It was a line from one of Hesiod’s minor lyrics; I had pored over the page a hundred times, mouthing the words and trying to imagine flames in the night sky.
He snorted. “Your lore is stupider than I thought. They weren’t like candles. They were . . . Have you seen lamplight shine through dusty air, setting the dust motes on fire?” He waved a hand. “Imagine that, spread across the night sky—but ten thousand motes and ten thousand times brighter, glittering like the eyes of all the gods.”
His hand dropped to the grass. I realized I had stopped breathing as his words danced through my head, sparking visions.
“If you loved the true sky so much,” I said, “why did you seal yourself in here with us?”
“No doubt malice aforethought.”
“You don’t remember,” I said slowly. “You’ve lost your memories.”
“Well, I don’t remember springing from the womb of Tartarus.”
“Do you remember your name?”
His mouth thinned.
“I suppose it makes sense that you want your wives to guess,” I went on. “What happens to you if someone gets it right?”
“Then I don’t have masters anymore.” He rolled onto his side and smiled at me. “Want to save me, lovely princess?”
“I’m not a princess.”
“Then I shall continue to languish.” He lay back, waving a hand lethargically. “Alas.”
“You don’t sound too worried.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt as the Lord of Bargains, it’s that knowing the truth is not always a kindness.”
“That’s a convenient philosophy for a demon that lives by lies.”
He snorted. “I tell almost nothing but the truth. And how many truths have ever comforted you?”
I remembered Father telling me, “Our house owes a debt and you will pay it back.” I remembered Aunt Telomache saying, “Your duty is to redeem your mother’s death.” I’d heard those truths, in deeds if not in words, every day of my life.
I remembered my last words to Astraia, and the look on her face when she learnt the truth about me and the Rhyme.
“None,” I said. “But at least I’ve never learnt that I lived a lie.”
He sat up. “Let me tell you a story about what happens when mortals learn the truth. Once upon a time, Zeus killed his father, Kronos—but since he was a god, nobody seems to blame him for it.”
“I have read the Theogony,” I said with dignity. “I know how the gods came to be.”
“Then you know that the demon Typhon was one of the monsters that fought to avenge Kronos.”
I shivered, my throat closing up. Last night, he had called the shadow-demons Children of Typhon. They were still waiting behind that door, behind the ragged sky, ready to drag me back—one is one and all alone—
Ignifex was watching me as closely as a cat stalking a mouse. “Yes,” he said quietly, reading the fear off my face. “Typhon started a family.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “I already knew that,” I gritted out. “The Theogony calls him ‘Father of Monsters.’ And Zeus threw all the monsters into Tartarus. How did these ones get into your house?”
“Well, that’s a funny story. When Zeus finally forced the Children of Typhon into the abyss of Tartarus, he begged his mother, Gaia, to prevent them from ever wreaking havoc on the earth again.” His voice softened, losing its mocking edge, and slid like a silken ribbon across my skin. “So Gaia enclosed all of Tartarus within a great tower; and she put the tower into a house, and the house into a chest, and the chest into a conch, and the conch into a nut, and the nut into a pearl, and the pearl she put into a beautiful enameled jar that she sealed up with a cork and wax.”
A gust of wind set the grass shivering around us. I blinked, then crossed my arms. The voice of my enemy should not be comforting.
—the shadow bubbled out of my skin and it looked up at me as it dripped down my arms—
My nails dug into my arms. “Then how did they get out?” I demanded.
“Well, you see, Prometheus loved the race of men and gave them fire against the will of Zeus.”
“And Zeus chained him to the rock and set an eagle to eat his liver every day.” I knew the story well; there had been a book with a garish picture that made Astraia squeal in horror.
“What has that got to do with the Children of Typhon?” I managed to get the name out without a quaver.
“Oh, have the Resurgandi forgotten that bit? Zeus didn’t punish him for the fire. He didn’t dare risk another war between the gods. Instead he set a trap. There were not yet any mortal women, and Zeus refused to make any, saying that future generations might rebel against the gods. He knew that Prometheus, who loved mankind more than reason, could not stand by while the race died out. And indeed, Prometheus offered to make a bet. Zeus would create a mortal woman and let her bear children, but he would also set her a test of obedience. If she failed, mankind would be cursed with misfortune and Prometheus would be chained for the eagle, but if she passed, mankind would live in blessedness forever.”