When he left, the scent of him lingered, and I lay down on my narrow cot, staring at the curtain that swayed with every groan of the ship. Roz padded up the pallet and curled itself on the pillow beside me, its ribbon-tail coiling against my hair.
For some reason, the sight of it shook something loose inside me. My throat tightened. I bit hard against it, but the urge to cry welled up sudden and overwhelming, as if the tears refused to stay buried.
The curtain stirred again. Alcmene stepped inside. Her gaze swept the little alcove, then fixed on me. I must have looked worse than I thought, because her brow softened at once, a crease of concern etching deep.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” she asked gently, almost hesitantly, as though she couldn’t fathom what could leave me so shaken … especially after speaking with Achilles.
I opened my mouth, and then closed it again. The ache inside me pressed higher, tight against my throat.
“I’ll never be free,” I whispered. The words slipped out like something long-caged, splintered at the edges, leaving a sting on my tongue. My hands twisted at the sheet, as though I could anchor myself against the force of it. The confession startled me. I had not meant to let it loose, not even to Alcmene. But once spoken, it seemed to hang in the air between us, undeniable as breath.
Alcmene said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the ship and the faint lap of water against the hull. Her gaze rested on me, deep with something I couldn’t name. Pity, perhaps. Or recognition.
Her lips pressed together, and she closed her eyes, lashes dark against her skin. I braced for counsel, for rebuke, for some gentle admonishment that I needed to be braver. Instead of words, a song slipped out when she opened her mouth, soft and sorrow-born, its rise and fall echoing the sea.
“Sleep, little ember, the night is long,
Rest where the sea winds carry their song.
Chains may bind and shadows fall,
But dawn will come to break them all.
Hush, little flame, let the dark drift by,
Dream where the stars are kind in the sky.
Though sorrow lingers, cold and near,
The light will rise, the path made clear.
Rest, little spark, on the ocean’s breast,
Cradled by waves, be given to rest.
Though gods may bind and mortals weep,
The sun will find you, sleep, child, sleep.”
Her voice wove around me, softer than the moan of timbers, steadier than the sea’s eternal pulse. My eyes slipped shut before the last note faded, Roz’s warmth against my temple pushing me into sleep.
Alive.
Caged.
But, for a moment, feeling less alone.
Chapter56
Morning broke, gray and heavy, the sky sagging with slate-colored clouds. Ahead, Sidon rose from the coast like a crusted wound, its cliffs rust-colored, its walls a deep ochre stone that seemed to drink the sun rather than reflect it. Even the waves turned darker as we neared, frothing not with foam but a dull, sullen churn. There were no gulls. No sound but the sails and the slap of oars cutting through water.
“It feels like the world ends here,” I murmured before I could stop myself. I hadn’t meant to speak aloud. But no one answered anyway. No one else dared to break the silence.
On the walls of Sidon, their warriors were waiting. Rank upon rank of soldiers in armor bright as hammered silver, spears lifted high, a forest of gleaming death. Banners drooped in the windless morning, each marked with moonlit sigils.
Their helmets curved like horns, silvered and cruel, but it was their faces that chilled me most. Even at this distance, their skin looked leeched of life, the high planes of their cheeks glimmering faintly with that silver, metallic sheen. A thousand merciless eyes watched from the walls, as cold and pitiless as the emissaries who had once stood in Sparta’s halls.
I stood beside Menelaus, who held himself tall and still, his arms folded behind his back. His dark cloak stirred faintly despite the dead air, as if moved by some unseen hand. Menelaus turned to me. “You will stand at the bow, my beauty,” he said, clipped and cold.
