The Lightning Thief

of the Golden Fleece, as seen on Hephaestus-TV. The nine muses were tuning their instruments for a concert in the park while a small crowd gathered—satyrs and naiads and a bunch of good-looking teenagers who might’ve been minor gods and goddesses. Nobody seemed worried about an impending civil war. In fact, everybody seemed in a festive mood. Several of them turned to watch me pass, and whispered to themselves.
    I climbed the main road, toward the big palace at the peak. It was a reverse copy of the palace in the Underworld.
    There, everything had been black and bronze. Here, everything glittered white and silver.
    I realized Hades must’ve built his palace to resemble this one. He wasn’t welcomed in Olympus except on the winter solstice, so he’d built his own Olympus underground. Despite my bad experience with him, I felt a little sorry for the guy. To be banished from this place seemed really unfair. It would make anybody bitter.
    Steps led up to a central courtyard. Past that, the throne room.
    Room really isn’t the right word. The place made Grand Central Station look like a broom closet. Massive columns rose to a domed ceiling, which was gilded with moving constellations.
    Twelve thrones, built for beings the size of Hades, were arranged in an inverted U, just like the cabins at Camp Half-Blood. An enormous fire crackled in the central hearth pit. The thrones were empty except for two at the end: the head throne on the right, and the one to its immediate left. I didn’t have to be told who the two gods were that were sitting there, waiting for me to approach. I came toward them, my legs trembling.
    The gods were in giant human form, as Hades had been, but I could barely look at them without feeling a tingle, as if my body were starting to burn. Zeus, the Lord of the Gods, wore a dark blue pinstriped suit. He sat on a simple throne of solid platinum. He had a well-trimmed beard, marbled gray and black like a storm cloud. His face was proud and handsome and grim, his eyes rainy gray.
    As I got nearer to him, the air crackled and smelled of ozone.
    The god sitting next to him was his brother, without a doubt, but he was dressed very differently. He reminded me of a beachcomber from Key West. He wore leather sandals, khaki Bermuda shorts, and a Tommy Bahama shirt with coconuts and parrots all over it. His skin was deeply tanned, his hands scarred like an old-time fisherman’s. His hair was black, like mine. His face had that same brooding look that had always gotten me branded a rebel. But his eyes, sea-green like mine, were surrounded by sun-crinkles that told me he smiled a lot, too.
    His throne was a deep-sea fisherman’s chair. It was the simple swiveling kind, with a black leather seat and a built-in holster for a fishing pole. Instead of a pole, the holster held a bronze trident, flickering with green light around the tips.
    The gods weren’t moving or speaking, but there was tension in the air, as if they’d just finished an argument.
    I approached the fisherman’s throne and knelt at his feet. “Father.” I dared not look up. My heart was racing. I could feel the energy emanating from the two gods. If I said the wrong thing, I had no doubt they could blast me into dust.
    To my left, Zeus spoke. “Should you not address the master of this house first, boy?”
    I kept my head down, and waited.
    “Peace, brother,” Poseidon finally said. His voice stirred my oldest memories: that warm glow I remembered as a baby, the sensation of this god’s hand on my forehead. “The boy defers to his father. This is only right.”
    “You still claim him then?” Zeus asked, menacingly. “You claim this child whom you sired against our sacred oath?”
    “I have admitted my wrongdoing,” Poseidon said. “Now I would hear him speak.”
    Wrongdoing.
    A lump welled up in my throat. Was that all I was? A wrongdoing? The result of a god’s mistake?
    “I have spared him once already,” Zeus grumbled. “Daring to fly through my domain . . . pah! I should have blasted him out of the sky for his impudence.”
    “And risk destroying your own master bolt?” Poseidon asked calmly. “Let us hear him out, brother.”
    Zeus grumbled some more. “I shall listen,” he decided. “Then I shall make up my mind whether or not to cast this boy down from Olympus.”
    “Perseus,” Poseidon said. “Look at me.”
    I did, and I wasn’t sure what I saw in his face. There was no clear sign of love or approval.