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Chapter Two

Hebe

I crane my head, trying to locate the man protesting my noble sacrifice. It wasn’t Puraltas or any voice I recognize.

A deep silence falls over the watching crowd, and then the elders part.

My heart pounds. Who could be so great that even the elders move aside for them?

Three of the most beautiful men I have ever step into view.

The man at the forefront reminds me of an Egyptian slave who once fled to our village for mercy he did not find. This man wears a green mask over his face with a nemes headdress covering any hair he has. His chest, a shade darker than my skin, is bare and adorned only by a golden ankh hanging from a chain. A knee-length green kilt falls from his waist to his knees, and a pair of sandals covers his feet.

To his right is a man who matches him in height, which is nearly a head and shoulder above our tallest clansman. Startlingly purple eyes stare shrewdly from his face that is framed by shoulder-length dark hair. His skin is a few shades paler than the man at the forefront, and he wears a strange white garment that hangs from one shoulder, drapes over half his chest, and is belted at his waist before falling to his knees. A purple raiment is draped loosely around the white one, signifying his wealth.

On the other side of the green-masked man is the least striking member of the trio. Though this man also possesses an unearthly beauty and hair the color of fire falls around a pale, sculpted face. He wears no adornments over his white garment that is secured by a rope belt, but he does not need to. His hair is striking enough on its own, and then there are his eyes. They are blue like only the soul of the hottest flame can be.

The High Priest, who I forgot was preparing to slaughter me, sets down his curved kopis blade. Then he drops to his knees before the three men.

Immediately, both warriors and all the elders follow suit. By the sound of rustling, so do the other villagers. Only my posture remans unchanged.

The masked man gestures toward me. “What is the meaning of this?”

“She is but a humble sacrifice to Dionysus,” answers the High Priest, his head still low. “A pure maiden in return for a full harvest. Is she not to your liking? Is she not pure enough?” He turns to glare at Puraltas, like he’s the one who said I should be the sacrifice and not the loudest protestor against it.

“She seems like a lovely little thing,” calls the man with purple eyes, “but I prefer my maidens alive and whole— not hacked to bits.” His sardonic smile turns into a grimace as his gaze drops to the kopis.

Puraltas swats it farther away from me.

The High Priest glares at him before bowing lower before the men. “Are we in the presence of the great Dionysus?”

“You are. You’re very honored.” The man with purple eyes— Dionysus, apparently— tosses his hair off his shoulder. “And let me introduce you to my friend Atum, the Guardian of Life. He’s not fond of dead maidens either.”

The man in the green mask steps forward. “What desperation drove you to sacrifice one of your own people so cruelly?”

The High Priest touches his temple to the dust. It’s humbler than I thought him capable. “Our people are starving, and we were desperate for divine intervention.”

“Human sacrifices are not acceptable,” Atum says. His voice is not raised, nor is his tone threatening, but his words demand obedience even so.

“I am personally not opposed to living maidens,” Dionysus offers.

Atum turns toward him, and despite the green mask, I think he is glaring at Dionysus.

But then Atum turns back to the High Priest. “Unbind the girl, and then we can discuss your harvest.”

Puraltas jumps to his feet and sets to work unbinding my wrists. Before the others can decide whether it is better to obey or to remain prostrate, the third newcomer strides toward the other end of the altar. Apparently, he does not think mortal efforts would be enough to remove me from the altar before Atum becomes truly enraged.

Having a god, or even a godlike being, unbinding my ankles seems like far too great an honor. Once my wrists are free, I sit up, rubbing the life back into them. “Thank you. I can finish.”

The flame-haired being arches an equally fiery eyebrow at me as he tugs the rope free. “I assure you, I am perfectly capable of undoing mortal bindings.” He glances down at the rope burns left on my ankles rubs a thumb over them.

I shiver, surprised by such an intimate touch.

“Though your mortal weaknesses quite flummox me.” The flame-haired being shakes his head in disgust before recoiling.

“Dionysus, are you able to prove your guardianship over the fields and make their crops prosper?”

At Atum’s commanding yet kind voice, I turn to find him facing Dionysus.

Dionysus casually surveys our fields from the hilltop, wrinkling his nose at the withered crops. Then he shakes his head. “You know all my strength must be reserved for keeping the Willow alive. Things are not as they were before Chaos and her brothers invaded— including my ability to fulfill my responsibilities in these circumstances.”

Atum sighs. “You need not wax poetic. I know what you desire, and I agree to this bargain. A day of my power exchanged for your blessing on all the crops belonging to this village.”

The flame-haired one hisses and turns to Atum. “You cannot keep pouring yourself out for those who cannot repay!”

Dionysus sniffs. “I can repay.” He tosses a handful of seed into the air, and blooms sprout wherever they land.

Atum holds up a hand without throwing any seed, and still more blooms appear.

The flame-haired one just crosses his arms and glares at Atum. “It’s not for Dionysus’ sake that you bargain, but these pathetic mortals who have nothing to offer in return.”

“We can repay!” High Priest bellows, springing up before remembering himself and genuflecting again. “The girl on the altar— if you do not want her dead, mayhap she can be of some use to you alive?”

Puraltas grasps my shoulder.

The flame-haired man snorts. “What could we possibly need her for?”

“Pardon?” Before I can stop myself, all the emotions I didn’t let myself feel earlier boil into contempt I cannot contain. “I was willing to sacrifice myself for my village! I put away my dreams of marriage and motherhood and embraced a heroic death only for you to not only null my sacrifice, but also to scoff at it?”

“We have no need for your hubris,” counters the flame-haired man.

“Actually . . .” Atum steps forward. “You chose to sacrifice yourself for the good of your people?”

“She hardly had a choice,” Puraltas counters.

“I can speak for myself,” I snap, not because I’m frustrated with him , but because I have too many emotions to contain.

Atum steps closer to me. “Then speak now, child. Would you like a chance to help me end the war between mortals and Primordials once and for all?”

“Primordials?”

“Olympians, gods— whatever else you call our kind.”

“We’re at war?” I glance at the High Priest for confirmation.

The man remains sniveling on the ground, no help at all.

The flame-haired ‘Primordial’ snorts. “Mortals know nothing, not even their own enemy!”

Atum turns to him. “You speak of mortals as though they were not individuals. Just because there are mortals who have sought our overthrow doesn’t mean all do. Certainly not all of us Primordials wish to destroy those we were assigned to protect.”

I glance back at my cousin, who looks just as confused as I am.

When I turn back, Atum is studying me through his uncanny green mask. “Your famine began because the more we Primordials neglect to foster human flourishing, the more we lose our power. As War and his son Ares help mortals lay siege against their fellow men, people suffer and starve. It is Dionysus’ responsibility to prevent starvation, so even though it is now beyond his power to prevent, his domain punishes him by weakening him.”

“And then I cannot make crops flourish, so more people starve.” Dionysus sniffs. “It’ s a vicious cycle.”

“But it is one we can end if we can prove that mortals and Primordials are not so different after all,” Atum adds.

I wrinkle my nose. “Aren’t we?”

“In lifespans and power, yes. But if those can be shared between the two groups when they are joined, then that won’t matter.”

“And how would that be? By my becoming your acolyte? Surely I would not be the first mortal to swear allegiance to a god?”

“As servants, yes, but not as wives.”

I blink. “W-wives?”

Atum nods eagerly. “Dear child, you have shown your courage by submitting yourself unto death. Will you now consider a far kinder fate— becoming a living bride?”