“It has to do with royalty, Atalanta” he answered with cold patience. “Kings appreciate washing and this king is putting together the hunt for the mantiger. Please him, and you can go as Orion’s protégée. Fight him—and you’re on your own.”
She glared.
Evenor continued. “Look at me—I’ve already washed. Am I less a hunter? What’s a little bit of water and a few fine clothes if it means we rid the world of that awful beast.”
She ground her teeth in frustration, but she knew he was right.
An hour later they were walking to the throne room behind Orion. He was in a white chiton, cinched with a leather belt, the lion skin cape over his shoulder looking freshly brushed. His dark hair gleamed with oil and his sandals were oiled and polished.
Evenor was dressed in a simpler chiton, girdled at the waist with a woven belt.
At least they look comfortable, Atalanta thought. She’d been put into a short-sleeved gown that reached to her ankles. It kept catching between her legs, tripping her up. She could no longer stride as she was used to, but was forced to take shorter, mincing steps. She hated it. There were three gold pins in her hair.
As they walked down the hallway, flanked by a pair of richly-garbed courtiers, there were murmurs of admiration.
Gritting her teeth, Atalanta tried to keep up with the men and kept failing. A lock of her hair had come loose from one of the pins.
Evenor dropped back to walk with her.
“Remember, you have to bow before the king,” he reminded her in a whisper.
She spit out a reply. “Why? Does he need to see the top of my head before he can talk to me?”
Evenor sighed. “Really, Atalanta, you’re too stubborn for your own good. We have customs back in Eteos, too.”
“Yes, I know, and they’re just as stupid,” she said. “Like making sacrifices to the gods when they don’t really need anything we can give them.”
Evenor groaned. “By Hermes, don’t let the king hear you. They are big on sacrifices here.”
“I don’t much like gods or kings,” said Atalanta, her voice tight. “And I don’t mind if any of them know it.” She remembered Pan laughing at her. “Not that they care.
A set of double doors opened before them, and they were ushered into the presence of King Iasus. Armored soldiers lined up along the walls, their spears held out at arm’s length. A cluster of courtiers in colorful robes stood to one side of the king, whispering comments as the newcomers approached.
Orion fell to one knee in front of the throne where Iasus, his beard curled into tight dark rings, watched them.
“Welcome, Orion, son of Hyrieus,” said the king, holding out his hand.
Atalanta felt a dig in her back from Evenor, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed upon the great crimson banner hanging behind the throne. Emblazoned upon it in gold was the stylized image of a boar—exactly the same image as that on the ring that was hanging around her neck and hidden only by the flimsy bodice of her dress.
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHOSEN FEW
THE KING CLAPPED HIS hands, the sound echoing in the great hall. “A banquet for my guests,” he called. “And send in the court poet.”
Atalanta was relieved to hear there would be food, for they hadn’t eaten a thing since arriving in Tegea. She sat where instructed, on a bench next to Evenor with a long table in front of them. To her right was a woman with a cascade of blond hair pinned up with a red flower who seemed to shrink away from her.
“I’m starving,” Atalanta whispered to Evenor. She could hear her stomach growling. Perhaps that was why the woman moved away. It didn’t matter. Once the food arrived, her belly would be quieted.
However, the court poet arrived first—a small weasel-faced man, his skin as pitted as a stone wall. The food was delayed while he sang a poem in honor of Orion. His recitation went on and on, listing every beast Orion presumably had ever slain.
Even the king began to look bored. Or hungry. Or both.
When the song finally ended and the servants came in bearing great platters of food, the hall erupted into unrestrained cheers. Less for the singer and more for the food, Atalanta guessed, refusing to join in the applause.
Instead, she gazed up again at the royal banner above King Iasus. Fingering the ring under her gown, she hardly dared to imagine what connection there was between herself and the royal house of Arcadia. Would the king know?
Iasus suddenly laughed uproariously over some joke of Orion’s. The king’s laugh was loud and grating.
Atalanta’s hand fell to her lap. Surely there was no connection at all. If she showed the ring, they’d all laugh as loudly as the king. Or arrest her for theft.
Putting all thought of the ring aside, she turned to Evenor. “You’d think Orion would get tired of the fuss they make over him.”
Evenor shrugged. “What else is there for him? He has no home, no family.”
For a moment she stared at Orion across the table. No home and no family, she thought. How much we have in common. She hadn’t considered that before.
Helping herself to a handful of olives from a wide platter, she washed them down with a sip of wine from a long-stemmed cup. She was just reaching for some bread when a young man two or three years older than she leaned over her shoulder. Pulling away from him, she scowled, but he just smiled in return.
“You’re the wild girl, aren’t you?” he asked. “I’ve heard them talking about you.”
“They should find something else to talk about,” said Atalanta. “Or you should find something else to listen to.”
He laughed. “They’ve plenty of other things to talk about,” he said. “And most of it not worth repeating.”
She must have looked surprised, for he smiled again. “I see you agree with me.”
“I think I’d better keep my mouth shut. Except for eating,” she answered, ostentatiously popping another olive between her lips.
“Good advice, I’d say, though others at court won’t.” He smiled. “I hear that you attacked the servants with a knife when they tried to wash you.”
“I would have—but they ran away.”
He laughed again. “I think I would have, too!” His eyes were merry and the color of olives. “My name’s Melanion, son of Amphidamas. I’m one of the royal cousins.” He swept back a shock of black curls that had fallen across his brow.
Atalanta reached out for another olive. “That must be nice for you,” she murmured. Then it occurred to her that this might be her one chance to find out some more about the royal house, so she softened her voice. “If you’re one of them, then tell me who they are.”
“I suppose living in the woods, you wouldn’t have much chance to know who’s who.” He smiled again. He seemed a young man of many smiles. He pointed to the king. “That’s Iasus, of course. To his right, beside Orion, is the king’s brother, Prince Ancaeus.”
“I’ve met him,” said Atalanta impatiently.
“Not long out of the woods and already an expert!” Melanion sounded as if nothing she said could insult him. “The woman on the king’s left is Queen Clymene and as you can see, soon to have a child.”
Atalanta stared intently at the royal group, and as she did so she felt again the cold metal of the ring against her skin. Dared she suppose she might be one of them? Would she even want to be?
“Do they have any other children?” Atalanta inquired lightly, trying her best not to sound too interested.
“No,” Melanion replied, helping himself to one of the dates from her dish. “Though there was a rumor that…” For a moment he paused, than smiled again. “Everyone thought she was barren. So many years and no child. They wondered if the king would put her aside. But instead he called in a mage from the East, a Phoenician priest of the goddess Astarte. Within months, the queen was blooming. And the priest, for all his help, was sent home, his pockets—they say—bulging with gold from the royal coffers.”