37. From Darkness to Light
37
From Darkness to Light
Theron
He let the night unravel him.
When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or not. His bedroom was suffused with the whispering light of almost-sunrise filtered through the billowing white silk in the windows.
He felt just as weightless as silk, floating on the surface of his dreams, carried by a warm sensation he struggled to name.
Everything was the same: the white sheets with the hint of lavender. The marble floor, catching the morning light rolling to the purple carpet under his bed.
He froze, waiting for his lungs to suck up darkness from his soul like they did every morning ever since… since Amatheia died.
Yet darkness hadn’t rushed to claim him, as if it had forgotten about him.
Instead, the image of a woman formed in his mind, so vivid he could almost see her beside him: all the flowing, soft curves he could piece together from his memory, stubborn line of a pale-rose mouth, the cinnamon-bark hair spilling on the pillow, and the calm in her eyes—the calm that could hide a storm.
“Calliste.”
Silence floated on, taking away her name and casting it to the wind.
Naked, he sprang from his pallet and stomped to the polished silver mirror framed in gold and copper to the side of the bed. He pressed his forehead against the smooth surface.
A part of him had already given up on trying to stop these thoughts, even though he knew he would never touch a married woman.
But then, he wasn’t made of marble. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t shut away his needs. Needs that couldn’t be sated by any woman from his court.
By any woman in his kingdom.
Save for one.
One he couldn’t have.
Except… in his imagination.
Again.
Briefly.
Right now.
He took a deep breath, allowing a small crack in his discipline.
For a moment, she was there with him, her hands braced against the mirror while he held her from behind in a steely grip. His hand wound around her waist. His other hand cupped her breast, tensing and hardening under his touch.
She begged. Sweetly.
For more. For fulfillment. For him. For a single kiss.
He loved unraveling her.
He wanted to hear her moan with pleasure.
But even in that carefully constructed moment, he couldn’t let go entirely. He couldn’t give himself to her. Not this time. Something was holding him back.
Amatheia on their wedding night, with a watery smile and tense body. All the warning signs he’d misinterpreted completely.
Amatheia, light fading from her eyes, desperately trying to hold on to her life for another breath. The sudden coldness in the chamber. A silhouette with black wings at the corner of his vision—a presence no army could stop.
The damned Underworld god who served the Fates. The Fates he’d hated ever since.
His breath misted on the mirror as he teetered on the brink of darkness again, his forearm pressed flat against the polished surface, hunting down the reason for the darkness suffocating him.
Then he pulled back, staring at his forearm, at the skin that was mottled and bruised just last morning, healed now.
Can a soul heal as well?
He took a deep breath. Bathed, dressed, ate the light breakfast Gaiane left in his study, his eyes on the first lick of sunrise illuminating the horizon.
It was time to carry Calliste back to her chamber.
“All good?” he asked bleary-eyed Drakon.
“Yes. A quiet night, as usual. Gaiane has just collected the tray with the supper and will be back in a moment to look after the prince.”
Theron nodded and entered the room.
Calliste was sleeping in the armchair, holding Kalias’ hand. As he watched them, a warm sensation filled his chest.
Light. He was choking on the light.
He took a pace back, composing himself.
The door behind him hissed. A moment later, Gaiane was beside him, straight and looking ready to command an army. “Morning.”
Theron stilled his features and cast her a sideways look. “Could you prepare a supper for two for tonight?” he asked in an undertone.
Gaiane’s eyes widened, then she glanced at Calliste, her brows raising.
Theron nodded.
Her face brightened up.
He thought for a moment. “She favors poultry and vegetables.”
“Just like you?” The wrinkles of her face arranged into a smile. “I’ll check with Melitta and prepare something special.”
Theron shot her a grateful gaze and stepped to Kalias, planting a kiss on his forehead.
Calliste stirred, briefly opening her eyes and sending him a dreamy smile before she was asleep.
He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the chamber. Lowered her on the bed and covered her with the bedsheet, then stepped back. “I’ll see you tonight,” he whispered.
***
Theron pressed his fingers to his temples and fought off a yawn.
Councilor Limeos droned on.
Will he ever finish?
Glazed eyes across the chamber asked the same question. Some of the Assembly looked at the murals on the walls, but the majority kept a hawk eye on the sundial mounted on the wall outside of the chamber: a large, weathered disc of bronze with a thin gnomon in its center.
Sitting beside him, Xanthos feigned deep focus, but Theron could tell he was actually reading the latest play by Myron. At the far end of the table, Xanthos’ scribe seemed to be the only one taking faithful notes, though it was probably a waste of ink.
Theron nudged Xanthos. “Show me your notes,” he murmured.
Xanthos smoothly covered the play with his papers and shot him a half-smile. “My scribe is taking care of them. You’re not listening either.”
“Limeos’ fixation with the previous year’s low grape harvest yield owing to birds pecking at the grapes in Hellenixia puzzles me,” Theron said under his breath. “The summer has begun. All the sacrifices have been made. Why is he raising this issue now?”
“He’s from that region and may likely ask for monetary aid if a similar situation arises again this summer,” Xanthos replied without missing a heartbeat.
“I’ll be damned. Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Yes. Calliste’s past,” Xanthos said in an undertone. “I’m meeting with the priestess of Hera’s Grand Temple later today. I’ll report back to you before your Poetry Evening.”
“Solon’s attending that one, not me. I sent him a missive this morning informing him, but haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“Solon hasn’t been attending any social functions in years, to my knowledge.” Xanthos peered at him with suspicion. “Why are you sending him?”
“I’m having supper with Calliste.”
Xanthos watched him, narrow-eyed, as if to say, please tell me you’re jesting. “Theron, please tell me you’re—”
A commotion from the Assembly door interrupted him and Councilor Limeos.
“Let me through, polemarchos !” Everyone’s heads turned at Solon’s yell behind the carved double door. “I am a councilor of the House of Fousteios, and I have every right to be here!”
Lykos’ indistinct, firm voice answered him.
“Damn it,” Theron muttered, rising to his feet. “He’s missed most of the Assembly, so why did he bother?”
Xanthos rose as well, gesturing at Limeos. “Carry on, Councilor.”
But Limeos turned around to watch the Assembly door, along with everyone else.
Theron was already striding across the marble floor.
“You’ve no right to touch me!” Solon kept yelling. “I’m under the Assembly Immunity and I’m coming in!”
The door burst open, and Solon stormed in, his eyes searching until they fell on Theron. “Ah, the exact person I was hoping to see.”
Behind him, Lykos straightened up, adjusting his breastplate, mouthing drunk under his breath. Chrysantos and Argyros flanked him, their faces set in stone.
Theron could feel all the stares burning into him as he quickened his pace toward Solon with Xanthos following beside him, until they stopped in front of his father-in-law. “Out. Now. You’re far too late and far too loud. This is a breach of decorum.”
“You call this a breach of decorum?” Solon scoffed, insolence blazing in his blood-shot, sunken eyes. He reached inside his plain black robe and threw a balled piece of parchment at Theron’s feet. “How about pissing on my daughter’s memory by entertaining that whore you locked away in your wing?”
In the deep, ringing heartbeat of silence, Theron could hear the seagulls screeching in the distance.
And then he was scrunching the front of Solon’s robe in his fist, driving him backward out of the Assembly, past his sentinels and down the hall, until Solon’s back thudded against the stone shield of Athena’s sculpture in the middle of it.
Solon gasped.
“Disrespect Calliste again,” Theron ground out, “and I’ll—”
“Not here,” Lykos snapped.
“Interesting that you knew who I’m talking about straight away,” Solon slurred, breathing hard. His upper lip curled. “Go ahead, punch me. Show everyone how much you lost your mind for her.”
“I could get drunk on your breath alone.” Theron barely restrained himself from smashing his fist in Solon’s face.
“Not here,” Lykos repeated. “The Antechamber is empty right now.”
“Get in there.” Theron let go of Solon. “Before I void your Assembly Immunity and have you dragged out of here for disorderly behavior.”
Solon lifted his chin, a little unsteady as he stomped into the Antechamber next to the Council Chamber.
With the corner of his eye, Theron saw Xanthos picking up the balled parchment and closing the door of the Assembly Hall, cutting everyone off.
Not that they haven’t seen enough. Theron gritted his teeth as he followed Solon into the Antechamber, the dry smell of scrolls hitting his nose.
“Nobody is to come in here,” Lykos ordered to Chrysantos and Argyros and shut the door and leaned against it, crossing his arms, his eyes steady on Solon, who scowled from the middle of the chamber, tensing as Theron stomped to him.
“Choose your words wisely, Solon. I’m this close to doing something I might regret.”
“That missive of yours was an insult. How dare you send me to a function in your place so you can spend time with that…” Solon bit off the rest. “Especially when you know a part of the evening will be devoted to my daughter’s memory.”
Theron narrowed his eyes at him. “Your point?”
“My daughter sacrificed everything for you,” Solon drawled. “Everything. Including her life.”
Familiar darkness washed over him. “I cannot change that.”
“My beautiful daughter didn’t deserve to die.” Solon’s voice broke, echoing down the large chamber, lined with tall marble pillars and crowned by a domed ceiling with an oculus shining down on the snowy marble floor. He looked worn and tired as he stared at the blinding patch of light from high above, burning at his feet. “Now you’re letting her die again, by forgetting about her.”
“Honoring her memory doesn’t mean that we have to live in its shadow.”
“Is it what that witch styling herself as a priestess told you?”
“Even Panakeios couldn’t help Kalias,” Theron snapped. “And now he’s getting better. Calliste made it possible—”
“Using witchery and ungodly spells.”
“Who told you this? Panakeios?”
“He saw her cast a spell.” Solon shot him an angry glare. “So what guarantee do you have that she hasn’t bewitched you?”
“Have you seen Kalias recently?”
“I’m not allowed in your wing right now, am I?”
“You haven’t tried to visit in the last three weeks, to my knowledge,” Lykos’ deep voice sounded from behind. “No one barred you from seeing your grandson, provided you’re sober.”
“So you’ve been so busy spewing your poison everywhere”—Theron glared, his voice carrying to the high oaken shelves stretching to the ceiling, neatly filled with scrolls—“that you neglected to check on him?”
“What guarantee do you have that Kalias won’t get worse later? That this isn’t a crafty way for her to keep you in her fist however long she likes?”
“ Enough .” Theron stared at him, rage whirling in his chest. “Say one more word against Calliste in my court, and I’ll banish you for life. This is my last warning.”
“Do this, and there will be outrage. The Temples will condemn you. The Assembly will challenge you over jeopardizing the future of the kingdom. You’re playing with fire.”
Theron advanced on him, forcing him to back away until Solon’s legs hit an ottoman and he sat down. “You and Panakeios. But especially you will stop your slanders right now. Do not test me. I’m not the one who’s playing with fire.” He leaned forth. “You both are.”