Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) (5 page)

              “What have you guys found out?” Having sipped more on the water, I found myself speaking more easily.

              “Not a lot of specifics. Just pieces her and pieces there that don’t really add up to anything that we actually need.” Joy came over and helped me sit up. “I’ll let him give you the specifics, because, frankly the pieces don’t have any context for me. I’m lost.  He thinks the pieces add up, though, so fear not.”

              “Have you found out anything about the arithmancers?” I try to stand and find my legs not only willing to support my weight, but also full of an energy I would not have had after 36 hours of sleep, had Shred not been plying his craft upon me. “What was going on that house? Mercury?”

              Joy laughed. “We have a little bit. The demon heard of the arithmancer. The master. The same way in which he knew of your dad. We have a name for the guy. We don’t know what happened at the house yet, but if Mercury was there, some serious shit is.  Shred hasn’t indicated why serious shit is going down, though.”

              I stretched, folding my arms behind my head in a way I had seen ballerinas do. A few cracks and pops, but I felt good…even if I tugging at the bandage around my eyes verified that my eyes were not, as of yet, working. “What is his name?”

              “Tolliver. He’s an Englishman. From Cambridge. First name David. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?” she asked.

              “Tolliver?” I tossed the name about in my mind for a moment before replying, “No. Never heard of him. Any word on the apprentice?” I tried feeling around my surroundings, hoping that Shred had not changed any positions of his furniture.

              “None. Whoever he is, he’s new enough that no one’s heard anything about him.”  Joy moved to help me navigate, but I waved her off.

“Nah, please. Just going to the bathroom.”  I made found the wall and traced my hand along it, putting my other hand out to count the doorways until I would reach the washroom on my right. Joy, I could hear, followed me. I closed the door and fumbled at the nobs of the faucet, trying to wash my face and remove the salve they had applied to my eyes. I didn’t have to actually use the toilet, but I sat down anyway just in case.

I washed my hands and open the door.

“Anyway,” Joy was there, waiting, “whatever happened at that house was bad. Horribly bad. Mercury wasn’t the only one to show up, apparently.”

I stepped out into the hallway, hoping that she would dodge my advance. “How do you know someone else showed up?” Even though it was not at all feasible to have stayed at the house in Northampton, I lamented not being able to see—or have Joy see—what happened next.

“That was one of the calls Shred made.” He voice was full of—glee, was it?  “His lawyer actually lives on that street. The lady didn’t know what she was looking at, but she told him a bunch of people were hanging around that house and that it looked like a funeral.”

That caught me off guard. “A funeral?”

“Like, not a real funeral, but there were five or six older people milling about, looking forlorn.” Joy was following too close behind me. I stopped short and she bumped into me. “Ha. Nice one. I’ll stop hovering.”

“Thank you.” I did not know what else Shred was planning to tell me, but some pieces were already starting to fall into place. I had a suspicion who the five or six people Shred’s lawyer saw were. What’s more, I was even starting to gather an idea of what was the nature of the pyramid taken from my vault, though I was not even close to any level of certainty. Sometimes strange things, once they had a chance to accumulate and collect, had a way of making sense in a way.

“Anyway, I don’t know how long you heard us talking, but we’ve taken care of your eyes. Your skin has healed up perfectly. No scars.” Joy stood over me, hovering in the same way she just said she would not. “I think you should wear the bandages for at least a few days. Your vision should be fine after that.”

I was immensely relieved, but perhaps not as much as I would have liked to be. There was simply too much else going on, too much weighing on me to feel at ease. One of the last things I remembered before going to sleep was Joy saying she was going to be my apprentice. Lying there when I first woke up confirmed that that conversation wasn’t a dream and had, in fact, taken place. One of the other sources of apprehension then was that once enticed with the prospect of having her as my apprentice, I was afraid that the moment my sight returned or if the events of the future become too taxing or dangerous, she would give up and return to being a college student. The thought of sharing my burden with someone else could be a source of tremendous relief, but the fear of losing it essentially cancelled it out.

“I’m loading up my van now,” I heard Shred saying from the front door.  It must have been warm enough to have the screen door open. Or maybe, he just wanted to be able to shout orders at us if needs be.

“I went shopping for us this morning.” Joy said, pleased with herself. “It was strange having to do it out of complete necessity rather than something fun.”

I smiled. “Has a way of shifting one’s perspectives, huh?” Joy did not acknowledge the observation. “I’m sure I’ll like whatever you got me. Maybe when we’re done with this we’ll head to Boston. Do some shopping.”

“Or New York. Haven’t been there since I was nine. Anyway, most of the clothes are from that trendy stores at the mall. Hope you don’t mind.” Joy pushed my fingers around the twine handles of a shopping and put another plastic shopping bag around my other wrist.

“Thanks. Again. I’m grateful.” I felt my way back to the bathroom and took a shower and got dressed with less difficulty than I would have guessed.

By the time I opened the bathroom door, I heard Shred from the living room shout, “We’re out, Grey! Move your ass!”

I tried to pull my hair back into a ponytail.  Shred palmed a hairband to me and led me out the door. “Not sure I’m ready for where you’re taking me.”

“Dear, this is something you’ve been waiting your whole life for.”  And Shred was never one for hyperbole.

Chapter 5

“You wanna drive?” Shred dangled keys in front of my bandaged eyes.

“Sure. And I bet I would still drive better than you!” I was only half kidding. Shred had almost certainly learned to drive on a crash course. Or, perhaps, in the life before becoming a musimancer, he drove demolition derby.

“Yeah, yeah. In the back with you.” Shred’s van only had two front seats—passenger and driver. The rest was meant for payload. Shred led me into the back of the van and shut me inside. As he drove I hung onto straps mounted to the wall.

“C’mon, I’m in the dark, guys!” I have always hated puns. Sarcasm and puns were the very depths of what could qualify as humor. Yet, hanging on to the strap, trying to feel the direction Shred was turning before it happened was not doing much for my disposition. “But where are we going?” I shouted, hoping that someone up front would hear me. Meanwhile, My shoulder was smarting from hanging on for dear life.

“A rest home,” Joy assured me, turning the radio down.

I had no idea why we would be going to a rest home. “Would anyone care to clue me into what the hell is going on?”

Shred guffawed. “I thought you’d never ask. Your dad never told you this, but some of it you might have already put together anyway. This is going to be weird for you to hear,” he trailed off. I wasn’t sure why. Dad and Shred were friends, sure, but not the closest of friends. From what I could understand, they were something like work buddies; maybe war buddies. I believed his apprehension stemmed from either doubting why my father never told me what he was about to tell me, or if he were somehow disgracing my father’s wishes. Either of those ships had sailed. “We’re going to a rest home in Windsor.”

“Connecticut?” I asked, confused.

“Shut it!” he reproved, then continued, “This, where we live, is called the ‘Knowledge Corridor.’ We’re smack-dab in the middle of one of the world’s richest hotbeds of learning, knowledge…wisdom.”

This was a term the locals liked to bandy about. But it was, for the most part, accurate.

“The goddess, Athena, discovered—oh, a long time ago, now—that she had greater power in places like this. When people study, it’s like they are at temples of learning. Plus, whether it was ever realized or not, the world went full-on millennia without building a temple to one of the old gods—and it just so happened that they built one here in the U.S. When they built that Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee, it was a call to her. And she, along with most of the rest of the Olympians—and a bunch of the other ones—came. She takes care of ‘em. Some are well enough to care for themselves and have never even set foot in this side of the world. Some aren’t so, I don’t know…healthy? But they didn’t come.”

My first inclination was to stammer an “Uhm…wh-wh-what?”

“I’m not going to say they’re all still around. They’re not,” he paused, making an apparent turn that nearly sent me across the van if not for the strap I clung to. “But the ones whose names we speak with any kind of frequency, I’d guess you’d say are better off. Those who can still draw power from belief and lower forms of worship are even better off. But most of them are in bad shape. Even Zeus, I’m told, suffers from bouts of dementia. Hera’s bi-polar and it’s more pronounced now. They even have to medicate her with human drugs. A lot of them. Athena and her man take care of them.”

“So, since Mercury can get by on commercial products associated with him, he’s one of the gods better off?” Joy wondered.

I took the conversation in a different direction. “Did you say that Athena has a man?” I’m not sure why that was the one question I chose to ask.

Shred kept talking, ignoring both of our queries. “They’re just old, weak gods. They mash their gums on faint praises and live another day. Most of them. Athena made a home for them. Not just the Greek-Roman types. All of them. Any of them.”

I was truly at a loss for words. I’ve heard whispers and rumors. And there was this one time when I first started going on missions with my dad that, at least hinted at what Shred was saying. I was 12 and he took me to one of those underground boxing matches. All I remember, really, is some old guy who got the hell beat out of him—but never went down—and how everyone called him “Herc.” Seemed a logical nickname for a boxer at the time. It wasn’t until a few years later when he asked me about meeting Hercules that I started to wonder.

“But…” I spent the rest of the drive to Windsor contemplating what Shred just told us; what my father had ever told me and what I had learned since. I tried to piece together with what else I came to know back then. My dad, originally, referred to The SUB as
Monde Cachet
—the Hidden World. It was also about the time I met Hercules that I was also introduced to The SUB. Once, outside of Elizabethtown, Kentucky, my dad left me alone in a truck stop for a day and a half. Traumatic in its own way, I found my time there as a glimpse into everything to come. It was a very formative couple of months.

While educated about much academically, some aspects I never understood or simply took for granted. Now, suddenly, many scenes from my memory slid into context and made much more sense to me. I mean, I knew on some level that gods were real. Dad told me to never invoke a god (which was very difficult since the Christian god had co-opted the name “God” for himself) in conversation, so never an “Oh my God!”

Without getting into too much detail, he warned me that such an innocuous invocation could invite unwelcome ears and eyes, and even involvement. It was our job to stay out of divine affairs and to ensure that The SUB did not affect the world. Looking back, I don’t even remember my dad saying something as mundane as “Wednesday” or “Thursday” or “Saturday.” All of which are named for so-called pagan deities. I never excised them from my vocabulary like he had, and maybe he was just being superstitious, or silly, but maybe I should have eliminated these references as well?

Roughly one hour and one drive-thru an Arby’s later, Shred stopped the van. “We’re here. Grey—for future reference, this is the Solemn Ages Assisted Living & Retirement Community. You can Google it.”

I filed that name away. “How big is this place?”

“Not too big,” Joy replied. I heard her slam her door shut and a second later, I heard the back doors of the van swing open. “Come on. I’ll walk you in, if you don’t mind.”             

              I found myself being helped out of the van by both Shred and Joy. I thought about complaining about the condition of my abused shoulder muscles, but thought better of it. I could will the pain away with a few words written on my skin. That wasn’t the wise way to get through life, though. Most pain one needed to bear; to learn from. Or, if nothing else, learn to stand.

              Nursing homes, typically, are nothing to behold. Yet, I found myself angry and disappointed that I could not take in the sights there. Making our way through a sliding door, I had the notion that I would come back to visit and bring donuts to some aged Olympians. I would sit right down and pick a god’s brain for a little while. However, from what Shred told me, the conversations would be short or circular or nonsensical. It was kind of like finding out you lived near a long-lost cousin, but then being told she was in a coma and could never actually talk to you.

              I was also struck by the smell. It smelled exactly like a nursing home. I heard gibbering 360 degrees around me, and was momentarily frightened by one of the gibberers grabbing me on my right arm.

              “Go away! Shoo!” Shred chased the elderly gibberer off. “I know you think you want to come back here, Grey, but don’t. Shit is sad. Like, more sad than these places usually are.” He held on to my arm more tightly than he had and kept us moving through the hallways.

              “Why? Who was that?” I begged to know.

              “Ishtar, I think,” Shred answered, resignedly.

              Joy whispered, “Like from-Gilgamesh-Ishtar?”

              “Sure as hell not the shitty 80’s movie,” Shred joked, though he clearly wasn’t laughing. “No, not at all. Just an old, dying god. Only reason she isn’t gone yet is
because
of that epic. It’s just enough to make her stay, but nearly enough to allow her to make sense of anything.”

              The nursing home did not stink of death like some places, but it smelled like the elderly: like vitamins and mothballs, like incontinence. Solemn Ages was shaping up to be a place I might not ever wish to return. Joy halted me with a tug on my arm.

              I heard Shred rapping on the door ahead of me.
Knock-knock-knock
. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock…” He turned to us and muttered, “I don’t know, too cheeky for a place like this?”

              I assumed the question was rhetorical, since he was quoting a god who would likely never step foot in this place.

              The door opened. “Shred?” It was an elderly male voice; muffled, weak. His voice changed as he talked to someone behind him. “Dear, it’s Shred and Justice, I think.”

              The door creaked open, “Justice? I haven’t seen…oh, logomancer. Welcome.  Welcome, Shred, welcome girl-whom-I-have-not-met.” Her voice sounded older, but not elderly. In fact, if she had an English accent, I imagined someone who might have looked like Helen Mirren. It carried authority and regality; but was avuncular as well. “Ah, you are Grey Theroux. I wondered when I have the opportunity to meet you. Come.”

With a narrow entryway, Joy got behind me and directed me by “driving” my shoulders, directing me to sit in a high-backed chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. I guessed were were in Athena’s apartment within the rest home. I remained perplexed at who the elderly man could be. Athene Parthenos—the virgin. Yet, Shred inferred she had a consort.

I was startled from that thought by the man’s voice asking, “Tea, child? It’s clove and honey. It was your father’s favorite, if I recall.”

I crossed my legs, uncomfortable and feeling very self-conscious about my inability to take in the situation visually. “Sure. Please.” The kindly old man said my father liked his tea with clove and honey. That was true, and something only friends would know. I relaxed.

“Grey,” Athena addressed me with dignified enthusiasm, “I cannot tell you how long I have looked forward to meeting you. I am so very glad you have come, though I wish it were under much better circumstances.”

“I…I never knew,” I stammered.

“Your father would have brought you here eventually, if” Athena sipped, making a quiet clatter of cup upon the saucer, “if he had not passed. And I would have come to you, if I were not need so badly here.”

“I…” Stringing together complete thoughts was a challenge. I was more overwhelmed than I could have anticipated.  Shred did not tell me that my father was frequent visitor here.

“Fear not. Your father was the dearest of friends. More so than we have had in centuries, and for that in and of itself, we are grateful. Upon hearing of his untimely death, I cried for many days. Weeks, really. He was no friend to gods, but he was a friend to us, and that spoke volumes as to his character.” Another sip; another clatter. “He even named you after me. Did he ever tell you that?”

This I found difficult to believe. “My father also loved Earl Grey tea. I was beginning to think he named me after that.” It wasn’t at all true, but I grasped for levity.

“You know my names, do you not?” she inquired.

“Yes. Of course.  At least those that survive the ages. Are you referring to
Glaukopis
? The grey-eyed?” The translation was for Shred’s and Joy’s sake. Was calling me Grey a way for my dad, or even both my parents, to honor the friendship of the goddess? But why?

“I’m sure you wonder how that came to be, but that is a story I will have to wait to tell you. We have pressing matters.” I could not see it, but I was fairly certain I felt Athena’s countenance change from wisdom to war. Since I could not see her, I imagined the unremarkable visage of the ancient sculptures. Those statues always wore the same stodgy expression, so my picture of Athena did not change either, despite her shift in tone. “Apollo has been murdered.” Her words were mingled with gravity and traces of anger that could very well have been restrained fury.

All the stories I had ever read about Apollo cascaded through my mind. He never seemed like that great of a guy, really. Ever since I read
The Iliad
, I’ve always hated how he cheated to murder Patroclus—wounding him for the Trojan hero, Hector’s sake. He did the same to Achilles by way of Paris, but that one just didn’t have the same effect on me. Plus, that scene isn’t even in
The Iliad
.

Whether I was so fully devoted to listening or still overcome by the circumstances, I said nothing.

“Apollo is, or was, much healthier than most who live here. He was sustained by this region’s dedication to the Arts, its pursuit of the sciences, even by man’s ventures to the moon, which served to tie his name inexorably to human history.”

Her explanation of Apollo’s vitality did much for explaining how some of the gods were able to remain on this plane of existence. “So, who killed him?” I asked stupidly. “Wait. The
who
is the arithmancer, but why?”

That is the question. If I told you that the item stolen from your vault is, in fact, the murder weapon, what would you extrapolate?” the goddess asked.