Sweetbitter Song

Chapter 1

My mother cried when the king of Sparta first summoned me.

I could not understand why.

I remember staring up at her face, familiar features made foreign by emotions too heavy to grasp in my small hands.

Was it not an honor to be called to King Tyndareus’s personal quarters? Should my mother not have been pleased, proud even?

The only way I could make sense of her tears was by assuming they were my fault. Perhaps she feared my “sharp tongue” would get me into trouble, as it so often did with the other grown-ups.

“I will be good,” I told her, cupping her damp cheeks between my palms just like she always did when I was sad. “I promise, Mama.”

Confusingly, my words only encouraged more tears to fall.

“Don’t do this,” she begged the woman towering beside us.

This woman was a stranger to me, an unsurprising fact considering she was one of the king’s personal attendants.

Her kind rarely visited the lower parts of the palace where I had been born and raised.

“Slaves in denial,” my brother called them.

I did not know what he meant by that, though I laughed when he said it.

Melanthius always liked it when I laughed at his jokes.

“It is already done,” the attendant said.

“She is just a child.”

“I am not!” I interjected. “This is my ninth summer.”

Nine seemed an impressive number to me, far greater and wiser than eight and only three summers shy of twelve, the divine number of the Olympians.

“The girl is old enough.”

I beamed up at the attendant, thrilled that she agreed with me.

She did not smile back. I wondered if she even knew how.

She was all angles and edges, not an inch of softness to her.

I imagined if we hugged, she would skewer me like a piece of meat.

Though the woman’s eyes were by far the sharpest thing about her.

They made the remnants of my supper squirm in my belly.

“Acte, please.” My mother tried again. “Don’t make her do this.”

Acte drew in a breath, her expression as cold and unreadable as the stone floor beneath our feet.

Her stillness was strange to me, so different from the bustling bodies hurrying around us.

Though night was setting in, the palace kitchens remained a hive of activity, a constant swirling current of slaves flitting about their tasks.

There was a rhythm to this chaos—knives singing, pots bubbling, spoons scraping, fires spitting.

It was the song of my childhood, warm and safe and familiar.

Behind Acte, I spied the water basins being filled and silently prayed the king’s summons would relieve me of my washing-up duties. Whatever Tyndareus wanted would surely be more interesting than scrubbing dirty dishes.

“The girl has been summoned” was all Acte replied. She sounded bored.

“Send me instead.”

I glared at my mother, furious she would suggest such a thing.

How could she take away my chance of meeting our master, our king?

I had never even seen Tyndareus up close before, having only glimpsed him from a distance on odd occasions, riding his stallions across the palace grounds like Ares, the great God of War himself.

Part of me suspected our master was a god. After all, it was said the princes and princesses of Sparta were the children of Zeus, so wasn’t that proof enough that Tyndareus was the Thunder God in human form? Melanthius had said the Olympians liked their disguises.

“Send you? Don’t be absurd,” Acte scoffed. “You know Icarius likes them young.”

My mother’s eyes flared with a rage I rarely ever saw.

“You know what he’ll do to her.”

“As did you when you brought her into this world.” Acte’s smile looked more like an upside-down scowl to me. “Don’t tell me you believed it would be any different for her.”

My mother froze, shoulders sagging as if a great weight had just been dropped upon them.

Acte stepped closer. “Delay me again and I’ll have you sent to the mines. Both of you. Understood?”

My mother stared at Acte for a long moment until her eyes started glistening again.

She swallowed a few times as if she were eating something horribly stale, then crouched before me.

Sighing, she took my hands in hers, familiar calluses caressing my palms as she pulled me closer, enveloping me in her scent.

She always smelled of warm flatbreads. It soothed me, that smell, reminding me of all those hours I had spent watching her work, caked in flour and barley.

“Everything will be all right, my heart,” she said. “Obey the king and his brother. Don’t give them any of that attitude of yours. Yes, Melantho?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Whatever they—” Her voice caught, but she swallowed again. The corner of her mouth wobbled as she continued, “Whatever they ask, you must do it. Yes? It’ll be over quicker if you just obey. I promise.”

I did not like the way she spoke, voice thick and smothering.

When she tried to pull me into a hug, I scrambled away, feeling suffocated though I could not explain why.

But my mother seemed to understand even if I did not, so she kissed my cheek instead.

Her lips felt shaky and cold, making me want to wipe my face immediately.

“You be brave for me, Melantho.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Acte cleared her throat, and my mother touched my face one last time before rising to her feet. Then she turned and walked away, her small, stocky frame melting quickly into the chaos around us. She did not look back, not once.

“Come.” Acte’s bony fingers dug into my shoulder. “The king awaits.”

***

Acte led me to another realm.

As I gaped up at the soaring ceiling held aloft by thick-ridged pillars, I was certain I had stepped into the hallowed halls of Olympus.

Everything was so vibrant. The walls brimmed with vividly painted scenes, and the floors were scattered with curious, colorful shards glinting like spilled starlight beneath my feet.

All my life, my entire existence had been confined to the slave quarters, tucked safely away in the deep, warm belly of the palace.

Now, it was as if someone had peeled back my reality, letting me peer into a world beyond my own, so distant from the hot, sweaty kitchens rumbling below.

This world was cold and clean and beautiful, and it radiated power.

I swore I could feel it humming in the air, needling my skin.

As we walked, my eyes bounced between the giant statues, noting the faces of gods I had spent my life hearing stories about.

Poseidon proudly wielding his three-pronged trident.

Athena blazing in her battle gear. Zeus holding aloft a bolt of deadly lightning, face etched with a quiet, eternal dominance.

They looked so real I half expected them to step down from their plinths to greet us.

“Is this where the gods live?” I breathed.

Acte snorted. It was an ugly sound.

I didn’t ask any more questions after that.

What struck me most was how quiet it was there.

Even at night, the slave quarters were never silent; there was always someone whispering, bodies shifting, girls crying.

Sometimes the adults cried too. This stillness felt heavy, splintered only by my scuffing sandals.

I stared at my feet, and the spotless floors seemed to glint accusatorily up at me.

Did my skin always look so dirty?

The back of my neck felt warm as I glanced over my shoulder, worried I might have spoiled this beautiful world.

To my relief, there was no trail of filth behind me, but this did little to stop that hot, prickling sensation from spreading down my spine.

It was a deeply unpleasant feeling, one I was yet to have a name for.

“What are you looking at?” Acte hissed.

“Nothing.”

By the time we arrived at our destination, I had no idea where we were.

It was as if the palace had swallowed me whole, and I was now lost within the jaws of this ancient, glimmering beast. If Acte were to leave me, I feared I would never find my way back to my mother.

I would be lost forever, like the story my brother had once told me about the children locked in King Minos’s labyrinth, left to be feasted on by the monster imprisoned there.

The thought made my belly tighten as Acte ushered me through an arched stone doorway.

The room inside was the biggest I had ever seen, at least twice the size of the women’s sleeping quarters, maybe even larger.

Ahead, I glimpsed an enclosed courtyard, divided from the main room by moon-bathed pillars.

I walked forward, drawn by the evening breeze rolling in, warm and sweet, laced with the flowers framing the courtyard.

I drew in a grateful gulp, savoring its freshness.

There was never any fresh air in the women’s quarters.

With no windows and the door kept locked at night, the air down there was always hot and sticky.

The kitchens were stuffy too; sometimes it got so bad it made my head hurt.

My mother told me I would get used to it one day, though I did not believe her.

I drew in another breath and lifted my gaze. The stars twinkled like morning dew dappled across the sky. Among them, the moon looked smaller than I remembered, curved like a farmer’s sickle.

Acte yanked me backward. “What are you doing? Get inside.”

I glanced around me. “Is this the king’s bedroom?”

“No. These quarters are reserved for the king’s brother. And he wouldn’t like you snooping.”

“The king’s brother, Icarius, king of Acarnania,” I stated proudly. “They talk about him down below, say he visits every summer. That true?”

“It’s none of your business is what it is,” Acte said as she ushered me into the center of the room. “Wait here. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. Don’t even breathe too loudly. Or the Erinyes will come and pluck out your eyes.”

“The Erinyes only pluck out bad people’s eyes.”

“And those of misbehaving slaves,” she warned.