Dark of the Moon

chapter 12

TELL MY FRIEND here what you just told me." The guard's pimply face indicates that he is no older than I am, and the mirth that stretches his mouth wide makes my hand itch to strike him. Artemis senses my anger, and a low rumble issues from her long throat. Instead of punching the palace guard, I drop my hand to her head. She falls silent, but I can feel that her every muscle is quivering.

I turn to the older man indicated by the youth. "I'm the king's son," I repeat. "I've come to meet him and to take my place at his side."

"The king's son?" The heavyset man doesn't seem as amused as his companion, but he doesn't move from his spot in front of the door, where he's planted like a tree trunk.

I'm tired. I want to go in and meet the man who supposedly sired me. I'm filthy and I'm hungry, and Artemis is even more worn out than I am. The trip was uneventful, except for the pig that I killed the first day out. A few days later I met a man I thought was a thief, but since I carried nothing of value with me except my sword and my hand rested on its hilt during the whole of our short conversation on the edge of a cliff, I'd had nothing to fear from him.

I should be disappointed by this lack of adventures, but secretly I'm pleased to have made it to my destination in such a short time and with no injuries or loss of more of my meager property than the blanket I had given to the pig-woman. I finished my food quickly, though, and I'm hungry. I can feel Artemis's ribs through her thick coat.

And now that I've come all the way here, and when the man I seek is finally just on the other side of the door, this officious boy and his large friend are blocking my entry. The injustice of it swells my chest, and I want to shout at them. I know it would do me no good and might cause them to throw me out in front of all the people passing on the wide street.

The older man pulls thoughtfully at his lower lip. He lets go of it and it snaps back into place. "What makes you think you're his son, boy?" His tone isn't unfriendly, and even Artemis seems to relax a little.

"He left me something. He wanted me to come to him once I found it."

"Oh, so he left you something, did he? What was it, a golden crown?" The pimple-faced boy's sneering voice is the sardine that broke the pelican's beak, and before I know what I'm doing, I haul back and punch the smirk off his face.

A big hand claps me on the shoulder. I wince, resigned to being tossed out, but instead the hand is steering me forward in a friendly way. "You've just earned yourself entry into the king's chamber." The big man chuckles and pushes the door open. "I've been wanting to do that ever since the oaf joined the guard service. You'll find the king and his lady having their dinner. And boy"—his voice turns serious, and I glance at him, not sure I can believe what I'm hearing—"be careful of the queen. She's a tricky one." He thrusts me forward, and I find myself on the other side of the door.

I'm too dazed at the sudden turn of events to wonder what he means. The chamber is larger than any room I've ever seen before and is so lovely that I can't take it all in. I see a gleaming stone floor laid out in an intricate pattern of blue and red and white and green. The ceiling is open above a pool in the center of the room. White flowers float on the smooth surface of the clear water, and all around the edge of the little rectangular pond, caged birds are singing.

For a moment, I can't make out any people. Then I realize that the men ranged at the far end of the room are not statues, as I first thought, but guards. In the middle of the group is a low table of white stone, and two people are sitting at it on heaped-up cushions, eating something that smells lovely and popping little bits of whatever it is into each other's mouths.

They look up as I approach with Artemis close by my side. I hope that my stomach doesn't growl at the sight of the roasted songbirds and olives and fresh bread piled on platters. The woman, plump and rosy as a baby, is the first to speak. "What a lovely dog!" She reaches out her chubby hand, and Artemis moves closer, and then stretches her long neck and sniffs the woman's fingers politely, her plumed tail waving.

"Thank you, lady." I feel awkward. I don't know how to address her, not certain who she is, though I suspect she is the queen. Artemis, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease as she goes from the woman to the man, who is also round and smiling.

"Who might you be?" the man asks.

I try to frame my answer. Finally, I squeak, "Theseus" and stop. A proper introduction includes at least the father's name, if not the grandfather's, and so on as far back as the speaker knows. They both smile and nod to encourage me, and I manage to stammer, "Son of Aethra." Somehow, I forgot to ask my mother the name of the king, and in any case I feel shy about using it until I know where I stand. They continue smiling, knowing as well as I do that one who introduces himself by giving his mother's name is the son of an unmarried woman. I blurt out, "Son of Aethra and of the king of Athens."

"Dear me," the woman says, turning to her husband. "Is this another one of yours?"

"Another—another one?" I sputter.

The man seems unperturbed. He tilts his head to one side and looks at me. "Could be," he muses. "He does have something of the look of the House of Aegeus."

The woman nods. "He does indeed. He puts me in mind of Hippon, don't you think? The king's nephew," she explains to me. "He's a nice boy, very strong, broad in the shoulders like you."

My head is whirling. "My mother—"

He frowns. "Who did you say your mother was?"

"Aethra."

The king looks puzzled.

"From Troizena," I explain. "She's the daughter of King Pittheus."

He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, boy, but I don't remember. It must be a long time ago. How old are you, anyway?" Without waiting for an answer, he picks up his cup and drains it, then gestures behind him at a servant, who hurries to pour dark wine into it.

"Sixteen," I say, but he has turned his attention back to his meal.

"Have some wine, dear." The queen passes me a brimming cup.

I begin to feel desperate. It appears the king doesn't believe me. "You left me something." I pull the sword out of its sheath. "You put this and a pair of sandals under a rock, and you told her—"

"Now, that sounds familiar!" he cries. He holds out his hand and I give him the weapon. "Ah yes, my old sword. The boulder by the path! I tipped it over on top of this sword and a pair of sandals. You have the sandals, boy?" I tug the straps of my pack and pull out the rotten things. I pass them to him, and he beams. "Move aside, dear," he says to his wife. "Make room for my son—what did you say your name was?"

"Theseus."

"This is my son, Theseus, son of Aegeus. Theseus, my boy, meet the queen of Athens, Medea of Kolkhis."

The words of greeting die on my lips as I turn to face the woman whose notoriety has spread even to Troizena: Medea, the witch, the wife of Iason, leader of the Argonauts. Iason took her away from her home and married her in exchange for her gift of the golden ram's fleece that was the Kolkhians' most sacred object. Then, when Iason decided to take another wife, as was only to be expected of a ruler, Medea flew into a rage, and in her passion and fury she did something unspeakable. To punish her husband, with her own hand she killed her own children, hers and Iason's.

And this same Medea—this woman smiling across the table at me—this is my stepmother.