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I always wanted to prove the value of a mortal life, didn’t I? Perhaps this is my chance. I glance up again at the narrow path, and the green slopes that tower like a wall before me.

Is it madness, to attempt what I’m about to do?

Certainly it is. But perhaps I am getting used to madness by now.

“Come on, Ajax,” I say, but the horse’s ear merely twitches.

“Come on,” I say again, nudging with my heel, and this time he moves. I cannot say I blame him for his reluctance. I pull my cloak tighter around me despite the summer warmth, and I wonder in passing if Eros ever got used to this—to always being cloaked out in the world, always hiding himself from prying eyes.

The path is even steeper than it looked from below. My legs clench hard around the horse’s broad back, and I hear Ajax’s damp snorts of effort as he climbs the rough track. Tree roots snake in front of us, thick as my arm. There is a wet, heavy scent to the air—perfumed, almost. As we climb, the heat seems only to cling more thickly, as though the season itself grows more intense. Soon the last beads of dew on the grass are all gone, though it is hours still till noon. The animals are hidingfrom the heat, perhaps—aside from the intermittent buzz of a bee, there’s hardly any sign of life, only the long grasses and the many wildflowers, and overhead, now and again, the glimpse of a soaring eagle. We make our way through the exposed sun. Though I see trees uphill, there are none along this portion of the path.

At the next pass I pull Ajax in and turn us around to see the view. It’s already astonishing—cascading hills around us, and ahead the mist of faraway blue that I know is the Aegean sea. But I have only to look over my shoulder to see all of Mount Olympus that still towers before us.

“How long do you think until we can see to the summit, Ajax?” I murmur, because the trunk of the mountain is still cloaked in fog, and it’s impossible to estimate how much road remains ahead. I wonder how many mortals have passed this way before me.

It is said that great heroes of legend were invited to the gods’ acropolis at the top of Olympus. In the early days of man, it is said that our kings went there regularly. But later the invitations became fewer, and the mortals who journeyed there did so against the gods’ will, and by strength and cunning instead: Ixion and Bellerophon, and the famed Herakles. Heroes and god-children, not regular folk.

Certainly no women.

I set my jaw, and turn Ajax back toward the uphill path.

Those are only the tales men tell, and men’s tales are never the full truth of the world. Besides, I have the oracle’s words to sustain me, and I carry a god’s own arrows.

We climb on, and the sweat beading at my hairline breaks free now, rolling down my temples and the back of my neck; the sun beats down against my shoulders. Ajax, I know well, is no ordinary horse, and yet it is the first time I have heard his breath sound strained, or felt shivers travel the ropy muscles ofhis back. When we round a bend and find ourselves suddenly on a great plateau, I feel my body sag in relief. We have been on the ascent for hours now, five or six or more, perhaps, judging by the sun’s position.

A meadow opens up before us, wildflowers in bright clumps dotted everywhere. I know some now by name, after my education with Aletheia in Eros’s gardens. Celandine and yarrow, harebell and flowering sage. There are trees dotted around the plateau too, tall ones with many bare branches and piles of leaves beneath, as though the world up here is turning to autumn quicker than down below, in the valley. And as I watch, I spot movement in one of the trees. I hold my breath as I study the dark mass clustered there, moving slightly. Crows? Then a shape breaks loose from the cluster, black against the blue sky.

Vultures,I decide. It has the shape of a vulture, I think, and it circles and swoops as vultures do: some dead or near-dead creature in the grass must have caught its eye. But it is odd, to see a group huddled together in a tree like that. Vultures do not hunt in packs.

No matter. These are vultures of Olympus; the rules of the world I know no longer apply.

“Forward, Ajax. They will be no threat to us, and besides, they are far enough from our path. We will move quietly; they are occupied with their prey.”

I nudge him, and reluctantly, he complies.

But as we ride through the meadow, another black shadow breaks free from the treetops, and then another. I pull my hood back, the better to search the sky. At first their circling seems lazy, speculative. But I cannot help but feel, then, that their circles are drawing closer. They fly higher, now, too high for me to see more than a blur, but they are almost directly overhead.

And then one of them drops, and banks, and drops again. There is an uncanny zeal in it, and I lean in to Ajax, urging himto go faster. I can’t shake the feeling that the creature is carving a path directly for us, unnatural as that seems. But a few paces later Ajax shies and kicks, and I feel, more than hear, the clamor of wings above me.

Unwillingly, I look up. A great, grey wingspan stretches over us, wider than the greatest eagle, and a foul smell drifts in the air—the smell of carrion, of death. But the worst of all is that above the grey, withered-looking wings, there’s a face that looks almost human.

Nausea roils my stomach. These are no birds.

These are harpies.

*

“Traveler!”

The stench of death drifts toward me again, roiling the fear in my belly. “You seek to pass this way?” Her voice is womanly, not the squawking or rasping I expected. I hesitate.

“I seek to continue my ascent.”

“Then you must pay a toll,” she says, and I hear the glee in her voice. Harpies are known for their greed, they are thieves at heart. And yet all the stories I’ve heard about them have done little to prepare me for the horror of being face to face with one, for how my mind stutters and my hands tremble. But her demand can be met, at least. I open one saddlebag, feeling around for some trinket that will please her. A silver cup I took from the table at home—less valuable than the ring, but shiny.

“I have little to offer,” I say. “But take this.”

I hold it above my head, and the harpy’s eyes turn this way and that, like a bird’s, inspecting.