The flame-haired man feigned a wounded expression. A myriad of questions whirled through Danae’s mind. If she had to place Telamon’s origins, she would never have guessed royalty. He swore far too much for a start.
Dru smiled graciously. “Any friend of Heracles is a friend of mine. Come, you must be thirsty after your travels. We have a couple of fresh barrels from Epirus. Lovely vintage, I’m told.”
After stowing their packs inside, they followed the barkeeper back out into the square. The men who’d been drinking outside had made themselves scarce and Dru bustled around until he’d located enough mismatched stools.
As they sat, Evan emerged, carrying a tray of cups and a couple of jugs of wine. Dolos emptied a pouch of coins into Dru’s hand as Atalanta downed the first jug in one go, then set about pouring the rest of the wine. She left Danae’s cup empty. Biting back a comment, Danae reached for the second jug at the same time as Hylas. Their fingers bumped, and he withdrew his hand, mumbling an apology while she sloshed wine into her cup. When she looked up, she caught a gleam in Telamon’s eye. She’d been teased enough by her brothers to know what came next.
Before Telamon had a chance to speak, she said, “So, was being a prince too much like hard work or were the silk sheets not soft enough for your liking?”
A spark of amusement cracked Atalanta’s scowl.
“She bites!” Telamon took a gulp of wine. “Oh, thatisnice.” He turned back to Danae. “Who could resist the call of adventure, the promise of a blood-slicked sword and a chance toroyallyshove it to one’s father...” He looked around the table expectantly.
Atalanta groaned and drained her cup.
Danae raised her wine to her lips. She spluttered.
“It’s not mixed!”
“And?” said Atalanta, the tilt of her jaw daring Danae to continue.
Her mother said that drinking wine without mixing it with water was barbaric. But she wasn’t on Naxos anymore. She swallowed and took another sip of the strongest wine she’d ever tasted.
“All the better for it.”
The salivating scent of roasting meat wafted over from the outdoor oven. Dru was sizzling strips of what smelled like lamb on the open flames.
“Gods, that smells good,” said Hylas.
Evan returned to the table, a bowl of olives in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other, then went back for more wine as Dru shuffled over and set down a plate of steaming meat on the table. They abandoned the bread and fell upon it. The lamb was tender and smoky from the fire. Danae couldn’t remember the last time she’d had meat so succulent. Atalanta skewered a strip with her dagger, eyeballing Danae as she ripped it with her teeth. Wilting under the warrior’s gaze, Danae glanced down at her food.
“Seer, why don’t you tell everyone about that rock you carry.”
The hairs rose on the back of Danae’s neck. She knew she had to tread carefully, was all too aware that these people probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they found out she was deceiving them. And yet, the fire of confrontation burned in her belly.
“I consulted the omens last night—there are objects I have that help me do this—and I saw something. Something that concerns you, Atalanta.” The warrior’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t want to alarm you, but perhaps it’s best if you are prepared.” She knew she should stop, but she couldn’t help relishing the rapt silence that had fallen over the table. “A sickness will come upon you. Your mouth will dry and no water will quench your thirst. Your stomach will churn and your head will pound as though a horde of wild boar are trampling through your skull.”
A muscle pulsed in Atalanta’s jaw. “You’re lying.”
“I swear on the Styx I am not.” Danae’s face was grave. “I’ve watched you drink at least a jug and a half of wine already. I guarantee, tomorrow your headache will rival that of a farmer after his wedding night.”
The silence that followed was filled with the sizzle of lamb fat.
In a heartbeat Atalanta was on her feet, stool upended in the dirt, her knife stretched over the table, poised at Danae’s throat.
“You’re a liar! I see you!”
“Sit down, Atalanta.” Heracles pulled her away from Danae. “Learn how to take a joke.”
Telamon chuckled. “I like this one.”
Atalanta sat slowly, her eyes searing into Danae as she took a long, deep drink.
“I’ve heard the people of Colchis drink the blood of their enemies,” said Hylas.
“Poor bastards,” said Telamon. “They must be desperate for a decent libation. Perhaps we should take an amphora of this wine with us and trade it for the fleece.”
Atalanta flicked her gaze to him and snorted, then reached for the wine jug.
