Several would-be heroes followed, in quick succession, and Xena fought not to doze on the ledge: It was warm and stuffy up here, and she’d had little or no sleep the past nights, trying to catch up to Gabrielle before her close companion reached the city walls. Fortunately, she’d learned years earlier how to sleep upright in the saddle—a trick made simple when the mare was Argo. It had helped on the long journey south—but it wasn’t enough.
The men below her weren’t helping, either; the pattern between king and priest was repetitive, slow . . . dull. Most of the hopeful candidates were cast in the same mold as the first village boy who’d looked into the liquid, most not even as likely, though a few at least wore swords that looked as if they’d been used—and used by the current owners. I hope that bowl of god-water isn’t making me sleepy! she thought, suddenly apprehensive—but she had actually only looked at it the once, and if Avicus’s voice was having any effect on her at all, it was only to make her angry.
An older man named Cadmus was chosen, as was a boy who called himself Helarion; at that name, Xena eased forward to get a better look, but it wasn’t the gangly young Athenian thief who’d believed himself the son of Hermes. Better not be, she thought grimly. As much as Gabrielle and I both did to convince him to stay home with his mother and behave himself.
The guards went back out, and Xena could hear raised voices beyond the open doors. Avicus turned at the king’s angry question; he shrugged and went to check. He returned moments later, himself and a boy who looked even greener than Eteocles, but unlike that first village boy, this one wore a grimly determined look and a battered sword in a worn leather scabbard—the belt had been cut for a larger man. He advanced to the dais and inclined his head; at the priest’s whispered comment, he nodded and bent one knee. The king eyed his priest over the boy’s hair.
“This is Briax,” Avicus said mildly. “He was not one of those initially chosen. But he claims to have heard the summons and asks the God’s judgment.”
Silence. Menelaus transferred the blank look from priest to Briax, who stood and gazed levelly back at him. Too young and naive to be afraid, too village-green to know how to address a king, Xena decided. “Briax, are you?” Menelaus asked finally. The boy nodded. “And tell me, Briax, why should my priest give the test to one who has come here unasked?”
“But—but there was no asking in my village of Katerini,” Briax replied in a resonant voice that wobbled a little and now and again threatened to break. “The priest of the sun god, A-Apollo, he came to the small temple we have, but not when he usually does, at mid-summer. He—went among us early in the day, and he asked s-some of us to come to the temple at midday. And—and he told us of this quest.”
“What did he say?” Avicus prompted when the boy fell silent.
“He—told us the king in Sparta needed help, that something of great value to him and—and to Apollo had been lost, and that he had come to seek out young men—unmarried, he said, because they should be puh-pure.” He swallowed; his color was rather high. “And brave, he said. Because they—they would need to dedi—desi—give their lives over to Apollo, and that still only one would be the man chosen to find the Holy Ewer of Persephone. And—and then he gave us a prayer, and then he left.”
Avicus laid a hand lightly on the boy’s arm. “If the priest named you to come to the temple that morning, then he chose you to come here, Briax. Didn’t you realize that?”
The boy shook his head. “He didn’t say. Besides, I am—” he spread his hands, taking in his appearance. “I am no hero, I’m my father’s youngest son. I scrub tables and cups in a tavern, I milk his goats. It seemed—foolish to even think—”
“You wear a sword,” Avicus said mildly. “Can you use it?” Briax nodded; his mouth quirked.
“I can use it. It was—is—my father’s. He’ll be very angry when he finds it gone. He and my oldest brother have given me some lessons with it. But I will not lie, sir; I am no swordsman.”
“Apollo did not ask for fighters, boy, only for those who had the courage to seek a lost thing of great value to Him. And yet, you are here now. Why?”
Briax drew a breath, let it out in a long sigh. His face shone, and so far as Xena could tell, he was no longer aware of his surroundings. “Because I must. Because a maiden came to Katerini, in search of a hero. Oh, she was wonderful—glorious! All golden hair and storm-colored eyes—a smile radiant as the sun itself!” He suddenly blushed, swallowed, and ducked his head. “She also spoke of the quest, huh-Highness. And it was at that moment I knew, as if the god himself had told me, that I must come, to serve her, to honor her, to somehow make myself—ah—worthy, in her eyes. A little. Even if she never knows of it.”
Menelaus stirred and would have spoken, but Avicus held up a warning hand. “You would take up such a journey—for love? Even knowing that the object of your love is unaware?” His voice was sardonic. Briax didn’t seem to notice; he nodded. “To encounter dangers, monsters, the ire of the gods—all the pitfalls of such a quest—and for a woman who does not even know you care for her?” the priest asked. The boy paled at that, but he nodded emphatically, wide eyes fixed on the priest’s face. Avicus smiled faintly and laid a benevolent hand on Briax’s head. “Such bravery should not be turned aside now; nor would I dare shame you so. You shall indeed face the test, and let Apollo judge you. But tell me two things: First, does this maidenly vision have a name?”
Briax smiled brilliantly; king and priest blinked and up on her hidden perch, Xena groaned. Wait for it, she thought drearily. “Gabrielle,” the boy breathed. “Her name is Gabrielle, she has hair of red-gold, a mouth—uh, a mouth—” He stuttered to a halt, drew a deep breath. “She passed through my village days after the priest, and she is both a bard and a warrior, if you can imagine it. I can, for when she spoke, even my father, who fought for Troy, dared not answer her. And—and she is—she is the most beauteous maiden I ever—”
“I have no doubt she is all of that,” Avicus broke in with a genial pat on the boy’s shoulder and a warning gesture that stopped a red-faced Menelaus from bellowing out what would surely have been a very unpleasant remark. “Also, you say the priest spoke of a need for purity. Are you?”
Briax blinked. “Am I—what, sir?”
“Why—pure. Remember, we two men do not judge you, but the god does, and he sees your heart and mind.” Briax blushed a painful red.
“I—my father was a soldier, before Troy. A—a hard man. He—he told me so often since I had ten winters, as did my older brothers, a man was not a true man until he lost his—uh, his innocence. I—uh—I mean, um—” His face was very red, but suddenly he drew himself upright and announced in a rush, “Last year I spent one night with a woman at the inn in Bacchia. For—for two copper coins.”
“Two copper coins.” Avicus was visibly fighting hard not to laugh; fortunately, the boy didn’t seem to notice. “I see. Well, I believe the God will judge your heart pure, whatever your body may be. So, let us see, shall we? Come with me, and let us put you to the test.”
High on her ledge, Xena let her face down onto her forearm and groaned again. “It’s the hair, the eyes, the smile—Hades, it’s the damned little stick, who knows?” Poor Gabrielle had scooped up another live one, and she wasn’t even fishing. She shook her head and edged back to where she could watch—and clearly hear what was going on.
“Gladly,” the boy said with a rather sweet dignity. He squared his shoulders and went with the priest to face the depths of the stone bowl. At the priest’s soft urging, he gazed into the water for some moments. “How strange! I see—it appears to be a dish on a pedestal, like the good dish my father uses to serve fruit to the well-dressed. But this is—it is not plain pottery. It shines.” He hesitated, glanced sidelong at the priest, who went somewhere behind the king’s dais and brought back a red-and-blackware vase, a ruddy background with black figures upon it—a wrestling match, Xena thought. Hard to tell at a distance. But Briax was already shaking his head. “No, this—in there—it was black, but a black that shone, and gave off odd-colored reflections, greens and purples and—” He shrugged as words seemed to fail him. “Black without any people, sir,” he said finally.
“Ahhhh.” The priest smiled; the boy looked up expectantly. “And within the dish? Was there anything—or nothing?”
“There was—” Briax closed his eyes, considered this, finally nodded. “There were three tiny pieces of fruit—pomegranate seeds. I have seen them, though my father won’t put them at his table; he calls them common. Three bright red seeds—nothing else,” he said finally. And stared at his feet, waiting.
“You,” Avicus said softly, “have seen the Sacred Ewer of Persephone.” Silence. The boy considered this with a frown.
“Oh,” he said finally. “Was this Persephone a hero? My village has no tales of . . .”
“It is an old tale, only important because the god of the underworld stole Persephone, daughter of Demeter—ah, you have heard of Demeter?” he asked warily. The boy nodded; he seemed to be on safer ground here. “The girl ate a single seed of the pomegranate while she was in the dark god’s keeping, and because of that, she could only return to earth three seasons of four—which is why we have winter, young Briax.”
Xena’s mouth twitched. The priest made a smooth-voiced, half-decent story of the ancient tale, but he was clearly annoyed by the young man’s ignorance. Menelaus merely looked bored, his hand propping up his head and his eyes glazed. The smile—a toothy gash between nose and chin—hung there forgotten.
Xena’s mouth quirked in an irritation of her own. So he doesn’t know the old stories. So what? He has a life, and memorizing all those tales about the gods wouldn’t put food in his family’s mouths. Come on, let’s get this moving, get Joxer in here and back out again, so I can grab him and go!
But the priest was finally finishing up with the boy; the king straightened and managed a slightly more natural-looking smile as Avicus gave the boy back over to the guards for escort to wherever they were keeping the winners of this little contest for the night. The doors closed behind the three.
Avicus sighed heavily and turned his eyes ceilingward. “What do they teach them in those villages?” he asked.
Behind him, the king snorted. “I hope you had a good reason for that little show. You were practically cooing at that boy. It was obscene!”
“It was also useful, Highness. You heard what he said. Remember the name he spoke?”
“I wasn’t listening. Why should I?”
“Fortunately, one of us was,” the priest said evenly. “How many blond warrior-bards named Gabrielle do you suppose there are? I know of one—and she travels with Xena.” The king came halfway to his feet, but before he could speak, Avicus turned away; there was a commotion beyond the doors.
Menelaus was aware of it now, too. “Why are my guards singing out there? I don’t permit that kind of noise! Avicus, see to it, shut them up!”
High above them, Xena gritted her teeth and moved back from the edge as the priest strode across the reception and flung open the doors. It didn’t help much: She could still hear the horrid cacophony of untrained male voices bellowing out a familiar refrain—and overriding them, a reedy tenor voice shouting, “No, no, no! It’s ‘Joxer the Mighty’! Try it again, all—right?” The last word came out as a high squeak.
The warrior leaned against the wall and briefly closed her eyes. “That’s it, I’ve had it,” she snarled softly. “Nobody should have to put up with this. I’m gonna walk outta here, right now. I’m gonna go find a ship and sail off to—no, I’m gonna go find a lake, nice high-country lake, and I’m gonna fish for the next moon-cycle and a half!” She bit her lower lip, drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and let herself down flat again to see and hear what was happening in the reception. Sure, you’re gonna do just that. Gabrielle’s down in Helen’s roses, waiting for you, and Helen’s out there somewhere . . . And even though Joxer probably deserved a good mangling, she couldn’t just stand back and let someone else mangle him. That’s Gabrielle’s job. But if we get through this and I find that lake, I’ll throw him in and hold him down until he—naah, it would kill the fish.
Down in the reception, Joxer had removed his ridiculous helmet and now bowed very correctly before the dais. Apparently, Avicus had given him a rough coaching on the way up the room, because he was surprisingly terse, answering questions with a simple, “Yes, Highness,” “No, Highness,” and “Joxer the Mighty, Highness.” But even that last was delivered without fanfare, and he looked almost meek as he took his place by the bowl.
To Xena’s Surprise, however—and apparently to Joxer’s—what he saw in the bowl wasn’t the supposed Sacred Ewer. “I—it’s a woman,” he said, and he stared intently. “Gosh, is it ever a woman!” Avicus held up a warning hand, and Menelaus sank back onto his throne. “She’s—there’s a stone wall behind her . . .” He went on for some moments, then added, “Wait, it’s—she’s crying. I mean, I think she is. Maybe she’s just got something in her eye . . .” Avicus hissed something against his ear, and he fell quiet for some moments.
“Tell me,” the priest said softly. “What is she wearing?”
Joxer tittered. “Not much, that’s for sure, because, you can see all the way down to—oh. I mean, it’s a dress! Well, something white. And a necklace of some kind—”
“Describe it,” the priest demanded.
“Well—it’s gold, I guess. Long and skinny, with a big red stone at one end hanging right between her—”
“And the other end?” the priest asked hastily. Menelaus’s eyebrows were drawn together and his knuckles white where his fingers dug into the arms of his throne.
“The—oh, I see it, it’s kind of in her hair. It’s a flat piece of gold with—with letters on it, or something. And—uh, it looks like a pile of wood or something, like a bonfire? Maybe?” He stepped back from the bowl as the priest pressed him aside; he frowned at the far wall, then transferred the perplexed gaze to Avicus. “So—who’s she? I—excuse me, but I thought there was—it was this sacred bowl, or something? With three gold pomegranate seeds? I mean, if she had anything like that with her, I didn’t see it.”
Avicus moved his hand, urgently indicating something to the king—probably Menelaus was supposed to say something at this point. But a glance let him see the man was fighting a full-blown jealous rage. The priest drew his latest bowl-gazer aside and said, “That? The ewer, you mean? That was—a story we came up with to hide the real quest, Joxer. Only those the god Apollo blesses with a genuine vision—such as you—can be allowed to hear the truth. But you must swear first, here and now, to reveal it to no one.”
“Well—yeah. Sure,” Joxer replied. He looked even more bewildered than ever.
“Swear,” the priest said flatly, “upon this.” He held out a small disc, a golden sun in splendor that was half the size of his palm.
“Ah—okay.” At the other’s indication, Joxer laid his right hand on the thing, then snatched it back. “Oww! That’s hot!” He sucked his fingers. “What is it?”
The priest looked amused, Xena thought; his pale eyes were very wide and that secretive little smile turned the corners of his mouth. “It is not hot, merely warm. A surprise, no doubt. It is Apollo’s gift to you—and his warning. Remember the god sees everything, and he will know if you break your vow. The heat—well, the sun is hot, isn’t it? Hot as fire? Which can shrivel a man to nothing but a pile of ash?” Joxer stared down at the bit of gold and swallowed hard. “Come,” Avicus said, and now he also sounded amused. “You need only swear the oath, and keep it, to tell no one—even those in the guesting chambers you see tonight, or later on your journeys. Remember that—easy enough, isn’t it?” Warily, Joxer laid his hand palm down on the priest’s upturned one and mumbled the words. “Good. Now.” Avicus passed one hand over the badge and suddenly slapped it onto Joxer’s shoulder armor, where it shimmered briefly, then faded to silver. All at once, unless she looked hard, Xena couldn’t see it any more. From a much closer distance, by his startled expression, neither could Joxer.
“It is also a token of King Menelaus’s trust in you,” Avicus went on after a moment. “And there are those you may meet during your journey who will be able to see it and will name it.” He glanced cautiously around, tugged at the ties of Joxer’s leather jerkin, and pulled his head down so he could whisper against the taller man’s ear. “Remember that word—but keep it to yourself! Apollo will not need the badge to cause you great pain, if you speak that word aloud to any, except the man who gives it to you first, do you understand?”
“Ah—got it.” A rather pale Joxer nodded vigorously and loosened the ties a little. “I remember the word, but I don’t use it, except if someone else uses it on me first—and if I get it wrong, Apollo hurts me. Right?”
“Exactly.” The priest smiled at him. “By that exchange, you will know they are his men, or mine, and you can trust them. Though even to them . . . ?”
Joxer nodded as the priest hesitated. “I know, I get it, I say nothing—right? Except the word—except only after they use it?”
“Exactly.” Avicus drew the erstwhile hero with him, away from the bowl and back over to the front of the dais. “You asked who the woman was. My king—Highness, I think you can tell him best.”
Menelaus had control of himself again—more or less, Xena amended to herself as the king cast his priest a black look. His mouth twitched then, and he shielded his eyes with one hand. “That,” he murmured in a broken voice, “was my wife. Helen.”
Joxer stared for a long moment, his mouth slack; the priest nudged him and he blinked, then smiled hugely. “Ahhh—that was Helen? I mean, that was Helen? I mean—wow!” He thought this over; a nervous smile twitched his face. “I mean, that was your—wife, Helen. I—ah—well, you know, if I said anything that sounded a little, um, disrespectful. I mean—if you—I mean—” He probably would’ve gone on like that for the rest of the night, Xena thought tiredly. The priest allowed him to stutter to a momentary silence, then gripped his forearm to get his attention—a hard grip, by the pained look on Joxer’s face.
“You did indeed see Helen, fairest woman in all the lands, and the queen of Sparta,” he intoned.
Joxer nodded eagerly. “Yeah, and of Troy, too, right?” Avicus eyed the king sidelong and eased Joxer around, where he couldn’t see Menelaus’s suddenly savage face; with his free hand, the priest gesticulated sharply, a complex gesture. Menelaus clamped his teeth together, sat back, and began breathing deeply, eyes closed.
“Allow me to tell you—without interruption, please!—” the priest added sharply as Joxer drew a breath. He lowered his voice a little and drew his companion a few steps away from the dais. “King Menelaus was broken-hearted when he returned from Crete and found her gone—kidnapped by the Trojans. He still is. I know!” he said, as Joxer would have spoken again. “Ten years and more. But is it so hard to see?”
“Well—actually,” Joxer began apologetically. Avicus gripped his arm again.
“Please. Close your eyes, let me create it for you. See yourself and the woman you love—or a woman you could love, the very ideal of woman—see her married to you and then, suddenly, one day, you return home from a journey to discover the man you received as a guest has left your home—and taken your wife with him. Imagine your pain, your anger, knowing she is a captive, stolen by a younger man who believes all he must do is bed her, and she will come to love him instead. Imagine you cross the sea with a fleet of ships and all the allies you can find, to bring her home. But the other man also has an army and great walls to keep him safe while he works to turn your beloved against you.
“Imagine how long ten years are; you fight and sometimes you win ground and sometimes the enemy does, but at last the gods are with you, and you overcome the enemy’s city.” Joxer, eyes closed, was swaying in place, clearly caught up in the story. “And then, one of your allies creates a plan that will let you reach her with the least chance of harm coming to her—and only then do you learn that she has come to believe the lies her captor told her: that you married her only for the chance to be king of Sparta, that you cared for her only as an object of beauty, like an expensive vase.”
“Even worse: Imagine they have hinted to her—your wife, who once loved you and came happily to your bed—imagine that now she believes their lie that you would have preferred the company of her brother Pollux to hers.”
“You mean, Paris or someone woulda told her that Menelaus was—”
“Something like that,” Avicus put in quickly.
“Wow,” Joxer breathed. He considered this, his brow furrowed. “But, ah—you know, not to doubt your story or anything, but that’s not exactly the way I heard it.”
“Of course you heard another side of the story. From Xena or her companion Gabrielle?” Avicus smiled, man-to-man; Joxer’s mouth twitched in a nervous smile and he shrugged. “Well, Xena fought for the Trojans, you know; she’s hardly an unbiased source—she has her own reasons to make the king look bad, don’t you think? And think about it. Xena’s a warrior. This Gabrielle, wouldn’t she be more likely to tell the story so it made Xena happy? Just how good would Xena look in a story where an older husband discovered his young bride stolen by a handsome young man—but after long trials, the girl returned home to her loving husband, to remain a happy wife? Especially when the older man is a man Xena hates as much as she hates King Menelaus?”
“She does? I mean—yeah . . . that makes sense, I guess,” Joxer said doubtfully. Avicus smiled broadly and clapped him on the back, driving the air from his lungs.
“Don’t take my word for it, Joxer; unlike Xena or her companion, I don’t want a quick, emotional reaction from you. Just—think about it.”
“All right.” Joxer looked up. “So—what am I supposed to do about Helen? I mean, if she didn’t come back from Troy, doesn’t that mean—ah, well, you know?” He glanced at the throne and more or less discreetly drew a hand across his throat.
Avicus was already shaking his head. “I have my ways of knowing she lives. Trust me. But I also know she will not return to Sparta of her own will.”
“Wait—I thought you said she was in love with King Menelaus?”
“She was and is. She has been lied to by the Trojans, and because she is young and was emotionally upset, she believed the lies. Once she learns they are lies, however . . .”
“So—what? Am I supposed to tell her all that? Or do you want me to drag her back?”
Xena bit back a grin, even though the overall situation was far from humorous. By the set of the priest’s shoulders and the tendons standing out along the back of his neck, he’d had about enough of Joxer—and it served him right. But he somehow kept the tension out of his voice. “Of course not. King Menelaus’s heart is broken, but he understands her fears, and he would never wish to force her in any way.” As if, Xena thought flatly. “Though—if you would be willing to carry a message from him to her, I know he would be grateful.” Joxer’s brows drew together; Avicus spread his hands. “Merely a vow of his continued love and his hope that she will at least agree to meet him in some neutral kingdom, to listen to what he has to say.
“No, it’s another matter entirely, something the king only recently discovered. The necklace she was wearing—the piece you described? It is not jewelry. It is an heirloom of the king’s family, an artifact from ancient days—nearly as ancient as the royal house of Thebes itself. It was—a gift, from Zeus to the woman Europa, when he carried her away. For Europa, it was protection, but it only protects the Atreidae—members of the king’s family,” he added in explanation as Joxer stared at him blankly. “It was only recently discovered missing when I conducted a funerary offering for the king’s dead parents.”
“Oh—okay. But why would Helen want a weapon or whatever if it wouldn’t protect her anyway?”
“Because—you saw it, warrior. It resembles a necklace. No doubt on Helen, it is very striking. She was drawn to it from the first and never accepted the king’s explanations why she could not have it or even wear it. The danger, you see, is that—well, if Helen were to grow angry with her husband and the chain was around her throat? Even if she were a great distance away? It would kill her.”
“Ahhh—I see.” Joxer considered this briefly, then cast the priest a wary look. “Um—and what happens to the guy who is trying to talk her out of it, if the guy says something about Menelaus and she gets mad?” Avicus raised one eyebrow. Both Joxer’s went up. “He—gets, ah—he gets—”
“You have an excellent grasp of the situation,” the priest said smoothly. “The trick will be to present the subject so she does not become inflamed—but that should not be a problem for a man so, ah, attractive to women as you are. The greater danger is that once you have the chain in your possession, there will be those who learn of it and want to steal it from you . . .”
Joxer dismissed the latter with a wave of his hand and a smirk. “That,” he said loftily, “will be their problem. Not mine.”
“I see we understand each other,” the priest said, and turned to walk back toward the dais. “Come, let us at least offer you food and wine before you return to your quarters for the night.” He gave the king a small nod, then snapped his fingers. Two servants came from the curtained alcove behind the throne first with two chairs, then with a small table and refreshments. Another servant brought a separate table for Menelaus, poured him wine, deftly arranged a cut loaf and fruit and left.
When the three men were alone again, Avicus gestured Joxer into one chair and took the other, poured wine for both, and offered him a plate of sliced meat and bread. “A fighter of your class must have worked up an appetite, coming here,” he said, helping himself to a single piece of bread. Joxer nodded; his mouth was too full for speech. “But I wonder that you would leave your two woman comrades behind . . . ?” He let the question hang between them and under cover of the table made a slight gesture in the king’s direction that, to Xena, clearly said stay out of this and keep your mouth shut! Couched in less infamatory style, obviously.
Joxer shook his head, chewed and swallowed, washing food down with a deep swallow of wine. It must have been a strong one: He fought not to choke as his eyes bulged. “Ah—companions? Oh—yeah. Xena and Gabrielle. Well,” he shrugged. “They have important things to do, they don’t need—I mean,” he amended carefully, eyes fixed on the table now, “I mean, I left them attending to a few—minor problems that were too—ah, petty for me to bother with.” He shrugged; a corner of his mouth twitched. “You know how it is, a man like me can’t solve everyone’s problems, I gotta keep myself free and rested for times when—”
“When?” Avicus prompted as his companion scratched his head, suddenly at a loss for words.
Joxer glanced up and gave him a cavalier smile. “Oh, you know,” he said easily. “Like the time Draco tried to steal the virgin priestesses of Hestia, to sell to a slaver? Well—” he visibly expanded. “Of course, he had to get through me.”
Avicus smiled; his light eyes were very wide. “Really!” he said. “You amaze me. I had heard that Xena—”
Joxer preened. “Of course, I let her take the credit. She likes having the reputation—you know.” High above him, the warrior’s eyes narrowed as her fingers dug into stone. No, Joxer, I don’t know—but you’re gonna know. “So,” Joxer went on expansively, “anyway, I don’t think there’s any problem—if you really do need my services on this quest, I mean. Of course, I’m still a busy man, you know, even with Xena and Gabrielle handling the—petty stuff for me.”
“How odd,” the priest murmured. Xena had to crane her neck to catch his words. “Because I clearly saw a vision last night: Gabrielle, passing through the village Katerini, following you.”
“Katerini? Gabrielle?” Joxer started. “You mean, she’s—”
“Behind you, yes. She might even have reached Sparta by now.”
“Sparta?” Joxer echoed. His eyes darted nervously as he considered this; then he sat back and gave the priest a would-be worldly smile. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Not to—ah—speak out of turn, but frankly—” he lowered his voice, “—I can’t keep her off me.”
I’m gonna kill him; this time, I’m really gonna—no. The warrior smiled grimly. No, I’m not. I’m gonna tell Gabrielle exactly what you just said, Joxer. The smiled widened briefly; her eyes glinted.
“Ah, of course—hardly surprising. I understand.” Avicus finished his wine and rose in one fluid movement; Joxer blinked up at him, then staggered to his feet, nearly overturning the table. The priest righted it; Joxer, who’d half-tripped on his boots to get out of the way or catch the table, flailed and righted himself. “Well, Joxer,” Avicus went on blandly. “We will rest more easily, knowing you are laboring to resolve this terrible situation.” His free hand gestured in the king’s direction, but he had to repeat the sign twice—sharply indeed—before Menelaus was capable of speech.
The king finally cleared his throat. “Yes, we—certainly shall.” Avicus glanced at him but Menelaus’s face was suffused and he clearly wasn’t going to say anything else—anything else in the program, at least. The priest shrugged faintly and broadly gestured for Joxer to precede him back toward the outer doors.