She turned and sauntered off.
Hippolyta made a face at her back.
“She’s right, you know,” Orithya said, sheathing her sword.
“She’s a sow,” Hippolyta answered.
“Perhaps, but she’s a brave fighter nonetheless, and we’re going to need her when Valasca marches against the Phrygians.” Orithya rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms out.
“The Phrygians! I thought Mother made peace with them,” Hippolyta said. She suddenly wondered if the baby’s being a boy had given Valasca an excuse to do what she’d been planning all along. As war queen, Valasca always preferred fighting to peace.
Orithya’s mouth thinned down, and for a moment she was silent. Then, as if repeating something she’d heard, she said stolidly, “We can never be at peace with the rulers of men.”
It was to be the last word of their conversation, for Hippolyta’s two keepers strode across the grass and gathered her up for the march back to the barracks.
CHAPTER FOUR
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
ON THE EVE OF THE half-moon Hippolyta could scarcely fall asleep. She’d worn out her body with chores, with sword practice. She’d even gone hunting with the guards, coming back with two hares and a partridge for the barracks’ pots.
But now, exhausted, as she lay on her long cot trying to sleep, sleep would not come. Instead her mind turned again and again to her mother in prison.
All around her she could hear the easy breathing of the other girls. Hippolyta turned over onto her left side and forced herself not to think of her mother. But then her traitor mind left the prison and fled to the Temple of Artemis with its wooden statues and its stone altar. She’d often been there on the full of the moon when all the inhabitants of Themiscyra came together for the sacrifice.
A sheep.
A heifer.
A goat.
A hare.
These were the thanks given to the goddess from a grateful people: beasts without the capacity to speak or think or feel.
But never—at least not since Hippolyta could remember—had a human being been sacrificed there.
And certainly never, ever a baby.
Hippolyta’s thoughts seemed to spin out of control, drenched in red, blood red. She turned onto her right side, then again onto her left. No place in the bed seemed free of those visions.
But at last sheer exhaustion began to drag her down to a restless sleep. It was then, as she slipped into a dream, that she heard a voice calling her name.
“Hippolyta,” it said in her ear, “arise and come to me.”
She sat up and looked around suspiciously. There was no one in the room but the sleeping girls.
The voice came again. “Hippolyta, say not a word. Come to me.”
At first she thought the voice was simply part of her dream. But when she pinched her arm, right past the wrist, it hurt.
Quickly Hippolyta slipped into her leggings and tunic and grabbed up her cloak. She jammed her cap on her head, then followed the voice out of the dormitory and into the street outside. The guards were soundly asleep.
The way was in shadow, partly lit by the half-moon. A small breeze puzzled along the street.
Suddenly she felt foolish outside by herself in the middle of the night. She turned to go back in.
“Hippolyta.” Her name was called again, and this time a robed figure leaned out of the darkest shadows.
“Who’s there?” Hippolyta cried. Then she saw by the way the figure leaned that it was Demonassa. The old priestess chuckled, like a girl enjoying a prank.
“How could you call me from so far away?” Hippolyta asked. “How could you be sure I was the one who heard and not one of the other girls? Or one of the guards?”
For a moment Demonassa looked affronted. “Am I not a priestess? Is there not magic in my very fingertips?”
Hippolyta sucked in a long breath. She’d always thought the magic of the old woman consisted mostly of drugged smoke and misdirection. “Then what do you want of me, priestess?”
Instantly Demonassa became serious. “Don’t you want to see your mother?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’ve come to take you there.”
“Ah.” Hippolyta let the breath out again. “Do you think I’ll be able to change her mind?”
Demonassa snorted. “You might as well try to turn the river away from the sea.”
“Then you approve of what she’s doing?”
The old woman smiled. “I approve of anything that galls Valasca.”
Hippolyta was astonished and glad of the night so that her face would not give her away.
Demonassa knew anyway and laughed. “I have shocked you, daughter of Otrere. Well, I am old, and I am a priestess and am allowed my little jokes. But that is not the entire reason I support Otrere’s decision. She is a good woman and a great queen. She did not make the decision to keep the child alive lightly. Besides, I have learned enough of the ways of the gods to know that their prophecies are not always to be trusted. They use prophecy to bully us poor mortals. They speak in riddles and not straight on. If they wanted us to be guided by truth, they would say clearly what they mean instead of wrapping their words in mist and smoke. And I cannot believe that the gods would want the death of an infant as a price for their support.”
She raised a finger. “But come. The night wears on, and we have but little time.” The finger went to her lips, and then she turned and scuttled down the street, like a dung beetle over a midden heap.
Hippolyta followed after her silently, and soon they came within sight of the square block of the prison. The old woman held up her hand, and Hippolyta stopped.
“How,” whispered Hippolyta, “can we possibly get in without being seen?”
“Philippis watches your mother’s cell tonight,” Demonassa said carefully. “I saved her daughter from the fever last year, so she owes me this favor—and her silence. Besides, she agrees with what your mother is doing.”
“Is she alone?”
“Her fellow guard had to retire with indigestion an hour ago,” Demonassa said.
“How … fortunate,” Hippolyta whispered.
“My fault, I’m afraid.” The old woman had that childish glee in her voice again.
They went silently on, two shadows in a night of shadows, and when they came to the door, it was opened from inside. Philippis passed a long metal key to the priestess and then, pointedly, averted her eyes.
Demonassa led Hippolyta by the hand along the hall and to one cell, which she unlocked. Pulling the door slightly open, she gestured to Hippolyta. “Go in,” she whispered.
Hippolyta slipped through the opening and entered the cell. The room was small and cramped, with a hard rush-covered floor. A small amount of moonlight filtered in through the grille in the wall, but it was barely enough to see by. Queen Otrere was sitting on a bench beneath the window.
The minute Hippolyta entered, Otrere rose to embrace her. Hippolyta was astonished at how thin her mother was. She could feel the small bones in Otrere’s back. Yet when Hippolyta looked carefully, her mother seemed remarkably composed.
As if, Hippolyta thought, stripping away the trappings of rank only revealed how much of a queen she truly is.
“How have you all been, daughter?” Otrere asked at last.
“Well enough, Mother,” Hippolyta answered. She did not mention Antiope’s grief. No need to worry her mother more than necessary. “A proper bed and decent meals. But you—you’re much too thin. We’ve heard stories that they’re starving you, and—”
“Don’t listen to gossip, child. I’m treated no worse than any other prisoner.” Otrere smiled wryly. “And when Philippis is on duty, much better.”
“But you aren’t just any other prisoner, Mother. You’re the queen!” Hippolyta’s voice, though low, was full of anger.