This is perhaps the most surprising part of his current circumstances. He has been imprisoned by the Colchian king, with the threat of unknown death looming over him, and yet Jason does not panic. Fear lives a few inches above his skin. He washes his face and offers prayers to the gods. To Hera especially, who has gotten him out of every terrible situation he’s been in so far.
This is why Jason is startled, but not shocked, when the girl appears in his chambers.
He remembers her from the royal reunion—the one wearing the purple dress. But now he is able to get a better look at her. She has wide cheeks tapering to a narrow chin, a sprinkling of freckles over a strong nose. Small, beautifully shaped lips, and black ringlets of hair that fall around her face. But her golden eyes, theinheritance of all the sun’s children, unsettle him. They are direct and fierce, like the eyes of a lioness.
Her name is Medea, she says, and she has come to save him. “Do you know of my father’s bronze bulls?” she asks, setting down one of the amphorae.
Jason replies that he doesn’t.
“Count yourself lucky,” she says darkly. “They are my father’s favored means of execution. Great hollow casts of bulls, their bellies large enough to fit a man. A fire is kindled beneath, and the unfortunate is burned alive. The bulls sing because of a cunning apparatus that renders the victim’s screams into sonorous music.”
A lingering, roasting death. Jason shudders at the thought of it.
“But you will not die,” the girl Medea declares as she sets down the other amphora. “Take this,” she says, indicating the smaller jar. “Rub it on your skin, leaving no part out. It will protect you against fire. And here is an infusion in water, for soaking your clothes so they do not burn away.” She gestures at the second amphora.
Jason stares at her, uncomprehending.
Medea sighs deeply. She uncorks the smaller bottle, rubbing its contents over her arm. There is a brazier in the corner of the room. Medea approaches it and shoves her arm into the burning embers up to the elbow.
Jason cannot help crying out, but there is no scream of pain from the girl nor scent of burning flesh. When Medea takes her arm from the brazier, it is unmarred.
“Do you believe me now?” she asks, a trace of amusement in her voice. “I am a priestess of Hekate and a witch. I can shield against fire, and create illusions, and perform transformations. And I am very good at potions.”
Colchis is the land of witches, and now one of them is offering herself to him. Jason is astonished. But nothing in this world is ever given freely.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“Take me with you when you go,” Medea says in a rush. Her hands catch the hem of her sleeve, worrying it between her fingers. “I’ll save you from the bronze bulls, and I’ll help you escape. All I ask is that you look after me and make me your wife.”
Your wife.Jason’s mind comes alive with questions, projections, annotated lists of why this is a bad idea. A marriage alliance is a major decision, not one to be made the night before one’s possible execution. A man has obligations to a wife, in the eyes of both humanity and the gods. Besides, it is highly irregular for a girl to give herself away in marriage.
Jason wonders what his mother would think of all this.
But Medea offers a peerless dowry: his life and freedom. And it is true that the gods work in mysterious ways. Perhaps Hera is acting through this girl to save him once again.
“Please,” Medea begs, and Jason is stunned to see tears in her golden eyes. She falls to her knees before him. “Please, you don’t know what it’s like living here. Help me. Take me from this place like Theseus brought Ariadne out of the labyrinth.”
Jason seems to recall that the story of Theseus and Ariadne did not have a happy ending, and indeed, the girl blanches as soon as she speaks. But that does not dim her determination.
“Promise to make me your wife, and I will bring you the Golden Fleece,” Medea says.
That settles it. How can Jason do otherwise, seeing the desperation in those tear-filled eyes? How can he do anything besides swear by Hera, the Queen of Heaven, that he will take Medea away from this place? How can he not fold Medea in his arms and hold her as she weeps with relief?
Practicality as well as tender compassion drives him. Jason wants the Fleece. And he has just met the one person who can give it to him.
19
Medea
In the morning, the sun rose sparkling on the world. It glittered on the dew of the grass and the rivers of wine, milk, oil, and water that ran through the garden. It imbued the marble columns with a soft, luminescent glow and shone on the bronze bulls that had caused the deaths of so many.
The court of Qulha, such as it was, gathered for this spectacle. A ripple passed through the assembly as Jason was led into the courtyard. The pale sunlight struck threads of gold in his hair, and he favored the watching crowd with a little smile. My eyes swept up and down Jason’s body, praying that he had applied the potions as directed. If he hadn’t—if he did not trust me—the results would soon be horribly clear.
I glanced at Chalciope, stationed at the far end of the courtyard in deep conversation with Zaidar, head of the palace guard. She met my gaze, grim and steady.
Soon, now.
Aeetes stepped forward, explaining how the stranger had offered insult and would die for it, though not by Aeetes’s own hand, since the king would never shed the blood of an honored guest. The audience tittered in obedient amusement.
