Those first people could not imagine any deity more majestic than the sky itself. But the firmament was only one part of Hekate’s domain.
In the ten years since its founding, the temple of Hekate had only grown in size and prominence, and my burgeoning magic with it. I ran through the necropolis and up the marble stairs, then into the sanctuary.
The others inclined their heads as I took the place of prominencebefitting the high priestess. Melanippe, a half-Greek woman, stood at the altar with the morning sacrifice. When she saw my arrival, her knife flashed.
As the sacrifice breathed its last, I gazed up at the statue of Hekate. It had been crafted by the finest artisans—who, despite my strenuous objections, had chosen to represent the goddess’s three faces as youthful. Surely Hekate was pleased by our sacrifices, though the expression on her bronze face did not change.
I felt a familiar flicker of trepidation:If you have lived a life worth immortalizing, I will give you apotheosis,she’d told me.
Such a small word,if. How could I know what she thought worth immortalizing? Surely a temple established in her name was a worthy thing, and yet I could never be sure. Hekate had not seen fit to visit me since that dream a decade ago, no matter how much I called out for her.Your father’s blood draws a circle around you,Hekate had said, one she could not breach. A grim reminder that I was Aeetes’s child just as much as I was hers.
I steeled myself. My mother had given me many gifts, and I would not squander them.
“Draw close and attend my words,” I told the other priestesses, who formed an obedient ring. I reached into the pouch at my side and pulled out a little jar, rubbing its contents over my hand.
Peering from beneath my lashes, I glanced at Melanippe to make sure she was still watching. I liked Melanippe, with her strong, capable hands and her lush black hair twisted into a braid. I found myself wanting to impress her.
When my arm was coated in the contents of the jar, I walked to the altar, skirt swishing along the stone floor. The base of the potion was the herb Prometheon, which grew in the mountains and had roots like freshly slaughtered flesh. It was sacred to Hekate and good for magic.
Above me soared the great bronze statue, flanked by low torches on either side. These torches were holy and never allowed to go out, and the heat of them warmed my skin.
“Behold the power of Hekate,” I declared, and shoved my hand into the fire.
A commotion erupted among the priestesses. Some shrieked and rushed forward—including Melanippe, I was pleased to see, concern written across her lovely face. But they stopped short when they saw that my hand was not burning.
“Magic,” I began, “can turn away fire and transform one thing into another. All through the power of Hekate.”
“Hail Hekate,” the priestesses intoned, eyes wide as full moons. I rejoiced in their esteem. How far I had come from being that little girl working a slapdash spell in a midnight garden.
But before long, the priestesses broke away to go about their daily tasks: sweeping and drawing water and preparing for the worshippers who would ensure the temple’s prosperity. I caught sight of Melanippe carrying a bucket for water, her braid swaying between her strong shoulder blades. Watching them, a certain loneliness filled my soul. Despite being the temple’s royal patroness, I could increasingly see that I was not privy to the camaraderie of the priestesses who dwelled there. I’d built a sisterhood but found myself outside it.
Well, no matter. I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders. With the morning sacrifices finished, there was no reason for me to stay. I headed back to the palace, only to find someone was waiting for me at the garden gate. My brother, Absyrtos, leaning against a pillar.
Inwardly, I grimaced, though I knew better than to let my feelings show. Five years younger than me and rangy with adolescence, Absyrtos was our father’s favorite and he knew it.
“Well, well,” Absyrtos sneered. “My wayward sister has come home again, it seems.”
My hands clenched into fists. For all that I could turn back fire and place the moon in the noonday sky, I never could manage my brother.
“You’re always going off to that temple,” he continued. “How do I know you’re not meeting a lover there?”
A flare of anger. “I’m the royal patroness of the—”
“I know what you are,” Absyrtos snapped. “What I want”—he poked me in the chest for emphasis—“is not to have people talking about how myfuture wifeused to walk the streets.”
Future wife?Shock made me lightheaded. At first, I thought he must be talking about someone else. But I then remembered my histories, and how the pharaohs of the southern kingdoms, our forebears, used to marry their sisters to preserve the integrity of the royal line.
A distant ringing sounded in my ears. The world spun around me, unreal. It made sense that my father would arrange a marriage for me, since I’d reached the venerable age of twenty-three without a match, but I’d never imagined something like this.
Absyrtos laughed at the naked shock on my face. “Father doesn’t want another faithless daughter whoring herself after foreign kings. That’s why he rejected your other suitors and betrothed you to me.”
I stared at him in horror.
Absyrtos grinned cruelly. “As for that little cult you’re running, no matter. When you’re my wife, I’ll make you give all that up.”
No.
Over the roofs of the palace came a distant sound like a faraway trumpet. A low, brassy song gradually increasing in volume. Though not unpleasant, the sound made the hair along my armsstand on end, because I knew what it meant: Somewhere in the palace, someone was dying.
