Xena moved quickly and quietly, gliding from shadow to shadow, easing her way through the formal gardens until she stood on the low balcony to Helen’s apartments. Once there, she froze, holding her breath, listening for any least sound. Nothing. Still, she decided finally not to chance it: With all these supposed heroes crowding the palace, Menelaus might have left a guard inside the chambers, to keep his motley assortment of guests from getting inside to savor the atmosphere and perhaps gain a vision of some kind. Of course, Avicus might actually encourage that kind of thing; it would fit with his supposed service to the god of visions. In which case, again, the chamber wouldn’t be empty.
She rolled her eyes heavenward, leaned against the wall. “I hate second-guessing a lousy priest,” she snarled under her breath.
All of that supposed that Helen was the goal. “Who knows, maybe Menelaus really has started collecting expensive and pointless little bits of pottery and gold.” She sighed. “You’ll know soon enough. Go.” She stalked quietly past the billowing curtain and moved on.
Draco had been a familiar, backlit form two balconies farther along from Helen’s. Odd, Xena thought as she eased her way along the deeply shadowed wall, pausing now and again to listen intently. He’s a warlord, not a prince. Why house him in a royal’s apartments? This palace had plenty of guesting chambers, but most of them had the least favorable northern view, and they were some distance from the west-facing suites.
As she had good reason to know. No reason to tell Gabrielle that I spent a night in one of those chambers, while Menelaus tried to convince me to use my army against rebel forces high in the hills. He hadn’t convinced her, of course—even though he’d offered her a fortune for the job. Even then, she had felt no urge to put her men at the beck and call of the noble and powerful, who were often no better than the warlords she called allies or enemies. They’re still scum and pigs. They just dress better.
The corner of her mouth quirked; if not for Menelaus trying to use her the way he used almost everyone, she possibly would never have seen the fabled Helen at the supposed height of her beauty. Even though, as she’d told Gabrielle, she never did get to sit at his table. My table manners were bad back then, my taste in food worse . . . Menelaus’s real reason, of course, was that he didn’t want gossip to spread, or word to reach the rebels about his potential ally.
A Spartan banquet was never anything to brag about, anyway.
She let that go, eased beyond the king’s long balcony, waited silently on the far side for some moments. No sound from within, but at an hour like this, the rooms would be empty: servants using their little free time to eat or relax, the king entertaining guests or closeted with his commanders or his priest.
She moved on. The drape where Draco had been was just another dark shadow. In the distance she could hear a horse moving quietly toward the gates, two guards passing in the distance, their spears clattering against their bronze-clad legs. Menelaus’s guard-captain was getting lax; she shouldn’t have heard those two until they were right on top of her.
Behind her, a sudden, sharp clack! that might be a hardened wood staff slamming into another guard’s hard head. Xena sighed. Gabrielle was certainly in a sour mood—though she had reason for it. It would definitely be a good thing if they made it out of Sparta together, Joxer firmly in tow.
Unless I learn something in here that changes all that. The king’s garden would not have been the best place to explain such a strategy to Gabrielle, though—not while she was so angry. Some of that little problem could be solved by a decent meal and some serious sleep. She glanced back toward the rose garden: nothing to be seen there but plant shadows, moving in the light breeze. At least it was quiet.
You’re stalling, she suddenly realized. What, you’re afraid of Draco? She grinned wickedly, flexed her hands, checked her weapons to be certain nothing was too loose or too tight, and pushed past the curtain, immediately backing against the nearest wall so her eyes could adjust to a deeper darkness. But it wasn’t, really, that dark. There was a small oil lamp set in a deep niche against the far wall; it cast very little light her way but illuminated most of the room—enough that she could tell she was the only person in it. The main room itself was large, with two smaller alcoves flanking the niche. The walls had been whitewashed, and the furnishings were of quality but plain—which was useful. No gauzy drapes, no tables set at awkward intervals with flowers, baskets, or vases atop them, no heavy hangings around the bed or anywhere else, except the single cloth across the balcony opening. Useful, since it meant there was nowhere anyone could be hiding in here.
She waited another long moment anyway, to be certain the alcoves—a privy and a linen store—were also empty, then edged along the wall, eyes moving between the double doors on the inner wall, the curtains over the balcony entrance that billowed out as the wind shifted, and a small pile of goods on the room’s single table—a simple black slab of wood, highly polished. She crossed to it. At one end, a flat gold-and-black-worked dish on a pedestal held a small bunch of fruit: a few cherries, some dry-looking dates, a brownish banana peel. Some long, crisp-looking grapes. She broke off one of the grapes, bit into it and let her eyes close as she savored it: It was sweet, fragrant, and crunched under her teeth—pure bliss. She snatched up the rest of the bunch and squatted to check out the goods at the other end of the table as she ripped the individual fruits from their tethers and popped them into her mouth.
The pack was Draco’s, she’d know it anywhere—it and the black leather vest strewn carelessly onto the floor. The room smelled faintly of the oil he rubbed into his muscles and the stuff he used on his hair, anyway. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaled. Nice. Even if the entire package included Draco—his arrogance, his swagger, his absolute self-assurance of how pretty-boy cute he was, never mind his utter certainty, she’d come back to his side of the coin, return to her old, dark ways—she’d spent some extremely pleasant hours surrounded by that scent.
Get a grip! she ordered herself, half amused and half irritated. She shook her head to clear it, dropped the empty grape stem next to the banana peel, then crossed to the door to listen. Somewhere, faintly away to her left, she could hear armor clattering—another of the king’s crack guard squadron, no doubt. But it was probably sound coming from the other side of the palace, if not on the grounds outside the north-facing windows: The notoriously cheap Menelaus had never bothered to post guards in his household quarters and in fact was known to dislike having soldiers around the one place where he could close himself off from the world and relax. She began counting on her fingers, ears still attuned to the world beyond the doors: The last time she’d been in Sparta, there had been a barracks of no more than fifty to patrol the walls and man the gates and another, larger barracks half a day’s ride away, guarding the frontier to the southeast, near the sea. Most of his fighting force was kept there or in the beacon towers that connected his mountainous realm. Ten or so guards were all that were needed to keep peace within the city walls—which included the men who made an hourly circuit of the palace—and about that many again who dealt with the farmers, herders, and minor nobles outside the gates on what little arable land surrounded the city.
And another ten—sometimes fewer, and all of them older and specially trained—who served inside the palace. Menelaus wasn’t the type to have patience with young, awkward arms men who couldn’t keep from tripping over their pikes.
She edged the doors open slightly, listened, and finally peered out. The hallway was as she remembered it: long, narrow and straight, the ceiling high and vaulted. A few large decorative clay urns dotted the tiled floor along the plain walls, no apparent pattern to the arrangement. Other than the urns, and oil lamps or torches set every twenty or so paces, there was no ornamentation—no place to duck out of sight.
Which meant, if a warrior wanted to remain as unnoticed as she had her last trip through this end of the palace, she’d better move quickly, once out in the open.
She paused another long moment, reviewing what she recalled of the palace layout: The main reception, with its massive circular fireplace, the king’s throne—and a small, secret chamber just behind that throne for the king’s priest—were to her right. Left: The corridor that led to the guest apartments, and to the priest’s grubby little single chamber. I won’t trust that last one; Avicus probably has his own royal suite these days, across from the king’s—with hidden doors and a tunnel to connect them.
The clatter of armor came again—this time she could place it, outside the palace, moving back toward the main gates. Good, she decided. Unless it was the guard she’d left with Gabrielle. The mood Gabrielle’s in, I very much doubt he’ll be awake before midday tomorrow.
The next question was how to find Joxer, which way to go first? She considered this, finally opted for the right. Chances were good that at this hour, Menelaus was in one of the public chambers, possibly eating with his potential heroes or testing them, and that would mean one of the banquet rooms or the reception.
And Joxer might be just about anywhere in this warren of hallways and rooms. Unless he’s back in that tavern near where we came over the wall—or another. You don’t know Menelaus is keeping them in the palace, or even why Draco’s here. It might be he’s here for something completely different—another bunch of rebels to be smoked out of the hills, maybe.
Joxer could even be somewhere here in the royal wing, set up in style like Draco. There’s a picture, Joxer wrapped in silk, sprawled across a rich man’s bed, choosing which fruit to devour next . . . Now, that’s scary! Worse: It would give him inspiration for more verses to that ridiculous song of his. The verses she’d heard coming south, trying to catch up to Gabrielle, were bad enough.
She looked both ways one last time, checked the release on her chakram, and slipped into the open, moving sideways as quickly as possible, back to the east wall, glancing often back the way she’d come.
Spooky, she decided as she slid into shadow near the main reception. It’s been much too easy getting in here. Hope that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be a lot harder getting out. Because it would be better to get out unnoticed, if possible. She bared her teeth in a mirthless grin as she eased into a darkened corner, behind an enormous, badly done gold statue of Apollo—the god’s shoulders weren’t the same height or size, and he had a definite squint.
There were guards at the main double-doored entry, of course. But she knew there was another way: the hidden vantage Helen had sought on the evening a younger Xena was staying in this palace and had decided it was only sensible to learn as much about the building—and its owner—as possible. Apparently, the queen used the ancient and forgotten opening to learn what Menelaus was up to.
I shoulda talked to her, then. Should have . . . It didn’t matter, at this point. The warlord Xena hadn’t had any patience with the notion of a young pedestal bride, especially one as slender, honey-skinned, and incredibly beautiful as the extremely feminine Helen. As if I hadn’t known even then that no woman of her class gets to choose the man she marries.
The heavy curtain still lined the north wall and covered the narrow passage that ran behind the reception; it unfortunately could not have been shaken out or dusted since the last time she’d seen it. Pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, the other moving constantly to keep cobwebs out of her hair and eyes, Xena covered the narrow little passage in record time.
At its far end was a window opening at waist height—a now-interior window that might once, when the palace was much smaller, have been part of the outer wall. Xena eased up onto the broad sill, drew her legs in close so that they couldn’t be seen if someone should just chance to glance down the passage, and eased down flat, edging slowly forward until she could see down into the reception.
The room was an enormous square: The ceiling was flat, relatively low, held up by rows of plain stone columns. Directly across from her, Xena could see the glow of fire some distance away—a thin, flickering ribbon of it in the enormous circular fireplace that was open to the outdoors on one side and overhead. Previous kings had doubtless held banquets around the hearth or allowed their trusted soldiers and officers to cook skewers of meat over those flames, as a sign of favor or as a reward for some special service. As a way to bind men to them with more than a pay packet.
She’d been at one such meal in Pylos, when a distressed Nestor had tried to get her to resolve the disappearance of Helen before war was declared. Yeah, you couldn’t have made a difference, even if you’d wanted to, back then, she told herself sourly. When hard men want to go to war, there’s no force can stop them. Nestor was one of the old kings; he should have known as much.
Menelaus left his own great hearth cold and dark most days of the year, or so she heard. Too cheap to send men to bring in the wood for it; too mistrustful of his men to allow them even the pretense of that kind of trust and closeness between a ruler and his protectors.
So far as she could tell—it was difficult to see much, for the rows of pillars and the shadows everywhere but the central rank that led from outer doors to throne—there were only two men in the room at present.
Menelaus stood half-turned toward her. He was unmistakable: tall and gaunt, a granite shard of a man. He still dressed in his favored blood-red knee-length tunic under bronze and leather armor, and even within his own house, he wore a broad-bladed sword and two thick-hafted knives in a wide, black leather belt. But the once-dark brown short beard and moustache, and the close-cropped hair, were shot with gray.
The king suddenly began to pace, gesturing broadly, angrily; his brows were drawn together. Something, apparently, not going as he wanted it to go.
Facing him, a study in stillness and confidence, arms folded across a bright sun-yellow robe, the priest Avicus stood in midchamber, only his head moving to keep Menelaus in view as the king paced. At his back a tripod of wrought black metal and atop it, a black stone bowl filled with water or oil—liquid of some sort that oddly gave no reflection from her vantage, though it should have at least shown the shadows as Menelaus paced.
Xena’s eyes narrowed and her fingers curled into the stone sill. Avicus. All these years, and you haven’t changed one bit, you bastard, she thought flatly. At least, not from this distance. The priest was a full head shorter than his king and in much better condition: there was good muscle under that robe, she knew from their last enounter—and indeed from their first. But it was obvious: expensive, filmy fabric clung to impressive shoulders and upper arms. Avicus, you’ve come up in the world since you ran the god-machines for the Athens theater, deceiving the public with your tricks and cheap magic. You’re wearing silk.
His neck was as solid as ever, and it was clear he still tapered from a muscled torso, much as Hercules did, even though the priest was noticeably shorter. This was a man who kept himself in top fighting condition, even though Apollo never asked that of those who served him.
His light brown hair was cut like the king’s—battle-short. Pale, intense blue eyes were hooded at this distance, but she could readily see the slightly upturned corners of his mouth; she’d seldom seen him without that half-smile in place, in his eyes if not on his lips. He stood with his back to the black stone bowl, flanked by two lanterns that suddenly spluttered, then began to burn with a bluish flame. They cast odd shadows and made strange shapes across the liquid, which itself moved as if a faint wind blew across it. Xena wrenched her eyes away from the fascinating surface: So far as she could tell, there was no air moving at all.
Two angry voices out there—one harsh, the other genial, even, slightly resonant and higher in pitch. She eased herself even flatter, fingers clinging to the stone as she edged forward, ears straining to make sense of their conversation. There seemed to be a trick to the air in this niche, though. No wonder Helen had used it, because once her chin rested against the inner ledge, she could hear nearly as well as if she stood between the two men.
The king’s harsh Spartan accent and the priest’s habit of speaking quietly and quickly would require total concentration, though. She glanced behind her to make sure the area behind the niche was still dark, then fixed her whole attention on the chamber below her.
“ . . . and I still fail to understand, Avicus, why you chose to send my men on a personal mission for you, to find this person, this—this—surely no grown man could possibly be called Joxer? What kind of name is that?”
“It was either his mother’s sense of humor, or his own, Highness,” came the smooth response. “I didn’t care enough to find out; what matters is, he’s here.”
“You’re mad, priest! Even I have my resources beyond my dead brother’s lands, and I know this Joxer travels with—”
“—with Xena, and the nattering little companion she seems to have traded for a dark army, Highness. Yes, I know that also, are you surprised?” The priest widened his pale eyes; the smile stayed where it was, small, neat and secretive. “Don’t be—isn’t that why you recently moved me from that hellish, narrow little chamber the size of a tomb, all brown rough walls and badly woven brown goat-hair carpets, and put me in surroundings where I can more properly work the god’s wonders, and interpret his visions? I mention that to remind you that I realize my indebtedness to you, Highness.” His eyes crinkled at the corners; the smile broadened. “But in this matter, I’m hardly practicing insurrection, Highness. I knew of the man Joxer, I knew he could be reached and suborned if he were dealt with in the right way, of course, and so I had your men approach him—and they in turn sent him on to you. A—a gift, if you will.”
“No, thank you. Priest.”
“He could be useful, Highness.” Silence, as the two locked eyes. Finally, the priest shrugged. “Well, yes, he is traveling most days with Xena. And he seems to have a child’s concept of truth, right, and good: There aren’t any in-between areas where a lie is bad here and good there, if you will. Still: If he’s given the right vision, he’ll be ours. And if you recall, you were the one who wanted an insight into the warrior princess’s actions. Because of her journey to Troy, those last days, and her—”
“Because it was Xena who stole Helen from under my nose, you needn’t lesson me, priest!” Menelaus spun away from his companion and began pacing between the throne and the end of the length of carpet leading to it. Avicus watched him steadily, his expression giving away nothing. “All right,” the king snarled finally. “He won’t know anything useful, you realize. Unless the woman’s changed greatly, she’ll hardly be confiding in an oaf.”
“She hasn’t changed that much, Highness,” the priest replied steadily. “I’ve seen her recently, her and the girl. You might be amused to hear—”
“Gossip, Avicus?” the king broke in harshly. The priest shrugged broadly and turned away; his eyes, Xena thought, were full of dark secrets; involuntarily, she shivered. She’d seen eyes like that before: the Furies, the Bacchae. She shook herself back to the moment; Menelaus was speaking again, less angry this time. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t care what the woman does, so long as she leaves me alone. Bringing this Joxer here will scarcely assure that—do you think?”
The priest’s voice was suddenly sharp edged and commanding. “Hear me out, so please you, Highness. The facts are simple: You want Helen back, and Xena is no fool. Even if you cloak your search for the woman under the guise of a quest for the Ewer of Persephone, the box of Pandora, or the flaming cloak of Medea, you won’t confuse her; she would eventually hear of it, and she would know your goal is Helen. And she will move to counter you.”
“She’ll fail,” Menelaus gritted out between clenched teeth; his color was high. “Because nothing will keep me from fulfilling the promise I made before Troy—the promise I made when I wed the woman and brought her here.” His eyes went distant; he paused, staring off into darkness. “Do you remember her, Avicus? When first I won over her family and brought her here? She was slender as a reed, with eyes that could drown a man in their dark pools, beauty that had even my cold-blooded brother Agamemnon ready to give over his wife and children and challenge me for the right to wed her.” He snarled a curse under his breath. “As if he or any other man could have won her or taken her home, once I saw her! As if any other man in all the world had earned the right to call her his wife! I knew from the very first moment I set eyes upon her that bastard child or no, daughter of Zeus or no, she was mine and would never be any man’s but mine!” He considered this, laughed briefly; his voice sounded like chill water over pebbles. “Agamemnon knew; he understood when he saw us together, and still he would have taken her, if he could—why do you think I made that pact, that any man who stole her from me could expect to see all the suitors and all their armies march against him? Did you think I meant it against Odysseus, all devoted to his whey-faced Penelope and their newborn whelp?”
“Your brother has paid,” Avicus pointedly reminded the king. “Not just for his lustful appreciation of your wife, but for his choice of measures to set the fleet against Troy, and for his choice in Trojan captives.”
The king snorted. “My brother thought with his loins, and his desire for glory blinded him to what good things he had. He had a good family and he had Mycenae in all its fertile glory. For him to sacrifice his only child in order to turn the winds, when there might have been another way—ah, blast it to Hades!” he snarled, and turned away, fingers tight against his nose, clasping his tight-closed eyes.
Xena, in her hiding place, raised both eyebrows. What: The bloodless, heartless Spartan king just possibly cared for his brother’s daughter? The girl had come from Mycenae expecting to marry one of the Greek heroes; she’d died as a blood sacrifice, because men believed they’d never reach Troy otherwise. At least Helen hadn’t known about that. She could hope the woman didn’t know.
Xena closed her eyes briefly, swallowed, then turned her attention back to the matter in hand: Learn what Menelaus was up to; get Joxer out of the middle of it. Do all she could to be sure the king didn’t find Helen . . . Though how I’m gonna do that, when I don’t even know where she is . . . She was no longer sure ignorance of the queen’s whereabouts was her best course—but she could worry about that later, once she and Joxer were out of here; once she had Gabrielle safely out of Sparta.
Agamemnon . . . you died too easily, ugly as it was. I hope you rot in Tartarus! She eased back from the opening to draw a deep, steadying breath, counted to twenty, then moved back where she could see and hear.
King and priest had moved on to other matters: Menelaus now sat on his throne, and Avicus moved seemingly at random—up the three steps and down again, over to his brazier or mirror, back to the steps, a few paces down the carpet, back again. “Remember that if we are to succeed, we need to keep the entire plan, my king.”
“I plan to,” Menelaus replied shortly.
The priest stopped on the second step. “You have the purse, then?” Menelaus merely looked at him, the set of his jaw stubborn. “I thought as much,” the priest went on evenly, and produced a large leather pouch. He tossed it up, caught it one-handed; it jingled agreeably.
“I fail to see the reason I would pay those who fail to pass the test,” Menelaus growled.
“For the same reason you and I will both gently let down those who do not pass it. Remember whom I serve, Highness! Despite your choice of allies in this last war, He has chosen to back you in this.
“Achilles and my brother, fighting over a chit of a girl—”
“Over a virgin priestess who served Apollo, Highness.” The priest’s voice hardened; the king eyed him narrowly. Avicus shrugged. “It doesn’t matter; Apollo will feel as he chooses about the matter, and our feelings regarding this ‘mere chit’ count for nothing to him. He does not care greatly for Greeks, and not at all for Sparta.” Silence. The king finally gestured for his companion to go on. “My reasoning is practical: Young men who are not chosen to quest for wonders will feel ashamed. But they will more likely return quietly to their villages and homes, and perhaps speak of the gracious king of Sparta to their friends and families, if they are treated well. Those who are scorned by such a king and sent upon the road without any hint of the ancient Greek courtesies—they will complain loudly and bitterly, and for long.” The priest fixed his ruler with a chill eye. “You have many enemies outside Sparta’s boundaries, Highness, and not just those who resented your battle against Troy—for a mere woman. Do you really want them to learn you are about to embark upon another mission to seize that woman?” Silence again; a chill one this time. “Remember you were given this throne by Helen’s father, when he chose you as her mate—do you believe Tyndareus will allow you to . . . ?”
“Allow? Allow?” Menelaus slammed both hands flat on the arms of his throne with a ringing slap. “How dare you suggest such a thing, priest? Remember that although you serve Apollo, there are others who do so as well!”
Avicus inclined his head, but when he brought it up again, Xena could see no submission in his eyes or the set of his jaw, though the faint smile was gone. “Perhaps so, Highness,” he murmured. “But if you wish this quest to begin any time soon, I would suggest you utilize the tools you have, and not seek for others. They might be some time—some years—in arriving.” Menelaus stirred; Avicus held up a hand. “I don’t threaten you in saying that, nor does the god. Practically speaking, it would be difficult to find a priest of Apollo who would serve the king of Sparta, whatever the god bade.”
“We waste time,” the king growled finally. “Everything takes too long, every day she is away from me, I know she grows older . . . a day less beauteous . . .” He drew a deep, steadying breath and the fire went out of him. He settled his chin on one hand and waved the other. “Bring in your candidates, priest. I remember as well as you the plan we created, and why. I won’t break it.”
For answer, Avicus turned away and strode swiftly down the aisle between the throne and the great doors, pushed one aside, and stepped briefly out of sight. When he returned, he was still alone, but just as he reached the dais and took his place behind the tripod and its odd bowl, the doors opened to a pair of household guards clad in impressive red and bronze, fully armored and armed. The boy between them looked very young; his clothing and the roughly cut thatch of reddish hair proclaimed him a villager. Round brown eyes stared in awe around him; the guards had to nudge him to get him moving.
It was Xena’s turn to stare as Menelaus rose from his throne and came down from the dais to hold out his hands. The boy stared at the fabled king, at his extended fingers; one of the guards had to nudge him and whisper something to him before he held out his own hands, which the king clasped. The second guard approached the king and murmured something against his ear. Menelaus smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile; probably he didn’t have a nice smile, but the boy seemed dazzled. “My thanks, Eteocles, that you braved the roads and took such a journey to come to my aid. I can only hope that the sun god will read your heart truly and accept you as his own, for I have need of all such strong young heroes.”
Behind them, unnoted by any but Xena, Avicus’s mouth twisted slightly, and he cast up his eyes. But he was all smiles, charm, small pleasantries as the boy was brought over to him, to stand before the bowl. Eteocles’s color was high; as the priest spoke reassuringly, the blush faded and the boy seemed more at home. Avicus brought him around to stand facing the bowl and across it, the king’s dais; behind the boy, he made a small sign, crossing last and next-to-last fingers. The king inclined his head the least bit. The priest meanwhile was talking urgently and in a voice too low for Xena to catch more than a few isolated words: “ . . . vision . . . and if you . . . pure of heart . . . fitted for such a quest . . .” His voice rose suddenly. “Understand, such a quest is not for everyone, and we could not tell if you were qualified until you came to this place. And that is why you were asked to travel here in secret, so that the god might test you.”
“And—um . . . if I fail?” The boy’s voice was too high; he cleared his throat. Avicus gave him a bland smile.
“You do not fail. There is no failure, though you may not be chosen for this quest. That you were picked to come this far means you have courage and heart and strength, and that doubtless the god will call upon you in the future. When he has need, and the quest is one suited particularly to you.”
“Oh . . .” The boy considered this; a smile twitched his lips. “Then—then I’m ready to try, sir.”
Avicus passed one hand across the bowl. “Look at the water, think of nothing, and tell me what you see.”
“Water,” Eteocles began doubtfully, then caught his breath in a gasp. “I—it’s my mother, my village! She’s—she’s fallen, on the street, the bundles are scattered everywhere!” He jumped as the priest touched his arm.
“Allow me, Eteocles,” he said as he smoothly switched their positions, so he could stare intently at the water. “Your mother, you say. Has she been ill?”
“N-no. But I—when I was chosen, I didn’t want to tell her. My father died in the war, sir, and there’s only been me and my two older brothers to help her, and then last winter a tree fell on my eldest brother, Eponium, and he only died after a long and horrid winter. Suh—so, she’s clung to me, and, and I knew if I told her, she’d cry until I said I’d never go, so I made my brother Markus swear not to tell her until I was half a day gone—and not to tell anyone else, sir,” he added unhappily.
Avicus nodded absently; his attention was on the bowl, where now Xena could see odd little flashes of lights; she averted her eyes. “It was brave and right of you to come, boy, and Apollo thanks you for such courage. The God bids me say, though, that this is not the quest for you. He says that there will surely be another, and it will be in your homeland, where there will be no need for you to make such unhappy choices. The lives of many, and not just your mother, will hang on your actions.”
He turned from the tripod, drew a small bag of coins from the purse now lying on the dais nearby, and held it out to the boy. “There is a room for you to rest for the night, and food; the guards will see you safely there. This is for your trouble, and for your journey safely home.” He smiled; the boy smiled; the king rose from his chair and smiled. Xena’s mouth twisted. It looks like one of those stupid comedies Avicus used to do the smokes and flying gods for, all the actors wearing smiley masks. Disgusting. “Go in peace, and wait for your glory, Eteocles; it will surely come to you.”
The boy drew himself up straight; if he was disappointed, it didn’t show. “Sirs, Majesty—I shall.” He returned to the guards and went out with them. Avicus watched them go.
“Village puppy,” Menelaus growled as the doors closed. “I hope they won’t all be so green, Avicus. Allow me to applaud your waste of time and ten coins!”
“On the contrary, Highness. The boy entered this chamber as a village oaf, but he left a hero, awaiting a quest. You may hear of him one day.” He drew himself up straight as the doors opened again, and another village boy with a rough-cut shock of hair—black this time—came in between the guards.