Page 22 of The Games Gods Play
The man looks as young as I assume he did the day he won—no older than about his mid-forties. Thanks to the gods’ providence, I assume. The rest of his family haven’t seemed to age, either. Not that I knew them before, but there were pictures. Rumors were his whole family had been so despondent at his death, they moved away, and clearly the rumors were right. They just missed that the family moved to Olympus.
Zeles speaks again. “As the winner of the previous Crucible, Mathias got to request any boon from the gods. At his request, he has lived here in Olympus for the past hundred years with his family. In that time, his homeland in the Overworld has been blessed by the gods and goddesses in abundance and peace. Zai, as his son, now has a chance to continue his father’s legacy.”
I’m not the only one who turns to stare at Zai, who’s seated in the back row beside Hermes. His light-brown skin is sallow underneath, his dark eyes sunken as if he hasn’t slept a full night in his life, and he’s too thin for his frame. He looks like he wants to disappear into his chair.
Meanwhile, Zai’s family barely acknowledges him, shifting their gazes his way only briefly. Stunned gazes, if I read them right.
“A child of a previous winner has never been selected before.” Zeles waves the Aridams away, and after Mathias shoots his son an oddly pointed look, they disappear up the stairs.
“That is what you have a chance to win here,” Zeles says. “The throne for your patron, a hundred years of immortality for you and your family in Olympus with everything you want or need provided for, and blessings upon blessings heaped upon the lands and people of your home.”
What about the losers? I know previous champions returned home, but some didn’t. Are they punished? The gods are not exactly known for their forgiving natures.
“Now, for the rules of the Labors…” Zeles backs up in line with his siblings. All four Daemones stiffen, going into an almost trancelike state. They speak in eerie unison, as if they’re reading from a script. “The gods and goddesses of Olympus will be divided into four groups by virtue—Strength, Courage, Mind, and Heart—the virtue each favors most.”
So…with Hades as my patron, what virtue am I?
“Each god and goddess has already devised a contest in which the champions will compete. The champion who wins the most of the twelve Labors wins the Crucible.”
Not a fight to the death, at least. Win or don’t win. I can handle that. I’m already starting to think about allies. Not to win, just survive.
Samuel would be top of my list, with his size and strength, along with Rima Patel, Apollo’s pick. Her navy, floor-length dress flatters her slim build and highlights her wide, brown eyes. She’s a neurosurgeon, which could be helpful if not all the Labors are physical. Jackie Murphy, Aphrodite’s champion, is another possibility. At least six feet tall and late twenties, I’d guess, she apparently grew up on a rural property in Australia, evidenced by enviable muscles and deeply tanned skin that’s clearly seen sunlight every day.
Not that teaming up with anyone is likely. Not for me, at least. I now carry a double whammy of my curse along with being Hades’ champion.
Pretty sure they’re all going to steer clear of me. That or be gunning for me. I can practically feel the crosshairs on my back.
Still, worth a try.
“Or…” The Daemones interrupt my thoughts in stereo monotone. “If champions should die in the course of the Crucible and it happens that only one remains alive at the end, that champion wins by default.”
A pebble of dread drops into my stomach, rolling down a whole pile of dread already in there. They basically just said we are allowed to kill each other to win by default.
Allies and adversaries just took on a whole new meaning.
“What in the bowels of Tartarus have you gotten me into?” I whisper-hiss at Hades.
He doesn’t answer.
Smite me now, I want to say. It would be faster and probably less painful.
“Champions may bring with them into each challenge any mortal tools, excluding modern weapons, that they can carry along with the boons they might earn throughout the Crucible. From this point forward, the patrons may coach their champions and encourage them, but they may in no other way help or interfere with any champions, theirs or others’.”
It’s telling that they had to write that into the rules.
“And we, the Daemones, shall stand as judges and rule keepers of the Labors, with final determination of the winner.”
Suddenly, the Daemones all blink out of whatever trance that was, and Zeles says, “There is one change to the rules this century. Due to Hades joining the Crucible and the effects on humanity should the god of death be crowned king, we have elected to allow humanity to receive their dead and be aware of each event’s winner.”
The people around me gasp, mortals and gods alike. I briefly wonder if anyone would care if my body was returned to the Order.
“Now, champions,” Zeles continues, “you can choose not to play, and your patron god or goddess will select another in your place.”
I turn sharply to Hades, mouth open, ready to opt out. “I—”
He shakes his head, then tells me in a lowered voice, “The last person who tried to pass on playing in the Crucible…Ares selected that man’s daughter instead.”
There’s no one truly close to me he could choose, but even so, I close my mouth on a slow, silent sigh. Message received. Everyone knows that saying no to a deity never ends well for mortals.
