“He is. What of it?”
“Did you not say when introducing him that he was kin to a great Mykene hero?”
“Yes. His uncle was Alektruon, a hero foully murdered by the man you are inviting to your table.”
“As a king and a man who worships the gods, I cannot, for profit or malice, interfere with those engaged in serving them. However, Kleitos, the gods value honor and bravery above all other virtues. Not so?”
“Of course. All men know this.”
“Persion has suffered a great loss. Alektruon the hero was of his blood, and blood cries out for vengeance. The gods would surely understand—even applaud—were he to honor his uncle by challenging to single combat the man who killed him.”
The light of understanding shone in the man’s pale eyes. “By Ares, yes! My apologies, Alkaios King. I misjudged you. It is a fine plan.”
The moon was bright above the cliffs, its silver light reflecting from the timbers of the Xanthos, giving the ship a spectral glow. Fires had been set on the beach, but the men of the crew were not relaxing around them. Many wore light leather breastplates and short swords. Others had strung their bows. Only the cooks went unarmed as they prepared the night’s meal.
Helikaon called the first sentries to him, and the eight men gathered close. Helikaon’s voice was low, but there was an underlying urgency that was not lost on them.
“You must consider this a hostile harbor,” he warned them. “There are two Mykene vessels in the next bay, and by now they will know we are here. Find yourselves positions high on the cliffs and stay alert.”
Nearby, dressed in an ankle-length gown of unembroidered green wool, Andromache sat by a fire, watching Helikaon talking to the men. What a contradiction you are, she thought. One moment volatile and unpredictable, the next as cool and rational as a gray-bearded veteran. She stared at his profile in the moonlight. As if he felt her gaze, he turned suddenly and looked at her, his sapphire eyes emotionless and cold.
Andromache turned away. Rising from beside the fire, she brushed sand from her gown and walked to the shoreline She was angry with herself. When Helikaon had come to the prow in the golden glow of the sunset, she had wanted to tell him the truth, that she loved him as she would never—could never—love another. Instead, with one careless phrase, she had left him believing that Hektor was the man she adored. There was nothing she could do now to draw back those words, nor could she explain them.
Oniacus and Gershom came walking across the sand. Both men waved a greeting to Andromache and then joined Helikaon. The sentries loped off to their positions on the cliffs, and Andromache heard Gershom voice his concerns about the coming feast.
“Why risk this?” he asked. “You know there could be Mykene there.”
“You think I should find a cave and hide in it?”
“That is not what I meant. You are in a strange mood tonight, Golden One. You carefully pick the best sentries. You set up defensive positions and prepare us for an attack. Then you blithely decide to wander out where your enemies can strike you down.”
“There is no ambush planned, Gershom,” Helikaon told him. “They have a champion who means to challenge me after the feast.”
“Is this a jest?”
“Not at all. Alkaios had a servant come and warn me.”
“You know this champion?”
Helikaon shook his head. “His name is Persion. He is kin to a man I killed some years back. Alkaios says he has the look of a fighter.”
Gershom swore softly. “A pox on it! A fighter? You’ve no choice, then.” He glared at Helikaon. “You should have listened to Oniacus and traveled to the island that has the talented baker.”
Helikaon shrugged. “There would have been Mykene there, too, my friend.”
“Well… kill him quickly and take no chances.”
Helikaon gave a tight smile. “That is my plan.”
They talked for a while, but Andromache moved away from them, her stomach tight with fear. Helikaon was going to fight a duel this night. Her mouth was dry. If he died, a part of her would die with him. Do not even think it, she warned herself. He is Helikaon, the Golden One. He stood with Argurios on the stairs and fought the best the Mykene could send against him. He defeated them all.
She heard his footsteps on the gritty sand but did not look at him, instead focusing her gaze on the moonlit waves.
“It is best if Kassandra does not attend the feast,” she heard him say to her.
“She told me earlier that she would not go,” Andromache told him. “She is frightened. She says there will be a red demon there. She does not want to see it.”
“A red demon? By the gods, her condition worsens every season,” he said, sadness in his voice.
Now Andromache looked at him, her green eyes radiating her anger. “Her condition? You all think her insane. She is not. She truly sees, Helikaon. And yes, the power of her visions comes close to driving her mad. She is little more than a child, and yet she has already witnessed the day of her death.”
“I do not believe that,” he said. “I have heard seers make predictions. I have listened to oracles. Sometimes what they predict comes to pass, but often I could have predicted the same outcome, and I am not a seer. The gods—if they exist—are capricious and willful, but they are always fascinating. You think they would devise a world entirely lacking in surprise for them, where everything was preordained?”
Andromache shook her head. “Why do men always leap from one extreme to the other? Just because one event is predestined does not mean that an entire life is mapped out heartbeat by heartbeat. I have seen the truth of prophecy, Helikaon. On Thera, on the beach at Blue Owl Bay, and in Troy with Kassandra.”
Helikaon shrugged. “Then you had better dress yourself for the feast,” he said, “lest you be late and miss the entrance of the red demon.”
“Dress myself?” she countered, nonplussed.
“The gown you are wearing is… functional but hardly fitting for a royal feast.”
“How foolish of me!” she snapped. “I must have gone to the wrong chest. I opened mine, the one that holds clothes for a sea journey. I shall return immediately to the Xanthos and borrow some royal robes from the crew.”
Helikaon flushed, then smiled. “I am an idiot,” he said gently. “Please forgive me. Did you bring no jewelry, either?”
She glared at him. “No.”
He stepped forward, opening the leather pouch at his side. From it he took a heavy pendant of gold and amber, which he passed to her. Upon it was a beautifully carved image of Artemis holding her bow. It was warm in her hands. Idly she stroked her fingers across the amber surface, feeling the grooves of the carving.
Looking into his eyes, she asked, “Why were you carrying it?”
“It caught my eye in a market,” he said with a shrug that was too casual. She knew then that he had bought it with her in mind. “It would honor me if you would wear it tonight,” he said.
“Then I shall,” she told him, lifting it to her neck. Stepping behind her, he fastened it. “Your hands are remarkably steady for a man who is going to fight tonight,” she said. “Are you so unconcerned?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You think me arrogant?”
“Of course you are arrogant, Helikaon. You have much to be arrogant about. However, you do realize that everyone can be beaten? No one is invincible.”
Helikaon grinned. “And that is the thought you would like me to carry into battle, that I might be maimed? Or killed?”