Theano’s lips tightened. Her eyes settled on Danae, absorbing her short hair and obsidian clothing. Then she said stiffly, ‘You are welcome in my home. Above all else we honour the gods.’
Odysseus grinned. ‘As do we.’
‘I’d heard tales of Trojan hospitality, but, Antenor, you have surpassed them,’ said Palamedes, as a slave girl rubbed oil onto his feet.
They were all gathered round a roaring hearth. The stone floor was covered in animal hides, the walls draped in pastoral tapestries, and a veritable feast was spread upon several low wooden tables clustered around their lounging chairs. It was only when the food appeared that Danae realized how hungry she was. Plates of cured meats, cheese, bread, apricots and figs were brought to them by more slaves, each dish more tantalizing than the last. They had eaten for the most part in silence, barely pausing to wash the food down with gulps of watered wine.
They had seen no more of Theano, who, despite extending the comforts of her home, still seemed uneasy in their company and had withdrawn to her chamber.
‘What think you, Antenor? Will Priam agree to our demands?’ asked Nestor.
The old Trojan councillor gazed into the fire. ‘Many in this city wish for Helen to return to Menelaus and be done with the whole sorry affair.’
‘Surely Priam will bow to the demands of his people rather than risk war,’ said Odysseus, as a slave refilled his cup. ‘Many thousands will die, whoever the victor.’
Danae’s wine suddenly tasted bitter on her tongue. She wondered how he could speak so easily of the deaths their sabotage would ensure.
‘Were it that simple,’ replied Antenor. ‘You see, when it comes to Paris, Priam is rather indulgent.’
‘Go on,’ Odysseus prompted.
Antenor ran a hand across his mouth. ‘When Queen Hecuba was great with child, she and Priam received a prophecy from Delphi. It foretold their unborn son would be the destruction of Troy. They were most distraught and knew that a terrible choice lay before them. Their child or their city. One life or thousands. They did what any wise rulers would do. When Paris was born the child was given in secret to a herdsman to be taken to Mount Ida and exposed on the hillside. The king and queen claimed the boy had not survived the birth and lived for years under the burden of the truth. When eighteen summers had passed, a young farmer arrived at the Scaean Gates who was the very image of his mother, Hecuba. It was revealed that the herdsman could not bring himself to leave the child to die all those years ago and so had raised Paris as his own. Priam believes the gods rewarded them by returning their son, and theireighteen years of sacrifice were enough to placate the fates. Unfortunately, Paris has proven himself to be vain, lustful and jealous, traits only exacerbated by the indulgence of his parents, who I believe have never shaken the guilt they bear for attempting to have him killed.’
‘You speak very frankly of your royal family,’ said Palamedes.
‘Be not mistaken, I am, and always will be, loyal to Troy. I seek only to arm you with the knowledge to prevent this war.’
‘And we are indebted to you.’ Nestor reached across and clasped Antenor’s hand.
Odysseus said nothing as he gazed at the flaming hearth. Danae wondered what schemes were percolating behind that furrowed brow.
‘Come,’ said Antenor. ‘The hour is late. Let me show you to your chambers, I am sure you will all wish to rest before your audience with the king tomorrow.’
Barefoot, she walked upon the midnight sand. The ghostly grove outside Hades’ palace lay before her, and beyond raced the dark waters of the River Styx. As she drew closer, the trees began to move, yet no breeze danced across her limbs. Their trunks were thicker than she remembered, their bark like silvery skin, branches reaching towards each other like outstretched arms.
She realized with a horrifying jolt that they were not trees at all, but people; their feet buried in the earth, wailing soundlessly at a sky they could not see.
She ran across the last stretch of ground, obsidian grains spraying behind her pounding feet. But when she reached the grove, the tree-like figures twisted away from her, hiding their faces.
‘Don’t be afraid, I’m going to help you!’ she called, in a voice that was not her own.
A voice that whispered to her in the small, dark hours.
Heart racing, she raised her hands and saw pale, slender fingers.
It could not be.
Drain them,said the voice inside her head. A voice so like the one that had awoken with her power, yet different. Older, colder, hungrier.
Though a part of her screamed ‘No!’ another part growled with desire, and she found herself reaching towards the nearest person. Horror and excitement pounding in her chest, she wrapped her hands around their neck and began to drain their life-threads.
It felt wonderful.
Danae woke tangled in her cloak, her skin slick with sweat. She looked down at her hands in the stuttering candlelight and sagged with relief. They were her own familiar fingers.
She thought at first it was the dream that had roused her, then something clattered against the painted shutters of her bedroom window. Frowning, she paced across the room and flung them open.
‘Psst!’
