Rising again and moving to the edge of the cliff, Iphigenia could see that the great galley with its black horse sail had beached below at last. There were men milling about. Soon she would know.
She had been angry when Queen Hekabe had ordered that Andromache be sent to Troy. There was a strength and energy in the girl that never should have been wasted on furthering men’s ambitions. Andromache had been furious. She had stormed into the gathering chamber and confronted Iphigenia.
The priestess smiled fondly at the memory. Green-eyed Andromache feared her, just as all the other women there did. But such was the strength of her spirit that she could, and often did, conquer that fear and fight for causes she believed in. Iphigenia had admired Andromache for her stand on that day. Closing her eyes, she pictured the angry young priestess. Her lover Kalliope had been standing close by anxiously, her eyes downcast.
Andromache had refused to leave Thera, and Iphigenia had tried to explain how the circumstances were special.
“Special?” Andromache stormed. “You are selling me for Priam’s gold! What is special about that? Women have been sold since the gods were young. Always by men, though. It is what we come to expect from them. But from you!”
And that had hurt, like a dagger deep in her belly. Iphigenia had fought for decades to keep Thera safe and independent from the powers of kings. Sometimes it required steadfast courage, but often it needed compromise.
Instead of seeking to dominate Andromache and cow her into submission, Iphigenia had spoken softly, her words full of regret.
“It is not just for Priam’s gold, Andromache, but for all that gold represents. Without it there would be no temple on Thera, no princesses to placate the beast below. Yes, it would be wonderful if we could ignore the wishes of powerful men like Priam and do our duty here unmolested. Such freedom, however, is a dream. You are a priestess of Thera no longer. You will leave tomorrow.”
Andromache had not argued further. It showed that she had grown in wisdom in her two years on the Blessed Isle and was beginning at last to grasp the need for such compromises.
Andromache probably would not show such understanding when she returned to Thera in the spring, Iphigenia knew. She would be furious when she discovered the betrayal. But her fury was as nothing when set against the needs of Thera. The security of the temple was vital, more important than any single life.
At last she heard the snorting of donkeys and the clink of bridles. Iphigenia eased herself up and moved to the cliff edge. Below she could see three figures on donkeys slowly climbing up the winding path from the harbor. The priestess Kolea led the way. She had turned in her seat and was chattering to the others: a dark-haired girl she did not know and… Andromache.
The old priestess raised her hand to her heart. Andromache here already? Across the winter seas all the way from Troy!
“No!” she whispered. “It is too soon. Far too soon.”
Andromache sat on the little donkey’s back as it slowly plodded up the steep, narrow trail. Far below, the Xanthos had been half drawn up on the black beach. Men, seeming no larger than insects from this height, scurried around it.
She glanced back at Kassandra. Mostly when visitors were carried up this treacherous path, they sat their mounts nervously, aware that the slightest slip of a hoof would send them plummeting to their deaths. Not Kassandra. She seemed to be in a dream, a faraway look in her eyes.
Back on the beach, when Andromache had ordered Oniacus to fetch the ornate box from its place in the hold, Kassandra had gone with him, returning with an old canvas sack, which she carried on her shoulder.
“What do you have there?” Andromache asked.
“A gift for a friend,” Kassandra answered, giving her a shy smile.
“Could you not have brought it in a… more suitable container? The High Priestess is a formidable and angry woman. She will be looking for any action that might be regarded as an insult to her or to the order.”
“You do not like her,” Kassandra said.
Andromache had laughed, but there had been little humor in the sound. “No one likes Iphigenia, little sister. Like her brother Agamemnon, she is cold, hard, and unfeeling.”
“You are just angry because she let your father send you to Troy.”
“She sold me for gold.”
Kassandra had carried her sack away and walked toward the two priestesses sent to greet them. Andromache knew one of them, Kolea, the youngest daughter of the king of Lesbos. She had arrived in the same season as Andromache. Kolea, with her long dark hair drawn back from her face in a tight ponytail, was taller and slimmer than Andromache remembered. The priestess smiled a greeting. The other girl was around Kassandra’s age, fair-haired and freckled. She seemed frightened.
Helikaon had moved across the sand to stand alongside Andromache. She was very conscious of his warm body, not quite touching hers. Each time they had spoken since that night on Minoa, she had trembled a little at the sound of his voice. She feared she was blushing and lowered her head.
“Hektor and Priam both believe this invitation reeks of treachery,” he said softly, concern deepening his voice. “They fear you are being lured to Thera on Agamemnon’s orders. But there are no other ships here or close by, only a small Egypteian trader. I do not know the High Priestess, so I cannot judge her motives. But you do.”
Andromache looked into his sapphire eyes and saw that they were clouded with anxiety.
“She dislikes me,” she replied, making herself speak firmly and clearly, “and will have reasons of her own for wanting me here. But we have discussed this already at length. It could be a trap. But she is the First Priestess of Thera before she is Mykene. I do not believe she would do her brother’s bidding if it would harm the reputation of the Blessed Isle. More likely, she wants to punish me rather than betray me.”
“Through Kalliope, you mean?” he said, indicating the ornate box she carried. She nodded.
“When will you return, my love?” he asked quietly.
“In the morning.”
“I will watch for you at first light.”
“I will be here.”
“If you are not, I will come for you with my men. Make sure the old witch understands that.”
“She is a daughter of Atreus and a Mykene princess. She would understand that without being told. Do nothing rash!”
He leaned in close, touching her hair, and lightly tapped the box she carried. “Rash actions may be necessary if the witch discovers you are lying to her.”
Andromache’s mouth was dry. “What are you saying?” she countered.
“I know you, Andromache,” he whispered. “You would never surrender the soul of your friend to serve a monster. It is not in you. Where did you find those bones?”
“Xander brought them for me. They are the skull and thigh bone of a murderer.”
Helikaon grinned then. “Well, he and the Minotaur should suit each other.”
Iphigenia sat alone in the coolness of the temple’s great gathering room. The carved high-backed chair was uncomfortable, but the High Priestess no longer had the strength to stand for long.
When the two visitors finally arrived, they stepped out of bright sunlight into the temple and stood blinking as their eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior. Andromache, her hair shining red in the light from the doorway, was dressed in green and carried only an ivory box. Kassandra’s dark hair also was unbound. Her face was pale and gaunt and her eyes feverish as she squinted in the near darkness. On the floor she dropped an old canvas sack.