Nine Years Later
The prince of Ithaca steadied his arrow, readying himself for the kill.
Dappled morning light played across his tanned skin, the trees whispering in anticipation of his next move.
Telemachus looked so like his mother when he concentrated, that small crease forming between his brows, a quiet intensity shifting behind those gray eyes.
The fletching brushed his cheek as he drew in a slow, even breath. There was a moment of stillness, then the prince let his arrow fly, rising from his crouched position to watch it slice a path through the sleepy, shadow-dipped forest.
I heard a delicatethunk, and then a heavier one as the stag fell. The creature was dead before it hit the ground, Telemachus’s arrow having pierced right through its eye.
Beside me, Thratta let out a loud, victorious whoop, causing a flock of birds to take flight.
“Telemachus,” I gasped, turning to him. “That was incredible!”
The prince shrugged. “Accurate aim is simply mathematics.”
He was so like his mother.
“Your first kill!” Thratta slapped him on the back, and the prince tried to hide his wince. “Bendis has truly blessed you.”
“Bendis is a Thracian goddess,” Telemachus said shrewdly. “It isArtemis who would have blessed me.”
Thratta laughed. “Perhaps both our goddesses have, little prince.”
Telemachus grinned as he shouldered his bow. I could not help but marvel at how grown-up he looked in that moment, honeyed rays catching on his young features, illuminating glimpses of the man he would one day become.
It was hard to believe he was already nine summers old.
Nine summers…
It is strange, how elusive time becomes when you are happy.
In Sparta, the seasons had passed slowly, lingering like the stubborn chill of winter bleeding into spring. But in Ithaca, they slipped by all too quickly, as if the laws of time had been loosened, letting the days spill out uncontrollably, too fast for me to keep hold of.
The prince must have read something in my expression, for he placed his small hand on my shoulder and said, “Do not worry, Melantho. Your aim will improve in time.”
“Unlikely,” Thratta snorted.
I gave her a shove, though I might have had more luck knocking over a stone pillar.
In truth, Thratta was right. I was by no means a natural with the bow, but I still loved the thrill of holding the weapon in my hand, of feeling its power thrumming between my fingers.
It had been Telemachus’s idea to have Thratta teach him to hunt. It was not surprising, considering the boy had grown up on a healthy diet of Thratta’s stories about her daring exploits with her tribe. King Laertes had been dismayed at the idea of a female slave, aThracianslave, teaching a prince to hunt. But who else was there to take up the task? The majority of Ithaca’s menfolk were still far away on the shores of Troy.
“Did someone take my bow?” I frowned, looking for the weapon I had placed down only moments before.
“Perhaps it ran away,” Thratta teased. “It no longer wishes to be abused by your hands.”
I rolled my eyes as I rose to my feet, dusting off my knees.
“Come, Telemachus,” I said. “Let us fetch your prize.”
Our trek back to the palace was long, weighed down by the heat sticking to the air. Thratta had the giant stag slung over her shoulders, yet she did not stumble nor complain once as we walked. Instead, she sang in her mother tongue, her booming voice barely even breathless. I smiled as I watched her rust-red hair swishing merrily back and forth. Thratta had let it grow long and wild, though she kept it permanently tied back with a leather thong. Red hair was apparently a Thracian trait, so Thratta had decided I must be one of them. I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I liked the idea of fierce warrior blood flowing through me, of having a piece of history that tied me to something other than Sparta.
“Do you think there will be news when we return?” Telemachus asked as we trudged onward.
“Perhaps,” I said, brushing the sweat from my brow.
