Who Is Arachne

The attendants left with the Crowned One, leaving only the workers to begin dismantling the platform.

When Calipha showed such obvious respect to an ordinary citizen, Peturabo seemed to finally realize something. He first let out a subconscious breath, then anger suddenly surged within him. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, stared fixedly at Mors, and even pursed his lips.

If Calipha and Andos had not still been here, Mors felt that the child would have pounced on him the next moment, claws and fangs bared, bringing the statue's vivid pose to life.

"Please continue your story, citizen," Calipha said to Mors, her eyes glinting.

Mors faced Peturabo, his eyes lowered, his tone carrying an inscrutable mystique. "It is said that long ago in Lydia, there was a girl of extraordinary talent named Arachne. Her skill at weaving brocade was renowned throughout Olympia. When she embroidered clouds and sunset, even the clear sky lingered for her; when she wove flowing springs, even nymphs marveled at them."

"Yet the girl often claimed that her skill surpassed even that of the goddess of wisdom. The goddess came to advise her not to be arrogant and to forgive her boastful words. Arachne refused to yield, and so they could only hold a contest."

"Not only did Arachne refuse to admit defeat, she also used her embroidery to provoke the goddess, weaving patterns of contempt and rebellion." Peturabo glanced at his double statue. "Thus the goddess grew wrathful, destroyed the tapestry, and touched her forehead, ordering her to repent. Arachne could not endure it and killed herself. After her death, the goddess raised her spirit and, in mercy, transformed her into a weaving spider. From then on, she became one of the beasts, weaving her web every day."

The anger Peturabo had been suppressing gradually changed. More and more bewilderment gathered on his face. His rapidly working mind was enough to weave a complete story for himself, and by the time Mors finished speaking, he had already settled on the answer to the question on that thin sheet of white paper from days ago.

He had compared himself to the frail little insect in Mors's tale, resisting the gods.

"I..." Peturabo's lips and teeth moved stiffly, as though coarse grains of sand were scraping inside his mouth. "But this was the question you set..." he argued softly.

Andos, however, understood it differently. Though this Prince was inexperienced in social matters, being socially inept and failing to understand others were entirely different things.

He asked curiously, "Citizen, do you mean... that the contest between Peturabo and me is like the contest between this weaver and the goddess?"

Then the Prince shook his head, his words full of gentle disapproval. "Our contest... was merely an exchange between two people, and Peturabo... he would not turn people into animals. He is a good person."

Calipha nearly choked on her brother's final words, while Mors simply smiled openly and generously. Only Andos remained confused, not knowing what he had said wrong.

"But I have heard another story, citizen."

The princess helplessly regained her rhythm of speech. Her gaze met Mors's, and a smiling light flashed in her eyes.

"I saw another version in a letter. Though it was broadly similar, there were many small differences."

"When the immortal deity heard of this mortal's skill, her wrath was about to descend upon the earth. The goddess would not allow others to slight her without punishment. Her hands moved across the loom, weaving the forms of gods filling the sky, using the gods' feathered helmets and golden shields to symbolize her authority. In the four corners of the pattern, she embroidered the punishment of arrogant mortals, displaying her resplendent majesty."

"Arachne, meanwhile, wove four disasters created by the gods: the first woman burned in flame to blood and bone; a maiden deceived and carried away by an eagle; a woman transformed into a cow, wandering without rest; and a noble queen defiled by calamity."

"When the goddess saw how well she had woven, she tore apart those ugly deeds of the gods. She struck the girl's forehead with her shuttle. Arachne could not endure it and killed herself. The goddess's lingering wrath did not abate, and she cursed her kind to be punished for generation after generation, forever hanging from webs and spinning their thread."

Calipha paused, then asked kindly, "Which story is the one you wished to tell, honored citizen?"

Peturabo fell into even greater confusion, sometimes looking at the young man in blue robes and sometimes toward Calipha.

More than not understanding what trick Mors was playing, he could not understand when Mors and Calipha had developed such an unspoken rapport.

How had they become acquainted with each other?

Mors shrugged. His blue cloth robes rippled like flowing water, joining with his forged skin tone to form several icy streams that rolled along the contours of his body and vanished into the air.

His true pale cheeks reappeared, along with his unchanging black robes and bandages, restored after being washed away. The mocking curve of his lips remained exactly the same.

Andos let out a soft, surprised "Oh."

Peturabo immediately stepped closer to Mors, looking straight up at him without blinking.

"What exactly do you mean, Mors?" He clenched his uneasy fist, weighing his words. "What is the answer to the riddle you devised?"

"My answer?" Mors placed a hand on Peturabo's shoulder and patted the boy. "I offer no answer, because I never prepared one."

He crouched halfway down, the hem of his black robe resting on the ground. His gaze leveled with Peturabo's as he examined the boy's face.

Just as he had said, he had never designed a definite answer concerning the story itself. Who the weaver was in the tale, who the supreme god was—he had no intention of imposing a standard answer.

"When I wrote that question, I was not thinking about who the people in the story were. I was thinking about who wrote this story, who posed this riddle," Mors said. "After all, in the real past, neither Minerva nor Arachne had ever existed. So who made the characters in this story switch good and evil twice over?"

Calipha nodded slightly.

"You tell me," Mors said to Peturabo. "You are a clever child."

Peturabo thought for several seconds before speaking. "The person who wrote the story."

His clenched hand loosened, replaced by a complicated expression and a sorrowful silence before something absurd and unreal.

He said, "Your story is one Harkon would write. Calipha's story is one a citizen would write."

"The gods' story tells of four human calamities; the human story records four evil acts of the gods."

Mors nodded calmly.

The boy continued, "You want to tell me that those who can speak are the ones who can be heard. You want to tell me that false glory is always false."

He stubbornly turned his head away, unwilling to accept it. "But I did not make the citizens flatter me. They still chose me. I am still a little better."

Mors decided not to tell him yet that the later voting trend had much to do with the choice of who went on stage first.

"And..." Peturabo's question gained another turn. "And even if all glory is false, you still have not told me what you think of my statue! You never lie to me, so I will speak plainly. What do you think of the statue I carved?"

Mors sighed and praised him gently. "Very good, Peturabo. I approve of you."

If he had to point out the boy's flaws on the spot, even three hours would not be enough. It would be better to discuss them with him carefully after they returned.

Besides, the child was about to collapse.

Peturabo puffed out his cheeks, struggling to suppress a smile.

The next moment, the boy toppled into Mors's arms and lost consciousness.

"You see, even if you do not wish to think, you are already in this whirlpool," he murmured.

He had chosen to tell this child far too many things he knew.

Then Mors held Peturabo and straightened up. He had used up all his gentleness for the day on this boy.

"I want you to tell me which city-state the official who presented the golden jar came from." He threw the empty little box to the ground and ordered, "His accomplices have already fallen into the net. Go into the streets and find his ice statue."

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