Discord’s Apple by Carrie Vaughn

drawer held fruit. One apple there might have been real once, but was now a shriveled, petrified husk with a single bite taken from it. Several apples seemed to glow, but were too light to be made of gold. Two were made of solid gold. They rolled heavily on the wood base of the drawer when she opened it. When she tried to touch them, they skittered away from her, slipping against her skin, like they didn’t want to be held. She needed two hands to catch them, trapping them and lifting them one at a time. One was a plain gold apple. The other, she studied closer.
    It seemed to be cast in solid gold, complete with stem. It was cool against her skin, heavy in her hand. Her thumb touched a rough spot. Turning the flashlight to it, she found a design stamped into the gold—five shapes, figures made of the lines and squiggles of ancient writing:

    Who do you belong to?
    She felt an answer; then the answer faded.
No one.
    But it was here to be kept safe. That was true of everything here.
    Who did you belong to?
she asked, holding an image of the striking woman in her mind.
    No, not her. Close, but not her.
    She grasped for a deeper answer, but that was all she heard with that odd sense that felt so strong in this room.
    How ridiculous was it, to be holding a conversation with a cryptic antique?
    She brought the apple to the doorway, to the light from the other room, and showed it to Alex. “Do you recognize this?”
    He squinted at it, moving to the doorway, drawn to it though he held himself warily, inching toward her like he didn’t want to come too close.
    “It’s a golden apple.”
    “Do you know what the inscription means?”
    His expression turned leery. “What makes you think I would?”
    “You seem to know everything else,” she said.
    He stepped back. “I don’t want to touch it.”
    She sighed, exasperated. “Then just look at it.”
    He held himself aloof, as far away from it as he could and still study it. His gaze passed over the inscription, back and forth, his face still, emotionless. He swallowed.
    “The language is ancient Greek in its oldest form. The writing is Mycenaean. It hasn’t been used in over three thousand years. It says,
kalisetei.
It means, ‘For the fairest.’ This—” He pointed at the apple. “—started the Trojan War.”
    She felt like a child who’d been given a grenade without being told what it did. “It’s the language you were speaking to her. To the woman.”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought Helen started the Trojan War.”
    “It goes back much further than that. Out of revenge for not being invited to the marriage of King Peleus and Thetis, the goddess Discord tossed the apple into the banquet hall. Athena, Aphrodite, and Hera argued over who, being the fairest among them, should have it. They chose a mortal man, Paris, to be the judge. And, being goddesses, they bribed him with wealth, fame, power—and love. Aphrodite offered him Helen. He chose her. And for ten years, two great civilizations fought a war over that choice.”
    For the fairest. It had fallen out of a story and into her hand. It was just an heirloom her grandfather or someone had picked up somewhere. The marks were just a pretty pattern. That was the trick, wasn’t it? How could she
know
what this was? How could he tell her this story about a thing that might as well be a movie prop, and how could she believe him?
    “Hera still wants it,” Alex said. “It still has power.”
    “Who are you?” She kept asking that. Why should he tell her now?
    “Cursed.”
    From upstairs, Mab started barking fiercely, as if battling demons. Evie jumped and almost dropped the apple. Alex glanced up the stairs.
    Rubbing her thumb over the inscription, she returned the apple to the chest of drawers. She closed the Storeroom door firmly behind her when she left.
    “Let’s see what’s wrong.” She tugged on his sleeve, and he followed her up the stairs.
    The kitchen door slammed shut.
    “Don’t close your door on me,