Yesterday, 02:36 PM
Chapter 4
The Instruments of Power
The last time Hades visited Olympus, the occasion had been a wedding. He could no longer remember whose.
He remembered the banquet, however, and the extraordinary quantity of wine consumed by gods who ought to have known better. Hymenaios had lost his place in the wedding hymn halfway through the festivities, then insisted upon beginning again despite the protests of nearly everyone present. Hebe had eventually relieved him of his cup, though not before his third attempt brought the guests to helpless laughter.
It had been nearly forty years.
Olympus had changed little in the interval. Its pale terraces still rose above a sea of clouds, and its gardens flourished at an elevation that ought to have defeated them. Fountains murmured beneath gilded roofs, while the great halls displayed mosaics of victories Zeus had never permitted anyone to forget. Hades admired the workmanship, but he had never understood his brother's need to commemorate quite so much of it.
The warmth was another matter. Even at this elevation, the morning air was considerably warmer than the halls of Erebos. He had dressed accordingly, exchanging his customary long coat and heavier garments for a sleeveless black tunic of lightweight fabric. Its high collar and asymmetrical cut suited his preferences, and the sigil of the underworld remained secured at his chest. The concessions to the climate ended there.
He had spent so much of his life in the underworld that the cold had long since ceased to seem a hardship. Indeed, he found himself missing it. The warmth of Olympus settled unpleasantly against his skin, and the sunlight, though hardly oppressive, seemed determined to find him wherever he went.
His arrival attracted notice.
Conversations diminished as he crossed the terraces. Several lesser gods stepped from his path, while others watched him pass with unabashed curiosity. One servant nearly dropped the silver tray they carried when rounding a corner and finding themselves face to face with the Lord of the Dead. Hades acknowledged the few who actually greeted him, though he suspected that by evening his presence would have inspired several competing explanations.
A chamberlain greeted him at the entrance to the inner palace and escorted him through a succession of airy rooms to a terrace overlooking the mountain range. Laughter drifted through the open doorway ahead.
"Tell him he may compose whatever he likes, provided he doesn't expect me to listen to all of it."
A woman's amused reply was lost beneath the sound of approaching footsteps.
Zeus appeared in the doorway with a cup of wine in one hand and an expression of considerable surprise. For a moment he simply stared. Then his face broke into a broad smile.
"Well, this is a sight I never expected today!"
Before Hades could offer a greeting, Zeus embraced him.
The gesture caught him quite unprepared. His brother had always been affectionate when the mood suited him, but Hades had forgotten the peculiar sensation of being held with such unreserved familiarity. There was little occasion for it in Erebos. His subjects maintained a respectful distance, and Persephone and he had scarcely touched in months. For an instant, he found himself uncertain how to respond to an embrace offered so naturally, as though the years and everything that stood between them amounted to nothing. Then he returned it briefly, more from long habit than inclination.
Zeus stepped away to examine him.
He was much as Hades remembered. His chestnut hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders, a neatly maintained beard framed his handsome features, and his light eyes, somewhere between gray and hazel, possessed that extraordinary attentiveness which could make a person feel, for a time, like the most important individual in the world. There had once been a more obvious resemblance between them, though their features had changed in different directions over the years.
Where Hades had cultivated restraint, Zeus wore his confidence openly. His ivory tunic and deep blue mantle were worked with gold, an eagle-shaped clasp secured the fabric at his shoulder, and rings adorned several fingers. He looked every measure the king of the gods, even at leisure.
"You ought to have sent word. We could have prepared something."
"I doubt Olympus has forgotten how to receive a visitor."
Zeus laughed.
"No, but we might have found a reason to celebrate. Come, have a drink. You remember how."
He dismissed the chamberlain with a gesture and led Hades onto the terrace. A small company had gathered around a low table laden with fruit, bread, cheeses, and several amphorae of wine. Two young goddesses rose as Hades approached. Zeus made the introductions with characteristic carelessness, evidently assuming that his brother would have little interest in remembering the names. Hades acknowledged them with generic courtesy.
"Leave us for a while, would you?" Zeus said when the formalities were complete. "I haven't seen my brother in an age."
The company withdrew, and Zeus settled into a cushioned chair overlooking the mountain range. He indicated another opposite him and poured Hades a generous measure of wine.
"Persephone? How is she?"
Hades accepted the cup. There were several ways he might have answered the question, none of which he cared to discuss with Zeus.
"Well. Quite occupied with improvements to Elysium."
"Building more gardens, is she? I should come and see what she's accomplished."
Hades took a drink. He doubted the visit would ever materialize and was more than content to leave the suggestion unanswered.
"And you? Still buried in work?"
"Among other things."
Zeus grinned. "Good. I was beginning to wonder if boredom inspired this visit.”
For a time they discussed affairs beyond Erebos. Zeus spoke of a festival being prepared in his honor and a dispute between two neighboring cities, each claiming a right to his patronage. Both had sent delegations bearing gifts and petitions, and Zeus seemed particularly entertained by the lengths to which their representatives had gone to distinguish themselves.
"One offered a monument of truly shocking size," Zeus explained. "The other brought six goats and a petition written on a piece of wood."
"I presume you awarded the dispute to the monument."
"Certainly not. The goats were excellent."
Hades indulged his brother with a faint smile. Satisfied, Zeus turned his attention fully to him.
"Now, as much as I'd enjoy believing you came all this way because you missed me, I imagine there's something on your mind."
"There is." Hades set down his cup. "The Atharim."
Zeus considered him over the rim of his wine.
"The mortal zealots? They've caused some trouble. I put Apollo in charge of dealing with them."
"Personally?"
"Hardly. I have better uses for my son than sending him into cellars after men armed with sticks and pitchforks." Zeus smiled. "His people have disrupted several gatherings, detained suspected organizers, and strengthened guards around vulnerable sites. The disturbances have become less frequent."
"And the organization behind them?"
"Some of these groups are little more than disaffected mortals borrowing the name. Others have resources and discipline that suggest someone is directing them. Apollo will establish how they're connected."
It was a more extensive investigation than Hades had anticipated. He had come to determine whether Olympus appreciated the danger to its own domains, and by extension whether Erebos might benefit from its efforts. If Apollo could dismantle the organization before it became a wider threat, Hades would have little reason to concern himself with events beyond his borders.
"Enodia is dead."
"Ah yes. An unfortunate loss."
Zeus spoke as though recalling an inconvenience already accounted for. Hades wondered whether the death of a more prominent goddess would have elicited a different response.
"The Atharim killed her with a weapon capable of interfering with Dynamis itself."
"So I have been told."
"Have you recovered anything similar?"
"A few relics, but nothing that suggests these mortals can reproduce them."
"Someone has learned enough to use them."
"Certainly. That's why I am recovering them. But possessing an old weapon and understanding how to reproduce one are very different accomplishments. Until I have evidence of the latter, there is no reason to treat these people as an army."
The distinction was reasonable. Hades had encountered sufficient abandoned technemata in his lifetime to know that their survival did not imply any understanding of their construction. Nevertheless, there were other kinds of knowledge that might prove equally dangerous.
"One of their people entered the Nekromanteion in Mesopotamos. He was studying the Pyle there."
Zeus lowered his cup.
"Did he attempt a conjunction?"
"No. He was examining its construction. Taking measurements with a technema."
The amusement left Zeus' expression.
Every Pyle was designed to establish a passage between two otherwise distant places, but activating one was only the beginning. The conjunction it opened was inherently unstable, and the particular manner of its activation determined whether the passage could be traversed safely. An improperly established conjunction might prove impassable. A traveler who attempted to cross a dangerously unstable one was unlikely to survive.
The mechanisms were not something Hades had ever expected a mortal to understand, much less attempt to study.
"And the man?"
"He took his own life during questioning. The Erinyes are investigating his contacts in Corinth."
"The Pyle is secure?"
"Yes. And I've ordered additional precautions at the others."
"Good. Where is the instrument now?"
"In my possession."
Zeus regarded him thoughtfully.
"Have it examined. If the instrument reveals anything of value, Apollo should know of it. I'll have his people coordinate with yours if you wish.”
The offer was made without hesitation. Hades had expected to argue for cooperation and was satisfied to discover that his brother required no persuasion on that point.
"Agreed."
"There. Something accomplished already. You should visit more often."
Zeus reached for his wine, but Hades had not finished.
"They possess weapons capable of killing gods, yet they sent a man to study a passage into the underworld rather than attack it. I would very much like to know why."
"As would I." Zeus set his cup aside. "But they did not establish a conjunction, and you have secured the Pyle. Whatever they hoped to accomplish, they have failed."
"At Mesopotamos."
"Yes. At Mesopotamos."
"And if they have learned enough to attempt the same elsewhere?"
"Then Apollo's investigation will become considerably more important. What would you have me do in the meantime?"
It was a fair question, though Hades disliked the implication that concern required an immediate demand for action. He had not come to request an army. He had certainly not come to involve himself in the defense of Olympus or the territories of the other gods. Whatever happened beyond his own kingdom remained their responsibility.
"I would ensure that whatever Apollo discovers reaches those whose domains may be threatened. The investigation should not remain confined to attacks upon isolated temples. The Atharim may be interested in far more than the sanctuaries they have already targeted."
Zeus regarded him for a moment.
"You have always been particularly protective of your borders."
"For good reason."
"Of course. No one disputes that." Zeus smiled. "Though I sometimes wonder whether you'd sleep more soundly if you could build a wall around the entire world."
Hades did not smile. He suspected Zeus would find the proposal considerably less amusing if asked to pay for it.
"But the world is not yours to fortify, brother. We settled that a very long time ago."
The words extinguished what little amusement Hades had entertained.
Zeus spoke of the settlement as though it had been an agreement freely reached by three men equally satisfied with its terms. Hades remembered the circumstances rather differently. He remembered his brothers standing together, the options they had placed before him, and the Covenant of the Division of the World that had followed. Its obligations remained as binding now as on the day he had accepted them.
There had been no misunderstanding about the alternatives.
For a moment, Hades considered reminding Zeus of that fact. He could almost hear the patient explanation that would follow, perhaps accompanied by some observation about the sacrifices required of all three brothers. Zeus had always been remarkably generous when accounting for the sacrifices of others.
He said nothing.
"After all," Zeus continued, "if you are proposing some broader arrangement concerning the affairs of the other kingdoms, that would be a rather different discussion."
There it was. A request for information had become a question of jurisdiction, and Hades found himself obliged to clarify his intentions rather than pursue his concern.
"I am not proposing to interfere."
Zeus held his gaze firm for another moment.
"Of course not."
There was nothing openly threatening in the response. There did not need to be. The Covenant had settled the limits of Hades' authority long before either of them took their seats upon this terrace, and Zeus had only to remind him of it.
"Apollo will continue his investigation," Zeus said. "If his people uncover anything that concerns the security of Erebos, you shall be informed. I will see to it personally."
It was precisely the assurance Hades had sought, although obtaining it now felt rather less like a concession than an instruction.
"Very well."
Zeus smiled, plainly satisfied, and reached for a dish of figs.
"Now, have one of these. They're excellent."
Hades accepted one. His brother had brought the discussion to a close, and prolonging it would accomplish nothing. He had secured access to Apollo's investigation and learned that Olympus was taking the Atharim seriously within the limits Zeus considered appropriate. That would have to suffice.
When Zeus invited him to remain for dinner, Hades declined.
"You never do," Zeus observed. "One of these days, you ought to visit without bringing some calamity to discuss."
"Olympus has enough calamities of its own to entertain you without me bringing them up."
Zeus laughed, then appeared to remember something.
"Wait a moment before you go."
He summoned an attendant and issued quiet instructions. When the servant returned, he carried an ornate tray bearing a decanter of dark metal and two shallow cups fashioned to match. The decanter was smooth as glass except for a band of delicate inscriptions encircling its neck, and its stopper had been fitted so precisely that no seam was visible.
Hades recognized the metal immediately. Pure baetylus, worked with a degree of precision that few craftsmen outside his own kingdom could have achieved. The vessel alone represented a considerable expenditure of material. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing so much of it put to use on Olympus, though he doubted the significance occurred to his brother.
Zeus dismissed the attendant with a gesture and lifted the decanter himself. He poured a small measure into each of the matching cups. The liquid was pale gold, almost colorless where the sunlight passed through it, and possessed a faint fragrance that Hades remembered well.
Néktar.
"A fresh preparation sent this very morning," Zeus explained. "Fortunate timing, wouldn't you say?"
"Very."
Zeus offered him one of the cups.
The drink was a wonder of Olympus that Erebos could not reproduce. Hades knew the flowering plant from which it came, and the rare Talent required to transform its harvest into something far more valuable than gold itself. Both remained closely guarded privileges of the Olympian court. Zeus had never seen fit to make either available beyond his own domain, except in whatever quantities he chose to bestow.
Hades accepted the gift.
"You don't visit often enough to enjoy it as you should," Zeus remarked.
Hades glanced at the drink before returning his gaze to his brother. The timing had not escaped him. A few minutes earlier, Zeus had reminded him of the Covenant that confined his authority. Now, with the matter settled to his satisfaction, he offered a gift that none other could provide.
Yet the generosity was genuine. Zeus took unmistakable pleasure in giving such things, particularly when the recipient understood their value.
Hades inclined his head. Zeus raised his own cup, and they drank together.
The nectar was delicate upon the tongue, its sweetness followed by a pleasant warmth that spread through his chest and limbs. His awareness of Dynamis sharpened almost immediately, answering with a fullness he had not possessed moments earlier. The sensation was exquisite. For all his reservations about its source, he could not deny the benefit.
Mortals believed a mere taste of nectar granted immortality, an assumption the Olympians had never been particularly eager to correct. Hades knew better. It could strengthen him and extend the span of his years, but it could not make him impervious to death. He had slain too many gods to entertain that illusion.
Still, he would accept whatever time it offered.
Zeus watched him with evident satisfaction.
"Better?"
"Considerably."
"Good. You see? There are advantages to visiting your family."
Hades returned the empty cup. Zeus replaced the stopper upon the drained decanter and handed the vessels back to the attendant, who withdrew.
His brother's pleasure in the exchange was obvious. It was not enough for Zeus to possess such wonders. He enjoyed seeing them appreciated, and perhaps enjoyed still more the knowledge that their enjoyment depended upon his generosity. Hades had never mistaken the arrangement for anything other than what it was.
Zeus rose to accompany him through the adjoining chamber. At the threshold of the inner palace, his brother embraced him once more.
"Do not wait so long to visit your brother next time."
Hades returned the embrace. The gesture no longer surprised him, though it remained an unwelcome reminder of how easily Zeus assumed their relationship could be expressed in such terms. He had learned long ago that denying his brother these small gestures accomplished nothing, and accepting them cost him considerably less than the alternative.
He left Zeus in excellent spirits.
The palace had returned to its usual afternoon pleasures. Music drifted from an adjoining gallery, and somewhere beyond the colonnades a dispute over a game of chance had grown loud enough to attract an audience. Hades passed two young goddesses who abruptly abandoned their conversation when they recognized him. One recovered quickly enough to offer a greeting, though her companion seemed far more interested in where he had come from than where he was going.
He continued toward the outer terraces, giving little thought to what stories his visit might inspire.
As he descended, his fingers brushed the instrument concealed in his pocket.
He had intended to return directly to Erebos, but the unfamiliar technema remained an unanswered question. Zeus had been quite correct about one thing. Possessing a device and understanding its construction were entirely different accomplishments. Hades intended to learn which of them the Atharim had achieved.
There were few gods whose knowledge of such instruments he considered equal to the challenge. One of them, however, could be found here.
Hades changed course before reaching the steps.