“I think—” Homer began. Another shrill outcry silenced him as ten or more young girls in long, loose tunics sprinted barefoot down the hard-packed sand; the cries and cheers followed them to the turning point, some distance away. “I think,” he said a little louder, as the nearby cries were replaced by excited chatter, “that I can see a place over there, on the other side. Around the end of the course—up here, it isn’t that far.”
“Let’s go,” Gabrielle said. She glanced at Xena, who shrugged.
“Fine with me. Better than staring into the sun all afternoon.”
Gabrielle’s nose wrinkled. “Look, this is me; we’re honest with each other, right? So you really don’t have to say you’re liking what—I mean—”
The warrior smiled, and her eyes were briefly warm. “Gabrielle, it’s fine. Everything is. I said I owed you this to make up for that boat ride to Ithaca, and I meant just that. I wouldn’t have said yes if I’d meant yes for you, no for me. Besides, I like watching the young women run.” She turned slightly away from her young companion and shrugged faintly. “I could have done that—once. Never mind, it’s not important,” she added quickly as a line appeared between Gabrielle’s brows. “Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”
The tide was almost all the way in; foamy water slid up behind them as Homer found the opening he’d seen from the other side. He gave the women an apologetic glance. “Um—it’s wet. No wonder we’ve got it to ourselves. If you’d rather, I can look for another place.” But Gabrielle shook her head vigorously, braced herself against him, and began stripping off her boots.
“Oh, wonderful! Much better than I could have hoped,” she said and sighed happily as cool water rolled across her feet. “Sure you didn’t arrange this?”
He laughed. “I’m willing to claim credit. That reminds me, however.” He thought a moment, then went into declamatory voice. “I move great shapes but have no shape, I fall from great height but do not bruise, I give life and take it.”
Gabrielle laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “Ohhhhh, sure, ask me an easy one! Water, of course.” Homer laughed with her, looking a little embarrassed.
“Well, it was off the top of my head, and because of the tide, of course. Give me a chance, Gabrielle. I have some you’ll never solve.”
She planted both fists on her hips and eyed him impudently. “Oh—and is that possibly a challenge? D’you even dare? Because there isn’t anyone alive—besides a god or goddess, of course,” she said dryly, casually flipping her fingers to avert any possible divine anger, “who can out-riddle me!”
“I shall take that as a challenge,” Homer said loftily, but a moment later the two dissolved in laughter.
Xena’s mouth quirked. “Water, of course,” she mumbled to herself sourly. Riddles. The answers were so simple! Perfectly easy—when you already had the answer. She dismissed the thought; it took a certain talent to make them up, or guess them, obviously. Just not her sort of talent.
Penelope had needed Xena’s particular skills—she’d needed a fighter who could level the playing field back on Ithaca, someone who could create an army made up of fog, one woman warrior, Odysseus’ young son, and a handful of servants, herders, and farmers. And a rear guard of one determined Gabrielle and a fighting staff to stand between the queen and certain death if the army failed. Well, it had worked, hadn’t it? The odd little army had severely beaten Draco’s hundred or more armed and well-trained brutes.
Circe, on the other hand, had needed someone to empathize with her and snare her with words—though Gabrielle certainly was much more these days than a soft little villager with a fast mouth. So? I’m no longer a mere brute with a sword, Xena reminded herself with a grim smile.
Things tended to balance out, in the long run. The warrior cast a quick glance at the laughing and cheerfully squabbling pair at her right, then leaned out to gaze down the course; the girls had turned at the far end and were headed back. One or two of them were potentially splendid athletes—if their parents could only be convinced that such talent at athletics wouldn’t mark a daughter as odd. Still—there are worse things than being odd. Not that most parents—including her own—would believe that. No safety in being different.
Not far from her position a handful of white-clad girls wildly waving red ribbons began to shout, “Nau-si-caa! Nau-si-caa!” They shrieked with delight as the runners came closer.
“I have a better one for you,” Gabrielle said, then broke off. “Do you see what I see down there? The two lead runners—look!”
Homer looked, and so did Xena. The girls took up their chant once more as two girls flashed by, a length of rope stretched taut between them. The girl closer to them was red-faced, gasping, and staggering, but Gabrielle clearly heard her shout, “All right, Nausicaa! Twenty paces straight, sand’s hard and you’re clear, go!” The other girl dropped her end of the rope and actually picked up the pace as the first dropped to the sand and rolled off the course. She was still gasping as she sat back up to peer anxiously toward the finish line. “Nausicaa—yes!” she shouted breathily, then fell back flat with a groan as the rest of the girls ran by.
Gabrielle knelt next to the sprawled-out girl, who was trying to catch her breath. “Hey, are you all right?”
“Me? Sure.” Pale red hair framed a tanned, narrow, and very cheerful face; reddish freckles dotted a snubbed nose and sprayed across her cheeks. She was still gasping for air. “That kind of pace is absolutely beyond me, especially on sand! Now, I just—I can run,” the girl went on ruefully, “just not like she can. But she can’t do it by herself because—”
“I was going to ask you about the rope,” Gabrielle said as the other tried to slow her breathing—without much success. “Oh. I’m Gabrielle, by the way.”
“Mitradia, Glad to meet you. It’s the only way she can stay on the course. Nausicaa’s blind.”
“Blind—really!”
“Yeah,” Mitradia said proudly. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? Nausicaa’s been blind from the moment she was born. One of the girls’ mothers last year lodged a protest after her precious baby lost the race, said she was faking. She’s not. But just because her eyes don’t work doesn’t mean her legs can’t,” she added indignantly.
“You don’t have to convince me,” Gabrielle said warmly. “I was impressed even before you told me she couldn’t see. She’s good.”
Mitradia sighed and let Gabrielle help her up. “I’m sorry if I sounded angry. I wasn’t mad at you. I just have to defend her so much—well, anyway, she is good. Unfortunately, she’s also a princess, so this year is probably her last for this kind of thing. Only someone like Atalanta gets away with running past her—well, her you-know-whats.” She drew one deep breath, let it out in a gust, and turned to peer toward the finish line, where a high-pitched argument had erupted. “Thanks. I’d better get down there. Sounds like the usual trouble.”
“Mind if I—if we—come with you?” Gabrielle asked. “This is Homer, by the way; he’s a bard.” She glanced toward Xena, who smiled faintly and waved at her.
“Go ahead, Gabrielle. I’ll be here.”
“A bard—really!” Mitradia brushed sand from her arms and surreptitiously tugged her tunic straight.
Homer’s color was high. “Well, I’m at the Academy. Almost a bard, if I keep up my studies.”
Mitradia combed her fingers through the short, curly strands sticking to her damp face. “Oh, but—my uncle says you have to be very good just to be accepted there.”
“You sure do.” Gabrielle nudged Homer and minutely shook her head. “And he really is a very good bard. Goodness,” she added mildly, “what’s all the fuss up there?”
Mitradia sighed heavily. “It’s Nausicaa, of course.”
“She’s blind!” a girl’s voice rose shrilly. “Isn’t there a law? I mean, I could have made the final race except for her! I mean, you can’t run if you can’t see, can you? And that other girl—where’d she go, the one who was pulling her? How come they get to help each other and we—?” A deep male voice cut across hers, but the noise all around them made it impossible to understand what he might be saying. Mitradia glanced at her companions.
“Would you like to meet her? Nausicaa, I mean, not the Piglet.”
Homer’s eyebrows went up. “Piglet?”
“What we call her,” the girl replied with a sudden urchin-like grin. “She squeals a lot. I’ll be right back.” She plunged into the crowd. The shrill voice cut through the babble around them again and was interrupted once more by the male voice.
“I don’t believe it, she didn’t even finish? Ohhhhhh! Mother!” The girl’s voice rose to an even sharper pitch. “Mother, I told you I needed a short chiton to run in, not this awful thing that tangles around my knees. Now look what’s happened . . . !” Her voice mercifully faded as a deep-voiced, dark-clad woman began leading her away, uttering clucking little noises she must have meant to be soothing. The Piglet didn’t sound—or look—particularly soothed.
“A blind runner,” Gabrielle murmured. “You know, someone really ought to do something with that.”
“Hmmm. Maybe,” Homer allowed. “Songs about women runners aren’t very popular, though—unless it’s Atalanta. Now,” he added thoughtfully, “a blind princess . . . hmmm.”
“Somehow I’m reminded . . . did Circe find you?”
He grinned. “Did she! You never saw so much chaos as when she walked into the Academy and announced who she was! It was nice of you to suggest that to her.”
“Well, it just seemed like a good idea at the time,” Gabrielle said. Off to the side and just behind them, another race started; she whirled around to peer through the crowd, then shrugged and turned back. “More little girls. No, it wasn’t just nice of me; it was important. Circe needed to get away from Ithaca and put all that behind her. And besides, I just knew you ought to hear her story.” She glanced at him sidelong. “You did get to hear it, didn’t you?”
“Unlike everyone else, who just heard about her island and her life there—and about Odysseus and his men—I was given a private hearing of the entire tale.”
“Oh?” Gabrielle’s cheekbones were suddenly pink. “Everything?”
“She said it was. What you told her about Calypso and everything that happened after she came to the mainland. How you talked her out of keeping a herd of pigs on the king’s lands.” Momentary silence. “She really thinks a lot of you, Gabrielle.”
“Oh.” Gabrielle smiled. “That’s nice. Now I’m really glad I didn’t try to trick her. So, where is she?”
“Gone home.” He shrugged. “Said Athens was too big and crowded; it made her nervous. But Apnis went with her—you may not remember him; he was almost ready to graduate when you and I tested. Anyway, he was smitten with her from the first moment he set eyes on her.” He laughed. “Actually, he was well-nigh unbearable. Imagine a bard in that kind of love.”
Gabrielle made a wry face and grinned at him. “Rather not, thank you!”
“Well, she wasn’t looking for male company—despite your suggestions to her about forgetting Odysseus and all that. But Apnis was there every time she turned around, bringing her fruit and flowers, things like that. And after he sang forty lines, extempore, on the beauty of her hair, I think she was well on the way to being smitten with him.”
“Oh, that’s really nice,” Gabrielle said softly. She glanced back toward the starting line and touched his arm. “Look, here they come.”
Nausicaa was taller than her friend and reed-slender; red strands shone in her brown hair, which had been pulled away from her face and secured with a simple leather thong. Her tunic was now snugged to her body with a plain blue sash that nearly matched the deeper blue of her eyes. Her feet were bare. Not at all what Gabrielle would have expected of a princess—or what she might have expected of a blind princess. Other than the motionless stare, Nausicaa showed no signs whatever of having been kept from the normal life of a child in a coastal village. Her father must be a genuinely intelligent man—or whoever’s raising the girl is. At first, she was quiet and shy, but that faded quickly as Gabrielle complimented her on the race she’d just won, then introduced Homer. Nausicaa gently laid her hands first on Gabrielle’s, then Homer’s, face.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Mitts, I didn’t know there were any young bards, did you? Sorry, sir,” she added with a shy smile. “I mean—one knows bards come from somewhere, but my father’s court singer is elderly enough to be my great-grandsire and he’s been with us forever; his playing’s dreadful and he can’t recall half the verses to his songs anymore, but my father’s tone-deaf and doesn’t notice.” Mitradia giggled.
“Well,” Gabrielle put in cheerfully, “if you ever change your mind about being a wandering bard, Homer . . .”
“But wandering bards are best, aren’t they?” Nausicaa asked. “After all, they hear more new tales, but even if the tales aren’t totally new, most of them are new to the people they visit.”
“Homer’s working on a very new tale,” Gabrielle said. “About Odysseus and the—”
“Odysseus!” Nausicaa’s fingers tightened on his arm. “You know tales of the Great Trickster? My father and he fought together when they were both quite young. I’ve always adored hearing his stories. But he vanished after the battle for Troy, didn’t he?”
“Nausicaa,” Mitradia put in, “we’d better get back to the course. Old Stymphe’s looking for us. That’s her nurse, I mean, her maid,” she added. “And we run again pretty soon.” She smiled. “You can’t get her started on the old Trickster, but you didn’t know that, after all. I think she’s in love with him.” Nausicaa uttered a very unprincess-like snort, but her cheeks were quite pink.
“I’d just—well, I’d just like to meet him someday, that’s all. I’m glad we got to talk, Gabrielle. Homer. Goodbye!” She held out both hands to them, then let Mitradia take her elbow and lead her away.
“We’ll watch you run!” Gabrielle called after them.
Mitradia turned and grinned, then rolled her eyes, apparently attempting to mime exhaustion. Gabrielle watched them go. “She’s sweet—they both are, aren’t they? I hope she gets her wish someday.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Homer said.
The tide had slipped a few paces, and Xena now sat cross-legged on hard-packed sand, her back against Argo’s leg, the horse occasionally nuzzling her hair. She glanced up as Gabrielle’s shadow crossed her, smiled, and turned back to her study of the crowd, which was restlessly waiting for yet another clutch of girl runners to make the turn. “Anything exciting?” she murmured.
“Not really,” Gabrielle allowed. She stepped back quickly as the main pack of runners shot by, throwing sand everywhere.
“I heard this is the last of the young ones until the next level—semifinals, I think.” Xena waved a vague hand.
“Oh. Oh!” Gabrielle stood on tiptoe, one hand on Homer’s shoulder for balance as she gazed eagerly around them.
“Oh, dear goddess, that—that’s her!” she squeaked. “I mean—it has to be, right?” She pointed; Homer sighted along her finger and shrugged. Xena sighed faintly, rose in one lithe movement, and looked.
“That’s her,” she said; her voice was expressionless as she sat again. Homer glanced at her, a faint line between his brows, but Gabrielle was too excited to notice anything except the tall, lean, pale-haired young woman striding across the sand.
“Oh. She really is golden, isn’t she?” Gabrielle breathed. “Just like they say in the tales about her!” Most of which she paid for herself, Xena thought sourly. It wouldn’t be fair to shatter Gabrielle’s pleasure. And she’d never come across the huntress in such a public setting; maybe for once Atalanta would live up to her legend.
And she had to admit the huntress really was a golden, and notable, presence on the Athenian shoreline. Atalanta wore a pale yellow chiton—an extremely short chiton that barely covered a finger’s worth of her legs and was cinched smoothly to her small waist with golden cords. The silken fabric fluttered softly against tanned bare arms and throat. She’d pulled her dark blonde hair back into a simple coil, from which little curling tendrils escaped around a slender, delicately featured face. “How does she do that with all that hair, and keep it up like that?” Gabrielle added in a vexed undertone.
“Magic, maybe,” Homer replied cheerfully. He eyed Atalanta as she strode around the outer edges of the crowd to await the start of the women’s preliminary race, then glanced down at Gabrielle. “I like your hair loose, even though that plait probably is more practical.”
She smiled. “It’s a lie—but a nice one. Thank you. Um—do you suppose she’d mind if I just—I mean, do you think if I—?”
Xena was on her feet again, gazing expressionlessly at the tall, leggy runner who was trying to appear cool and unconcerned—and not doing a very good job of it. Odd that a race like this would matter so much to her, Xena thought. Atalanta already had a reputation, and a legend built around her, so she had nothing to lose here, really. Her prowess as a sprinter was admittedly deserved—it wasn’t likely she’d make a fool of herself, even running in this tournament against the best young women in this part of Greece.
Atalanta’s surprisingly large, deep-brown eyes darted around the crowd, nervously moving from one person to another; her fingers absently pinched the edge of the chiton, wrinkling the fabric. She was shifting back and forth as if uncertain where to go; finally she glanced at the sun, shrugged, and started down the shoreline. Xena touched Gabrielle’s arm. “Don’t think you’ll have to decide about going to meet her, Gabrielle. She’s coming this way.”
Gabrielle made a strangled little noise, as if she were about to faint. Apparently the huntress’s gaze had touched on Xena—of course, the warrior was probably one of the most visible people on this stretch of beach, even without Argo at her elbow. Why she’d actually seek me out, though . . .
Gabrielle smoothed her skirt with anxious fingers. “Homer, do I look okay? I mean—not that she’ll even—” Gabrielle stuttered. She fell silent as Atalanta strode toward them and stopped just short of Xena, her head tipped to one side, her eyes narrowed. Gabrielle was too nervous to notice; she was trying to get her voice to work properly. The young athlete turned to give her a remote, questioning look.
Gabrielle smiled. “Ah—hi!” she said brightly. “You must be Atalanta. I’m—well, it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve been following your races for years, and—”
“How nice for you,” Atalanta murmured. Her eyes shifted back to Xena. Xena’s mouth twitched; her eyes moved, indicating Gabrielle. “Oh,” Atalanta said in at least partial understanding. My friend. Be nice to her—or else. It wasn’t exactly the message Xena intended to convey, but it would certainly do. “Well, then. I’m glad to meet you—anyone who’s been a mainstay of my efforts, of course. And you are—?”
“Are—? Oh. I’m Gabrielle. And this is Homer—he’s a bard.” Atalanta’s dark eyes fixed briefly on Homer, took in his disapproving expression. She gave him a teeth-only smile.
“How nice. Well, I have to get ready for the race. Wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone, would we? Xena,” she said in a silken voice, “so very nice to see you again.”
Xena’s smile was equally wide and stayed well short of her eyes. “Pleasure’s all mine, Atalanta. Just like last time.”
Gabrielle picked up on the chill in the conversation this time; her smile became a nervous one and she tugged at Homer’s arm. “Well, honestly,” she said in a would-be cheerful voice that sounded strained, “it’s an honor to meet you. Homer, don’t you think we ought to find someplace down by the turning point to watch her first race, like you just suggested?” It sounded like something she was making up as she went; Homer stared at her rather wildly. Gabrielle grimaced at him, sent her eyes toward the two women, then winked broadly. Homer frowned, then his face cleared and he nodded as he finally caught her meaning. She let out a held breath and brought up a cheerful grin as he cleared his throat.
“Well, I just thought it would be a better place to see more of the race. Xena, we’ll be back before the final race—unless you—”
“I’ll stay here,” the warrior replied; a brief smile softened the words. “Go ahead, Gabrielle. Don’t forget to eat something.”
“Right.” Gabrielle’s smile was nearer normal this time. “It’s not that I’d forget, it’s just that—I still have my purse, don’t—oh!” She turned pink as she remembered where she’d shoved the purse earlier. “I’ll remember. I’m glad I’ll get to see you run finally,” she added as she glanced up at Atalanta. The huntress had taken the moment to step away from Xena and compose her face; she gave Gabrielle her hand and a charming smile.
“I’ll do my best to make it worth your while. And yours, Bard,” she added sweetly.
Homer blinked. “Ah—ah—ah—thank you. So, Gabrielle,” he went on with a heroic effort, “did you hear the one about why the hen crossed the cart track?”
“Across it or along?” Gabrielle demanded at once, but as they left, she glanced over her shoulder and her eyes were worried.
Xena nodded briefly and made a small gesture to indicate everything was all right. Her young companion relaxed all at once; her shoulders eased, and she smiled happily before turning back to argue with Homer as they splashed toward the halfway mark in the women’s races. The warrior brought her eyes back to Atalanta then; hawklike, icy eyes bored into very wide brown ones.
“My, what a cute little bit of fluff,” Atalanta murmured. “Too bad she’s so chattery. Protégée or what?”
“Speaking of protégés,” Xena purred, “where’s your usual—ah—you call them bards these days, don’t you?” Atalanta’s smile froze; her eyes were suddenly all pupil. “As to Gabrielle, I don’t see that’s your business,” she went on flatly. “She’s a friend—or family, take your choice. Either way, she’s off limits to your kind of unpleasant lip. So’s the boy—but you’re supposed to be so intelligent,” she added as Atalanta scowled at her. “Keep in mind he’s a bard. Even a blind Cyclops knows it isn’t wise to annoy a bard.”
Some distance down the sand, Gabrielle sighed. “She really is beautiful, isn’t she?”
“To look at, anyway,” Homer replied sourly. Gabrielle slowed and looked up at him, puzzled. “She’s also arrogant and rude,” he added.
“Oh—that.” Gabrielle dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “She’s about to compete in the big races, Homer. Of course she’s nervous, and some people get snappish like that when they’re worried. I’ll wager you anything she’s just fine after her first race.”
“Well—” He considered this as they skirted a clutch of girls buying fruit from a gangly old man with a high-piled tray. “I suppose it’s possible—I get moody, and Androcles snarls at everyone in sight. But everyone knows he’s not doing well in extempore this season. He’s like an old lion with a thorn in his paw—”
“Hey, I like that!” Gabrielle clapped her hands together. “Good image!”
“Thanks. Atalanta’s the best runner there is, and if anyone’s ever beaten her in a footrace, I haven’t heard about it. What does she have to be nervous about?”
“Well, not about losing because she forgot how to run,” Gabrielle replied promptly. She slowed, then drew a deep breath. “Ohhhh, that smells so good! Help me remember this spot. It’s where I want to eat when this race is over.” She pointed toward a billow of smoke wafting from beneath a blue and white striped awning, perhaps ten paces back from the crowd of race watchers. “Anyway, just winning isn’t her problem. What if she took a wrong step, came down in a hole, broke her leg? Or she ate something bad and got sick? Or one of the people watching stuck out a staff as she went by and tripped her?”
Homer stared down at her. “You really think she’s worried about things like that?”
“I think it’s possible. I mean, if I was known as the Unbeatable Atalanta, I’d probably be a wreck before every single race.”
“Well—all right, maybe. I would never have thought of any of that.” He shook his head. “But no one would deliberately trip a racer!”
“Oh? Maybe some girl who wanted her best friend to win, or a mother who wanted her daughter—people can do really stupid things for love, you know.”
“I know,” he admitted reluctantly. “From tales, anyway. Here we are,” he added as he guided her toward the rope marking the end of the course. Only a few people stood here, waiting for the runners to come down the course, turn, and head back toward the finish. Inside the rope, a graybeard checked the sand over the last several paces of the course and fussed at two boys pulling a sledge piled with rocks who were smoothing the ground in preparation for the next race. Satisfied, apparently, that they weren’t messing up too badly, he turned away to count the colored sticks each runner would grab before turning to sprint for the finish.
Gabrielle stood on tiptoe and craned her neck, her eyes searching the far end of the course. Homer looked that way, too. “I can see her,” he said. “That yellow really stands out, doesn’t it? She’s the only one at the start so far, though.”
“Oh—well,” Gabrielle sighed, then smiled up at him, one hand shading her eyes. “So—why did the hen cross the cart track?”
Homer grinned. “Because it would take too long to go around,” he replied loftily, then ducked as Gabrielle swatted at his head.
Two more young women paced back and forth at the far end of the course now; Atalanta stood motionless, her back to the long, open stretch of sand. An argument had broken out somewhere behind the start; Gabrielle could make out several angry female voices, but none of the words from this distance. A black-haired woman in a red chiton nearly as abbreviated as Atalanta’s stormed onto the course, cast a glare about her, and sat in the sand. There was movement nearer to hand: Mitradia wove her way through the sparse crowd, Nausicaa’s hand in hers.
“Hi,” Gabrielle said. “I thought you’d left.”
“Stymphe wanted to go right away,” Mitradia admitted. “Even with Atalanta running. But we reminded her Nausicaa’s qualified for the finals, so we have to stay. I saw you come this way—I hope you don’t mind.”
“You can probably see the race a lot better from here,” Gabrielle said, then turned bright pink and sent an alarmed glance in Nausicaa’s direction. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—” To her surprise, the girl smiled.
“You can say ‘see’; I don’t mind. It’s just that Mitradia does it for me when my hands can’t. When there aren’t as many people around, I can hear what she’s saying a lot better.”
“That makes good sense,” Homer put in warmly. Mitradia gave him a sidelong look and a shy little smile; it was his turn to blush.
Both girls were flirting with him, Gabrielle thought in amusement. Well, why not? He’s nice to look at, he’s friendly and genuinely nice—and he’s a bard. What girl wouldn’t admire a combination like that? She glanced back up the course: two more young women were at the starting area now, but the argument was still going—hotter than ever, from the sound of things. People around them were growing restless, and an older woman turned with an exaggerated sigh and walked off. “Aren’t they ever going to start?” Gabrielle murmured.
“It’s those short chitons,” Mitradia said. Her eyes were wickedly amused. “Old Xeneron—the main official, he must be a hundred—says he’s shocked, and he won’t let them on the course; says the judges and the men out here will be . . . ah, well, you know. Eulaydia—that’s her in the red—says if some man is—is”—the tip of her nose was very pink—“well, that’s his problem, and not hers. Atalanta just looked at him down her nose—I wish I could be tall enough to do that,” she added wistfully, “and said, ‘I was told there would be races today. I’m still waiting.’ And then she turned her back on him and walked onto the course.” She sighed. “It was wonderful. Old Xeneron couldn’t think of a single thing to say.”
“That would stop most people,” Homer admitted. He glanced down at Nausicaa, who smiled in his direction, her upturned face openly admiring. The flush, which had barely subsided, warmed his face and throat again. “Ah—would you like to hear a little about Odysseus? I mean, since we seem to have a little time before things are settled and the race begins.”
“Oh—yes, please,” Nausicaa whispered. “I—all the things my father’s told me about him from when they were princes, fighting pirates off the Ithacan coast. I truly love those stories, but they’re really the only ones I know.” Her mouth quirked ruefully. “I know it’s been years since they were young princes; after all, my father is no longer a smooth-faced lad, but I still . . .” She bit her lip and shrugged.
She still sees the old Trickster as a youth, Gabrielle realized. Startling thought. Even more startling: Nausicaa had a terrible crush on the man. Well—he’s a safer idol than Apollo. She glanced at Homer, but he’d already caught on. “But in a tale, Princess, the bard can work magic: a hero can be any age at all.” He considered briefly, then launched into the story of Pegasus and Bellerophon, suitably modified. “Did you know that when he was a boy, Odysseus captured a winged horse?” He got as far as the slender but heroic youth’s attack on the Chimera when a high, warbling, birdlike cry rose above the babble of the crowd, momentarily silencing him and everyone around them.
Nausicaa sighed heavily. “Oh, no. Mitts, can you see her?”
Mitradia stepped away from them and gazed along the shoreline, then sighed even more heavily. “I’m afraid I can. I’m sorry, bard. Gabrielle. The story is wonderful, but that’s old Stymphe, looking for Nausicaa. She’ll haul us both straight back to the palace if we don’t join her at once, final race or no final race. In fact, she’s probably angry we went off alone,” she finished sourly.
Nausicaa patted her arm. “It’s all right, Mitts; she has to answer to my father if something happens to me. And it’s the princess thing, of course.” Her mouth quirked in a wry grin, her face turned in Gabrielle’s direction. “We have to remain pure, and the best way to assure that is a full-time person like Stymphe. She’s very nice, really.”
“You’re much too nice about everyone,” Mitradia grumbled good-naturedly. “We’d better go now.”
Gabrielle wrapped an arm around each girl and hugged gently. “I have an idea. Homer, why don’t you go with them? After all, you’re at the Academy and a bard. That should make you safe company for a princess, don’t you think?”
Mitradia’s face cleared at once. “Would you? You could begin another tale on the way—and if the Stymphe can see we’re coming, she won’t be angry if we walk slowly. And then maybe you can finish your story.”
“I’d be honored,” Homer replied, with a very courtly bow. But as Mitradia turned away to whisper something against her friend’s ear, he leaned close to Gabrielle. “I need an idea—anything!”
“What about the Nemean Lion?” Gabrielle began ticking off on her fingers. “Or the great boar? Or the Hydra?”
“Hydra?” Mitradia had overheard the last. She frowned slightly. “But I thought—” Gabrielle gestured toward Nausicaa with her head; to her credit, the girl caught on quickly. “Sorry. I was thinking of something else. The Hydra was a snake, wasn’t it?”
“With seven heads, one immortal,” Homer said. He held out his right hand to Mitradia, took Nausicaa’s in his left and went into full declamatory voice as they started toward the damp line of sand at the water’s edge. “The sky was blue, the meadow green, the air was warm, the ocean cool, when ’long the track a hero bold . . .” His voice faded. He had already, Gabrielle noted, picked up a comet tail of listeners; a handful of children and one or two parents followed the oblivious bard and his two eager companions. He may not always chant with his eyes closed, but he’s certainly blind to almost everything else when he gets going. She lost sight of them almost at once; the crowd on the water side of the course was larger than it had been, and the argument at the head of the course had died away at some point in the last moments. Gabrielle caught her breath sharply. “Oh, no! What have I missed?” To come all this way, to wait so long and anxiously for this particular race, and then if it had started already—! But it hadn’t, though it was clearly about to: a veritable rainbow of brightly colored chitons lined the starting area as twelve young women positioned themselves across the course. A shout from the official was echoed by an excited cheer from the crowd as the race began.