Every day, Telemachus awaited word from Troy. Fortunately for him, we were rarely in short supply. Stories of the war were constantly pouring in from the seas, each grander than the last. It was becoming almost impossible to tell where fiction bled into fact.
It seemed Telemachus’s father had made quite a name for himself over the last nine years of bloodshed. People spoke often of the cunning Odysseus constantly outsmarting the Trojans, wise Odysseus counseling the hotheaded Agamemnon, brilliant Odysseus beloved by Athena herself.
It grew tedious after a while, but Telemachus wolfed these tales down greedily, as did the other boys of Ithaca, each new morsel feeding the legend of Odysseus that constantly loomed over the island. To many, he was like a god.
“Do you think Achilles will return to battle soon?” Telemachus pressed.
Achilles was another favorite among the young boys. Son of a goddess and prince of the Myrmidons, Achilles was claimed to be the greatest fighter this world had ever seen. Though the last we hadheard, the famed soldier had set down his sword, refusing to fight after Agamemnon stole his captive bride. I didn’t know the woman’s name; nobody ever bothered to speak it.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, though a guilty, secret part of me prayed Achilles wouldn’t ever step foot on Troy’s battlefield again. Everyone claimed the Greeks could not secure a victory without him. So the longer Achilles refused to fight, the longer the war stretched on.
And the longer our life here would remain untouched.
“I do not care to speak of the war,” Thratta huffed from ahead of us. “It bores me.”
“Itboresyou?” This idea seemed unfathomable to Telemachus.
“Don’t forget, the Thracians fight for the Trojans,” I reminded him.
He nodded sagely. “Does it make Thratta sad to know the Greeks will win?”
I hesitated. “There is no certainty in war, Telemachus.”
“But we have Achilles and my father! We cannot lose!”
Ahead of us, Thratta held up a fist, signaling for us to halt. I watched her scan the thick underbrush, her free hand hovering over the dagger at her belt.
“We are not alone,” she murmured.
Telemachus inched closer to me as I reached for the blade in my own belt. I was only marginally better with a dagger than a bow, despite Thratta’s training. Still, it felt reassuring to have the weapon cool and sure in my palm.
“Wait here,” Thratta instructed as she pressed forward to investigate.
A sharp knot of fear constricted in my gut, even as I assured myself that I was overreacting. Thratta had simply heard a noise—that was all.
But we were, after all, alone in the wilderness with Ithaca’s most prized possession. More importantly than that, withPenelope’smost prized possession.
I felt a sharp jab against my spine.
“Drop the blade,” a voice hissed. “You, too, boy.”
Telemachus whirled on his heels, eyes widening.
“Do as they say,” I told him, dropping my dagger and raising my hands.
Telemachus obeyed, mirroring my movements, though there was a strange, quizzical frown caught around his lips.
“We don’t want any trouble,” I said, scouring the tree line for Thratta.
“Well,Iwant that stag of yours,” the voice replied. It was surprisingly high-pitched and…girlish.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small figure squaring up behind me. She was a tiny slip of a girl who couldn’t have been more than thirteen. She was covered in dirt, her dark hair roughly shorn and sticking out wildly around her head. She reminded me of the stray mutts I saw in town, scraggly and pitiful-looking, marred by an undeniable feral edge.
In her hands, she held my bow, the arrow pointed directly into my back.
“Where’d the big one go?” she demanded. Despite her tiny stature, she had a glare that could have made the gods themselves quake.
“Who are you?” Telemachus asked, more curious than afraid.
