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Finally, the Throne Room.
All eyes but the Satyr’s on me. Relief spreads through my chest at the sight of Apollo. Sitting tall and not bent over from the liquid silver.
Thank goodness for that.
The palace guards bind the satyr’s hands tightly behind his back. His eyes glare murderously at the drunken god. “I pray to Pan that for the sake of the nation that the House of Hera returns and claims their rightful place as the rulers of the court.”
I approach the dais which holds two thrones. Apollo sits rigid and tall in the golden wrought one. It suited him. His position and the grandeur of the sun. Formal and foreboding.
Artemis’s dark eyes widened. Shaking her head, I knew she was not pleased.
A black sheer veil covering the vacant one. Like the roots of a tree embedded into the ground with tall branches vacant of any leaves. Vines which once held bright blossoms lay empty. This one when full of life would have been its juxtaposition. Warm and feel of life. But now it looks like death.
The Dying Throne.
“What’re you doing here?” The sneering face of Apollo glowers down from his dais.
“Stop drinking the wine! The wine was poisoned!” The sea of people part between Apollo and me. Whispers echo through the faceless mob. My eyes never leave Apollo and Artemis. “Someone spiked it with quicksilver!”
Apollo’s eyes lowered to my traveling cloak and plain clothes. “Good to see you decided to stay. Where were you going?” Crossing his legs, he glares down at me.
Raising the goblet to his lips, I shout, “Malaka! Stop!”
The room gasps and Apollo’s face reddens. Noisily, he slurps his wine. Probably out of spite. By how he swirled it, there seemed to be some still inside.
My heels moved before I mentally recognized what I was doing. Storming up to the dais, the village leaders push away from me. Giving me a wide wake. Stepping on to the platform, gasps echo in the Throne Room.
The dying throne whispers in my ears, “Sit a top me with the crown.” My eyes widen as I look over the throne. To its side, a diadem rests on a small column pedestal. Black lace covering the thorny crown with its curling black metal prongs. “All of this could be over with one sitting.”
Ari bursts out, “Stay away, Pandy. You're not ready.”
“With the crown atop your head, you’d know a magic far more powerful than anything you could imagine,” coos the throne. “A power that could rival Persephone herself.”
Ari screeched. Her voice is so shrill I feel the grasp of the throne loosen. Fading away into nothingness.
At least, for now.
Turning back to Apollo, I recognize the look he is giving me. The suspicion in his gaze grew as he studied me. Standing between him and his citizens. Trying to have him focus on me. “How could you possibly know of someone slipping poison into my goblet?”
Oof. So many things to explain. So much that I would have much rather not say… especially in front of a room of hundreds.
‘Apollo, I'm seeing visions.’ Gosh. He’d never believe me.
By Jove.
“Trust me,” I plead.
“Mortals aren't permitted here,” warns Apollo.
I roll my eyes. “Where are mortals allowed in this world? Oh yes, nowhere. Yet you brought me here against my will.”
Drunk gods are large mortal toddlers. You must chase them around, coax them away from whatever they’re fixated on. Except with the ability to smite you off the face of the planet without so much of a thought.
“Paint me as your villain for all that I care. I'll survive. Unlike you if you keep drinking that vile drink.” I couldn’t explain it, but I knew what I saw. Apollo being bound in those blacked chains. Sluggish, his head rolled to the side at an awkward angle.
“You act like you're a goddess,” Apollo’s voice fills with irritation as he retorts. To a god, a mortal posing as an Olympian is the epitome of an insult. “But without the powers and authority to back up your attitude.”
Raising an eyebrow, I snap back, “Are you flirting with me or picking a fight?”
