This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(65)

Artemis glances back at the creature, her hands still entangled in Galatea’s hair.

I decide not to stay any longer. They make such a lovely tableau together: Galatea fresh as a sprig of cypress, simple and unadorned, Artemis as bold and sharp as a spear of moonlight. But my curiosity will have to be satisfied with this.

There are councils on Olympus, and Ares sits through each one without storming out. Zeus stares at him, confounded and delighted by this new compliance. When an opportunity arises, Charis reports to me in secret on Hephaestus’ progress: Dionysus has been there, she says, and the forge was heavy with the fug of wine after.

Misgivings rise at the news he went after all. But I can hardly go there myself and question Hephaestus about it. Who am I to deny him pleasant company?

I keep my silence about the way my last visit to Hephaestus ended. I’m rarely in one place long enough for Charis to question me; I flit to Mount Haemus in pursuit of obliterating bliss night after night, or else Ares appears on Cyprus, reminding me of the first time he came to my island, irresistibly drawn to my sanctuary.

We’re there, dressing by my cave-pool, when raindrops scatter from the cloudless sky above. We look up, the impossibility resolving itself a moment later as a rainbow streaks above us and Iris lands in a flutter of golden feathers.

“Iris?” I’m startled to see her here, looking uncharacteristically harried. “What is it?”

“It’s Hera,” she says. “Zeus is summoning every god back to the heavens now.”

“Why?” Ares asks. “What has she done now?”

Iris shakes her head. “She hasn’t done anything. Hephaestus has.”

My veins turn to ice. “Hephaestus?”

Her eyes are grave. “He’s taken her prisoner. And he won’t let her go.”





18


It’s not exactly as I imagined. Hephaestus isn’t there when we arrive, and he hasn’t taken Hera anywhere.

“He trapped her,” Zeus spits when he sees us. He’s furious. “None of us can unlock it,” he seethes. “We’ve all tried.”

Hera sits in a golden throne, utterly immobilized by fetters that have sprung from the metal and clamped her in place. Her fury wrestles with her dignity, her glare scorching and imperious, challenging us to mock her plight. If I might have found it amusing in other circumstances, I definitely don’t now.

The throne room is full—all the Olympian gods lined up before our captive queen, and behind them the nymphs and attendants. There are the Graces and the Horae, all with worried faces. Charis bites her lip, her eyes shadowed with anxiety.

“How stupid of him,” I breathe. “What does he want?”

“Who cares what he wants?” Zeus says. “He’ll free her. And the god who makes him do it—by whatever means they see fit—will be handsomely rewarded.”

This piques Apollo’s interest. “What will they receive?” he asks, an expectant glow lighting up his face.

“Whichever god makes Hephaestus unlock this chair,” Zeus huffs, “will have a prize that many have sought for centuries, and no one has ever thought would be his.”

“His?” I interject, annoyed.

“That’s right.” Zeus stops pacing back and forth, settling his gaze on me.

I shift uneasily. Even in his anger and frustration, he looks pleased. He has a plan, I realize, underneath all of his bluster. It can’t bode well. “What is it?”

“The prize, Aphrodite,” he says, his voice getting louder and more booming as he holds out an arm in an expansive gesture, “is you.”

“What?” I glance at Ares, who looks similarly dumbstruck.

“It’s you,” Zeus repeats. “The god who frees Hera from this trap will have Aphrodite as his wife.”

“Wife?” I cry. “No, he won’t. That’s impossible. It’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous,” Zeus says, “is the freedom I’ve granted you until now. You should have been married a long time ago.”

“I’m not going to marry someone to free Hera,” I say. “I don’t care if she’s stuck there forever.”

“Fortunately, it isn’t up to you.” Hera’s tone is pure venom, dripping like acid. “You’ll follow the decree of Zeus. This is his house.” Her fingers flex, as though she wants to raise her hand, but she’s held so tightly to the frame of the chair that she can’t. “I’ve given my permission for the marriage.”

“It’s not your permission that matters,” I snap. Despite the wrath in her eyes, she can’t quite hide that she flinches at my approach. So, she is vulnerable after all, somewhere deep inside. But I’m only looking for the mechanism by which she’ll be released.

I circle it a couple of times, running my fingers across the smooth interlocking pieces. The assembled gods are watching, most of them curious and somewhat entertained. Apollo is alert, intrigued and probably eager to try it out himself.

Dionysus, I note, is nowhere to be seen.

“Give up, Aphrodite,” Hera says, so softly that only I can hear her. “Let Ares deal with Hephaestus.”

“What do you mean?” I scrabble at the band around her left wrist, certain that there must be a lever, a spring, a catch of some kind somewhere that will make it give way. There’s nothing.