This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(86)

“But the oath…” I say.

“If you break it, you lose your power,” Eros says. “But what if keeping the oath means you lose it anyway?”

It’s a risk either way. “Hephaestus doesn’t want me to leave,” I prevaricate.

“Maybe he doesn’t, but he should.” Eros shades his eyes, looking beyond the sanctuary, across the island. “You torment him with hope every day that you stay. I was watching him at his work. All those muscles, Aphrodite. Someone else would appreciate the opportunity, but you steadfastly refuse to take advantage of your situation. It’s a waste, you know.”

“I don’t think that my being with Hephaestus would solve this,” I say.

“Then go,” he urges. “Find out what will.”

“Maybe,” I concede. “Maybe I should.” I’ve been happier on Lemnos than I expected to be. It’s been a cocoon in my heartbreak, and I find myself more reluctant to leave it than I thought possible.

But love is the reason I went through with this marriage, even if it meant giving up my own. I’ve seen now what’s become of Ares’ kingdom, and I won’t let it happen to mine. If romances among the gods and mortals are languishing, if it’s because of me, I have to find a way to fix it.

“Let’s start putting things right,” I say. I cast a look up and down the line of worshippers. “I can try again with all these prayers. I’ve been distracted; maybe all I need to do is concentrate. Or I’ll start fresh. Are there any lovers you have in mind? Perhaps a new problem is what I need.”

“Oh,” says Eros. “Now that you mention it, there is someone. A tangle I couldn’t solve—maybe it needs your touch.”

“Well, then,” I say, “let’s go.”



* * *



—

We land in the forests of Arcadia, surrounded by spreading oaks and slender poplars, leafy ash trees and wide elms; branches ruffled by the breeze so that the sun’s rays become darts of greenish-gold. The air tastes fresh, verdant, and I fill my lungs, the tightness of my torso relaxing. My throat is soothed from the lingering scorch of the ash and soot in Thrace, and I feel the pink stealing back into my cheeks.

“Show me,” I say. “Let’s see why you brought me here.”

“The Dryads are quarreling,” he says.

“Dryads?” I ask. “It’s hardly in their nature to argue.” Dryads are timid, rarely seen and always peaceful. I can’t imagine what would stir them to discord.

“You’ll see why,” he says, but he seems a little distracted.

“What’s the matter?”

“We need to be careful here,” he admits. “We’re on the outskirts of Artemis’ territory, and she won’t be pleased to see us.”

“Artemis?” I ask. “She’s here?”

“All the forests are her home,” he says. “But she and Galatea have settled in this one of late. We’d do better to avoid her nymphs. Only they roam so far in pursuit of the hunt that sometimes it’s impossible to stay out of their way.”

I shrug. “She has no more rights over the land than we do.”

“She certainly thinks she does.” He frowns.

“Eros, have you had some kind of skirmish with her?” I ask. Never mind the gentle nature of Dryads, I really can’t imagine Eros in an argument. He’s far too relaxed and devoted to pleasure to be at odds with anyone.

“She’s just so hostile,” he complains. “Always thinking I’m going to enchant one of her nymphs and make them fall in love with a man.”

“You haven’t, have you?”

“No,” he says firmly. Then he takes my arm. “Listen!” he commands.

I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I do as he tells me. At first, I can’t hear anything but the breeze fluttering through the leaves, and then I realize that’s it. The noise intensifies, building up as the branches start to tremble as though in excitement. And then another noise—a snapping twig, the pad of footsteps and a muttered exclamation.

“This way,” Eros whispers, and he leads me through a gap in the trees.

There’s a small glade in the woods, through which a crystal-clear stream bubbles. Kneeling at the edge is a hunter. A young man, scooping up the water with delight before drinking greedily from his cupped hand. Then he swipes his arm across his forehead, lightly sheened with sweat from the heat of the afternoon.

“Now you see,” Eros breathes.

And he’s right, I do.

The sunlight plays on the young man’s face, glancing off his high cheekbones and warming his skin. There’s something of Dionysus in him—a carefree boyishness, though he looks more of a man than the pretty god does. Beside my sandaled feet, violets spring up from the earth, delicate and joyful, turning their sweet purple faces toward him, drinking him in like sunshine.

“The Dryads,” I murmur. “He’s the cause of their argument.”

“They’re fighting over him,” Eros confirms.

“I can see why.”

The hunter, his thirst quenched, leans back on the grass, and I feel the trees that surround the glade lean in closer toward him. The yearning in this forest sings to me, a hymn of longing that kisses the skin on my arms and the nape of my neck, tingling across my flesh.