Kassandra rested her hands on her hips, glancing archly back toward the western stretches of the island and the Sound of Paros. “The ants did not go unfed.”
Myrrine held her by the shoulders, prideful and elated. But Kassandra’s eyes were troubled. “Daughter?”
Kassandra took her to one side of the crowd around Euneas and handed her a scroll. “I found this on one of the guards.”
Myrrine frowned, unfurling the hide document. Her eyes widened as she beheld the strange cipher. It was not at all like the Greek lexicon. Dark clouds rolled across her heart as she realized she had seen this before. “Cultic script,” she said. “You were right about Silanos.”
“That was never in question,” Kassandra said. “But when I planted the second guard in the ground, I asked him from whom Silanos took such orders. He said the scroll came from one of the kings.”
“I don’t understand. Kings? Which kings?”
Kassandra’s eyes rolled up to meet hers. “One of the two Spartan kings.”
Myrrine’s eyes grew distant. “Once, they had the ephors under their control. Now, it is a king. But… which king?”
Kassandra absently shook her head. “I barely remember King Archidamos. And King Pausanias rose to power after that night—he is but a name to me. The guard certainly did not know: I thought he might confess when the ants rushed for him, but he said that all Cultists retained their anonymity. The traitor king goes by a moniker: the Red-eyed Lion.”
Myrrine rolled up the scroll, causing the two halves of the broken, red wax seal to meet again. Upon the wax disk, the image of a lion’s face was stamped. “Despite all that happened to us in Sparta, we cannot let the wretched king remain on his throne,” Myrrine said through a cage of teeth, shaking. Then she threw her hands in the air, in the direction of the coast. “Yet we cannot leave this island.”
“Archon,” said Euneas as he edged over toward them, his face now a patchwork of white creams. “Kassandra told me how things are. Well you should not despair, for just before I was captured, I confirmed my suspicions about the Parian blockade pattern. There is a way out. The chances are slim indeed, but if we time it right…”
The tanner, the woodsmen, the guards and the herders and all their families had gathered around now. She met the eyes of every single one of them. At last, she smiled sadly. “It matters not. I shan’t be leaving this island.”
“Myrrine?” Aspasia gasped.
“Mother?” Kassandra added. “The Hollow Land is calling. Can’t you hear it? It is time to return to Sparta.”
Myrrine straightened, her chin jutting defiantly. “I will not slip away and leave my people in the clutches of Silanos. If we were to escape, then he would find out eventually. It would be these people who would suffer for it.”
Kassandra glanced at Euneas and flicked her head toward Myrrine. “Tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
Euneas managed a semigrin. “Remember the time I shot two curlews with one arrow, Archon?”
TWELVE
Silanos gripped the edge of the ship’s rail, his eyes widening with glee. “By all the Gods, they’re coming at us,” he yelped in excitement as a speedy galley cut out toward his vessel from the Naxian shore. It was the Adrestia—that ship they had allowed to enter Naxian waters some months back—the one with the sister on board. He stared at the approaching ship’s decks, sure he could see her there once again—perched on the rail and holding one of the ropes. And was that… “The mother too!” he gasped. This would be the greatest feat imaginable—to capture and deliver both to the next Cult gathering.
“They’re building up to ramming speed,” one of his crew said, a twinge of fear in his voice.
“Let them draw close,” Silanos replied, seeing that the vessel was indeed speeding toward their ship’s side, the bronze beak glinting in the sunlight. “Then signal our boats fore and aft. Bring them around to smash this ship like pincers.”
“It will be done, Archon,” said the crewman.
“The sister and the mother will be kept in chains,” Silanos enthused to a nearby hand. “As for the other survivors, we will rope them to lead ingots and toss them into the water, making sure that the rope is long enough for them to kick their way almost to the surface—so they can claw at the air with their fingers but not reach it with their mouths. Ah, to watch a man drown is a fine thing. To have him drown within reach of hope makes it all the finer… and for the drowning man, those few heartbeats it takes to slip into death must feel like a lifetime!”
A hubbub of confusion from his marines and soldiers arose behind him. “What’s wrong?” he snapped at them, twisting around. He saw for himself before they answered. Where were the trailing and leading boats? Behind his ship, the waters were deserted. The boat following them was trailing somewhere behind the headland of cliffs. And ahead: nothing—the lead boat had already tacked past the hilly coastline there and out of sight. They were alone. His confidence crumbled like a pillar of wet sand hit by a wave as he visualized his ring of blockade boats, then saw this stretch of the Naxian coast for what it was.
“A blind spot…” he croaked.
He looked up just as the oncoming Naxian vessel sliced through the waves at an incredible speed, coming like an ax for his flagship’s side. He saw the malicious glares of the crew, the sun-burnished old captain, the sister perched on the rail and staring right at him, heard the frantic chant of the keleustes O-opop-O-opop-O-opop! Faster and faster and faster.
“Brace!” cried one of his crew over the roar of foaming water.
The cry did Silanos little good. The Adrestia’s ram plunged into the flagship’s timbers, smashing through the rail. Silanos wailed as the deck disintegrated below his feet. He flailed wildly as he plummeted onto the Adrestia’s bronze beak, his belly hitting the sharp edge and his body folding over it. He felt a dull snapping sensation, and a sudden weightlessness. A moment later, he plunged into the cold, roaring waters. In the gloom and through the storm of bubbles, he kicked his legs to make for the surface. Oddly, it did no good. Then he noticed ribbons of red rising from below. He looked down to see the ragged mess of skin and intestines—trailing like the arms of an octopus—and the complete absence of the lower half of his body. Bemused, he then spotted the missing half, a short distance away: legs twitching, drifting slowly toward the seabed. Up above, the great shadows of the two boats parted, the Adrestia cutting on to the open sea, leaving behind the smashed remains of his flagship.
He felt a sharp yank at the rags of skin and guts and looked down again to see a school of fish chewing and pulling on the bloody treat. The numbness of it all suddenly faded, and he felt the first waves of white-hot fiery pain surge through his halved body. And he realized he was right: the last few heartbeats for a drowning man to slip into death did indeed feel like a lifetime.
The masked ones stood in silence for a time, their eyes silently counting the many gaps in their circle.
The door to the dark chamber boomed open and another masked Cultist stormed in. His slapping footsteps and heaving shoulders suggested all was not well. “She’s escaped. The fucking whore has escaped again. The mother too.”
“But Silanos?”
“Silanos’s body lies at the bottom of the sea!”
They rumbled in dismay, before one snapped: “Where does she head now?”