Chapter 26
Medea
A few hours later, I concluded that I could probably trust Atalanta, but I could not fail to be annoyed by her almost beyond
bearing.
She was pacing up and down the cramped, windowless room where Hyspipyle had escorted us. The room itself wasn’t more than
eight or nine paces across, but still Atalanta kept at it, stomping like a bull. I, on the other hand, sat on a plush couch
and ate the grapes that had been left out for us, though Atalanta’s pacing rather interrupted my enjoyment of this. She cut
so close that I could feel the air stirred by her passage.
“Do you mind?” I demanded.
Atalanta paused in her relentless circling to glance at me, looking like a wild animal trapped in a cage far too small. “Yes,
I do mind. I mind very much being stuck here while the others are gods only know where. We’re vulnerable, cut off from the
rest of the group like this, and could be picked off easily.”
“We’re in the home of my kinswoman,” I replied loftily. “We won’t be picked off.” In truth, I shared some of Atalanta’s disquiet, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of showing it. I continued
to eat the grapes, hoping they weren’t poisoned.
The door opened and Hyspipyle appeared. She had discarded her armor in favor of a sleek dress. Her sun-kissed hair was gathered
into a braided crown atop her head.
“Forgive me for the wait,” she said smoothly, all smiles. “I hope you’ve taken the time to refresh yourselves.”
“Why have we—” Atalanta began.
“So lovely to see you, cousin,” I said to Hypsipyle, cutting Atalanta off. “I trust that you are well?”
“Quite well. But I’m concerned about you.” Hypsipyle settled herself at the table next to me, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“How did you come to ride on a ship of all men, with only a single bodyguard?” Her gaze slid to Atalanta, who narrowed her
eyes but mercifully did not correct Hypsipyle.
Alarm shot through me. I could not exactly tell her that I’d run away from home after stealing my father’s greatest treasure
and helping my sister lead a coup. “I am . . . betrothed, you see. To Jason.”
“Betrothed to Jason!” Hypsipyle’s eyes widened, a smile frozen on her face. “How marvelous,” she said in a tone suggesting
it was anything but.
“Yes.” I flushed. Atalanta shot me another look; I ignored her. “We will marry when he returns home and takes his place as
king.”
“I see,” Hypsipyle said, her expression unreadable. “And they are . . . good to you, this Jason and his Argonauts? They treat
you in a manner befitting your station, like a lady, not a peasant or a common slave?”
Mostly the Argonauts kept their distance after watching me chop my brother into pieces, but I wasn’t going to tell Hypsipyle
that. “They treat me with the utmost respect,” I said.
Hypsipyle gave a sharp nod, seemingly satisfied. “Good. If it were otherwise, I would have to take decisive action. On Lemnos,
we are familiar with the cruelty of men.”
A silence stretched between us, one in which anything might be said.
“I suppose you have been wondering,” Hypsipyle began, looking down at her hands, “why women patrol the island in armor, and where the men of Lemnos have gone.”
In truth, I was wondering if she might know something—anything—about the witchcraft that ran in our family and how to get
it back when it had been lost, but I held my tongue once more.
“Not so long ago, the men of Lemnos went raiding among the Thracian tribes,” Hypsipyle said. “They conquered land and brought
back many captive women. Young and pretty women.” Her mouth twisted.
As Hypsipyle spoke, a woman entered the room. She was clad in a well-worn dress, her hair bound up in a rag. A slave. The
woman’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes lowered, as if to brace herself against falling fists. She laid out plates of
food: bread, oil, cheeses, meat. I had not enjoyed a decent meal since leaving Colchis and fell to with a greedy appetite.
“Men learn bad habits from consorting with slave girls,” Hypsipyle continued. “The men of Lemnos began to prefer the Thracians
to their own wives, since captured women cannot complain. Wives were pushed aside in their own homes, and the children of
slaves given pride of place over those of freeborn women. A terrible state of affairs. So we ordered the men out, to make
their homes in Thrace and tend farms there with their new wives.”
“You ordered them out?” I echoed, astonished.
Hypsipyle smiled, sipping her wine. “We did, and the island flourishes for it. The women of Lemnos have found farming and
fighting to be much more agreeable than domestic labor.”
A clatter caught my attention. The serving woman, the slave, had nearly dropped one of the empty dishes she was gathering up.
At once, Hypsipyle’s easy manner fell away like a mask.
She fixed the slave woman with a glare heavy with the promise of violence.
The woman shrunk away, carrying our dirty plates and cups out of the room.
Hypsipyle turned back to me, a winning smile settling over her golden features once more. “My father, alas, was lost at sea
and had no son to succeed him. So I rule here now, as you can see.”
There was something odd about this story, but I did not have time to parse the details. My lost witchcraft occupied my attention
entirely. Now, during a lull in conversation, I circled around my hope and pounced.
“Seeing that we are kin,” I said, leaning forward eagerly, “I wondered if you might know anything about those persistent rumors
regarding our family, about the magic said to flow in our veins.”
Hypsipyle laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t know a thing about that. I am my father’s only child, and you are the first of our
extended family that I have ever met. Besides, I don’t set much stock in sorcery—I prefer to trust in things that are real.”
My nails dug into my palms, fighting against the weight of disappointment. If I still had my witchcraft, I would have brewed
a potion to force Hypsipyle to tell only the truth. But as matters stood, I did not think she was lying about this.
“And what do you know about magic, dear Medea?” Hypsipyle’s eyes, amber rather than gold like so many of the sun’s children,
focused on me with an uncanny intensity.
“I’m afraid that I’m about as magical as a clump of dirt,” I replied with a dismissive wave. At the moment, it was the truth.
Atalanta, who had been utterly silent throughout our conversation, glanced at me sharply. I ignored her. She’d spent most
of our little supper chewing open-mouthed with her elbows resting on the table, looking more like a wolf at the kill than
a human being. I found her lack of manners thoroughly irritating.
“Ah, well,” Hypsipyle replied. “I heard that your mother was quite talented in that area. I’d wondered if you might be as well.”
“Perhaps it skips a generation,” I said with a strained smile.
“Indeed.” Hypsipyle stood. “Well, I must return to my duties. Make yourselves at home here, please. I will see you in the
morning.”
She left, closing the door after her. With no windows, the only illumination in the room came from the profusion of lamps
flickering all around. It was impossible to tell the time or to guess when morning might be.
As soon as Hypsipyle departed, Atalanta’s tall form unfurled, and she once again took up her interminable pacing.
“I don’t like this place,” she muttered. “Something smells wrong here. The air has a metallic tang like the scent of bronze
or things hidden far underground. Sets my teeth on edge.”
Atalanta reached for the doorknob and would have turned it if I did not interrupt her with a shout.
“Stop!” I gasped. “You cannot simply wander about the home of a host. Certain etiquette must be observed. What, were you raised
by beasts?”
“Yes. Bears, actually,” Atalanta replied with utmost sincerity.
For a moment I stared at her, then burst out laughing. Sidesplitting, belly-shaking laughs that made my eyes water. After
the strain of recent events, it felt good. I could not remember the last time I’d had occasion to laugh so hard, and mused
that perhaps Atalanta would not be such an unpleasant companion after all.
“I do not understand what is so very funny,” Atalanta muttered.
I brushed away tears of amusement. “Raised by bears. Well, that certainly explains a great deal. You must—”
But I did not finish, because at that moment the door swung open.
A woman entered. I recognized her as the slave who had served our supper.
“My name is Polyxo,” the slave woman said. “And I come with a warning. The men of Lemnos are not away in Thrace, as Hypsipyle
told you. They are dead, and she is the one who killed them.”