Sunshine poured down, warming the day. Cool winds blew up from the valley, but the fresh gusts didn’t stop my velo from sticking to my face. I nibbled on pieces of cheese beneath it. The mask itched, but I couldn’t take it off in case I chanced upon other travelers.
Abductions had increased in recent years. No one stood up to the Almighty, not his five Titan brothers who managed their own households or his wife, Rhea, a Titaness. I hadn’t been to Othrys since last autumn, before the rainy season made traveling these vertical roads treacherous, but it was rumored that Rhea spent more of her time at the Blue Moon Fortress in the south with her brother Crius, head of the Third House, than at the Aeon Palace with her husband.
Around the next bend, the Aegean Sea stained the horizon. The glittering expanse of cerulean, dotted with stretches of islands, belonged to the Sixth House. The Titan Oceanus was estranged from his five brothers. His watery realm was the only domain not governed by the First House. Mother once told us that a tribe of women inhabited one of Oceanus’s isles, living without stone walls and velos. It sounded like paradise.
Far above me on the mountaintop, manifesting like a shadow in the eventide, the outer wall of Othrys rose into view. I tucked the kitchen knife back into the basket and guided the donkey into the flood of people waiting for admission through the main gates.
A pair of soldiers stood guard, questioning various groups and individuals about their purpose for entering. They stopped mostly women, who needed permission from a male relative to leave their home. I twisted my bare neck around for the guards to see my tag—evidence that a man owned me. Tagged women were viewed as tamed, and less likely to travel without permission.
“Divine day,” one guard said, waving me into the city.
I fell in line with the stream of entrants crowding the narrow streets. A thick mix of unwashed flesh, animal excrement, and emptied chamber pots—all baking in the sun—hit my nose like a mallet. Nothing stunk of civilization quite like the city.
Riding farther into Othrys, I entered the colorful market district. Pale plaster huts with red tile roofs were hedged in among lean-tos and patchwork tents. The street teemed with customers bargaining with merchants. Stray dogs and cats sniffed about for scraps. The agora sold everything: baskets of spices piled high and shiny bolts of bright silks, every kind of fresh fish and cured meat, a rainbow of cheeses and produce, vibrant woven rugs, and even children’s toys.
I tied the donkey to a post in front of a tavern, collected my things, and set out for the nearest produce booth. The stand was stocked with an array of winter root vegetables, and springtime had reintroduced a bounty of beans, artichokes, spinach, and beetroots. My eye landed on a plate of almond-and-walnut honey pies. Our mother used to bake them for our birthdays. The handheld treats were a family favorite.
An unmasked maiden bumped into my side as she reached for figs.
“Pardon me,” I said, my voice trailing off. Her chin, cheeks, and forehead were covered with burn scars. The lattice marks scored into her skin were too precisely patterned to be random.
Carefully—intentionally—this girl had been marred.
Last time Acraea came home from the city, she had mentioned that families performing ritual burnings had increased. Parents were dismayed by the Almighty’s abductions of their loveliest daughters, so disfigurement of young women had risen in popularity. Acraea never told me exactly how she escaped with the single burn on her forehead all those years ago, only that Gaea had helped her. Nowadays, men paid a higher bride price for a marred woman than a pretty girl in a velo. Some girls were so afraid of capture or spinsterhood, they mutilated themselves.
“What can I do for you?” barked the merchant.
I snapped into focus. The scarred girl was gone, and my sack was still empty.
“Do you have burgundy olives?” I asked as I began collecting figs.
“All out, but I have these.”
Acraea would send gadflies after me if I came home with black olives. I haggled with the merchant over the figs, bringing him down in price enough to purchase two honey pies, then continued on.
I knew my birth city well. Sometimes I missed the scent of goat’s milk and fresh verbena in the morning, but I never missed the soldiers, posted on every street corner, watching residents with penetrating stares. They reminded me of Decimus and the night my mother was taken. A pair of soldiers loitered up ahead, so I took a shortcut down an alley to avoid them and exited in front of the Aeon Palace.
All Titans resided in mansions. This was the zenith, the grandest and most impressive godly estate in the world. A dwelling fit for the head of the First House, the God of Gods.
The Aeon Palace could be seen from all across the land. It had been built atop the peak of the mountain range, its shape a smooth continuation of the summit. Constructed upon the precipice of the stony apex, the exterior walls rose steeply into a triangular point, its singular spire impaling the sky. Craggy walls opened to depthless archways and lofty doorways into alcoves. Battlements and ramparts divided the structure into seamless levels, and spacious terraces lined with parapets cut into the structure. A band of clouds ringed the top, partly obscuring the snowy crown where the flag of the First House flew, the Almighty’s alpha and omega insignia on a backdrop of blue-and-white stripes. It was said that nobody but the gods could pass through the portal of clouds to the great hall above.
Before me, the gates stood five times taller than any man. Sacrifices of bounty had been set around the entry, baskets full of fruits and cheeses that rotted in the midday sun. Once a week, the refuse collectors threw everything into a wagon and hauled it away for pig slop. The gates creaked as guards pushed them open for soldiers approaching with wagons full of wine barrels. The Almighty dined mostly on nectar and ambrosia, the food of the gods, but he also had a taste for wine.
Through the open gates, I saw two young women lounging under leafy apricot trees. They wore blue, the Almighty’s favored color for his honor maidens. No wonder Rhea spent most of her time in the south. Her husband’s betrayals were blatant. Or perhaps the honor maidens were only permitted to wander the palace grounds because Rhea wasn’t present to throw a jealous fit. According to rumor, somewhere in the city was an unmarked mass grave where the Almighty’s honor maidens were buried, most dead under mysterious circumstances. After Rhea left the palace, the frequency of these deaths dropped dramatically.
The honor maidens saw me, saw the open gates, saw their chance at freedom, yet didn’t run. The God of Gods didn’t need to chain his prisoners. Fear held them.
The gates shut behind the last wagon with a shuddering bang. I waited for the onlookers to disperse, then spit.
Not my god. Not my ruler.
I weaved through the agora, pushing into the rising winds. Merchants rushed to tie down their tents and secure their wares. The mountain skies changed moods faster than Matron Prosymna, but the sudden change in weather wasn’t a reason to start home. Storms rattled through the hilltops day and night. At times, Helios, the sun god who rode his golden chariot across the sky each day, became infatuated with the Oceanids, the nymph daughters of Oceanus. A storm would brew over the ocean when Oceanus grew agitated by Helios ogling his daughters, and those winds would eventually make landfall. The gods’ choices affected mortals every day, and stars, that was tiresome.
The search for burgundy olives took me back into the agora and all the way across the market district. I gave up on finding any and set out on a personal errand.