Enchanted Fire

by Roberta Gellis

  “You have him exactly,” Orpheus said, with a rather affectionate smile. “He is a good man, but he longs for greatness.” Suddenly he drew her close and kissed her. “I never understood the power of that desire before, but I do now. Jason desires greatness with the same passion that I desire you.”

  “Not with the passion you have for music?” Eurydice teased, returning the caress with enthusiasm.

  Orpheus clutched her even tighter and his voice held no laughter in answer to her teasing. “No. I love music. I will play and sing to others, or to myself, at any time at any place, sometimes—as you have just seen—when I certainly should not, but the music is a part of me. If I were struck mute and my hands crippled, I would grieve at being unable to perform, but I would still hear the music in my mind and my heart—no one and nothing can take away my music. You—that is different. You might be snatched from me by accident, by abduction, by death…by your own will. Always that dreaded possibility underlies all my joy and makes it sweeter, hotter, more poignant, makes me grasp you and need to hold you to me by every inducement—and so it is with greatness for Jason.”

  For a long moment Eurydice merely returned Orpheus’ embrace with considerable fervor. He had, because he was not trying to do that, answered all the doubts his questions about her Power had raised. He might not like the idea of how strong a witch she was, but apparently that dislike could not affect his love. Then she pushed him away.

  “You are very clever, Orpheus,” she said admiringly. Her tone sharpened then. “But sometimes you have no more common sense than a fly. Will you let me bespell your cithara so we can continue going around the city in peace?”

  “How will I find it if I cannot see it?” he asked anxiously. “And I am so used to carrying it—”

  “Making others look past the instrument will not affect the weight of it on your shoulder, and I will break the spell if we part, or if you need to use it.”

  “Very well,” he agreed, although he still looked worried.

  Once it was done, however, and Orpheus could still feel the instrument bumping and shifting on his back and dragging at his shoulder, he relaxed and was delighted with the results. He need not fear to be recognized—for he did fear it, despite what he had said to Eurydice. Without the cithara, he was not extraordinary enough to draw notice, however, and the chance that he would be asked to play again, and foolishly yield again, would be gone. Oddly, although the weight on his back was no less, Orpheus felt as if he had cast off a burden. His light spirits infected Eurydice, and both were filled with bubbles of laughter in which all they saw and experienced was delightful.

  Even so, they returned to the ship in good time for Orpheus to take up his watch with the others assigned. Before the light failed, Eurydice did some washing and mending. Orpheus sat in his usual place muttering to himself, either going over old songs or working on ideas for new ones. The night passed without incident, and the following day was equally quiet. At sunset, the men who had had the day free returned. When Orpheus handed over his responsibility to Mopsus, he told him where they were staying, in case Jason returned during the next day. Eurydice was already on the dock, waiting.

  Orpheus teased her about her eagerness, but since she nearly had to run to keep up with him, she soon got her own back. They did stop in the inn to buy food and wine—middle of the night meals having become a delightful custom—but they did little talking that did not concern the beauties and delights of one another’s body after that until they woke, rather late in the morning. Then, lingering abed, they talked of Jason’s mission and the probability of success. They were still discussing it when they walked over to the inn for breakfast.

  “Will it be safe to go out?” Eurydice asked.

  “I think so,” Orpheus replied. “If they had failed, Jason would have returned already. If disaster had overtaken them, he would have sent for help or some message to warn us. Thus, I am almost certain that the harpies have been caught, killed, or driven away, and Jason is waiting to make sure the cure is permanent.”

  That was indeed the case. When Orpheus and Eurydice went back to the ship at sunset to take up watch again, Mopsus told them a messenger had come from Jason. It seemed that Eurydice’s device had worked—but as she had feared, a little too well. The sap-covered net had stuck fast to the harpies when they descended on Phineus’ table, but Zetes and Kalais, who had dropped the net on them and were holding it, had been drawn along with the ugly creatures when they fled.

  “That is terrible,” Eurydice cried. “I did not warn them strongly enough. Oh, I should never have—”

  “No one blames you, Eurydice,” Mopsus said. “Not even Zetes and Kalais. They did not disappear utterly and at once. Perhaps their weight shortened the distance the harpies could ‘leap’. No matter why, the creatures did not flee far when the men rushed in to attack. Those waiting outside saw them come to earth. Zetes and Kalais had their weapons out and one of the harpies was already half dead. Before they disappeared, Kalais called back that they would stick to the creatures and finish the job.”

  “Thank the Lady they were not injured in some way by being drawn after the harpies,” Eurydice murmured.

  “But if that happened yesterday,” Orpheus put in, “where is Jason?”

  “He said he would remain with Phineus in the lodge for at least a week longer to be sure, for one thing, that the harpies do not return and, for another, not to let Zetes and Kalais feel abandoned if they do come back.”

  That did not happen, however, and the great pleasure that Eurydice had in wandering the city with Orpheus and coming back to a safe haven to couple with him, was a little shadowed by her concern over the two young men. Nor did Jason’s return to Salmydessus with King Phineus relieve that shadow of guilt. Nothing had been heard from Zetes and Kalais. Every other question, however, had been answered to Jason’s greatest satisfaction.

  Phineus was as grateful as even Jason could wish and on the morning before they set out from the lodge for Salmydessus, he made clear his gratitude. There was nothing Jason could have requested, including Phineus’ kingdom, that he would not have been granted. So much the more was Phineus struck by Jason’s nobility when his first thought was for his lost men.

  The king assured Jason that he would be welcome to wait for Kalais and Zetes, as a guest in Salmydessus, for as long as he wished to stay. However, if Jason wished to get on with his quest, Phineus added, he might do so with a clear mind and conscience. The king swore that he would take on every responsibility that Jason owed to Zetes and Kalais if they returned either to the lodge or to the city; that he would send help to them in any foreign place, if they appealed for help to him or to Jason; reward them in any way they desired; and assist them, either to rejoin Jason, or to return to their own homes, if that was what they desired.

  Jason put the question of Zetes’ and Kalais’ fate to the crew of the Argo at sunset of that same day, when all the men were assembled. First he told them of Phineus’ offer and then he asked the two Seers and Eurydice, “If they have not returned within a week, what is the likelihood that they will soon return?”

  Idmon and Mopsus both said that they had no revelation, no feeling at all, about the men. Jason’s eyes turned to Eurydice. She looked away. She knew Zetes and Kalais would not rejoin the Argo.

  “Well, Eurydice?” Jason prodded.

  “How can I answer you?” she asked, tears standing in her eyes. “I am totally ignorant of the harpies’ power or the spells that control them. If you are asking for a guess, no, I do not think they will soon return.”

  “Only a guess?” Jason asked sharply. “Not a ‘belief’, like that about Hylas.”

  “That is my own feeling,” Orpheus put in. “Without any recourse to divination, common sense says that if they have not made their way back to us in a week, they are beyond soon returning, from one cause or another. When you saw them, they had already wounded one of the harpies. If they had managed to kill or disable the other two in any
reasonable time, it would not take them a week to walk back.”

  “What about this ‘leaping’ they do?” Jason asked.

  Again Idmon and Mopsus shook their heads. Eurydice thought irritably that if the Greeks did not murder all their Gifted, they would not be so ignorant. Nonetheless, she was part of the crew and as such felt an obligation to provide to the rest what information she had.

  She said slowly, “Some of the greater mages can do it. One would expect the harpies would not ‘leap’ as far with only two powering the spell, but with creatures like that, who can say? For all I know, the ‘leap’ they made was short, not because of carrying Kalais and Zetes with them, but because they were working against each other. That is, they would agree on escaping when you attacked, but not on where to go, so the ‘leap’ would be aborted. Thus, if one were dead, only two contrary desires would disrupt the second ‘leap’. And if only one remained, she might leap farther than the three together could.”

  “So it might be weeks or months, even, before Zetes and Kalais could get back to us?” Jason asked.

  “Yes,” Eurydice said and bit her lip to keep back the words that they would never come back.

  If Jason saw her doubt, he ignored it. He swept the crew with a glance and asked, “Then, shall we nonetheless wait for Zetes and Kalais to rejoin us, or shall we go on our way, knowing they will be welcome and rewarded here. Remember, Phineus promises to take every care and satisfy every wish Zetes and Kalais might express.”

  “Perhaps before we decide you had better tell us how far Colchis is—if Phineus knew and would tell you,” Tiphys said. “It would make a difference if the journey we face is one of a few weeks, one of a few months, or one that will take years.”

  “Phineus did know—or claimed to know—where Colchis was. It is at the far end of this great sea, which they call the Black Sea because of its dark water. He gave me minute directions and many useful warnings, but we will discuss that later. As to time—if we could sail straight day and night without stopping, the time might be a few weeks. Since the coast is by no means smooth or without peril, we must certainly count on two or three months sailing time.”

  “Then the sooner we leave the better,” Tiphys said. “I do not know this sea and its temper, but we are coming into summer now. If we delay for long, the bad weather of autumn may overtake us before we arrive. Then we might be forced to winter over in a place we would not like. I know we have four or five good months ahead, but we must allow for some bad weather and for accidents and other delays.”

  There was little protest, only a few requests for assurance that Phineus was to be trusted and would, indeed, make sure that Zetes and Kalais were well treated and adequately rewarded. Jason swore that he was as sure as one could be—unless a god came and ordered different behavior or Phineus should die, the kind of chances that no one could avoid—and went on to describe in detail the filth and misery in which the king had been forced to exist, that he had been slowly dying of starvation, and that he had a most excellent reputation for honesty, good will, and a tender heart among his nobility and his family. Since the crew had found that Phineus had an equally good reputation among his common people, and since they had all tasted every delight Salmydessus could offer and were becoming bored, all agreed to leave as soon as the ship was ready.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The journey, if not halcyon, still progressed with little difficulty, and it was Phineus’ warnings that smoothed the way. He had told Jason which of the cities that dotted the coastline would welcome strangers and treat them fairly and which should be avoided. He also described some of the natural dangers they would need to overcome. Likely even the Argo would not have survived the “clashing rocks” without Phineus’ suggestion to release a dove, whose ability to pass between them marked when the winds and currents would be tame enough to sail through. Even so, it was a narrow escape though they went with all sail set and every man—Jason included—pulling an oar as hard and fast as he could.

  Even the best of advice could not turn aside fated disasters, however. In the city of King Lykos, whose brother had been forced to fight Amykos and had been crippled, they were welcomed with great enthusiasm, word of Polydeuces victory having preceded them by way of traders. A time of rest ashore was decreed, and after feasting and providing luxurious lodging for all, Lykos, wishing to offer the best entertainment he had, invited the crew to a great hunt. No one thought of danger, certainly not Eurydice, who smiled when Orpheus said he would go, urging him to leave his cithara behind with her and to enjoy himself.

  When they returned, she wondered how she could have failed to feel the smallest shadow. She had known about the battle in which Kyzikos died, she had known that Zetes and Kalais would not return. “How,” she wailed, bending over the body and beating her breast, “how could I not have felt the smallest warning that a dear friend was about to die?”

  “Because that was his fate,” Orpheus replied softly, the music in his voice hinting of the praise song to come. “He knew it, though we did not. He was the farthest from the beast, standing by the river, but the boar burst through, past Eurytos, who missed his cast—for the first and probably the last time in his life—and ran straight at Idmon. We all shouted, and he was no coward, yet he just stood, staring. He did not raise his spear. He did not cry out when the beast laid open his thigh.”

  “Could I have saved him?” Eurydice asked, her voice thin and high with grief and remorse.

  “No,” Jason said. “When he fell—we were all running to drive the boar off—it swung its head sideways and ripped out his throat. No one could have saved him. And we did not even kill the boar. It leapt into the river and escaped us.”

  There was an enormous rage, tightly restrained, in Jason’s voice. Eurydice said no more and wept quietly. Not grief, she thought, rage because the boar had escaped—as if the beast’s death could repair the loss of Idmon. Yet it was not often a boar would run, and the Seer had said over and over that he would not reach Colchis with the Argo. Eurydice could not but help seeing her Lady’s hand in the event, particularly in the escape of the boar. She seldom allowed Her instruments to be punished for carrying out Her will.

  The crew might not have believed in Eurydice’s Lady, but most agreed that some god was involved, and put aside their grief after Idmon’s barrow was raised. For several days longer they enjoyed Lykos’ hospitality, but when Tiphys sickened and Eurydice could not save him, all saw it as a bad omen. Jason sacrificed two white bulls to his gods—and Eurydice went to seek a temple of her Lady. One bull went willingly, one fought the sacrifice. The priests said, although Jason and his crew were welcome to the mortal king, the gods wished them gone. Eurydice came from the temple with the feeling that she had been roughly pushed away—toward the east. It was time, she said to Jason, to go on to Colchis. No one contested the findings of the priests or Eurydice’s instinct. They stayed only to raise Tiphys’ barrow beside that of Idmon; one did not leave the funeral rites of a close companion to strangers, particularly not one’s steersman, whose angry ghost could bring disaster to all.

  With Ankaios at the helm, they set out the next day. For almost a week, the entire crew waited tensely for trouble, but none came. Slowly, they relaxed into a secure reliance on their new steersman. Tiphys had had far greater experience, but Ankaios had his Gifted understanding of the way the water touched and flowed around the hull. Moreover, he knew the Argo almost as well as the older man because he had handled the ship whenever Tiphys had needed rest.

  Jason withdrew his attention from the mechanics of sailing and fixed it on their next goal. Wherever they beached their boat or docked it at a city wharf, he asked directions to the island of Aretias. Although the disasters had shaken Jason’s absolute reliance on Phineus’ advice, he was not prepared to ignore the most absolute and also the most enigmatic of those directions. Phineus had said that they must stop on Aretias. He could not say why they should stop nor how long they must stay. All he knew, he sw
ore, was that there was, on that island, a swift and easy guide past the illusions that hid the city of Colchis. Whether the guide was human or magical had not been revealed to him, only that it was on the island and that there would be danger in finding it and taking it away.

  Most often when the person Jason asked knew of the island at all, his question was received with puzzlement. He would find nothing but trouble on Aretias, he was told. It was a terrible place, uninhabited and barren, and it was said that no one who landed there ever left. Jason would sigh and shake his head: It was his fate to stop there on his quest, he would reply, and those he questioned would shrug and tell what they knew. The landmarks all described were distinctive, and they knew when they were drawing close as the number of folk who had heard of it and sincerely warned them increased. Thus, Lynkeus had little trouble recognizing the island when it hove into view.

  They expected trouble, but found none. A narrow but deep and quiet bay, cupped by a good beach, welcomed them, and the island looked pleasant enough. Beyond the beach a long, slowly rising slope, covered in grass and low bushes, led to a meadow that ended, a little to the northeast, in a high cliff, its face marked with dark areas that looked like the mouths of caves. The men who noticed those groaned. Exploring caves to find an artifact—especially when no one knew what it looked like and all had been repeatedly warned of danger—would not be a favorite pastime.

  Jason smiled at the groans, “Not tonight. There is not enough time. It would take a candlemark or two to get to the cliff and climb up. We would have little time to search, and to climb down that rock face in the dark would be impossible. Let us see if there is anything we can hunt for dinner. However, let us not forget Phineus’ warning that there is danger here.”

  A murmur of agreement arose, and the men began to take their armor from storage and don it and belt on swords as well as arrow quivers. Some questioned whether shields, which were awkward to carry on a hunt, would be necessary.