Apollo didn't look furious anymore. That was somehow worse. The incandescent rage had banked, replaced by a cold, calculating calm. He glanced at Hermes, whose knees were practically knocking together, then patted the gleaming golden rail of his sun-chariot, which stood parked in the meadow like a luxury sports car at a crime scene.
"You can put the rope around your own neck," Apollo said, his voice a pleasant, musical baritone that promised unimaginable pain. "Or I can do it for you. I have plenty."
"I think we can discuss this like reasonable deities!" Hermes chirped, his voice an octave too high. In a blur of motion, he grabbed Cyd by the shoulders and thrust him forward like a human shield. "Look! I brought a mediator! A neutral party!"
Cyd blinked, the world lurching around him. One second he was hiding behind a scorched rock, the next he was standing directly in the line of sight of a very annoyed sun god. What happened to 'stay here, don't get shot'? I'm the mediator now?
Apollo's golden brows, which had been drawn together in a thunderous V, lifted in surprise. His gaze shifted from Hermes's panicked face to Cyd's stunned one. "Cyd," he said, his tone shifting, becoming marginally less homicidal. "If you had come on any other day, and with any other… creature… we might have had a pleasant conversation about your unusual pilgrimage. But as it stands…"
"My Lord Apollo," Cyd began, his mouth dry. He bowed, trying to remember every scrap of etiquette Chiron had ever mentioned. "I believe I may be able to help resolve the… misunderstanding between you and Lord Hermes."
"Misunderstanding?" Apollo's laugh was short and sharp, like a breaking harp string. He produced the shattered remains of his lyre from thin air. It was a tragedy in two pieces, the delicate wood splintered, the golden strings dangling like severed nerves. "This transcends 'misunderstanding.' In the past, he stole my sacred cattle. But he presented me with the first lyre. It was a masterpiece. A trade. The cattle were a fair price. This," he shook the fragments, "is vandalism. It's an insult to music itself. My only remaining points of deliberation are whether to tie him to the chariot for one full circuit of the earth, or to use him as the payload for my next warning shot into the sun."
Hermes whimpered.
"Wh-what if…" Cyd swallowed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was acutely aware that he was bargaining for a trickster god's life, and part of him thought Apollo had the right idea. But a deal was a deal, and he'd given his word to a god. Backing out now seemed like a spectacularly bad career move. "What if a new instrument were offered? One worthy of your divine talent?"
Apollo's head tilted. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his perfect features. "Oh, Hermes. You thought you could repeat the same trick twice? Very well." He pointed a finger at the messenger god. "The terms are these: you must present me with an instrument that does not exist in this world. And you must play upon it a melody that satisfies my ear. Do that, and I will reduce your sentence. I will only drag you for half a day."
Hermes went pale. An instrument was one thing. He was a god of invention, he could cobble something together. But a melody that would satisfy Apollo, God of Music, in the middle of a divine snit? It was impossible. For the first time in his long, mischievous life, Hermes felt the cold grip of genuine consequence. He'd pushed too far.
Cyd took a deep, steadying breath. He stepped forward, ignoring Hermes's frantic grab at his tunic. From the pack at his side—which Hermes had shoved into his hands moments before—he withdrew the object they had crafted. It was crude, made in a frantic hour from sacred cedar, the shed skin of Apollo's own prophetic python (acquired by Hermes with much dramatic sighing about 'artistic necessity'), and strings braided from the mane of a moon-touched horse. It was an erhu, or the closest approximation two panicked beings could manage.
He held it out with both hands, an offering.
Apollo's gaze fell upon it. His golden eyes, which missed no detail, took in the simple, unfamiliar shape: the long neck, the small cylindrical resonator, the two taut strings. "What… is this contraption?" he asked, his voice laced with skepticism. But curiosity, the eternal driver of the god of Music, was there too. He took it, his long, skilled fingers tracing the wood. He plucked a string with a nail. The sound was thin, reedy, unremarkable.
"Lord Apollo," Cyd said, his voice gaining a thread of confidence. He produced the bow, its strand of horsehair taut. "It is not played that way. The music comes from the friction. The bow against the string. It is a voice, not a pluck. I believe… it can make a sound you have never heard before."
Apollo's skepticism deepened, but he accepted the bow. He was a master of all instruments; the mechanics were intuitive. He settled the erhu on his knee, positioned the bow, and drew it across the string.
The sound that emerged was not the golden harmony of a lyre. It was raw, nasal, vibrato-laden. It was the sound of a human throat constricted by grief, of a lonely wind through a canyon. It was utterly alien to the structured, polyphonic music of Olympus.
Apollo's eyes widened. He stopped. He adjusted the tuning pegs with delicate, precise twists, his musician's ear already hunting for the truth in the unfamiliar timbre. He drew the bow again. This time, the note was pure, clear, and haunting. A slow, experimental melody began to unfold from his hands, tentative at first, then gaining confidence. It was a melody of twilight and longing, born entirely in the moment from the new tool. The meadow, still smoldering in places, seemed to hold its breath.
Hermes, watching from behind Cyd, let out a silent sigh of relief that made his whole body sag. His gambit had been based on Apollo's obsessive love for music. The god's fury was vast, but his passion for a new creative challenge was infinite. The anger was being sublimated into artistic curiosity.
The impromptu concerto ended. Apollo let the last, quivering note fade into the warm air. He cradled the erhu in his arms, his expression unreadable. He looked at Hermes, and his gaze was flat, cold. Then he looked at Cyd, and the coldness thawed into something softer, more appraising.
"Was this your invention?" Apollo asked, his voice quiet.
"No, my lord," Cyd answered without hesitation. "The instrument, the concept… it comes from a place far from here. I merely described it."
"If you had claimed it as your own," Apollo said, a hint of a real smile touching his lips, "I would have showered you with gold, with jewels, with a palace. You are, after all, collecting blessings. A lie here would have been… profitable."
"Because it is not mine to claim," Cyd said simply. "I have no talent for creation like this. Only for… remembering."
Apollo studied him for a long moment. Then he reached out and placed a hand on Cyd's head, a gesture surprisingly paternal. "I am pleased. With the instrument. And with you."
"YES!" Hermes hissed, pumping a fist in the air. "I knew it! Crisis averted!"
"I HAVE NOT FINISHED!" Apollo's voice cracked like a whip, but it lacked its earlier solar fury. It was the irritation of an artist interrupted. "Hermes! I am not forgiven. Unless you can produce another melody on this… thing… that satisfies me, the half-day chariot drag is still on the itinerary!"
"WHAT? That's not fair!" Hermes wailed, clutching his head. He shot a desperate, pleading look at Cyd. Help!
Cyd winced. He was in over his head. But he was here now. He tugged gently on the sleeve of Apollo's chiton. "Lord Apollo… I… know another tune. For the erhu. It is not my own. I may not even do it justice. But… may I offer it? Not for him," he added quickly, jerking a thumb at Hermes. "For you. As a gift."
Apollo looked down at him, his expression softening further. "Cyd. You do not need to speak for this weasel. He sought you out not to help you, but to use your predicament to save his own hide. His motives are, as always, entirely self-serving."
"Hey! I'm standing right here!" Hermes protested, though he didn't deny it.
"Let it be my offering then," Cyd insisted, his face growing warm. "Please."
Apollo sighed, a sound of theatrical exasperation. He stepped back, cradling the erhu, and gave Cyd a nod. "Very well. Let us hear this 'gift.'"
Cyd's stomach did a backflip. He was about to sing. Or hum. For Apollo. It was like offering a stick-figure drawing to Da Vinci. He cleared his throat, which was suddenly as dry as the Nemean badlands.
He began to hum.
It was the melody of "Er Quan Ying Yue" – "The Moon Reflected on the Second Spring." He remembered the mournful, flowing tune, the sense of profound, dignified sorrow. But his memory was imperfect. His voice, while pleasant, was untrained. He hit a flat note, recovered, rushed a phrase, dragged the next. It was a shaky, amateurish rendition.
Hermes, listening, stifled a groan. He stopped his nervous pacing and covered his eyes with one hand. Oh, boy. He's gonna get us both turned into lawn ornaments. Should've just taken the chariot ride.
Cyd finished, his face flushed with embarrassment. He looked up at Apollo, bracing for derision, for the return of the sun-arrows.
Apollo was silent. His golden brows were furrowed, not in anger, but in intense concentration. He was staring into the middle distance, his fingers moving slightly, as if tracing the ghost of the melody in the air.
"You," Apollo said finally, his voice thoughtful, "hum like a tone-deaf satyr with a head cold."
Cyd's shoulders slumped. Here it comes.
A genuine, warm smile broke across Apollo's face. "But the song… the soul of it… I heard it. Beneath the wrong notes and the shaky tempo, there was a river of sorrow. A lifetime of loss, etched in sound. It is… profound." He shook his head in wonder. "You brought me the echo of a masterpiece. That is a gift beyond gold."
Cyd blinked. "You… you liked it?"
"Liked it? No. I recognized it." Apollo stepped forward again. He placed both hands on Cyd's shoulders. "Hermes could never understand. He hears notes. I hear stories. You brought me a new story, told in a new voice. For that, you have my gratitude."
He turned a glare on Hermes, who quickly composed his features into an expression of rapt attention. "You! You are spared on account of your… taste in accomplices. But if you so much as look at another one of my instruments for the next century, I will personally redesign the constellation Gemini to feature you getting kicked in a very specific place. Understood?"
"Crystal clear!" Hermes chirped, giving a jaunty salute.
Apollo turned his attention back to Cyd. His expression was solemn now, the full weight of his divinity settling around him like a cloak of pure light. "The instrument was not yours. The song was not yours. But your honesty, your willingness to stand for a rascal, and the gift you carried to me… these things are yours alone."
He raised his right hand. It began to glow with a light that was not harsh, but warm and nurturing, like the first rays of dawn after a long night.
"Child of Pure White, your honesty is not foolishness. It is a rare purity in an age of boasts and lies."
Cyd looked down at his left wrist. On the white bracer, one of the thirteen clear teardrop crystals began to shimmer. From within its depths, a soft, radiant orange-gold light kindled, like a tiny sun being born. It swelled, filling the crystal until it glowed with a steady, comforting warmth.
Apollo's voice rang out, clear and resonant, a pronouncement that seemed to vibrate in the very air.
"[The Light of the Sun shall forever illuminate the path at your feet.]"
The blessing settled into the crystal, a permanent fixture. One down. Twelve—no, eleven, plus one very daunting one—to go.
Cyd stared at the glowing gem on his wrist, a strange mix of relief, awe, and sheer terror washing over him. The path was illuminated, alright. He just had no idea where the hell it was leading.