Quiver Page 5

  But my father was commanding me to marry.

  My eyes flew open, and I felt the raw terror of a rabbit in a snare. I told myself that Artemis would help me, that she would send me a dream, and the terror subsided.

  As I had done at Gortys, I knelt and prayed for her guidance. Then, becalmed, I slept.

  The sky was still dark when I woke. I searched my mind for some sign from the goddess, but all I saw was a riderless horse, head bowed, on its way to the palace. It was a melancholy image I did not understand.

  Castor had once told me to think of disappointment as rain or fog, weather of the mind that would inevitably pass. I was ten years old and not yet allowed to hunt with the men, though I could shoot as well as any of them, and outrun them, too. I had cried bitter tears, taking little comfort from his words, yet I had never forgotten them. Now they gave me a kind of bleak solace.

  “I will run,” I decided. Stretching cautiously, I found that I was stiff, but no longer aching. It would be good to leave the palace.

  My old chiton was on the claw-foot table, folded neatly. It had become very clean—Entella’s work, no doubt. “It will not be clean for long,” I thought, putting it on.

  After I persuaded Aura to leave the bed, we crept through the darkness, passing one snoring guard in the throne room and another in the courtyard. Beyond the dining chamber were more hallways, and rows of store-rooms and kitchens. Then we were outside again, this time at the back of the palace. Two little kitchen maids, curled up near the hearth, stirred as we walked by, but did not waken.

  A sliver of moon hung low in the sky, offering the quietest possible greeting. An owl hooted, once.

  A few of the horses, tethered to a line under an open shed, raised their heads and nickered. One of them was the lovely Callisto, whose nose was as soft as moss when I stroked it.

  “We will ride again soon,” I told her, and her ears came forward.

  By now Aura and I had drawn the attention of the guards at the wall. The two men flanked a pair of tall wooden doors. Straightening as we drew near, they stared at us with undisguised curiosity before mumbling a greeting.

  “Will you let us out?” I asked. Aura did her part by wagging her tail beseechingly.

  They exchanged a look. “We cannot, my lady,” said one.

  “Why not?” I had been free to roam at will since the time I could walk; now I felt a quiver of panic at the threat of confinement.

  “We have orders,” said the other.

  “You are not to leave the palace without an escort.”

  “Ah.” I cocked my head, as if the restriction were entirely reasonable. “I suppose I will have to find one, then.”

  Turning, I headed back to the palace.

  “I cannot carry you!” I hissed from the top of the wall. Years of climbing trees had made it easy to get up here; less easy was convincing Aura that she must stay behind, without barking.

  After much entreaty—and promises of tasty bones, long runs, and half the bed—she finally dropped to her haunches with a baleful look. I climbed down the outside face and dropped into the tall grass, quickly finding the track I had ridden on horseback yesterday.

  Then I ran.

  I went east, feeling a burst of joy to be well outside the walls and in motion. I was glad for the strength in my legs, for the steady beating of my heart, and for the cool embrace of the air as I found my speed and held it. Most welcome of all was the gradual quieting of my mind, the slow fading of inner voices and nagging worries.

  My awareness became pure sensation, moving from breath to earth and back again. Then, as if the goddess herself were whispering in my ear, the solution to my dilemma came to me.

  I would tell my father that I would marry only if certain conditions were met. If he agreed to them—and I thought he would—no man would ever claim me for his bride. Even as I appeared to honor my father’s demands, I would remain true to the goddess. Then I would return home, where I belonged.

  Much cheered, I raced the dawn back to the palace, and was in my room before the sky turned pink.

  FIFTEEN

  Entella was surprised to find me awake when she came to my room at sunup, and highly displeased to find my chiton, the very one she had washed only hours before, sweat-stained and grimy.

  “How did you get it so dirty?” she asked.

  “I . . . visited the horses.”

  “The horses?” She said the words almost mournfully, and her plump mouth turned down at the corners, so that she looked like a baby preparing to wail.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have tried to keep it clean.”

  Her eyes filled. Puzzled and alarmed—would she weep every time I dirtied my clothing?—I asked, “What troubles you?”

  “Your . . .” She stopped, took a breath, began again. “You are a princess, not a stable girl,” she said. “Now please give me that thing.”

  I removed it and she hurried out of the room. When she returned with another, of much finer weave, I allowed her to put it on me, and then to fuss with my hair.

  “I suppose I will need another garment or two,” I said, thinking to make amends.

  “You will need many, now that you are here. Jewels, also.”

  “Jewels?” I could not imagine adorning myself with gold trinkets, though I knew many women liked them. The ladies of Oeneus’ court, assembling before the Hunt, had fairly clanked with the stuff—medallions and diadems, armlets and rings and earrings, given them when they bore male children.

  “They would only get in my way,” I said.

  “In your way?” Entella asked.

  “When I hunted, or raced.”

  “But . . . you are a lady of the palace now. Surely—”

  “Being here will not stop me from hunting. I will never give that up, no matter where I live,” I declared.

  Entella’s hands grew still. Then she said, “You are like your mother.”

  “You knew her?” I felt almost dizzy. I had thought of my mother often over the years, with confusion, and yearning, and sometimes bitter curiosity. It was easy to hate my father after learning what he had done, and I had. If last night were any indication, I was welcome to continue; he seemed bent on encouraging my loathing. But my mother was different. She had always been a puzzle, remote yet haunting. All I knew of her was her name, Clymene. I wanted more.

  I turned so that I faced Entella. “Tell me about her,” I pleaded. “What was she like?”

  “Tall, beautiful, restless,” Entella said fondly. “She was from Iolcus, in Thessaly, a distant relation of the king.”

  “Which king? Pelias?” Jason, heir to the throne of Thessaly, had been forced into hiding as a boy when his uncle Pelias seized power. After years in the care of Chiron the Centaur, he came before Pelias to claim his birthright. Pelias sent him after the Golden Fleece, assuming his nephew would never return alive. It was a serious mistake.

  Entella nodded.

  “You said I am like her. How?”

  “In appearance. In bearing. She was forthright, as you are. And . . . she loved horses.”

  “Ah. So she was like a stable girl, too?” I asked. The thought warmed me.

  Entella nodded. “She told my mother, who served her, that she would rather live with them than in the palace. That shocked my mother so!” Entella’s plump face worked with emotion.

  “Why?” The words made sense to me, given my father’s temperament.

  “My mother was terrified of horses,” Entella began. “. . . And then, when . . .” She stopped. Her face seemed to crumple.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” she said, visibly distressed. “I must go.”

  “Don’t leave.” Surprised by the hot tears in my eyes, I reached for her hand. “Please,” I whispered. “I never knew her. I want to hear more.”

  “When the king exposed you, the queen begged him to change his mind,” she said. “But he refused. She fled the palace on her horse. Many hours later the ho
rse returned alone.”

  “It was a black horse,” I said, “with a white mark on its brow.”

  Entella’s tear-filled eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  I saw it again, as I had on waking. “A dream,” I said, and then, “Please go on.”

  “She was in the forest. She had hung herself. My mother said that the queen died of despair when she could not find you.”

  SIXTEEN

  “I will marry, but only if two conditions are met,” I told my father when we were seated. Once again, he and Nephele and I were dining. Once again, his meal was wine.

  “What are they?”

  “First, the man I marry must outrun me.”

  He laughed in surprise. “So you favor a contest!” he exclaimed. “Well, well. You are my daughter after all.”

  And my mother’s also, I thought.

  “What is your second condition?” he asked.

  “Anyone who loses against me must die.”

  Nephele drew in her breath so sharply that she squeaked.

  “You are joking,” said my father, “aren’t you?” His smile was less assured now. There was a brief silence while he waited for me to reassure him. Instead, I shook my head with my eyes narrowed. He must believe I meant every word.

  “Well!” he exclaimed, pulling in his chin with a frown. “That is rather harsh. Why should I agree to it? Why would any of your suitors agree to it?”

  I had thought carefully of how I would answer.

  “As you say, I am your daughter, and your only child. You would not let me go cheaply, would you?” Unspoken between us was the knowledge that he had once thought me utterly worthless, and had thrown me away. If there were the faintest fissure of regret in his rocky heart, I was resolved to hammer at it.

  When he did not reply, I continued, “Moreover, if I marry a man who is my equal, your kingdom will reap the benefits. The son who comes of two strong parents will be strong also, and perhaps even a good ruler. I presume that is what you want for your people.” Or you are a bad king as well as a bad father, I thought. It was not necessary to say this; I knew he understood.

  “As for the suitors agreeing to it,” I went on, “they will.”

  I had rehearsed my next words with care.

  “The arrogant will leap at the chance to win against me,” I said. “They will be thinking only of the fame such a feat will bring, not the consequences of failure. The infatuated,” I went on, as if they had often wearied me, “will happily risk their lives for love.”

  He was looking at me differently now, like someone roused from sleep by a deadly assassin.

  I bade them good night.

  Artemis: Amazing.

  Apollo: Your quiver, please.

  Artemis: Holy Hera! I’ll never bet against her again.

  Apollo: Too bad. I’ve been coveting your obsidian knife.

  Artemis: Enough! I’m going hunting.

  Apollo: Don’t shoot too many helpless little animals. You’re supposed to protect them, remember?

  Artemis: Be quiet, won’t you!

  Apollo: Sore loser.

  PART THREE

  The Races

  SEVENTEEN

  Aphrodite: Eros, peel me a grape.

  Eros: I’m busy, Mother.

  Aphrodite: Do as I say, darling, and I’ll let you shoot someone for me. Don’t you want to make some poor, unsuspecting mortal fall in love?

  Eros: Here’s your grape.

  Aphrodite: Thank you, my sweet. Now, do you know where Arcadia is?

  It was Perifanos who told me about the race. We were riding—I had implored him to take me out, and gruff Mataios had given permission—and I had just had my first extended gallop on Callisto. Perifanos did not object when I asked to go at speed; he could see that I was surer of my balance now. Crouching atop Callisto with her mane whipping my face, overtaking and then passing Perifanos’ big bay, I was happier than I had been since coming to the palace.

  The euphoria ended far too quickly. When we slowed to a trot and Perifanos caught up with us, he told me that I would be racing my first suitor the following day.

  My heart slammed. “Tomorrow?” I managed to ask. “How do you know?”

  “Mataios heard it from Pistos.” The old man who served wine at dinner was also my father’s personal attendant.

  I reminded myself that Perifanos, like Pistos, was in my father’s employ, and that my father must think I was eager to race. “Who hastens here so eagerly to meet his death?” I asked lightly, as if I were asking what meats would be served at dinner. Yet the thought of what lay ahead sickened me. How could anyone come forward knowing the conditions I had set?

  Wholly disheartened, I looked down at the reins in my hand. The threat of death—a strategy I had thought so ingenious, so wonderfully clever—had not kept anyone away, and now I would have to kill a man. It was horrible, like being wrapped in a poisonous cloak of my own design.

  “I do not know,” said Perifanos.

  No matter, I thought. My father would be quite pleased to tell me.

  Perifanos watched me impassively. If he sensed my distress, he gave no sign. “Another gallop?” he asked.

  “As long as it’s not back to the palace.”

  This made him smile.

  “Thank you for telling me about tomorrow,” I said. Before he could reply, I urged Callisto forward.

  It took him a long time to catch us.

  EIGHTEEN

  Entella brought up the race while she arranged my hair before dinner. I was not surprised. Entella knew everything that went on in the palace, from who dented the king’s goblet (Pistos, who had dared to blame it on her daughter Agnos) to what Nephele took for her monthly headaches (feverfew).

  “Your first suitor!” she exclaimed, as her hands braided tirelessly. “Well! Who is he?”

  “I was going to ask you that,” I said.

  “Me!” She feigned surprise.

  “You might have heard something,” I replied blandly, “from Pistos, or Nephele.”

  “Pistos never tells me anything,” she said. “He stopped when your mother died. I said some things about the king. . . . Pistos is very loyal to him.”

  “And Nephele?”

  “The Lady Nephele knows only what the king tells her.” From the way she said it, I guessed it was very little. Poor Nephele, I thought.

  “Did my father love my mother?” I had wanted to ask this from the time Entella had told me about my mother’s death.

  “What a question!” she exclaimed, this time with genuine surprise.

  I shrugged. “You must know,” I said. If the answer did not come from Entella, it would not come at all, for I would never ask my father.

  “He did love her,” she said slowly, and with great conviction. “He loved her dearly.” Her hands slowed. “One day when they were newly married, I saw him do something— I was just a girl, but I have never forgotten it.”

  I bowed my head, waiting.

  “Your mother was at the gates, on her horse. They were saying goodbye. Just before she rode away, your father leaned over and kissed her leg.”

  I tried to picture it and could not.

  “The look they exchanged made me blush,” she said, “all the way down to my toes.”

  “So they were happy?” The words cost me effort.

  “At first.”

  She would not say it, so I did. “Until I was born.”

  Her hands stopped, settling on my shoulders. She had a warm, kindly touch, and I was grateful for it. I let my head fall back so that it rested on her bosom. I had no memories of my infancy, only Castor’s account of finding me, alone and naked, in a she-bear’s den. “You looked like a fat, filthy grub,” he liked to say, “with cheeks pink from howling.” He would always add, “thanks to the goddess,” but it was years before I knew why.

  At length Entella said, “She could not forgive him. And he would not let her leave.”

  But she found a way, I thought. I closed m
y eyes against the hot sting of tears and saw my mother’s horse picking its way back to the palace. What had my father felt, I wondered, when it appeared without her? Grief? Remorse? Rage? Fear? Whatever it was, I thought, it had not changed him. He was a tyrant then, and he was a tyrant now.

  A defiant voice inside me said, do not let him crush you.

  I took a deep breath. “Entella,” I said, “I need poison. Can you find some for me?”

  “Oh!” This was almost a shriek, and Aura, who lay at my feet, started in alarm. “How can you ask me such a thing?” cried Entella. “I will not help you take your own life!”

  “No, no,” I protested, “you misunderstand. The poison is not for me—it is for my opponent.”

  “Your opponent? What opponent?” She was so agitated that beads of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

  “Please, calm yourself,” I said, forcing her to sit. “I will explain why I need it, if you will only listen.”

  She dried her face on her hem. When her bosom stopped heaving, I said, “I do not wish to marry. My father insists on it. So I have set conditions. That is why I am racing.”

  “And the poison—?”

  “You have not heard?” I asked. She shook her head. So Pistos has been quiet, I thought, surprised. “My suitors must race me,” I told her. “Those who lose must die.”

  “Die?” She was incredulous.

  I nodded unhappily. “No man can outrun me,” I said. “I have proved it many times. Some have even called me”—I lowered my voice, lest the gods take offense—“the swiftest mortal alive.

  “I thought my reputation would keep suitors away. I was wrong. It seems the threat of death is alluring.” I grimaced. “And now I must honor the conditions I set.” I thought of Castor, who had taught me that honor was keeping one’s word. What would he make of these happenings? I wondered. I would give a great deal to know.

  “You are so determined not to marry?” asked Entella.

  “Yes.”