The Veiled One

Chapter Eighteen: I try not to kill my own namesake

It takes a few moments before Pyrrhus is able to locate his brother, and even then, it still takes some additional time after he returns to the room before the sound of weeping fills the air. It's a ghostly keening that's raising all the hairs on my arms, but the other gods are rolling their eyes like this is a common occurrence.

"Oh, shut up, Aggie!" Agor roars. "You've been blubbering for a decade. Give us some peace, why don't you?"

Agramina enters the room, holding a silken handkerchief to her overflowing eyes. Literally. Her eyes have what appear to be rivers of tears pouring from them, more than any human could produce in a lifetime. She wears a white silken slip of a gown that trails over her milky-pale skin. Silver cuffs adorn her biceps, and long black hair flows down to her waist. A large garnet the size of my fist glints at the center of her chain.

Agramina's head raises, and her black eyes meet mine. I swallow hard.

"Why have you summoned my mistress?" comes a voice as another sob that resembles a cat being strangled escapes from the goddess's throat. A ragged, unkempt boy emerges from behind the wailing woman.

Argus must have been the youngest of Sibyl's siblings, because he appears to be no more than ten. Whether that's his actual age or merely a spell remains unclear to me. But what is clear is the way he's been mistreated. A dirty, ripped, gaping toga hangs off of the boy's skinny frame. It looks like he hasn't eaten in ten years. He's so skinny, his ribs are jutting out. Brown hair as dry and brittle as twigs shags down past his ears and over the nape of his neck, and meek brown eyes that are reminiscent of a puppy peer out from under it, begging for release. Argus's hands and feet are frail and bony, slightly too big for the rest of his body, and he holds a chain of silk handkerchiefs. His soft, piping voice reminds me painfully of Endor's.

"Argus," Sibyl whispers, not too tired to run to her brother. She squeezes him tightly in her arms, and he hugs her back, seemingly stunned at the rush of happiness that's flooding him instead of the constant presence of misery he's been exposed to. This is what Lisentia did for power. She traded a boy, a mere boy, as a husband for a goddess.  As a slave.

"You know, I really think I could kill your mother right about now," I snarl. Sibyl lets out a quiet sob, and Argus stills in her arms.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry," he pleads. Sibyl sniffs hard.

"No, no, of course. I won't. How are you, love? You look half-starved!"

Mor, too, looks infuriated. Pyrrhus and Alma merely look on, ashamed. I'm angry at them suddenly, at all the gods who let this abuse go unchecked. But mainly I'm mad at Lisentia, who allowed all of this to happen, who used her children as the bargaining chips to get herself the immortality and endless power she'd craved so strongly. How could she have ever been willing to sacrifice those she loved for more magic?

"Please, help him," Sibyl begs, turning to me. The pleading in her eyes, the sorrow there... it makes me think of the night when my grandmother died, when I looked at the slumbering Endor as I packed all the essentials we'd need to survive in a new land, the way I'd woken the next morning and tied up my hair, determined to protect my brother at all costs.

The way I had ached when I failed.

"I'll do what I can," I promise her, and then I turn to Argus.

"Look at me," I whisper, and he does, turning his velvety brown eyes on me. "I'm going to use some magic, all right? I'm going to make you less skinny, healthier. I'm going to take away your hunger and your sadness. Do you understand?"

Argus nods, and I offer him a smile before placing my hands on his head. Agramina looks on in awe as I will my power into the boy, imagining him shining and youthful and happy once more.