Scion of Gaia: Rebels of Olympus, #5

By Michele Amitrani

Daughter. Wife. Queen. Rebel.

 

When Persephone, queen of the Underworld and ruler of the dead, finds her mother Demeter amid the ruins of a forest, she knows the goddess's mind is broken.

 

With the world withering and mortals dying by the thousands with every turn of the sun, Persephone has little time to stop the rapid decay of nature before doom befalls the world of gods and men.

 

But rescuing her mother from insanity proves both difficult and dangerous, and demands a painful remembering of Persephone's past—filled with beauty and bitterness, rage and thwarted love.

 

And the powerful Olympians do not stay idle. They threaten and scheme, pushing Persephone to fulfil her destiny in a way that would force her to write history with her family's blood.

 

Will Persephone save her mother and thus stop the collapse of the world, or will she be forced to pay her due by committing the ultimate crime?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Amitrani
• Release date: Sep 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781988770253

Book preview

1

FORGOTTEN BLOOD

Isweep my gaze from horizon to horizon, taking in the damage caused by my absence. The world is withered. The lakes and rivers are empty, choked by dust. Patches of desert cover vast parts of the land like a stifling mantle, and carcasses of dead animals lie everywhere; the smell of death is thick in the air. 

When I feel my mother’s presence in the distance, I sense her powers are maimed, a distant echo of their former glory.

I trek forward, following the invisible pull to my blood, searching for the only goddess who can undo all of this.

Later—I don’t know how much time passes—I find her sitting on the dusty ground beside the ruin of a tree, the bark pale gray, thin and rough, gnawed by time. She is covered in a wrinkled tunic, soiled and ragged, the fabric torn. Her once-lush dark hair is heavy with dirt. Her stare is lost in the distance, hostage to the horizon.

Mother?

She does not look at me, does not even turn.

"Mother?" Louder this time. 

She remains silent, her breathing barely audible.

I step up to her, touch her shoulder lightly. Can you hear me? It’s me. I pause, wait out the silence, feel the dread rising in quick pulses.

She blinks and turns her head. Two pools of blackness stare at me, dark and cold like the unreachable heart of the sea. Her lips part; they are cracked and dry. I wait, but she gazes at me, mouth open, wordless.

I sit beside her and take her hand. Everything is going to be all right, I say, the words stumbling in quick succession. I’m here now.

She swallows; her eyes are unfocused. Who … She trails off, and the wrinkles on her forehead are unsettling. This time, with effort, her eyes focus on me. Who are you?

Realization dawns upon me, and the pain of it is sharp and sudden, a blade buried in my chest: she does not recognize me.

Her question knocks the breath out of me. No daughter believes a mother could forget her.

What is the answer I should give? I don’t know what darkness has taken her. What if the truth will unravel her mind further? I cannot afford to lose her.

I’m a nymph. I keep my voice even and force myself to smile. It’s a frail thing, but it seems to soothe her. 

A nymph. Someone familiar and reassuring. An easy lie to believe.

Her eyes regard my narrow body, my long, blond hair streaming down my shoulders. Her posture relaxes, and she returns the smile. What brings you to me, daughter of the forest?

I shift beside her, relieved at her belief. I was sent to fetch you, I say. You must be cold, sitting alone here. I can offer you the warmth of a spring, and strong walls to keep the wind at bay. I study her expression. What do you say?

My mother looks around, as if only then realizing where she is. Her eyes return to me. Yes, she says, shivering. Her skin is pale and marked by deep scratches. It is very cold.

I offer her my hand. This way. 

She hesitates. I can see the unease in the lines on her brow, in the tautness of her neck. I was right to be wary of her condition. She is worse than I thought possible.

Do you want the cold to stop? I ask, in the gentle but firm tone used to question a child. 

An option. A choice. She looks at me and bobs her head.

Then come. I offer my hand again. 

One … two … five heartbeats later she rises, and her icy fingers latch with mine.

I lead her away from the ruin of the world, from the fallen tree and the dry ground teeming with flies buzzing over carcasses. 

As we walk through the slow collapse of nature, I know that death is spreading like wildfire: the earth is faltering, and mortals are dying by the thousands with each turning of the sun.

2

THE ROOTS OF MEMORY

Ibring her home. 

The palace of Henna has not changed since the last time I saw it. It is as imposing as ever, its ivory white walls impossibly tall, smooth as silk.

The golden gates are open, manned by no one. As we move inside, my eyes survey the central courtyard. Nobody is here to greet us, only a larger host of flies, feasting on crushed orange fruit splashed on the stony ground.

I walk at a slow pace, trying to catch the faintest sound. No nymphs sing, no satyrs play their flutes, no laughter from the spirits of the forest. Not even the singing of birds. 

Henna is a hostage of silence.

My mother straggles behind, looking about with inquisitive eyes that drink in her surroundings. Her expression gives way to surprise and wonder. She does not know where she is.

Inside the palace proper, I glimpse my past embedded in my memory.

It is hard to ignore the piercing pain driving into my heart as I study this familiar place and feel nothing but void. There are echoes of my life here, of my childhood and of my youth. They seem so distant now, and vague, like the leftover image of the sun behind the closed curtains of my eyelids.

It was a simple time, then, when a young goddess was allowed to be unaware of the true face of the world.

I remember long days spent playing with dryads, spitting grape pits at each other, laughing when one landed inside our cleavage. The cool breeze whispered the secrets of nature as I learned the true source of my powers. The sun was warm on my bare shoulders when my mother taught me to speak with trees and to make the flowers bloom; which word would change their color and which would make them grow stronger.

I was given gifts when my Age of Maturity approached: two Seeds of Dawn, rare treasures from Gaia, the ancient Mother-Earth, stored safely somewhere only my mother knew. They were the ones she used to start a forest, or to spring an entire field in a day’s span.

The memory of that day surfaces, fresh as spring water.

You will do it, this time. She brought me to Africa, the sun blinding above us. My mother pointed to a patch of land close to a desert that was claiming the northern side of Libya. The desert will grow vast if we do not stop its advance. She put the two Seeds of Dawn into my palm. They were sky blue and the size of a ripe cherry.

I looked at her in dismay. "I cannot, Mother. This is beyond my powers.