by Harley James
“What. About. The princess?”
“So impatient! I was getting to that part,” Mantes huffed. “The queen ranted about the ‘stinking pignut of a merchant’ who’d sold her the brush. Apparently, he told her he’d sold one just like it to the princess last year, and perhaps it would bless the queen with hair as long and beautiful as Sophia’s.”
The merchant must have a death wish. That could not have gone over well.
He dropped his hand from Mantes’s shoulder “What then?”
“The queen bought all the brushes, and then burned every last one except the one Calli was using when she snagged on the gray hairs.” Mantes shook his head. “Calli said the queen called Princess Sophia ugly, clumsy, and stupid. Said she’d put the princess in the ground herself before she’d ever let her destroy Sparta by marrying the two family dynasties.”
Put the princess in the ground. Alexios’s fingernails ground into his palms, his hands forming fists.
Sophia’s ridiculous plan to marry him was now common knowledge it seemed.
That would not only leave her open to ridicule, it would put a target on her back from any number of aristocrats content with their position at the top of the social hierarchy.
Gods, Sophie. “Continue,” Alexios ground out.
“The queen screamed that if anyone was marrying you, it would be one of her daughters, and you wouldn’t refuse because if you did, she’d end the problem of the rival princess once and for all.” Mantes blanched. “Her exact words, according to Calli.”
Alexios counted his steps to stand in front of the cold, empty hearth. Counted to keep a clear head. To forestall an outburst of violence. To stem the rage mushrooming inside. Rage and something unfamiliar.
Fear?
How dare Sophia wreck his calm, ordered world with her optimism, her hope, her goodness? He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to want her. Not when he had his own plans.
Plans that could make her an unintended casualty of his burning vengeance.
His hands shook, his mouth twisting with a tangle of unwelcome emotions. No.
Restraint, silence, discipline. That was the Spartan way, hammered into all males from the first day they entered warrior school as young boys.
I shall not be governed by passion. Passion opened the door for error.
By the time he counted his steps to the door, he’d slashed and burned through every weak sentiment Sophia inspired. He would warn her about Theodora, but he’d do it the way he planned for battle.
No emotion. No mistakes. Just cold, clear purpose.
Mantes huffed, hurrying to match Alexios’s long stride. “Where are we going?”
Alexios kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the same-old distrustful glances of both the helots and Spartiates as he strode down the street toward the Agiad stables. “Not your concern.”
“But I’m the one who told you about this. That means I’m part of it. Informants should stay updated on all new developments.”
“Go home, Mantes.” Alexios’s gaze tracked a patch of dense gray clouds lazily swallowing the open blue over the mountains. Rain was on the way.
Mantes ran ahead and turned around, jogging backwards. His narrow face was flush with exertion already.
“You’re not practicing your stamina drills.”
Mantes scoffed and looked everywhere but at Alexios. “Of course I am. I’m just nervous and—”
“Out of shape.”
“No, I’m not.”
Alexios raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Mantes threw up his good arm, out of breath, his temples beading with sweat. “Well, I may be a little out of shape, but that’s not the point right now. If you cut me out of whatever you’re about to do, I might not tell you the next time Calliope has news.”
Alexios’s stride didn’t falter, but he counted to ten and back down again before he opened his mouth. Things had become so twisted up. Mantes felt guilty about Sophia’s father’s death, and he was obviously trying to atone.
My fault. He’d spoken ill of Elder Zenon in front of his loyal attendant, and Mantes had sought vengeance for Alexios, planting a viper for Zenon at the temple where he planned to pray. But Sophia’s father had gone to the temple in the elder’s place.
Alexios should have confessed everything when Sophia had threatened to turn Mantes over to the Royal Guard.
That surely would have cooled her ardor to marry him.
King Tychos’s death was his fault. But Mantes had a lot to learn about self-control.
“Your childish threats dishonor us both. Go home before the queen weighs in, not only about my marital situation, but also who attends me.”
Mantes sucked in a wheezing breath and turned around to walk beside him again. “But you’ve always told me I’m not your slave. Never treated me like one either. She has no say in who works for you.”
Five more minutes, and he’d be at the stables. Theodora had eyes and ears everywhere in the city. Even in the surrounding villages. Alexios had no doubt the bitch would do everything in her power to control every aspect of his life.
Everything in her power to hurt Sophia, and all without a trace of it blowing back on her.
“Willing to gamble?”
Mantes scowled. “Fine. But I want more than a three-word summary when you get back.”
“We shall see.”
Mantes whapped his palsied arm against Alexios’s bicep. “That’s what I mean! You are so irritating. You act like you’re going to run out of words if you say too much at once, but it doesn’t work like that, you know…”
His attendant’s complaints faded as his steps slowed and Alexios charged ahead.
In minutes, he was at the Agiad stables. Thankfully alone.
The guard at the gate waved him in, and Alexios entered the clean, quiet space. He walked down the rows of immaculate stalls filled with calm, well-cared for horses, impressed with the head groom’s efficiency and order.
He found Herodion in the last stall on the right, talking quietly with another groom about wrapping the horse’s hooves with rawhide to protect them from wear. Alexios nodded to Sophia’s groom and then backed out of the stall to wait down the row.
Moments later, Herodion approached, his body still well-conditioned like most Spartan men in their fifties. A heavy gray beard concealed a slight tilt to his lips. “Welcome…or should I say welcome back, Prince?”
Alexios cringed inwardly at the title, but he wasn’t surprised Herodion had learned about his late-night escort of Sophia. He seemed the kind of man who kept his finger on the pulse of everything in his sphere of influence.
And that influence extended far beyond these stable walls.
“My father’s head groom does a fine job, but even he could take a few pointers from you.”
Herodion nodded his thanks. His assessing gray eyes crinkled at the corners, though unease clung to the tight line of his shoulders. “What can I do for you, Alexios?”
“I have a message for Sophia, and I’m hoping for discretion. She told me she requests your escort whenever she leaves the palace, so I’m assuming she’s in?”
Herodion’s agitation spilled out with a sigh. “No. She left mid-morning and forbade me to follow. I’ve regretted my obedience for half the time she’s been gone.”
Everything stilled inside Alexios. “Where did she go?”
The groom moved to pet a tall stallion in the stall beside them.
“I wish to help, Herodion.”
Alexios was moments from laying hands on the man when he finally spoke.
“I cannot disclose her whereabouts, but I heard that the Elders darkened the home of a young Spartan couple just this morning.” He turned to face Alexios, his eyes burning. “And they didn’t leave empty handed.”
Motley-minded Elders. Judgmental, home-wrecking bags of shit, every last one.
And Gods. Damn.
He now knew what dangerous task Sophia was up to. By herself.
&nb
sp; When he turned toward the stable door, Herodion stopped him with a hand on his bicep. “I lost my heart to that girl the day she climbed on the most aggressive warhorse in the stable. I still don’t know how she managed it. I wanted to skin her alive and never let her out of my sight again. Her fearlessness…” He swallowed heavily. “You’re the best tracker in Sparta, and I think she’s stolen your heart, too. So find our princess and bring her home.”
Herodion was wrong. He had no heart to steal. The aristocracy had burned it to ash the night of his mother’s murder.
But he would track Sophia.
He’d find her and bring her home because she was no match for Theodora’s malice.
Alexios called to Artemis, Goddess of the hunt, and ran to the mountain.
Chapter 8
Sophia shifted the pack to a more comfortable position on her back and began a new round of prayers to Artemis and Athena. She looked ahead at the towering black pine and fir trees that stretched halfway up the mountain. Here the thicket of olive trees, heather, and oak stopped, and the forest began.
The forest with all its fanged, tusked, and clawed creatures.
Oh fie! You’re more likely to maim or kill yourself by your own blunder than be devoured by any wild animal.
Still, she rubbed a hand over her heart, unsheathed the dagger strapped to her waist, and stepped into the forest’s noisy darkness.
The wind waving the heavy pine boughs created a song all its own, punctuated by bird calls and the scuffle-squeak of critters pushing through the meager plants on the forest floor. The tree trunks were like poles spearing skyward, the boughs only beginning to flare out high up on the tree, so it was easy to walk in the open understory.
The further she hiked into the shadows, the stronger she felt the kiss of eyes upon her. A warm press against her temples, a gentle nudge forward. One step, then two. Another caress and a puff of wind to twirl her ponytail.
She smiled and shivered, still too on-edge to be completely relieved that the shy tree nymphs had let her feel their presence once again.
“Gentle ladies of the forest,” she murmured, her breath hardly audible. “Guide my steps. Show me the way to save another rejected Spartan baby.”
She’d told no one about the nymphs—how they helped her find the cast-offs—not even Lydia.
All Greeks prayed to Artemis, and everyone knew the Goddess of the Hunt and Forests was a friend to the nymphs, but…
What if word got out? What if curious people decided to find the nymphs, to see for themselves who these kind, elusive beings were?
Or what if they thought she was crazy?
She already had so many strikes against her, she didn’t want to give people one more reason to condemn her.
She rounded a curve on the path and stopped in her tracks.
A large gray and tan wolf stood on a boulder to the left, still shaggy with pieces of its winter coat clinging to it. Her heart pumped furiously as it lowered its head, sniffing the air from less than twenty feet away. Her fingers tightened on the dagger. She raised her arms and straightened her spine, making herself as tall and wide as possible as she slowly backed away. “I wish you no harm, lýkos,” she said, voice as loud and commanding as she could make it.
The wolf’s green eyes glowed, a low growl rumbling from its throat as its muscles bunched.
Goddess Soteria, save me.
She slipped her pack of supplies around to the front to protect her stomach, still backing up the way she’d come. Was the wolf alone, or was there a pack? She’d almost made it around the curve when the wolf lunged.
She slammed herself against a pine to protect her back, and—
A blur of fur.
A human-like bellow of pain.
Sharp teeth glinting, then the whole muzzle…shrinking?
And—
“What in Hades burning pit of fire are you?” she shrieked at the large, naked, smiling man who stalked toward her.
Man. Not wolf.
Man-wolf.
“Lycaeon?” The name tumbled from her lips. Zeus had turned the old king of Arcadia into a werewolf when the foolish mortal had tried to trick him.
Or so the story went.
No. She was having a bad dream and needed to wake up!
The green-eyed man’s smile was feral. “We haven’t seen Lycaeon in ages, though I believe he’s still alive. I’m Estevan. Who are you, exquisite daughter of Aphrodite?”
She held her dagger in front of her as her mind scrambled to make sense of this. “Stay. Back!”
It was foolish and naïve to have left on her own. But how could she endanger someone she loved by requesting their escort? How could she even ask it of someone she didn’t? Her actions were against the law, but if caught, she wouldn’t be whipped, branded, exiled, or crucified like anyone else.
She’d never risk someone else’s life, especially since there was no guarantee the baby would even be alive when they found it.
The back of her neck burned like it had the morning she’d pricked her finger on the tiny, thorned crown. She blinked against the pain, keeping her focus on the large and, oh gods, aroused werewolf.
Her heart pounded against her ribs. “Leave me alone and you will not have cause to regret it.”
“Oh, I disagree.” Estevan squared his broad shoulders, took another step—
And the forest exploded.
Wings, warbling, pinecones, and shit.
Literally. A pinecone and bird shit attack, painting the wolf-man white and red, the shit and his blood mixing to create a pink that matched the eyes of the five unnaturally tall, pale females emerging from the tree trunks, armed with an endless supply of pinecones.
Sophia blinked at the impossible scene. Estevan, jumping, swiping, and snarling at the swooping birds and spiked brown balls of torture hurled by the nymphs.
One of black-haired nymphs turned to her, her crystalline pink eyes imploring as more of her kind poured out of the trees from all around. She jabbed a long graceful finger to the north. “Run, princess. Follow the blue rock thrush wreaths to the child. We will protect you while you are in this forest.”
Sophia swiped her pack off the ground. “Who are you?”
“Damara.”
A soft whisper in her mind drowning out the raging werewolf. She couldn’t think about what would happen if they failed.
“Thank you.” She pushed the thought at all the nymphs with the strength of her conviction. With all the love and hope in her heart as she turned and ran.
Ran and prayed for the nymphs’ safety, her safety—such a long way to go before she cleared the forest and reached the sub-alpine area where trees and large shrubs wouldn’t grow. A long way to go where, for the last many moons, the black-hearted Elders had been abandoning babies in a cold, open meadow on a singular barren rock formation.
Such creatures of habit, but in this case, a good thing for the rescuers and babies alike.
Please be there and be safe, little warrior.
She’d gotten a later start than usual, and the baby probably couldn’t afford the extra time it would take for her to bumble around the mountain searching for him.
It was a boy—the only thing she knew about the child. She didn’t even know the name his parents had given him, and he would never hear it because they’d never see him again. Even if she returned him to them, even though it broke their hearts, they would refuse him. Deny him.
All because the Elders had said he was imperfect somehow.
It’s what kept her coming back to this dark stretch of forest. Even though it was outlawed. Even though she was scared and tired and covered with scrapes and bruises by the time she delivered the baby to one of the safe houses. Even though it was getting harder and harder to avoid the Elders’ watchful eyes.
One worry, one baby at a time.
She reached the massive fallen tree where she usually stopped for a rest, but pressed on, looking over her shoulder, listening for the wolf-man.
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sp; The sliver of sky between the tall tree boughs held soft gray clouds and the air lay dewy on her skin. Rain. Gods. Please don’t storm.
Don’t think about the weather.
Don’t think about anything but what you have to do.
She came to a small stream and looked around a little wildly for a sign. Which way to go? The nymph had said to look for a blue rock thrush wreath.
“Where Damara?” Her breath strained in the thin mountain air.
A woodpecker hammered on the opposite side of the stream and a line of butterflies drew her eyes to a small circular object hanging on a tree trunk nearby.
There. A small wreath made of feathers.
She shivered as she crossed the shallow stream.
All told, there were five more blue wreaths by the time she broke the tree line and emerged onto the meadow. It was much colder up here out in the open, the low clouds moody and gray, the wind tugging at her clipped-at-the-knees peplos. The small plants and barren rock formations had their own rugged beauty, but she couldn’t wait to find the boy and leave.
She strained her ears in the rising wind and hurried over the uneven limestone and patches of wildflowers, careful of her steps. “Come on, little one. Cry out for me.”
Ten paces, twenty, fifty, then…
There he was.
Tucked in between two jagged pieces of weathered limestone, he blinked up at the sky with wide brown eyes that held the wisdom of the world.
Chapter 9
Alexios kept a watchful eye on the dark, mid-afternoon clouds as he hurried out of the city toward the foothills in search of his troublesome princess.
The troublesome princess. Not his.
Theodora not only wanted to eliminate her daughters’ competition for the throne, she also wanted to get rid of the rival house’s rebel.
Damned dual kingship. What other city-state had such a messy form of government? Perhaps he should advise Sophia to start her crusade by tearing down that institution first.
Gods, no. She would probably warm to the idea, and she already had way too many dangerous plans in her beautiful head. Today, he’d find her to warn her about the Queen, and that would be it. Sophia was part of the aristocracy he wanted to tear apart.