Dark of the Moon (8 page)

I know what Arkas would do. He'd slit the dog's throat without thinking twice and leave her body there for the crows. But I'm not Arkas, and I look into the brown eyes and know that I can't do it. I straighten.

"Come on, then, dog," I say, and take to the road again, accompanied by the sound of her panting and her footsteps.

"I can't keep calling you 'dog.'" We walk for a while as I think. I've heard of a moon goddess called Artemis, a patron deity of the hunt. This Artemis supposedly once asked her father, Zeus, for six lop-eared hunting hounds. I glance down at the cream-colored dog whose ears flap as she paces next to me.

"Artemis," I say. She looks up, still wearing what appears to be a smile, and wags her tail. I shrug. She probably would have done the same if I'd said "seagull" or "cheese." It's as good a name as any, though, so Artemis it is.

The land we're walking over is unappealing—rocky, sandy, difficult to traverse. I am lost in my thoughts and at first don't notice that Artemis has fallen behind. I stop and wait for her to catch up, and as soon as she's reached me she flops down on her belly. Her sides are heaving, and I decide to take my midday meal here
—our
midday meal, rather.

I've just found a relatively rock less stretch of sandy earth and am rummaging in my pack when a loud snort and the tramp of many feet rushing in my direction makes me spring up, sword drawn. A shape bursts from behind a rock, and before I can focus on exactly what it is, it runs straight into my sword and then drops on its side, screaming.

I'M SORRY," I say for what feels like the thousandth time. "I didn't mean to kill your pig. I didn't even know it
was
a pig. I was just holding my sword up at the ready, and it ran right into—"

"She," the old woman says.

"I'm sorry—she?"

"You keep saying 'it.' My Phyllis wasn't an
it.
She was a
she.
"

At least, that's what I think the crone says. She's missing most of her teeth, and her words come out somewhere between a mumble and a whistle.

"Sorry," I repeat, feeling inadequate to her grief. I don't know what else to say or what to do about the pig, which lies motionless between us.

"A dozen piglets at each farrowing." She ignores my apology. "Most of them would live to grow up, too, and make fine eating."

I wish she hadn't mentioned eating. I look at the pig and mentally carve it—her—i nto chops and loins, into fat cheeks and delectable trotters. My stomach rumbles. The old woman looks at me indignantly, and even Artemis lays her ears back as though my hunger, in the presence of this tragedy, is in bad taste.

I end up giving the old woman the blanket that Konnidas packed for me. She is so pleased with it that she becomes friendly and talkative, even recommending an inn farther up the road where I'll be able to sleep in exchange for one of the small pieces of silver from the pouch my stepfather pressed into my hand as I left.

I trudge along the seaside path, first thinking that I should save the silver, then reminding myself that I've been forced to give up my blanket and that the late-winter night is sure to be chilly this close to the water.

The inn is farther on than the old woman said, and it's not much more than a shack, but the old man sitting outside of it chewing on laurel leaves is hospitality itself. "Welcome!" he cries, hauling himself to his feet. He's skinny and wrinkled, and he leans heavily on his staff.

"Sit, grandfather," I say respectfully, but he ignores me.

"Just in time for supper!" he says. "And then you shall have the finest bed in Hellas. What brings a young gentleman so far out into the country?"

"Actually, I'm on my way to—"

"Come in!" He practically shoves me through the doorway. A fire burns in a pit in the middle of the floor, the heavy smoke barely drifting through the hole in the roof. "Sit here." He points at a three-legged stool very like the one that Konnidas must be sitting on at this moment, back inTroizena. He reaches into a bucket and pulls out a fistful of wriggling silver fish, which he proceeds to thread onto long, thin pieces of wood that have been soaking in a barrel next to the fire. He sprinkles the fish with herbs and pops them directly onto the hot coals. They sizzle and send up pungent smoke. After a minute, he turns them, and then he picks up a stick by its end and hands it to me.

I suck the small, salty bodies off the warm twig and wonder if I've ever eaten anything this good. The old man watches me with a satisfied grin, and when my belly is full he takes the three sticks I've emptied and pops them back into the barrel.

"Now, sir, if you're ready for bed?" I look around.

"Where?" I ask.

"Why, right there!" He points to a kind of platform raised about knee height from the floor. There's a sleeping-pallet on it. "Most comfortable bed in Hellas." He puffs out his chest like a dove. "Raised off the floor out of the way of drafts, and to keep the bugs away. Not that there are any bugs here," he adds a little too quickly.

I don't care if the mattress holds a herd of lice the size of sparrows. I'm suddenly so tired that I nod my thanks and tumble into the bed. It wobbles, and I fling myself upright, gripping its edges. I've never slept off the floor before (it has never occurred to me that you
could
sleep off the floor), and I feel as exposed as if I were on a mountaintop.

"Sorry, sir!" He shuffles forward, a wicked-looking blade in his hand. "If you'll step down for a moment?" I'm only too glad to comply, and he hacks off the bottom of one leg and tests the balance of the bed. Now another leg is too long. He trims that one, too. He tests it again, and the bed is still unstable. I'm about to tell him that it doesn't matter, that I prefer a pallet on the floor, when he's finally satisfied. "There's always one either too long or too short," he says as I settle myself in cautiously. "But once they're even, there's no more comfortable bed—"

"In Hellas," I finish for him. "I know. I thank you."

And while he's thanking me back I fall asleep, with Artemis curled on the floor beneath my head.

TELL MY FRIEND here what you just told me." The guard's pimply face indicates that he is no older than I am, and the mirth that stretches his mouth wide makes my hand itch to strike him. Artemis senses my anger, and a low rumble issues from her long throat. Instead of punching the palace guard, I drop my hand to her head. She falls silent, but I can feel that her every muscle is quivering.

I turn to the older man indicated by the youth. "I'm the king's son," I repeat. "I've come to meet him and to take my place at his side."

"The king's son?" The heavyset man doesn't seem as amused as his companion, but he doesn't move from his spot in front of the door, where he's planted like a tree trunk.

I'm tired. I want to go in and meet the man who supposedly sired me. I'm filthy and I'm hungry, and Artemis is even more worn out than I am. The trip was uneventful, except for the pig that I killed the first day out. A few days later I met a man I thought was a thief, but since I carried nothing of value with me except my sword and my hand rested on its hilt during the whole of our short conversation on the edge of a cliff, I'd had nothing to fear from him.

I should be disappointed by this lack of adventures, but secretly I'm pleased to have made it to my destination in such a short time and with no injuries or loss of more of my meager property than the blanket I had given to the pig-woman. I finished my food quickly, though, and I'm hungry. I can feel Artemis's ribs through her thick coat.

And now that I've come all the way here, and when the man I seek is finally just on the other side of the door, this officious boy and his large friend are blocking my entry. The injustice of it swells my chest, and I want to shout at them. I know it would do me no good and might cause them to throw me out in front of all the people passing on the wide street.

The older man pulls thoughtfully at his lower lip. He lets go of it and it snaps back into place. "What makes you think you're his son, boy?" His tone isn't unfriendly, and even Artemis seems to relax a little.

"He left me something. He wanted me to come to him once I found it."

"Oh, so he left you something, did he? What was it, a golden crown?" The pimple-faced boy's sneering voice is the sardine that broke the pelican's beak, and before I know what I'm doing, I haul back and punch the smirk off his face.

A big hand claps me on the shoulder. I wince, resigned to being tossed out, but instead the hand is steering me forward in a friendly way. "You've just earned yourself entry into the king's chamber." The big man chuckles and pushes the door open. "I've been wanting to do that ever since the oaf joined the guard service. You'll find the king and his lady having their dinner. And boy"—his voice turns serious, and I glance at him, not sure I can believe what I'm hearing—"be careful of the queen. She's a tricky one." He thrusts me forward, and I find myself on the other side of the door.

I'm too dazed at the sudden turn of events to wonder what he means. The chamber is larger than any room I've ever seen before and is so lovely that I can't take it all in. I see a gleaming stone floor laid out in an intricate pattern of blue and red and white and green. The ceiling is open above a pool in the center of the room. White flowers float on the smooth surface of the clear water, and all around the edge of the little rectangular pond, caged birds are singing.

For a moment, I can't make out any people. Then I realize that the men ranged at the far end of the room are not statues, as I first thought, but guards. In the middle of the group is a low table of white stone, and two people are sitting at it on heaped-up cushions, eating something that smells lovely and popping little bits of whatever it is into each other's mouths.

They look up as I approach with Artemis close by my side. I hope that my stomach doesn't growl at the sight of the roasted songbirds and olives and fresh bread piled on platters. The woman, plump and rosy as a baby, is the first to speak. "What a lovely dog!" She reaches out her chubby hand, and Artemis moves closer, and then stretches her long neck and sniffs the woman's fingers politely, her plumed tail waving.

"Thank you, lady." I feel awkward. I don't know how to address her, not certain who she is, though I suspect she is the queen. Artemis, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease as she goes from the woman to the man, who is also round and smiling.

"Who might you be?" the man asks.

I try to frame my answer. Finally, I squeak, "Theseus" and stop. A proper introduction includes at least the father's name, if not the grandfather's, and so on as far back as the speaker knows. They both smile and nod to encourage me, and I manage to stammer, "Son of Aethra." Somehow, I forgot to ask my mother the name of the king, and in any case I feel shy about using it until I know where I stand. They continue smiling, knowing as well as I do that one who introduces himself by giving his mother's name is the son of an unmarried woman. I blurt out, "Son of Aethra and of the king of Athens."

"Dear me," the woman says, turning to her husband. "Is this another one of yours?"

"Another—another one?" I sputter.

The man seems unperturbed. He tilts his head to one side and looks at me. "Could be," he muses. "He does have something of the look of the House of Aegeus."

The woman nods. "He does indeed. He puts me in mind of Hippon, don't you think? The king's nephew," she explains to me. "He's a nice boy, very strong, broad in the shoulders like you."

My head is whirling. "My mother—"

He frowns. "Who did you say your mother was?"

"Aethra."

The king looks puzzled.

"From Troizena," I explain. "She's the daughter of King Pittheus."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, boy, but I don't remember. It must be a long time ago. How old are you, anyway?" Without waiting for an answer, he picks up his cup and drains it, then gestures behind him at a servant, who hurries to pour dark wine into it.

"Sixteen," I say, but he has turned his attention back to his meal.

"Have some wine, dear." The queen passes me a brimming cup.

I begin to feel desperate. It appears the king doesn't believe me. "You left me something." I pull the sword out of its sheath. "You put this and a pair of sandals under a rock, and you told her—"

"Now,
that
sounds familiar!" he cries. He holds out his hand and I give him the weapon. "Ah yes, my old sword. The boulder by the path! I tipped it over on top of this sword and a pair of sandals. You have the sandals, boy?" I tug the straps of my pack and pull out the rotten things. I pass them to him, and he beams. "Move aside, dear," he says to his wife. "Make room for my son—what did you say your name was?"

"Theseus."

"This is my son, Theseus, son of Aegeus. Theseus, my boy, meet the queen of Athens, Medea of Kolkhis."

The words of greeting die on my lips as I turn to face the woman whose notoriety has spread even to Troizena: Medea, the witch, the wife of Iason, leader of the Argonauts. Iason took her away from her home and married her in exchange for her gift of the golden ram's fleece that was the Kolkhians' most sacred object. Then, when Iason decided to take another wife, as was only to be expected of a ruler, Medea flew into a rage, and in her passion and fury she did something unspeakable. To punish her husband, with her own hand she killed her own children, hers and Iason's.

And this same Medea—this woman smiling across the table at me—this is my stepmother.

HAVE AN OLIVE," says my father.

"Have some more wine," says his wife. She gestures to a guard, who moves like a suddenly animated statue and brings a pitcher and some large cushions. I let him fill the cup but hesitate to sit on the cushions; they are made from a shining cloth of a kind I've never seen before, bright red and blue, marvelously woven into intricate patterns. My clothes are filthy, and I don't smell much better than that pig. Besides, this is
Medea!
If she can kill her own children, gods only knew what she would do to a new stepson.