Archon to strike her would push her over the edge and he knew it. It would make her forget to be afraid of the Chthonians and then she'd unleash the whole of her fury against him. She would no longer care who was punished and who died . . . not even herself.
Patience to the spider . . . She reminded herself of her mother's most favored saying.
She would bide her time until Apostolos grew into his own. Then he would rule in Archon's place and show the king of the gods what it meant to be all powerful.
For her son's sake, she wouldn't upset the capricious Chthonians who might very well side with Archon and kill her child. They alone could permanently strip her powers and destroy Apostolos. After all, Archon and his lover Themis's three bastard daughters had been given the power of fate over everyone and everything. And out of their stupidity and fear, the Greek Fates had accidentally cursed her son.
That alone was enough to make her want to kill her husband who stared at her with a confused frown.
"You would damn us all for one child?" Archon asked.
"You would damn my baby for three half-Greek bastards?"
His nostrils flared. "For once be reasonable. The girls didn't realize they were condemning him when they spoke. They're still learning their powers. They were afraid that he'd supplant them in our affections. It's why they were holding hands when they spoke their fears. And because of that, their word is law and it can't be undone. If he lives, we die."
"Then we die, because he will live. I've made sure of it."
Archon bellowed before he threw the swaddled stone through the wall. He reached for Agapa and Chara and began chanting.
Apollymi's eyes flared red at what they were doing. It was an imprisonment spell.
For her.
And because they united their powers, they would be able to bring her to heel.
Even so, she laughed. But most of all, she took note of every god who joined in to help her husband bind her. "You will all regret what you've done here this day. When Apostolos returns, you will all pay dearly."
Xedrix put himself between her and the others. Apollymi placed one hand on his shoulder to keep him from attacking. "They're not going to hurt us, Xedrix. They can't."
"No," Archon said bitterly, "but you will remain locked in Kalosis until either you reveal Apostolos's location or he dies. Only then will you be returned to Katoteros."
Apollymi laughed. "My son, at his maturity, will have the power to come to me. When he releases me, the world as you know it will die. And I will take you all down. All of you."
Archon shook his head. "We will find him. We will kill him."
"You will fail and I'll dance on your grave."
The Diary of Ryssa, Princess of Didymos
June 23, 9548 BC
My mother, Queen Aara, was lying on her gilded bed, her body covered in sweat, her face ashen as an attendant brushed her damp, blond hair from her pale blue eyes. Even through the pain, I'd never known my mother to appear more joy-filled than she did that day and I wondered if she'd been this happy at my own birth.
The room was crowded with court officials and my father, the king, stood to the side of the bed with his Head of State. The long, glass windows were open, letting the fresh sea air offer relief to the heat of the summer day.
"It is another beautiful boy," the midwife happily proclaimed, wrapping the newborn infant in a blanket.
"By sweet Artemis's hand, Aara, you've done me proud!" my father said as a loud jubilant shout ran through the room's occupants. "Twin boys to rule over our twin isles!"
At only seven years of age, I jumped up and down in glee. At long last, and after my mother's numerous miscarriages and stillbirths, I had not one brother, but two.
Laughing, my mother cuddled the second-born infant to her pale breast while an additional midwife cleaned the firstborn.
I snuck through the crowd to watch the firstborn baby with the midwife. Tiny and beautiful, he squirmed and struggled to breathe through his newborn lungs. He had finally taken a deep, clear breath when I heard the cry of alarm from the woman who held him.
"Zeus have mercy, the eldest is malformed, majesties!"
My mother looked up, her brow creased by worry. "How so?"
The midwife carried him over to her.