‘Butyoudon’t say as much.’
‘Well, I am now. I see your face every day, don’t I? Perhaps you are only so disbelieving because you do not.’
I sense a trick, shove her lightly in the chest. ‘To the fucking quick, please, worm.’
‘Would you not like to see that face, Meda? The one that men travelled across the kingdom for? The one your mother would risk her life for? The one I have to look at every day?’
‘I have seen my face,’ I say, but my breath is short and sharp at what she is promising.
‘No, you haven’t. Not properly. You’ve seen it stained brown-red or brown-green, reflected in the river or twisted and shiny in bronze plates. But you haven’t seen it as others have.’
‘And how … how do you propose—’
‘The lake is not like the river. It is still, clear. You would see your face as I do. Would you not look upon yourself?’
I curse her but she has me and she knows it. She sees the relenting in my face before I speak it, and she grins. It is not her grin of wicked delight when she has teased me to temper or the feral sharpening that descended as she slashed at the boy with her coral knife. She is joyful.
‘How long will it take?’
‘That depends on how strong you are. But I would think a few hours.’
I nod. ‘All right. We will go after lessons. I will not be missed.’
As the sun crests and begins to fall we slip into the river. My grandmother sleeps further downstream, when I am normally taking my lunch. I ate it swiftly and slipped through my window, Ceto at my back. Now we move forward through the familiar waters. Reeds sway around us like fine ladies dancing. We swim and come upon a little cluster of courtiers, girls I once knew. We dip beneath the surface in unison and race each other through the murky green world until we are past. When we emerge I ask the question.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you want to do this? What do you care whether or not I’ve seen my face?’
She does not answer.
‘Ceto?’
‘I am thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About my answer. It is … difficult … I—’ She pauses. Our strokes take us against the current. I match hers easily; her eyes track the shapes my arms make through the water, sometimes even idling at my sides, leaving my legs to work. ‘I am unsure of what I can and cannot say.’ Her tongue taps against her teeth. Suddenly I understand.
‘Is the reason something you might get in trouble for?’
‘It is possible, yes.’ She is careful with her words; her tongue is tied by loyalty and she is testing its boundaries. Iwatch her, glad when the current strengthens and I have to use my arms to swim. I am better able to smother the urge to smooth the crease at her forehead. Her hair is slicked off her face by the water, silt clings to her in sparkling crystals. I realize that in all the time we have been together, we have spoken very little of the terms of her own servitude.
‘What happens if you disobey Poseidon?’
‘I would be an oath breaker and punished by Horkos.’
‘So you must do everything he says?’
‘Yes. But … well, if, for example, he ordered me to come to him. He would have to say when. Because I could say “at my leisure” and arrive in a week’s time.’
‘So you have some choice?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if he asked you something, you cannot lie, but you can … you can speak half a truth? There are ways around some oaths, aren’t there?’ I have spent my life at court. I know of politicking and craft.
