Free Mightiest of Swords (The Inkwell Trilogy Book 1) by Aaron Buchanan

my inability to take in the situation visually. “Sure. Please.” The kindly old man said my father liked his tea with clove and honey. That was true, and something only friends would know. I relaxed.
    “Grey,” Athena addressed me with dignified enthusiasm, “I cannot tell you how long I have looked forward to meeting you. I am so very glad you have come, though I wish it were under much better circumstances.”
    “I…I never knew,” I stammered.
    “Your father would have brought you here eventually, if” Athena sipped, making a quiet clatter of cup upon the saucer, “if he had not passed. And I would have come to you, if I were not need so badly here.”
    “I…” Stringing together complete thoughts was a challenge. I was more overwhelmed than I could have anticipated.  Shred did not tell me that my father was frequent visitor here.
    “Fear not. Your father was the dearest of friends. More so than we have had in centuries, and for that in and of itself, we are grateful. Upon hearing of his untimely death, I cried for many days. Weeks, really. He was no friend to gods, but he was a friend to us, and that spoke volumes as to his character.” Another sip; another clatter. “He even named you after me. Did he ever tell you that?”
    This I found difficult to believe. “My father also loved Earl Grey tea. I was beginning to think he named me after that.” It wasn’t at all true, but I grasped for levity.
    “You know my names, do you not?” she inquired.
    “Yes. Of course.  At least those that survive the ages. Are you referring to Glaukopis ? The grey-eyed?” The translation was for Shred’s and Joy’s sake. Was calling me Grey a way for my dad, or even both my parents, to honor the friendship of the goddess? But why?
    “I’m sure you wonder how that came to be, but that is a story I will have to wait to tell you. We have pressing matters.” I could not see it, but I was fairly certain I felt Athena’s countenance change from wisdom to war. Since I could not see her, I imagined the unremarkable visage of the ancient sculptures. Those statues always wore the same stodgy expression, so my picture of Athena did not change either, despite her shift in tone. “Apollo has been murdered.” Her words were mingled with gravity and traces of anger that could very well have been restrained fury.
    All the stories I had ever read about Apollo cascaded through my mind. He never seemed like that great of a guy, really. Ever since I read The Iliad , I’ve always hated how he cheated to murder Patroclus—wounding him for the Trojan hero, Hector’s sake. He did the same to Achilles by way of Paris, but that one just didn’t have the same effect on me. Plus, that scene isn’t even in The Iliad .
    Whether I was so fully devoted to listening or still overcome by the circumstances, I said nothing.
    “Apollo is, or was, much healthier than most who live here. He was sustained by this region’s dedication to the Arts, its pursuit of the sciences, even by man’s ventures to the moon, which served to tie his name inexorably to human history.”
    Her explanation of Apollo’s vitality did much for explaining how some of the gods were able to remain on this plane of existence. “So, who killed him?” I asked stupidly. “Wait. The who is the arithmancer, but why?”
    That is the question. If I told you that the item stolen from your vault is, in fact, the murder weapon, what would you extrapolate?” the goddess asked.
    I would extrapolate that Shred would trust these gods for good reason, even it upset me he had told her about my vault before consulting with me first. Chances were, she already knew about the vault, anyway. Nevertheless, people never talked about my vault and I found myself itchy by the prospect.  Even more so since the arithmancers who stole it obviously knew about it.  That meant someone had mentioned it in front of the arithmancers. Yet, for all their conniving at my apartment and at my