Chapter 30
Nine Years Later
The prince of Ithaca steadied his arrow, readying himself for the kill.
Dappled morning light played across his tanned skin, the trees whispering in anticipation of his next move.
Telemachus looked so like his mother when he concentrated, that small crease forming between his brows, a quiet intensity shifting behind those gray eyes.
The fletching brushed his cheek as he drew in a slow, even breath. There was a moment of stillness, then the prince let his arrow fly, rising from his crouched position to watch it slice a path through the sleepy, shadow-dipped forest.
I heard a delicate thunk, and then a heavier one as the stag fell. The creature was dead before it hit the ground, Telemachus’s arrow having pierced right through its eye.
Beside me, Thratta let out a loud, victorious whoop, causing a flock of birds to take flight.
“Telemachus,” I gasped, turning to him. “That was incredible!”
The prince shrugged. “Accurate aim is simply mathematics.”
He was so like his mother.
“Your first kill!” Thratta slapped him on the back, and the prince tried to hide his wince. “Bendis has truly blessed you.”
“Bendis is a Thracian goddess,” Telemachus said shrewdly. “It is Artemis who would have blessed me.”
Thratta laughed. “Perhaps both our goddesses have, little prince.”
Telemachus grinned as he shouldered his bow. I could not help but marvel at how grown-up he looked in that moment, honeyed rays catching on his young features, illuminating glimpses of the man he would one day become.
It was hard to believe he was already nine summers old.
Nine summers…
It is strange, how elusive time becomes when you are happy.
In Sparta, the seasons had passed slowly, lingering like the stubborn chill of winter bleeding into spring. But in Ithaca, they slipped by all too quickly, as if the laws of time had been loosened, letting the days spill out uncontrollably, too fast for me to keep hold of.
The prince must have read something in my expression, for he placed his small hand on my shoulder and said, “Do not worry, Melantho. Your aim will improve in time.”
“Unlikely,” Thratta snorted.
I gave her a shove, though I might have had more luck knocking over a stone pillar.
In truth, Thratta was right. I was by no means a natural with the bow, but I still loved the thrill of holding the weapon in my hand, of feeling its power thrumming between my fingers.
It had been Telemachus’s idea to have Thratta teach him to hunt.
It was not surprising, considering the boy had grown up on a healthy diet of Thratta’s stories about her daring exploits with her tribe.
King Laertes had been dismayed at the idea of a female slave, a Thracian slave, teaching a prince to hunt.
But who else was there to take up the task?
The majority of Ithaca’s menfolk were still far away on the shores of Troy.
“Did someone take my bow?” I frowned, looking for the weapon I had placed down only moments before.
“Perhaps it ran away,” Thratta teased. “It no longer wishes to be abused by your hands.”
I rolled my eyes as I rose to my feet, dusting off my knees.
“Come, Telemachus,” I said. “Let us fetch your prize.”
Our trek back to the palace was long, weighed down by the heat sticking to the air.
Thratta had the giant stag slung over her shoulders, yet she did not stumble nor complain once as we walked.
Instead, she sang in her mother tongue, her booming voice barely even breathless.
I smiled as I watched her rust-red hair swishing merrily back and forth.
Thratta had let it grow long and wild, though she kept it permanently tied back with a leather thong.
Red hair was apparently a Thracian trait, so Thratta had decided I must be one of them.
I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I liked the idea of fierce warrior blood flowing through me, of having a piece of history that tied me to something other than Sparta.
“Do you think there will be news when we return?” Telemachus asked as we trudged onward.
“Perhaps,” I said, brushing the sweat from my brow.
Every day, Telemachus awaited word from Troy. Fortunately for him, we were rarely in short supply. Stories of the war were constantly pouring in from the seas, each grander than the last. It was becoming almost impossible to tell where fiction bled into fact.
It seemed Telemachus’s father had made quite a name for himself over the last nine years of bloodshed. People spoke often of the cunning Odysseus constantly outsmarting the Trojans, wise Odysseus counseling the hotheaded Agamemnon, brilliant Odysseus beloved by Athena herself.
It grew tedious after a while, but Telemachus wolfed these tales down greedily, as did the other boys of Ithaca, each new morsel feeding the legend of Odysseus that constantly loomed over the island. To many, he was like a god.
“Do you think Achilles will return to battle soon?” Telemachus pressed.
Achilles was another favorite among the young boys.
Son of a goddess and prince of the Myrmidons, Achilles was claimed to be the greatest fighter this world had ever seen.
Though the last we had heard, the famed soldier had set down his sword, refusing to fight after Agamemnon stole his captive bride.
I didn’t know the woman’s name; nobody ever bothered to speak it.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, though a guilty, secret part of me prayed Achilles wouldn’t ever step foot on Troy’s battlefield again. Everyone claimed the Greeks could not secure a victory without him. So the longer Achilles refused to fight, the longer the war stretched on.
And the longer our life here would remain untouched.
“I do not care to speak of the war,” Thratta huffed from ahead of us. “It bores me.”
“It bores you?” This idea seemed unfathomable to Telemachus.
“Don’t forget, the Thracians fight for the Trojans,” I reminded him.
He nodded sagely. “Does it make Thratta sad to know the Greeks will win?”
I hesitated. “There is no certainty in war, Telemachus.”
“But we have Achilles and my father! We cannot lose!”
Ahead of us, Thratta held up a fist, signaling for us to halt. I watched her scan the thick underbrush, her free hand hovering over the dagger at her belt.
“We are not alone,” she murmured.
Telemachus inched closer to me as I reached for the blade in my own belt. I was only marginally better with a dagger than a bow, despite Thratta’s training. Still, it felt reassuring to have the weapon cool and sure in my palm.
“Wait here,” Thratta instructed as she pressed forward to investigate.
A sharp knot of fear constricted in my gut, even as I assured myself that I was overreacting. Thratta had simply heard a noise—that was all.
But we were, after all, alone in the wilderness with Ithaca’s most prized possession. More importantly than that, with Penelope’s most prized possession.
I felt a sharp jab against my spine.
“Drop the blade,” a voice hissed. “You, too, boy.”
Telemachus whirled on his heels, eyes widening.
“Do as they say,” I told him, dropping my dagger and raising my hands.
Telemachus obeyed, mirroring my movements, though there was a strange, quizzical frown caught around his lips.
“We don’t want any trouble,” I said, scouring the tree line for Thratta.
“Well, I want that stag of yours,” the voice replied. It was surprisingly high-pitched and…girlish.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small figure squaring up behind me.
She was a tiny slip of a girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen.
She was covered in dirt, her dark hair roughly shorn and sticking out wildly around her head.
She reminded me of the stray mutts I saw in town, scraggly and pitiful-looking, marred by an undeniable feral edge.
In her hands, she held my bow, the arrow pointed directly into my back.
“Where’d the big one go?” she demanded. Despite her tiny stature, she had a glare that could have made the gods themselves quake.
“Who are you?” Telemachus asked, more curious than afraid.
“Piss off, kid.”
“‘Kid’? You’re barely older than me!”
The girl rolled her eyes. “The stag. Gimme it.”
A booming laugh came from beside us as Thratta suddenly materialized. For a giant woman, she was unnervingly light on her feet.
“You mean this?” she asked, letting the dead stag fall heavily to the ground. “Go on then, small one. Take it.”
The girl’s eyes widened as she stared at the creature. It was easily triple her size.
“What’s the matter?” Thratta grinned wolfishly. “Changed your mind?”
The girl scowled up at us, her hatred as keen as the arrow at my back. But then I noticed something gleaming in her eyes, a frayed and frantic hollowness I knew all too well.
The girl was hungry.
No, not just hungry. She was starving.
As I looked her over again, I noticed how thin she was, her ribs visible beneath her tattered tunic, cheeks sunken. My attention then narrowed to her wrists and the familiar blistering there.
“How long ago did you escape the slaver?” I asked, turning slowly to face her.
The girl sneered, pulling the bow taut, the arrow now trained on my heart.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Thratta warned.
“The way I see it, you have two options here,” I said, still holding my hands up.
“You can take my dagger, cut off however much of the stag you can carry, and be on your way. But then you’ll have to survive out here on your own.
I’m guessing you’re not from Ithaca. You came in on the slave ship, right? ”
The girl clenched her jaw, saying nothing.
“How long do you really think you can last? A few days at most?”
“Long enough,” she spat.
“Long enough for what? To sneak onto a ship and get away? Believe me, I’ve thought of every possibility for getting off this island, and all of them end up with you back in the slaver’s hands.”
Her eyes hardened. “What’s the other option then?”
“You come with us.”
The girl’s brows rose at that, the bowstring slackening a fraction. Beside me, I felt Telemachus mirroring her surprise, while Thratta’s smirk only widened.
“What?” the girl snapped.
“You come with us to the palace. You’ll be given a bath, fresh clothes, a warm bed, food. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be a slave.”
“It won’t be like any kind of slavery you’ve known before.”
Her eyes narrowed at that.
“I can’t offer you freedom, but I can offer you a place where you will be cared for.”
The girl hesitated. “How do I know you won’t just turn me in?”
“You can’t, not yet. Trust must be earned, right? But if you come with me, I assure you I will earn yours.”
“And what if you don’t?”
I nodded to my bow in her hands. “Then you can shoot me.”
“Melantho!” Telemachus yelped.
Suspicion sharpened the girl’s glare. “Why?”
“Why what?” I asked.
“Why would you help me?”
“It’s what she does,” Thratta said with a chuckle. “She likes to help little, lost creatures like you.”
The girl bristled at that. “If I’m a creature, what does that make you?”
Thratta thundered a laugh. “I like this one. She’s got teeth on her.”
To my relief, the girl finally lowered the bow toward the ground. “If I come with you, I’m keeping hold of this.”
I nodded, letting my hands drop to my side. “I assumed as much.”
“Are you sure this is wise?” Telemachus murmured beside me. “She’s insane! Look at her!”
“She’s desperate. There’s a difference,” I whispered back.
“I want you to know that if you’re lying about anything, I will gut you,” the girl warned. “And I’ll do it slowly.”
“Ah, she reminds me of me.” Thratta nodded proudly. “Yes. I like her a lot.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“Well, I want to know whose name I need to shout to the gods if you end up gutting me…slowly,” I shot back.
The girl seemed to like that answer; I could tell by the slight tilt of her lips. Though she quickly caught the smile and crushed it beneath a scowl.
“Actoris.” She spat it like a curse.
“Well, Actoris.” I grinned as I picked up my dagger. “Welcome to the family.”