Chapter 75
Medea
Eventually, when I could bear to, I told Atalanta what happened in Corinth. About Jason’s cruel betrayal and his attempt to
take our sons, and my revenge. About the dress and the crown, the flames licking up the sides of the palace, and the horror
waiting for me in the temple of Hera.
When I finished speaking, I felt scrubbed clean and raw but lighter. Letting my story out into the world, into the listening
ear of another person, meant it had the chance to live outside me.
Atalanta remained quiet, pondering what I told her. It was late afternoon, the lazy hour when the sun has just begun to slant
toward the western horizon, and even the landscape seems to be dozing in the heat. She and I sat outside the hut, close but
not touching.
“I want to ask you something,” Atalanta said, her attention focused on sharpening a knife. “Why did you vent your rage on
the girl instead of Jason?”
It took me a moment to understand her meaning. I’d been so focused on what had been done to me that I scarcely considered
what I had done. When I did, it was like being hit in the face by a bucket of cold water.
By the Styx, I’d killed a girl and her father, cursing them with sleep before setting their home aflame. Creusa had committed no crime save for catching the eye of an inconstant man, and I’d killed her for it.
There was no easy answer to Atalanta’s question, and excuses bubbled from my lips. “Jason was my husband,” I said. “I didn’t
want to risk miasma. And besides, it would hurt more if I burned down his life around him.”
Atalanta said nothing, only arched an eyebrow and gave me a long, slow look as if to suggest that I knew better than that.
I had no choice but to leave subterfuge and lies behind, gazing into the truth like the eye of the burning sun.
The simple fact was that the girl, the princess Creusa, had been an easier target for my rage than Jason. She was faceless,
abstract, a blank canvas on which to paint out my worst fears. She was the beloved daughter, the happy wife. A symbol of all
that I once dreamed of being and would never become.
And she was dead because of me.
The shame was overwhelming. “What have I done?” I said, burying my face in my hands. “This is worse than the daughters of
Pelias.”
“What’s done is done.” Atalanta’s lips were pressed together in a tight line. “In our world, violence is sometimes necessary,
but it must not be senseless. When my father held me prisoner, I was forced to kill the men who raced against me, whether
they cursed me or begged for their lives. I hated it. If I’d been able to kill Schoenus—and more than once I tried—I would
have saved many other lives, not least my own. Much trouble could have been prevented if only you’d taken out your rage on
the one who actually deserved it. Tell me, was Creon a good king?”
An abrupt switch in topic, but I was used to this from Atalanta.
The question forced me to consider something I never had, to piece together bits of memories and snatches of overheard conversation.
“No. Jason was always getting called in to meetings about the royal treasury and overspending on building projects around the city. I cannot think the king was anything but profligate. But what has that to do with our discussion?”
“Do you think Glauke will be a better queen?”
The question caught me off guard. “Maybe. I don’t know. She’s ruthless but has courage, I suppose. And she will know how to
listen to the voices of the small because she was once small herself.” My hands tightened on my knees. “But she killed my
sons. I should have avenged them. I was weak.”
“Rather, I think you are stronger than you know.”
I looked up into the eyes of Atalanta, luminous as the sky. “You put an end to the cycle of a life for a life,” she said.
Her words recalled something Circe told me once: There will never be an end to it until you make one and become more than Aeetes’s daughter.
My self-loathing relented. Perhaps my act of mercy toward Glauke had not been weakness after all. I had seen our essential
similarity, and in letting Glauke live I’d opened the door for myself to do the same. Maybe, despite all my errors, there
was something worthwhile in me after all.
“You are a king killer, Medea,” Atalanta said as she turned back to her task, the knife flashing in the sun as the blade grated
against the whetstone. “But let your anger be like the tip of a spear, razor-sharp, not a wildfire destroying everything it
touches. If you must kill, Medea, do it so that others might live.”
I puzzled over her meaning until Chalciope’s face rose to my mind. “Like my sister,” I said, “when she led the coup against
Aeetes.”
If not us, then who? she’d said to me.
Chalciope’s decisive action had saved many lives, and she did not even enjoy the supernatural advantage of magic that I did.
Perhaps, I considered, the end goal of witchcraft was not only to make the world into the sort of place I would like to live, but one that other people would like to live in as well.
A daunting task. After all, power corrupts, and witchcraft was power. But someone must dare to stand against a corrupt king.
Another thought occurred to me, terrifying in its implications. “What if I become like him?” I asked, hugging my knees. “Like
Aeetes, or Creon.” A heartless tyrant, justifying the worst atrocities if they pleased me.
“Well,” Atalanta said dryly. “Best make sure that you don’t.”
Night fell, and the forest came alive with the sound of crickets. I sat under the canopy of stars with a single lamp set in
front of me, nothing more than a wick burning in oil. Despite the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, I shivered at the chill
of the night. The darkness was vast, but the little flame flickered on defiantly.
The crunch of feet approached. Atalanta was there, squatting down next to me and stifling a yawn at the lateness of the hour.
“What are you doing?”
“Holding vigil,” I replied, my attention focused on the tiny flickering flame. “For the soul of Creusa.”
I tucked my chin, trepidatious that Atalanta might tease me for wasting a lamp on the soul of a dead woman who was past caring
about such things. Instead, she gave an approving grunt and settled down next to me, apparently ready to keep me company through
the rest of the vigil. This was as comforting as the second blanket she slung over my shoulders, warming me against the night
chill.
“Glauke will hold rites for my sons, so it’s only proper that I should hold a ritual in honor of her daughter,” I added.
Besides, I needed to atone for what I had done.
The vigil wasn’t enough, but it was a beginning.
Not the extirpation of miasma, but something more elemental: a shifting within myself, a reordering of the soul.
Looking up at the star-filled sky, I thought about Creusa. This girl I had never really known, this girl I’d killed from a
safe distance. Had she loved to walk by the seashore, like me? Or maybe she’d had a gift for braiding hair, like Chalciope.
Perhaps she’d possessed a stubbornness to rival Atalanta’s. Now she was only ash in the heart of Corinth.
Live with what you’ve done, Glauke said as she left. What I had done could not be forgiven, but I needed to find some way to move forward nonetheless.
I was concerned about Atalanta’s worsening health and needed my wits about me.
Above, a million stars twinkled in the night sky. I couldn’t undo what I had done, but I could learn from it. I could use
my enormous power—not to destroy my rivals, but to build a world worth living in.
You are the fire, Medea, and you will destroy everything you touch, Circe told me once. True, but a fire could also bring warmth and illumination. I stared at the flame of the little lamp.
Atalanta said nothing, only took out the pipe she often smoked, cleaning it with a stick before packing it with Scythian hempflower.
The strong smoke made me sneeze, and I waved it away. Much as I disliked the smell, I would not tell her to put it away, since
she deemed it a sovereign remedy for the pain in her bones.
The smoke of the pipe coiled up near the stars, and the little lamp burned on. Atalanta and I moved closer, leaning against
each other for warmth as the night stretched on to morning.