by Rebecca Ross
She sat on a gray mare, returning Evadne’s stare unflinchingly. Until her brother, Damon, nudged his bay stallion up to her side.
The mage was the only one in the entire courtyard who did not look at Evadne. It was like she did not exist in his world, and it made her feel odd, off-balance. Just hours ago, he had sent a nightingale to her window. He had held her hand and cloaked her with his enchantment.
And now it was as if she were still unseen to him.
She watched him speak to his sister, his conversation drawing the girl’s attention.
Evadne, at last, felt like she could breathe, and she looked at the ground, the safest place to gaze.
“This is Evadne of Isaura,” Straton announced. “I believe all of us are aware of the arrangement she made with the archon yesterday, to take her sister’s place in serving my household for the next five years.”
Look up, Evadne told herself. Do not be afraid. Look up and meet their eyes.
She did, only to find scowls and disgust imprinted on the other servants’ faces. Each of their left arms bore an amulet, the same as hers. And yet she had never felt more alienated and alone.
The longing for Isaura, for her parents, for her family crashed through her, so fiercely that it stole her breath.
Do not think of them, she ordered herself. But the ache in Evadne’s chest was almost obliterating.
“She is to be treated as an equal among you,” Straton was saying to his servants, who glanced at him with pleading, desperate expressions. “She is beneath my protection, and I do not want to hear of anything ill befalling her while she serves the house and fulfills the sentence.” He paused and looked to an older woman, standing beside one of the wagons. “Toula? I would ask that you take Evadne as your novice. See where she could fit best among you, and ensure she has everything she needs. Now, let us return home.”
Toula bowed her head to his request, but Evadne saw the aversion in her face when she approached her. Like Evadne was a rodent she was having to corral and deal with.
“What are you good for?” Toula asked, terse. She was not a tall woman, but she was weathered, wiry, as a shrub that defies a mountain and thrives in a rocky crack. She was not one to irritate or anger, Evadne thought.
And yet how was Evadne to answer her? Should she tell Toula of all the days she had labored in the grove, all the days she had pressed olives until they bled gold? Should she tell her of all the mornings she had risen early to till the garden, to plant seeds, to uproot weeds, to watch for locusts, to harvest the fruits when they finally emerged? How she had baked bread and salted fish and gathered nuts, how she had mended holes in her family’s garments, how she had scrubbed the floors of the villa until they shone like the burnished floor of Magda’s temple?
“I can do anything,” Evadne said.
“Good. You can begin your servitude by tending to the chamber pots.” Toula turned and walked back to one of the wagons.
Evadne hesitated, uncertain if she should follow her.
The commander had mounted his massive stallion; the horse’s hooves clopped over the stones to where Evadne stood.
“I want you to ride in the back of that wagon,” he told her, indicating the one Toula was fussing over.
It was then that Evadne understood most of the servants would be walking on foot.
“I can walk, Lord.”
“It would be better for you to ride,” Straton said, gathering the reins in his hands. And while he did not say it, Evadne felt it in his gaze. You would slow us down.
He nudged his horse forward, his wife shadowing him, perched on a chestnut mare.
Evadne moved to the assigned wagon, where Toula waited.
“Sit there,” Toula said, pointing to the least inviting spot.
Evadne climbed into the wagon bed and tried to ignore the resentful stares from the other servants. Their traveling party emerged from the courtyard and passed through the gates of Abacus. And Evadne did not realize it, not until they were a caravan on the northern road. But suddenly the hatred directed at her felt justified.
The wagon just behind her was not bearing sacks of food or jars of wine.
It carried Xander’s body.
They had been traveling for hours when the sun began to sink beneath the craggy mountaintops. Straton led the caravan off the road into a desolate plain and Evadne struggled to hide her alarm when she realized they were camping in the shadow of Mount Euthymius.
She climbed down from the wagon, stiff from the ride, and tried not to stare at the cursed summit. This was the first time she had ever seen it, but it was exactly how she had imagined it as a girl, when her aunt Lydia had told her and Maia stories about clever Euthymius and Loris, trapping their brother in a mountain. But it was not the trapped god that Evadne feared; it was Ivina, the mage who guarded the mountain. Once a mortal woman, Ivina had been granted eternal life by Euthymius centuries ago to scare away Pyrrhus’s worshippers and would-be rescuers. Ivina was the one who spun travelers’ fears into phantoms, tormenting those who came too close to the mountain.
Straton’s servants did not appear worried about spending the night here, and Evadne surmised they must camp in this spot often when they ventured to and from Abacus and Mithra. But she did notice that the commander personally set a ring of torch stakes about the camp, lighting them before the sun set. And so Pyrrhus’s fire crackled and burned, warding off the darkness as night emerged.
Evadne had counted fifteen servants in all, and as soon as the wagons had come to a halt, they bustled to unpack them. All save for Xander’s wagon, which was parked just inside the ring of fire and then left at peace. Evadne tried not to look, but her eyes were drawn to it. His coffin was made of wood, carved with Lord Straton’s crest. Laurel clippings surrounded it, as did herbs, which were now wilted. Xander’s sword rested on top of the coffin, its steel reflected the firelight, the stars, and Evadne tried to imagine the young man whose body rested within the casket, who had once sparred and laughed with her sister.
She felt someone watching her, and Evadne turned to see the commander standing nearby, shadows on his face.
She bowed her head to him and moved away, trying to find her place among the servants. But Evadne seemed to be invisible to them; no one took note of her. No one spoke to her, looked at her. Half of the servants, Toula included, rushed to erect the tents for Straton and his family. The other half scurried to tend to the horses and ready the evening meal.
Eventually, Evadne approached a servant girl not much older than her, who was sorting through a mound of pillows, her flaxen hair bound in a thick braid.
“May I help you?”
The girl startled, dropping the pillows as she gaped up at Evadne. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat. She did not look well.
“You are Toula’s charge, not mine,” the girl rasped, but then she hunched over, pressing her hand to her belly. “Here, take these pillows and put them in Lord Straton and Lady Cosima’s tent. Arrange them so that their heads face east when they lie down, because of Mount Euthymius.”
Evadne gathered the heap of pillows, the fragrance of sandalwood wafting up from them, and did just as the girl had instructed, heeding the superstition. One never slept with Mount Euthymius at their head but at their feet. Just in case Ivina sent her phantoms.
Toula had already erected the lord’s tent; it was tall and wide, with ample room for a man of the commander’s size to move around comfortably. Reed mats were laid over the grass, and oil lamps burned on small wooden tables.
Evadne dumped the pillows at the head of the makeshift bed, her eyes sweeping the tent. Her gaze hung on a small leather satchel—the same one the commander had buckled to his belt that day. It sat on one of the tables, and Evadne hesitated, wondering if she was brave enough to look within it.
She imagined Halcyon would have no qualms about sneaking, and so Evadne reached for the satchel. Her fingers trembled as they sifted through the contents . . . a money pouch, a quill, a sm
all vial of ink . . . two rolls of papyrus the length of her palm, their seals broken. Dispatches, she realized, and she froze, listening to the sounds of camp beyond the tent walls.
She took the risk, swiftly unrolling the first message.
My sincerest apologies about your son. What a loss!
The handwriting was exquisite, feminine, inked in gold. It was signed as Hemlock. Evadne quickly rolled it back up, feeling the sinister pulse of the message. Whoever Hemlock was, they were an enemy of the commander’s.
Evadne unrolled the second dispatch.
Grant mercy to Kingfisher.
Another cryptic message, she thought with a twinge of disappointment. In place of a signature was the stamp of a great serpent, inked in the bottom right corner. The crest of a fellow legion commander, maybe? But the longer Evadne studied the stamp, the more she realized it looked nothing like the serpents that graced the warriors’ armor. This one was greater. A basilisk.
She rushed to replace the dispatches in Straton’s satchel, just as she had found them. Evadne’s mind was racing when she returned to the girl’s wagon, only to find her retching beside it, trying her best to do it quietly.
She straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked at Evadne with bleary eyes.
“Perhaps you should rest,” Evadne suggested.
“No, I cannot,” she panted weakly.
“Amara? Amara, where is the wine?” Toula’s impatient hiss interrupted the girls. “Lord Straton and his family are waiting.”
Amara reached for a wine jar but ended up turning her face away, to retch again. Toula jumped back just in time to miss it, a thunderous expression on her face.
“I am sorry, Toula.” Amara sank to her knees, clinging to the spokes of the wagon wheel. “My moon flow has come.”
“Of course it has. Of all days,” Toula stated with a sigh. “I will ask Lyra to make you a brew tonight, after dinner. But I cannot have you sick in the lord’s presence.” Her gaze flickered to Evadne. “I suppose it will have to be you. Take a jar of wine and that small cup. The cup is yours—you are to take the first sip of wine before Lord Straton, so he can be assured it is not poisoned. Then serve the lord’s cup, then the lady’s, then Damon’s and Lyra’s. Do not let their cups go dry, and do not spill a drop of it, you understand?”
“Poisoned?” Evadne echoed, her eyes wide.
“It is merely protocol,” Toula said. “Nothing to be afraid of. Amara has been cupbearer for years and has never been poisoned.”
Amara, who was currently retching into the grass.
Evadne stood frozen. If she was poisoned and died in her first week of service, what would become of her sister? Would the five years of service be given back to Halcyon?
“Move, girl,” Toula said, impatient.
Numb, Evadne chose a jar of wine and grabbed the small tasting cup. She found Straton and his family at the center of camp, reclining on blankets and pillows, oil lamps hanging about them, drenching them in golden firelight. A platter of food was set in the middle of their circle, although no one was eating.
Evadne stood in the commander’s line of sight. He watched, a slight frown furrowing his brow as Evadne broke the seal on the jar and poured a small trickle into her cup. A tremor moved through her as she raised the cup to her lips, as she remembered the strange messages hidden in Straton’s satchel.
Hemlock.
The stamp of a winding basilisk.
Was she going to die here, drinking poison meant for Straton, miles from home?
Evadne swallowed the wine and waited, heart churning. She waited for what felt like years, but there was no sting of poison. Convinced, the commander motioned her to fill his cup.
She knelt and poured his wine. But when Evadne made to fill his wife’s cup, Cosima recoiled from her, guarding her chalice.
“Do you think I want you anywhere near my food and drink?” she asked.
Evadne paused on her knees, jar extended and ready to pour. The wine’s sour aftertaste lingered in her mouth as she thought about how ironic Cosima’s comment was. Evadne was risking herself, testing the family’s drink for poison. She could see Damon and his sister in her peripheral vision, their eyes wide in surprise.
“Mother,” Damon whispered.
Cosima paid him no heed. “Where is Amara? Amara!”
From the shadows came Toula, an apologetic smile painted on her face. “Lady Cosima, I apologize for this . . . inconvenience. Amara is unwell, and I thought it would be wise to begin training the girl.”
“I do not want her touching my family’s sustenance,” Cosima stated. “I do not want to see her at all, in fact. Do you understand, Toula?”
Toula’s hands fluttered. “Of course, Lady. I do apologize. It will never—”
“Come now, Cosima,” Straton interrupted, his voice weary. “Evadne will be with us for five years. There is no need to be afraid of her.”
Cosima set her eyes on her husband, defiant. “Is that what you thought of her sister, too, Straton? Before you chose her for our son? Before she slayed him?”
Evadne rose, eased away from their circle. Her ankle popped, but she somehow managed to walk smoothly to Toula, setting the wine jar into her hands. Toula did not stop her from striding through the camp, beyond the circle of torches, into the darkness.
She walked until she was swallowed by the wind, until she could almost fool herself that she was near the grove and none of this had happened. Evadne sat in the grass, closing her eyes. Her temples throbbed with anger, and she struggled to find her breath, to anchor her mind.
The moon had risen by the time she had steadied her emotions. She opened her eyes to see the stars were scattered across the night sky. And in the distance was Mount Euthymius, incandescent with celestial light.
Evadne was too tired to be afraid of its watchful presence. She had scarcely slept the night before, and she lay down, thinking she would rest only for a moment.
She jolted awake hours later.
Her right shoulder and hip were pressed into the earth, wildflowers wilting over her like a blanket. And in the ground, she felt a tremble. The pound of something approaching.
Evadne sat forward, dazed. At first, she did not know where she was. The moon had set, and the stars were muted, veiled behind clouds. But then she saw the commander’s camp in the distance, the torches struggling to remain alight as the wind blew, cold and ruthless, from the mountains. There was a song within the wind, a woman’s voice, chanting.
Ivina.
The guardian of the mountain had taken note of them, sleeping in Euthymius’s shadow. And she was about to send down an enchantment to confront them.
Evadne scrambled upward, fear making her limbs melt. She froze on her hands and knees when she heard the first howl. Something was approaching Straton’s camp; the light gleamed upon its fur. And it was not just one, but many. Evadne counted six wolves, prowling closer and closer, waiting for the torches to extinguish.
No, she thought, straining her eyes in the darkness. They were not wolves. They were the same beast, multiplied. A dog she recognized.
Her blood went cold. It was the shepherd’s dog from years ago, the one that had almost mauled her, that had left scars and pain in her ankle.
Halcyon had once come between them, had killed that dog to save her life.
This cannot be real. Evadne panted, fingers curling into the loam. But it was real. The dog had been resurrected by Ivina, over and over, according to Evadne’s greatest fear. She told herself they were only apparitions; they could not bite. But then a torch went dark, and one of the dogs snarled, leaping into the camp through the river of shadows.
A scream pierced the wind.
Evadne flinched. She watched the servants rush with lit torches, frantically shouting as they beat the phantom dog back with fire. Toula dashed for the darkened torch, lighting it just before another phantom could slip into the camp. And then there was Straton, moving through the tents and wa
gons with calm precision, a spear in his hand.
He lit it on fire and hurled the weapon across the night. The spear caught one of the phantoms in its side. The dog howled and jerked before it evanesced into a swarm of sparks and smoke. The commander did it again, again, as effortless as breathing, and Evadne’s fear eased.
The phantom dogs were splintering, dissipating, unable to withstand the fire.
Evadne pushed herself to her feet, shaky. She took a step forward but stopped when the nape of her neck prickled.
Slowly, she turned.
One more phantom dog stalked in the darkness, its luminous eyes fixated on her.
“Evadne!” Straton’s voice cracked her indecision. It was a command to run—to run to him—and Evadne sprinted to the camp in her uneven gait.
The phantom dog gave chase. She could hear it snarl, snap its teeth in her wake. But she saw the commander striding to her, a fiery spear in his hand. She kept her eyes on him, even when she felt a tug on her chiton, when she heard the linen shred.
For one heady moment, Evadne thought about taking flight. She was one breath from it, but her heart was frantic. She could scarcely think, let alone command the wind to uplift her.
“Down, Evadne!” Straton ordered as he hurled the spear, and Evadne only had a ragged breath to decide if she wanted to heed him.
She hit the ground, and the fiery lance sank into the phantom directly above her. Smoke rose and sparks rained down on her arms, her tangled hair. She listened to them hiss in the wind, her face pressed into the earth. And then it went quiet, and Evadne found she was trembling so violently she could not make herself move.
“Can you stand?”
Gradually, she lifted her chin to see Straton standing at her side.
Evadne pushed herself up, wavering. The commander made no action to assist her, but he followed her as she limped back into camp. A few of the servants watched; they said nothing and offered nothing as Evadne leaned against one of the wagons, laboring for breath.
Damon appeared, as if he had risen from a shadow. His dark hair was tousled, his chiton smeared with ash as he approached her.