The Voyage of Heroes Read online

  “I’d say that’s not bad for a day’s work, wouldn’t you?” I ask him. “Now, Secretary, in the morning be sure to send a message letting my cousin know what has happened. I’ll sign it once it’s ready.”

  I enter the cool interior of the palace, passing through the foyer to the atrium where I take a seat in the lounge chair to finish the wine and cheese Aeson and Polymele have left behind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hera

  MY DAUGHTER IOLE and I sit on one of the sweeping couches in Olympus’s common room. Herc, the bastard son of Zeus who has recently become my son-in-law, runs about the common area pretending it’s a most impossible task to catch his twin toddlers in their game of tag. Iole bounces his youngest child, Cassie, on her knee and I wonder how in the name of the Twelve my daughter can be so fascinated with a drooling mortal infant. A breeze flutters behind me as if I’m being cooled by a feathered fan and I hear feet touching down softly behind the chaise.

  “I’ve news,” Hermes says, his voice serious rather than brimming with conspiracy as it normally does when he has rumors to share. I twist to look back at him. The usual glint that lights his dark eyes is absent. This is no gossip.

  “We’ve got trouble from the Osteria Council. Or maybe it’s just the Areans, but the Arean president doesn’t seem to know anything.”

  “Anything of what?” I ask impatiently. I get up, give a quick smile of reassurance to Iole, then guide Hermes to the line of columns at the edge of the common room. Amongst the evergreens in the Olympian Plain below, red and orange trees flaunt their autumn colors.

  “It’s harvest time, so Dionysus is, well, you know how he likes to oversee the wineries.”

  “You mean he’ll be spending the next couple months drunk on his own vintages.”

  Hermes shrugs as if in apologetic agreement. “Pelias has invaded Illamos Valley. No, not invaded, he just walked in. Imprisoned Polymele and Aeson and declared himself leader.”

  “That bastard.” I pinch my lips and shoot a glance to Herc who has abruptly stopped fleeing from his son.

  “Mother!” Iole scolds as she shifts Cassie on her lap.

  Herc’s pause allows Sergio to tag him and declare the big man It. Herc’s eldest daughter, Sophia, giggles and looks back as she trots past her father taunting him to tag her. Herc glares at me a moment longer then resumes his chase. I had once reserved the title Bastard only for him. After proving himself worthy of a better name, I no longer call him such, but he still bristles at the word.

  “No.” I wave my hand in apology. “I admit it was my own jealousy that caused me to give you the name, Herc, but this Pelias is truly a bastard. One of Poseidon’s.”

  As if I’ve cued him onto the stage, Poseidon strolls into the common room from the direction of the cliffside gardens with the nymph Orseis on his arm. Her lush, wavy hair is studded with jasmine blossoms. Both wear guilty smiles on their faces.

  “Dear brother,” I say, leaving Hermes to join Poseidon. “Perhaps you could control your son.”

  “Which one?” He chuckles and clutches Orseis tighter to him. But the lover’s spell the nymph was under breaks at the reminder of the number of women the sea god has left with child. Orseis pulls away from my brother and storms out of the room. Poseidon watches her go, but before he can take a single step after her, I grip him by his bearded chin and make him look at me.

  “Pelias. You know him as the one who murdered his mother, your lover, in my temple.”

  At this, all noise in the common room ceases. Herc whispers to his children to go play elsewhere as all eyes and ears tune to me. Each of the twelve gods gives patronage to one of Osteria’s city states, or poli, and within each polis stands a temple of some sort to the patron god. The temples not only provide a place of worship and pilgrimage, but also serve as places of sanctuary. Pelias’s mother had been among the latter group. When her bastard son hunted her down, Tyro had fled to my temple perched on the outskirts of Portaceae City. When he failed to respect the sanctuary laws, Pelias committed one of the greatest offenses to the gods, and to me especially, by slaying her as she sought my protection.

  “I cannot be blamed for that. I had nothing to do with her shunning the child I gave her. She should have been honored.”

  I roll my eyes. What is it with my brothers that make them think a woman being impregnated and then abandoned to explain to an angry spouse or father how she got with child was an honor?

  “She was not honored. She was murdered and I have despised your son since that day. So far he has kept his head low so I have paid him no mind.”

  “And you were too busy tormenting Herc,” Hermes adds as he leans jauntily against a column. I send him a look to make glaciers shiver.

  “He has now invaded Illamos Valley and that will not be tolerated,” I say.

  Poseidon shrugs. “I love you sister, but I don’t see how you can get so worked up over these mortal affairs.” He kisses me on my cheek and the coarse hair of his beard tickles my skin. I brush him away. He steps back and I see the impatient expression on his face. He is ready to end this confrontation to go search for Orseis. I grab his wrist.

  “You know the prophecy regarding Illamos Valley. I will not have a man like Pelias think he will be the one to fulfill it.”

  “What prophecy?” Herc asks.

  “My sister speaks of a raving oracle who foresaw that a man from Illamos Valley will one day rule all of Osteria. Some argue the Oracle said ‘save all of Osteria,’ not ‘rule,’ but still, I would have thought you above such superstition, Hera.”

  “I may be,” I say even though it is a lie. The oracle spoke the words long ago when the Illamos Valley polis had just staked out its borders. A shudder passes through me. Call it superstition, but this is not something I can turn my back on. “You know mortals believe in such things. If Pelias claims Illamos Valley, he will only need to mention the prophecy to bring the weak-minded to his side. Illamos Valley needs a hero.”

  “This is a matter for Dionysus, not you,” Poseidon says. At the sound of soft footsteps he cranes his neck to peer down a hall off the common room, but it is only Demeter.

  “Dionysus will only look into it if someone takes an axe to his grapevines,” I mutter. “Oh, go chase after your nymph.” I wave my hand dismissively and my brother trots off to search for his lover.

  I pace the common room for several moments, twisting my hands together and giving a huff of annoyance each time I turn. Aeson is too old to be the hero Illamos Valley needs. It must be someone younger, ready to prove himself. I halt and spin to face Herc. “If I need your help, will you give it?”

  “I—” Herc hesitates. Iole comes up to him with Cassie perched on her hip and squeezes his hand. “If you need me, I’ll help in what way I can, but my first duty is to be here with my children and Iole.”

  “Yes, good. I don’t plan to take up all your time.” The tension in my face softens a fraction at the sight of the contentment on my daughter’s face. “Besides, I wouldn’t deprive Iole her happiness for long. Hermes, what news of Jason?”

  “A messenger will leave in the morning with the news of Illamos Valley. For some reason Pelias wants Jason to know what has happened. I fear he may be luring the prince in to kill him.”

  “No doubt he is.” Hermes stares at me as if in disbelief I should be so blunt. But it’s true. Pelias may have qualms about killing his half-brother, but Pelias is an Arean and he won’t hesitate to do away with Jason to prevent any opposition to his seizure of Illamos Valley. However, I know Pelias also carries a fear of his nephew and I intend to use that fear to Jason’s benefit. “You have a collection of old sandals whose wings have been clipped. Before he wakes this morning, steal Jason’s boots and leave a pair of your sandals in their place. The loosest ones you have.”

  Hermes opens his mouth to argue. He hates to part with any of the thousands of sandals in his collection, but it is too rare a thing for one of the gods to encourage him in his favorite pasti
me of stealing.

  “And may I steal them back at some point?” he asks in a wary tone of bargaining.

  “Of course, and I want you to find out what Ares is up to. This Pelias is commander of his vigiles. Ares must know something.”

  Hermes’s cheeks blush and a god would have to be blind not to notice the thrill in his eyes. On Zeus’s orders, Ares is no longer welcome on Olympus, but the ban has done nothing to stop Hermes’s admiration for the god of war.

  “You have a deal.” Hermes preens his hand over his helmet wings and flutters off. I hope in his haste to see Ares, Hermes doesn’t forget about the sandals.

  “Mother, you swore not to intervene,” Iole chastises.

  I brush my fingers along her cheek. “My darling, helping is not intervening.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jason

  “HIGHNESS, A MESSAGE for you.”

  From my reclined position, I reluctantly open my eyes to look up at a tow-haired boy holding out a folded piece of parchment for me to take. Only yesterday I discovered the fields beyond Portaceae’s temple to Hera provide an excellent spot for lounging. In the early afternoon of these unseasonably warm days of early fall, the scent of lavender wafts over the air, making it easy to slip into slumber. Unfortunately, as second-in-command of the Illamosian vigiles and Prince of Illamos Valley, these restful moments are often disturbed by messages. I push myself up to sit cross-legged in the grass and trade a coin for the slip of parchment. Before I can open the letter, a tall, red-haired man drops onto the grass next to me.

  “Iolalus,” I say in greeting. Despite being royalty myself, I give Portaceae’s new Solon the respect he deserves and bow my head.

  “Oh, stop with the formality. I can’t stand it. Truly, I’m about ready to hold an election to give the people someone else to bow and scrape to.”

  “They’d still choose that horse twat face of yours especially after this victory,” says Odysseus as he strides up to us.

  “Only thanks to you convincing men like your cousin here and so many other vigiles to help me.” Iolalus grins, then adds, “I can’t believe they agreed to stay after smelling your pony fart breath.”

  Odysseus belts out a laugh. Before Iolalus took the Solonship, vigiles from Aryana, Osteria’s most aggressive polis, had invaded Portaceae’s borders. Odysseus, commander of the Illamosian vigiles, had been serving duty in Portaceae at the time. His messages to Osteria’s ten other poli brought enough forces to drive the Areans back to their homeland in the east. I and a band of my best vigiles had been among the first to answer his call. Although I felt it my duty to help my neighbor to the north and found it a joy to fight alongside my notorious cousin, I also brought with me a hope that success in the battle might earn me a portion of rare praise from my mother and father. The slip of parchment sealed with the grape cluster emblem of Illamos Valley, brings a bloom of anticipation to my heart that my hope will be realized.

  “What news?” Odysseus asks, nodding at the note in my hand. He stretches out in the grass, leaning back on his elbows with an air of calm confidence I often try to copy, but never seem able to match. His sharp green eyes, that always carry a hint of cunning mischief, shine in the late afternoon light. “Has Achilles finally decided to join the battle now that it’s over?”

  “I heard his mother won’t let him fight,” Iolalus says.

  It’s true. Although an Oracle once claimed Achilles would become Osteria’s most sought after warrior and had supposedly been gifted by the gods with fighting skills, no one has ever seen him in battle. Not even mock battle. As high-born children, Achilles and I were both educated by the wise centaur, Chiron. Like most did, I left when I was sixteen, but Achilles – despite being a year older than me – remained with Chiron. When this call came up, it was said Achilles’s mother, fearing some prophecy, hid him away and even Chiron, who I swear knows everything, does not know where his former pupil is. Even though I know him to be intelligent and ready for any physical challenge, most believe that Achilles may not even know how to handle a sword and hides behind his mother’s skirts to avoid tarnishing the reputation that has grown up around him.

  I break the seal. Each word scratched into the parchment wears away my sunny mood over the thrill of an easily won triumph and the prideful hope of pleasing my parents.

  “Pelias has taken over the rule of Illamos Valley.” I look at Odysseus who now sits up, his face etched in concern as he reaches for the note. “He has imprisoned my mother and father.”

  “Doesn’t Dionysus have any say in the matter? Does he offer them no protection?” Iolalus asks.

  Each polis of Osteria is under the protection of one of the twelve gods of Mount Olympus. Hera although recently remiss in her duties, oversees Portaceae, while Dionysus, the god of wine and revelry, serves as patron god of Illamos Valley. Although the fields of Illamos Valley sprout much of the fruit, vegetables and nuts for Osteria, it’s the Valley’s grape vines and the fermented product of those vines that first attracted Dionysus to my wealthy city-state.

  “Dionysus ensures the grapes grow and that the Valley’s vineyards remain fertile and protected,” Odysseus says with a critical note to his voice. “Unlike Hera who has to have her hand in every Portacean pie, as long as Illamos Valley’s leader respects the vineyards and fields, our god fails to meddle in trifling matters like politics. Unless Pelias sets fire to the vines, Dionysus won’t be roused by this news.”

  “I must return home.” I stand, ready to go this instant.

  “You’ll miss the victory party tonight,” Iolalus says as he rises to his feet.

  “Celebrating with Illamosian wine, no doubt,” I tease and clap the new leader amicably on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I get my fill.” I fasten my belt and scabbard around my waist, tie my dagger to my calf and hoist a travel pack onto my shoulders. Out of habit, for reassurance I touch my hand to the grape cluster charm of the Illamosian vigiles that hangs from my neck. I must get to my father to find out if this news is true and, if needed, to fight for my polis. I start toward the path that will take me to the Osterian Road, but get only ten paces through the field before the sounds of Iolalus’s and Odysseus’s laughter hit my ears. I brush the back of my tunic making certain it hasn’t hitched up to expose my rear end. As children, Odysseus once let me go an entire day with my tunic like that and I still carry the habit of checking my backside whenever I feel flustered with nerves or confusion.

  The tunic is as it should be, so I look down to my feet. I know I look ridiculous in these sandals that have clearly seen better days and that are too big for my feet, but they were what I found beside my bed in place of my boots when I woke this morning. It’s a silly joke and I hope by wearing them I will shame the person who stole my boots into returning them. With the laughter behind me, I feel certain in my suspicions that Odysseus is the thief. I turn around, expecting to see my cousin waggling my boots at me. But no, the joke at my expense continues and Odysseus stands empty-handed. I question him and Iolalus with a scolding stare.

  “You never change, do you?” asks Odysseus who now stands grinning next to Iolalus.

  “I know Odysseus smells like the wrong side of a pig’s anus,” Iolalus says, “but I hope his stench hasn’t made you lose your senses.”

  I try to erase it, but I feel the scrunch of confusion creeping over my face. Iolalus points to the field behind him. My horse grazes on the grass growing between the grey-green shrubs of lavender. My cheeks burn as if someone has thrown a log on my internal fire. No wonder my parents think so little of me. Trying to play it off, I roll my eyes to chide my own forgetfulness. Odysseus and Iolalus stride over as I remove the hobble from my horse’s legs.

  “Lucky I’m here to think for you or you’d have been halfway to the Valley before realizing you should be looking at the Osterian Road from a few feet higher up. If the Solon can spare me I think it might be best if I go with you. These Areans are worse than Old Lerna – cut one head off and two more spro
ut in its place.” Odysseus’s tone is jovial but the look that passes between him and Iolalus speaks of the same heavy concern that has settled on my chest.

  Pelias, my father’s adopted brother and the commander of the Arean vigiles, represents the Aryana polis on the Osterian Council – the body that sprang up a decade ago to oversee what they deem as Osterian-wide matters. Matters that primarily include collecting fees and fines, and creating silly laws such as the strict regulation of the limited amount of electricity found in a few of Osteria’s poli.

  The Osterian Council also have their hands in the dispersal of grain, a job once left to the monarchs of Demos, but when King Athamas abandoned his throne in search of his son Phrixus, a rebellion deposed Ino’s twins and put Priam – a man too meek to oppose the Council – in the president’s seat. Although they claim themselves a neutral branch of government, the Council’s reach has grown in recent years. There are even rumors that some of the members long to rule Osteria through one man with the other eleven serving as advisors, but despite the talk they have never interfered with the politics of the twelve poli – politics that range from the democracy of Cedonia to the more common monarchies of Portaceae and Illamos Valley. Pelias taking control of Illamos Valley smacks of the Osteria Council digging its claws into areas it shouldn’t. Or perhaps this is just another show of the aggressive hunger for battle that seems woven into the fabric of Arean existence.

  “Of course, go,” Iolalus says, stroking the muzzle of the black horse he obtained only weeks ago from one of the districts in southern Portaceae – an immortal and fearless beast, perfect for the battlefield. “And don’t hesitate to send word if you need any help.”

  When Odysseus and I mount our horses – large yet nimble Astorian-trained steeds that had been ideal on the front lines in the battles that ended a few days ago – I catch sight of the deep scar on Odysseus’s calf. I’m so used to the craggy mark I rarely notice it, but on the occasions I do my gut lurches at the memory of his screams the day he received it. Nor do I forget the chastising I earned from my father that day as if it was I, not a wild boar, who inflicted the wound.