The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5) - Rick Riordan Page 0,113

Springs, to her father’s old home, with Luguselwa and her foster siblings from Nero’s Imperial Household. The idea of Meg handling that volatile group of demigods with only the help of LuBeard the Pirate made me uneasy.

“Is she well?” I asked Austin.

He hesitated. “Yeah. I mean…” His eyes were haunted, as if remembering the many things we’d all seen and done in Nero’s tower. “You know. She will be.”

I set aside my worries for the moment and continued making rounds among my friends. If they felt nervous that I was a god again, they hid it well. As for me, I made a conscious effort to stay cool, not to grow twenty feet tall or burst into golden flames every time I saw someone I liked.

I found Dionysus sitting glumly on the porch of the Big House, sipping a Diet Coke. I sat down across from him at the pinochle table.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it appears some of us do get happy endings.”

I think he was pleased for me, in his own way. At least, he tried to tamp down the bitterness in his voice. I couldn’t blame him for feeling salty.

My punishment was over, yet his continued. A hundred years compared to my six months.

To be honest, though, I could no longer consider my time on Earth to have been a punishment. Terrible, tragic, nearly impossible…yes. But calling it a punishment gave Zeus too much credit. It had been a journey—an important one I made myself, with the help of my friends. I hoped…I believed that the grief and pain had shaped me into a better person. I had forged a more perfect Lester from the dregs of Apollo. I would not trade those experiences for anything. And if I had been told I had to be Lester for another hundred years…well, I could think of worse things. At least I wouldn’t be expected to show up at the Olympian solstice meetings.

“You will have your happy ending, Brother,” I told Dionysus.

He studied me. “You speak as the god of prophecy?”

“No.” I smiled. “Just as someone with faith.”

“Surely not faith in our father’s wisdom.”

I laughed. “Faith in our ability to write our own stories, regardless of what the Fates throw at us. Faith that you will find a way to make wine out of your sour grapes.”

“How deep,” Dionysus muttered, though I detected a faint smile at the corners of his mouth. He gestured to his game table. “Pinochle, perhaps? At that, at least, I know I can dominate you.”

I stayed with him that afternoon, and he won six games. He only cheated a little.

Before dinner, I teleported to the Grove of Dodona, deep within the camp’s forest.

Just as before, the ancient trees whispered in a cacophony of voices—snatches of riddles and songs, bits of doggerel (some of it actually about dogs), recipes, and weather reports, none of it making much sense. Brass wind chimes twisted in the branches, reflecting the evening light and catching every breeze.

“Hello!” I called. “I came to thank you!”

The trees continued to whisper, ignoring my presence.

“You gave me the Arrow of Dodona as my guide!” I continued.

I detected a tittering of laughter among the trees.

“Without the arrow,” I said, “my quest would have failed. It sacrificed itself to defeat Python. Truly, it was the greatest in all the grove!”

If the trees could have made a screechy rewind noise, I’m sure they would have. Their whispering died away. The brass chimes hung lifeless in the branches.

“Its wisdom was invaluable,” I said. “Its sacrifice noble. It represented you with honor. I will certainly tell this grove’s guardian, my grandmother Rhea, all about its great service. She will hear what you did—that when I needed aid, you sent your best.”

The trees began whispering again, more nervously this time. Wait. Wait, we didn’t…What?

I teleported away before they could see me smile. I hoped that wherever its spirit was, my friend the arrow was having a laugh worthy of a Shakespearean comedy.

That night, after the campfire, I sat watching the embers burn down with Nico, Will, and Rachel.

The boys sat comfortably next to each other, Will’s arm around Nico’s shoulder, as the son of Hades twirled a burnt marshmallow on a stick. Next to me, Rachel hugged her knees and stared contentedly at the stars, the dying fire reflecting in her red hair like a charging herd of tauri silvestres.

“Everything’s working again,” she told me, tapping the side of her head. “The visions are clear. I can paint.