Chapter 1 #2
Before I could reply, Acte turned on her heel and stalked out of the door.
The chamber somehow felt larger in her absence, the walls looming so high I feared they might topple down on me at any moment. Even so, I kept still, hands knotted behind my back, muscles drawn in so stiffly they began to itch.
I will behave, Mama.
Time trudged past, and Acte’s threat began to grow distant in my mind, unraveled by fingers of curiosity tugging at my thoughts.
After what felt like a small eternity, I dared a single step forward.
Pausing, I waited for the Erinyes to swoop down on their wings of vengeance and claw at my eyes.
But only silence greeted me. I took a few more tentative steps, and that silence held, the expanse of it like an open, beckoning palm.
Wondering if Acte had forgotten about me, I began to drift around the space.
For a big room, it had very little within it, the towering walls empty save for two giant crossed spears.
To one side, there was a table littered with tablets.
I picked one up at random, tracing my fingers over the swirly shapes etched into the wax, wondering what it must be like to be able to read such strange markings.
Nobody taught my kind to read. Especially not girls.
My eyes fell to an unsheathed sword lying beside the tablets, the blade winking dangerously in the moonlight.
I went to touch it, wondering if it felt as cold as it looked, but my attention was caught by a table on the far side of the room.
Here, an array of fresh, untouched fruit had been piled high—plump apricots, shiny olives, grapes sitting fat on the vine.
Though it was the tray of honeyed figs that drew me to the table, my mouth watering as I eyed their pink, glazed flesh. Could I…
I stuffed a fig into my mouth, swallowing so quickly I almost choked. Glancing around the empty room, I took another. This time, I chewed slowly, savoring its rich, gritty sweetness on my tongue. Though we prepared this food daily for our masters, the meals we ate never tasted like this.
Before I could stop myself, I shoveled three more figs into my mouth, one after the other. My belly gurgled contentedly as I licked my fingers, eyeing the rest of the food, wondering what else I might try.
Melanthius will be so jealous when I tell him about this…
Someone cleared their throat, shattering the silence.
Shock locked itself around my muscles, a honey-coated finger suspended midway to my mouth. Turning stiffly, I found a girl watching me, eyes glinting like polished silver. She was standing in the doorway to an adjoining room, as still and silent as the shadows around her.
How long had she been there?
My mouth went dry as I watched her walk into the pool of moonlight reaching between the pillars. She looked only a little older than I, yet she was considerably taller with long, slender limbs.
She stopped a few feet away, and we stared at each other, seconds tumbling into minutes. I knew I should not have been gawking. I had been taught to keep my eyes on the floor when in the presence of our masters. But I could not help it.
The girl was the most striking thing I had ever seen.
She looked like she belonged in the realm of the divine, stitched from shadows and moonlight and secrets, all things beautifully mysterious.
Her face was narrow and delicate, her eyes a peculiar shade of gray, like the great Goddess of Wisdom herself.
Her dark hair was plaited neatly around her head, so tidy compared to my wild mane of rust-red curls.
I could tell from the gleam of her spotless, olive skin that she was not like me. Her clothing confirmed it, too, swathes of deep purple pinned at her right shoulder by a golden brooch. Only royalty wore purple—that’s what Mother said.
I glanced down at my tattered tunic, marred with stains even older than I. It was far too large for me, hanging below my knees, and was the only item of clothing I owned, handed down by my brother and countless children before him.
“Are you Princess Helen?” I breathed.
“What makes you ask that?” Her voice was deep for a girl’s yet flowed with an elegance so unlike the accents of those I had grown up with.
“Mama says Princess Helen is the most beautiful girl ever born. She’s the king’s daughter.”
“Are you trying to flatter me so I won’t inform the king of your pilfering?” she asked. At my frown, she added, “Pilfering means stealing.”
“I know that,” I lied, crossing my arms. “And I wasn’t stealing nothing.”
“That’s incorrect.”
“Is not,” I shot back.
Her lips twitched upward. “Your phrasing, I mean. You should either say you were not stealing, or you stole nothing.”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
“You said you ‘wasn’t stealing nothing.’ That’s a double negative, which implies you were stealing something. Do you see?”
I frowned. “You tryin’ to trick me?”
If anyone in the kitchens had heard me speaking this way, I would have been struck. But the girl’s face remained calm as she watched me, head tilting to one side. She reminded me of the cats I saw patrolling the storerooms, movements sleek, eyes clever.
Did that make me the mouse?
“I am not tricking you. I am simply trying to help you be a better liar.”
“I’m no liar.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
She smiled then, and it was unlike any I had ever seen before. It was not the quiet smiles of my father or my mother’s tired half smiles. It certainly wasn’t the silly, gap-toothed grins my brother offered. No, her smile was like a secret caught around her lips, making me want to lean in closer.
As if sensing this thought, the girl turned and walked away from me. I watched her graceful strides, gown swishing around her bare feet as she approached the table where the discarded sword lay. She ran an absent finger along the length of the blade.
“So what are you doing here?” she asked.
“The king sent for me.”
“To eat his food?” She threw me a glance, her eyes brightening just like my brother’s did whenever he teased me.
I tried to think of a smart response, but the girl made me feel like a worm pinned beneath a stick, wriggling and helpless and stupid.
“For the king’s brother,” I said, lifting my chin a little. “He chose me.”
Something changed in the girl’s face then, like a shadow had fallen across it.
“Has the king’s brother summoned you before?” she asked. I shook my head. “Do you know why he has summoned you?”
“No,” I admitted, picking at a loose thread in my tunic. “It made Mama cry though.”
“It did?”
I shrugged. “Mama cries a lot.”
“You should go,” the girl said. “If you leave now, I can tell the king you were unwell, and I dismissed you.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“Because you do not want to be here.”
“I do,” I shot back. “And the king wants me here too. I’ve been chosen.”
A voice sounded from the hallway then, making us both flinch.
“I told you to bring the girl after the princess had been dismissed.”
“My sincerest apologies. I did not realize your daughter was still in your company, Master Icarius.” Acte’s voice trailed behind, though she sounded different. Sweeter, softer.
My back straightened as two men entered the room. I recognized one of them immediately, for though he was wearing a simple, sweat-stained tunic and tattered sandals, the king of Sparta was unmistakable.
He reminded me of the oak trees bordering the palace grounds, thick and broad and gnarled.
He looked older than I expected, his gray hair cropped short, face worn.
His right ear had been claimed by a scar that sliced across his face, disappearing beneath his beard.
He looked more warrior than king, though in Sparta, they were often one and the same.
Beside the king was the man I guessed to be his brother, Icarius.
He was tall and narrow, as if someone had taken the king and stretched him taut.
Icarius wore robes of rich purple, like the gray-eyed girl, and his fingers were weighed down by jewels, chest glinting with golden pendants.
Like the rest of him, his face was thin and pointed, chin dappled with a patchy beard.
Unlike his brother, not a single scar marked his skin.
“This is her, Your Majesty.”
I hardly noticed Acte as she scurried into the room. She looked so much smaller next to the king.
“Nine summers old. House-born. Child of the palace gardener, Dolios, and a kitchen slave.”
Tyndareus swept a cursory glance in my direction.
“Will she do?” he asked his brother. His voice sounded like the sky before a thunderstorm, thick and swollen.
Icarius drew uncomfortably close, looking me up and down with dark, sunken eyes. Nobody had ever looked at me like that before.
Be brave, be brave, be brave.
“She isn’t the one I had last time,” Icarius said, features tight with an emotion I did not recognize. It looked a little like thirst but harsher.
“We had to sell the last slave due to…complications,” Acte explained.
“Complications caused by your seed,” Tyndareus said pointedly.
Icarius gave a dismissive huff.
“Perhaps you will be a little more careful this time, brother?”
Icarius’s long fingers pinched my chin as he turned my face from side to side. He ran a thumb along my lower lip, pulling it down to examine my teeth. His skin tasted of sweat and meat grease.
“It won’t be an issue, brother. This one can’t have bled yet.” He tugged at one of my curls. “Red hair. Unusual.”
“I can fetch another—” Acte began.
“No, no. This one will do.” Icarius grabbed my fingers, inspecting them. “She’s dirty though.”
My cheeks felt hot as I snatched my hand away.
“If she’s dirty, then have her cleaned,” Tyndareus sighed.
“There’s fresh water in your room, Master Icarius,” Acte added.
Icarius straightened, still watching me as the tip of his tongue skimmed along his yellow-stained teeth. “Yes, yes. She’ll do nicely once she’s tidied up.”