There’s a myth! And plot! And excessive use of semicolons!

[pendrecarc]

Er, fic post, though it's not a fandom with much of an audience. I'm almost done with the second half.

Title: The Best Interest of Nations
Fandom: Megan Whalen Turner’s Queen’s Thief series.
Timeline: During and soon after The King of Attolia
Spoilers: I had the HarperCollins blurb for A Conspiracy of Kings to go on when I wrote this, but beyond that it’s all speculation.
Rating: There’s nothing here that isn’t in the books.
Summary: In which a story is told, swords are drawn, and adventures are planned, but nobody arranges a cart.
Author’s Note: The discovery of a bronze pen-nib in the ruins of Pompeii indicates that metal pens were in use as early as the first century AD, but they did not become popular until much later than the Byzantine period, and so it seems likely that the characters in The Thief and its sequels would have used quills. Ms. Turner has gone to great pains to assure her readers that the chronology of her world is not quite the same as ours, and as a goose-feather wouldn’t stand up to the magus’ rather unorthodox use of the pen in question, I decided to take a little historical license.

Part I:

It was quite late when the library door swung open with a long creak and interrupted the King’s Magus of Sounis in mid-sentence. He looked up from his writing in some surprise, there being very few people in Eddis’ palace who cared to use that room at any time of day, but any annoyance he might have felt at the intrusion dissolved when he recognized the queen herself.

“Your Majesty,” he said, rising to his feet. She was alone, still dressed in soiled traveling clothes, and she seemed equally startled to find him there. “I didn’t realize you would be home so soon.”

“Neither did I,” she said. “I had planned to spend the night in my cousin’s villa a few hours from here, but we made better time than I expected, so I decided I might as well return tonight as tomorrow.”

He raised his eyebrows, taking in her exhaustion and the fresh scuffs on her boots. “That’s a hard road after dark.”

“I didn’t feel like waiting. I did,” she said dryly, “order the greater part of our company to stay behind.” The corners of her mouth curled back in amusement, and he thought he knew why--the delegation of Eddisians who had attended Attolia and Eugenides’ wedding had included the high priestess of Hephestia and several rather overweight ministers, and it was difficult to imagine any of them marching after their queen through the night up a steep mountain road.

Eddis sank into a chair near the window, the half-smile disappearing as quickly as it had come. The magus glanced down at his papers, but he had lost his train of thought. He made one final note and laid down his pen. When he looked up, he saw that she had closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions, the bridge of her nose pinched between her thumb and forefinger. He was just beginning to wonder if it would be best to slip out silently when she spoke.

“It was horrible,” Eddis said. “No shattered windows this time, and they were civil to one another--more than civil, if I am honest--but it was horrible. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sat quietly, waiting for her to go on. “It’s what he wants, gods help him, but they all despise him already for what he is, and that will only be worse when they’ve come to resent us having our troops scattered all over their country.” They resented it already, the magus knew, but she was right; the indignity would worsen once it had time to fester. “Our court is not a kind place, either. I won’t say he was always happy here. But he was with people who valued him, not surrounded by that mob of scheming vipers.” She let her hand fall. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

He thought of pointing out the futility of trying to change Gen’s mind once it was made up, or reminding her that one man’s happiness was not a fair exchange for the security of her whole country, or even telling her that it would all look better in the morning; one platitude is as good as another, in a crisis. But she was not looking for cheap reassurance, and so instead they sat in a silence that was almost companionable, or would have been if it hadn’t given him a vague sense of discomfort. As Queen, her choice of confidantes was limited to begin with. Her ministers would only respond to her disclosure with assessments of Eugenides’ tactical position at the Attolian court. But he was neither her subject nor her advisor, nor even a political adversary. He might eventually return to Sounis with the news that the Queen of Eddis sometimes questioned her own decisions, but that was hardly crucial intelligence. The magus was not entirely at ease with this situation, the two of them forced into an artificial intimacy by their respective positions. It felt oddly like taking advantage.

“I first met the Queen of Attolia,” he said, once he had had some time to consider his words, “some years before her brother was killed. I hadn’t received my appointment yet. I was just an assistant to my predecessor, but I’d made myself valuable enough to him that he took me along when the King of Attolia invited us to a diplomatic meeting. That was an unusual event even then, and I was glad of the opportunity.” He could still remember the feeling of heady decadence that had followed him through his visit to the Attolian court, where even lowly soldiers-turned-apprentices with rough hands and no family connections (they were hard to come by if one didn’t also have the family) were put up in rooms with fine linens and scented soap, where only the choicest cuts of meat ever made it to the state tables, where he drank wine that tasted of golden autumns in a hall with pillars of gilt wood and porphyry. It had all been for show, of course. The other apprentices and the junior diplomats had let the unaccustomed luxury go to their heads, but he’d saved his energy for observation and had seen the strain on the faces of the guards that stood at every doorway, the way the King’s advisors flicked their eyes towards the powerful barons surrounding the throne before speaking. He’d noticed which of the men drank their wine readily at dinner and which seemed hesitant to raise their glasses to their lips, and he’d seen to whom the Attolian Minister of War delivered his reports before approaching the King himself. None of it seemed at place in a prosperous capital where the sovereign was assured of his power: these were signs of a country a hair’s breadth away from outright insurrection and utter collapse.

But he said only, “One of our first nights there, I was seated across from her at dinner. She was only a girl, not much to look at at the time, and she hardly spoke except to answer a direct question.” He’d worn a coat of green silk. It had been a little too narrow in the shoulders and wide at the waist, because the tailor hadn’t had time to fit it properly, but the buttons had been solid silver. His master had taken one look at his wardrobe before they left Sounis and, shaking his head, had lent him the money himself. The coat had worn out a few years later, but by that point he’d been in a position to buy much finer things. He’d still had it, tucked into a chest somewhere, when Eugenides had turned up in his room during the Navy Festival. Since then it had probably been seized by the King’s guard or appropriated by one of the palace servants, or whatever happened to the belongings of presumed traitors.

“It wasn’t stupidity. I could tell, even young as she was. I wouldn’t call it caution, either, though that wouldn’t have been surprising. It was fear, and the fact that she simply wasn’t expected to have much to say; a not unnatural reaction to years of being a pawn in an unpredictable political game. And the rest of the court was in much the same position.” Eddis had opened her eyes and shifted into a more comfortable position, her boots removed and the tension gone from her face. “I haven’t spoken to her recently, but if what you’ve told me is true, she’s gone a long way toward recovering from that.”

“And what the Queen may do, the rest of the country may do also, given a little peace of mind.”

“Given that,” he said, “and time.”

“Time is exactly what we may not have.” But he knew that as well as she did. “When was the next time you met her?”

“Oh, not until years later, after her father’s death.” Almost immediately after, to be perfectly accurate; she had wanted representatives from foreign powers at her wedding and coronation, to make certain they saw firsthand that she was not a Queen to be trifled with. He’d been there, in fact, the night she’d poisoned her bridegroom at the wedding feast--but it would be impolitic to bring that up in present company. “She’d changed a great deal. But then I didn’t see her again until much later, when we had a very interesting conversation about the contents of a certain underwater temple.” They both smiled, though the magus’ was nearly a wince. It was not an interview he cared to remember in much detail.

“You should have come with us to the wedding,” the queen said. He snorted softly, imagining Eugenides’ reaction at having to include the magus on the guest list. “I would be interested in your opinion of the court as it stands today. Have you ever met Relius?”

“Never. We’ve had dealings, but only indirectly. What did you think of him?”

“He dresses very well,” Eddis replied, after some thought. “Flashiness is not something I would have expected of someone in his position.”

“I believe Attolia raised him out of extreme poverty when he helped her to the throne. An abrupt rise from that sort of background tends to make a man cling to the finer things in life, once he can get at them. It’s also an excellent way of instilling loyalty in one’s subjects.”

“As her military reforms have proven.”

The magus inclined his head in agreement. “I think you’ll also find their resentment over your troops may actually work to your advantage, strengthening the Attolians’ loyalty to the queen to compensate for the blow to their pride. Of course, it would help if your Thief could manage to win them over, as well.”

“When I left him, he seemed determined not to win anyone over. I think he plans to go on playing the buffoon as long as he can.”

“If they underestimate him, he can certainly use that to his benefit; but only to a point. Before long Attolia will need a King.” He saw from her expression that she had had this conversation many times before, that it was a source of great frustration to her, and that she didn’t need a lecture on the matter. “Did Gen’s father return with you tonight?”

From her narrowed eyes, he inferred that she’d noticed he was changing the subject. “He did,” she said. “I think he was half tempted to forego the wedding entirely. Certainly he couldn’t leave Attolia fast enough, once it was done.”

“I can’t say that I would feel any differently, seeing a son of mine in that position.”

He wondered if her frown was due to concern for Eugenides or skepticism at the thought of seeing the magus saddled with children. “That reminds me,” she said. “He told me the two of you have been spending a fair deal of time together, lately.”

“Gen?”

“My Minister of War.”

“Oh, yes. I invited him to a game of chess about a week before you left for Attolia, and, somewhat to my surprise, he accepted.”

“Now why would you do a thing like that?” the queen asked, amused.

“Curiosity. Boredom. Take your pick.” The magus shrugged. “I wanted to feel him out. I think he accepted with much the same goal in mind.”

“And what have you found?”

“Mostly that he really does seem to have as little a sense of humor as Gen always said,” he answered, “and he is very good at chess.”

She laughed. It was a short, tired sound, but he appreciated it nonetheless. “Dare I ask who won?”

“Ah, now that would be telling.” The magus smiled. “But it was close enough--and, I think, informative enough--that we both thought it worth a repeat performance. He’s surprisingly good company, once you get past his air of general disapproval.”

“That’s funny,” Eddis said. “It wasn’t so very long ago that I came to the same conclusion about you.” Indignant, the magus opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Oh, yes,” she said, “you do have a certain high-handedness about you. Though perhaps my first impressions were colored by Eugenides’. Or by the fact that you were doing your best to force me into a marriage alliance with your king at the time. You still haven’t apologized for that, by the way.”

“Nor do I intend to. I’d do it all over again, given the chance. Well,” he amended, thinking it over, “perhaps not all of it. But surely you--”

“You’re not going to talk me into marrying Sounis tonight,” she said firmly, pushing herself out of the chair with a sigh, “and I’m far too tired to let you try. Come to breakfast tomorrow and you may have another opportunity.”

“I thought you usually breakfasted with members of your council?”

“I do. Tomorrow we discuss the deployment of our troops in Attolia and how best to use the license she has given us, specifically as it relates to improving the flow of trade. We could use your input.”

“I’m flattered,” the magus said, “but also a little surprised, I confess, that you would….” He trailed off, trying to find a way to put it delicately, so she finished for him.

“Trust you not to try and turn any situation to your country’s advantage? Of course not. But you know as well as I do that renewal of open war would be a disaster for Sounis, and as long as we are at peace, you are served as well as anyone by efficient trade routes. Do come,” she added. “The Minister of Finance is going to make his case for increasing our caravan tax on Attolian wines. I want someone there who can tear his argument to pieces without needing to be polite about it.”

“I am entirely at your disposal. Along with all the high-handedness I can muster.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.” She looked beyond him at the door to Eugenides’ old room, and a thoughtful line appeared in her forehead. “You know,” she said, “you may as well move in here, so you don’t have to walk halfway across the palace whenever you want a quiet place to work. He didn’t take all his things with him, but I can send someone to clear them out.”

It was a tempting idea. The library was in the least-frequented corner of the palace, and it would be a good deal more convenient, but the magus thought she was more reluctant than her words implied. Eugenides might have moved out of her library, but leaving his room vacant would allow her to keep up the illusion that it was a temporary change of address. Not a very queenly impulse, perhaps, but a very human one, and he felt a sudden urge to be kind. “Thank you for the offer,” he said, “but I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

A look of relief, quickly suppressed, flashed across her face. “As you like,” she replied. “I am going to bed. May it go easily,” she added, referring to his work--another of those odd Eddisian turns of phrase he was beginning to pick up on.

“Good night,” the magus said, watching her until she disappeared into the dark hallway outside.

********

“It’s a poor substitute for the real thing,” the magus said conversationally.

“Hmm?”

He and the Minister of War faced one another across a chessboard. He’d just used one of his black knights to take a pawn, and he was very nearly certain his opponent hadn’t meant him to; the other man’s frown as he stared down at the board might have been etched out of the same slab as his chessmen of green onyx.

When she had brought him to the capital, the queen had installed her esteemed prisoner in a south-facing apartment with wide windows and an open balcony. The drop from the balcony where they sat into the courtyard below was not quite twice a man’s height, and it would not have taken a thief of Eugenides’ caliber to escape from that apartment. The handsome accommodations were a gesture of trust as much as of apology for his situation. A light breeze blew in from the gardens, carrying the scent of hyacinth and citrus fruit, and the afternoon was pleasantly warm. If he ignored the fact that it was midsummer and not late autumn, the magus could almost imagine himself back in Sounis.

“The game,” he said with a wave of the little green pawn. “It’s instructive, certainly, and passes the time tolerably well, but it’s not as interesting as the real thing.”

“You’d find it more stimulating to be fighting a real war back at home?” asked the minister, who approached each chess match with all the seriousness he turned toward actual military engagements and therefore might not have understood the magus’ point.

The magus swallowed the first reply that came to mind, which was that “war” was too strong a word for the minor uprising Sounis’ barons had instigated, but what would have been confidence when they’d first gotten the news was just whistling in the dark now, weeks later. Subsequent reports had not been encouraging.

“More stimulating, yes,” he said at last, “but I can’t say I miss the responsibility.” Which was only half a lie. He didn’t miss knowing the outcome of every decision might literally fall on his neck, and the resentful part of him did get some satisfaction out of seeing the king’s new advisors running around in circles, trying to put out the insurrection like so many grandmothers beating dust from a rug with their walking sticks. But yesterday’s dispatch had brought news of the razing of Chalastra, a pleasant port city where one of his former apprentices had lived, and the week before he’d learned that Sounis’ twenty-third regiment had been leveled by Baron Psoniades’ troops. His first commission had been in the twenty-third.

The minister grunted. This was not one of his communicative days, and he seemed very interested in developments on the board. The magus was pleased with his own strategy so far, and especially glad to have gotten his knights into play; he had little fondness for the towers, which were useful enough but sadly uninspiring in their stolidity. He much preferred the knights, with their precision strikes and swift retreats, and the guile of the tall and narrow priests. It was far too early to bring out his queen. She was still hidden in the ranks beside the king, that great ineffectual lump on whom the whole game depended, who had been awarded all her power but none of her potency. Which reminded him.

“Your son’s letters have been more optimistic lately. It sounds as though he’s making progress, though I doubt the Attolians see it that way.”

The minister glanced up at him. “Her Majesty’s given you access to that information, as well?”

“I get the public messages from Ornon along with everyone else, but she does sometimes ask me to look over the private correspondence.” His opponent’s frown deepened, if that was possible. “I’m glad of it. The public accounts are far less interesting. The palace gossips must be beside themselves for want of material, with so little word from Eugenides and the queen’s supposed affair at an end.”

“Never that,” said the minister. “They are quite capable of inventing scandal even when her majesty is not going deliberately out of her way to suggest it to them. It took them all of an evening to come up with a more interesting explanation than political expediency for my son’s marriage.”

“Clearly I’ve been listening to the wrong conversations at dinner,” the magus said, surprised at both his own ignorance and the minister’s sudden chattiness. “I haven’t heard any of this.”

“They could hardly discuss it in front of you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You really don’t know?”

“No,” he said warily, “but I’m beginning to think I ought to.”

“There are very few who believe her majesty’s Thief genuinely wanted to marry the woman who cut off his hand,” that Thief’s father explained, “much less that the whole thing was his idea. It is also not the sort of plot that could be credited to her ministers’ imaginations. So the gossips looked for someone else, someone calculating and persuasive, someone who has both the queen’s ear and a history of being at odds with Eugenides.” The magus began to see where this was going. “It is generally believed that Eugenides and the queen were not on speaking terms for some time before Attolia’s kidnapping, but of course the estrangement didn’t occur until after you were brought to the capital.”

“But what motive could I have had?”

“Jealousy,” said the Minister of War, as though it was obvious. “The years you’ve spent in dogged pursuit of our queen have not gone unnoticed. To be outwitted twice, and publicly, by the same man, and then to find him enjoying favors you had hoped to receive--one can see how you might find that galling enough to have him removed.”

The magus stared. The minister regarded him with some enjoyment, the twist of his usually stern mouth suggesting a better sense of humor than the magus had previously credited to him. The magus wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or amused, so he settled for shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d take such an interest in my hypothetical intrigues.”

“I find your interest interesting.” He hovered one hand over a knight, considering a move, but changed his mind. “Your interest in her majesty, that is.”

“You don’t think I’m--”

“Her lover? If I did, I think you’d find your stay here much less comfortable.” Some men would have given him an unpleasant smile to underline that point, but Eddis’ Minister of War didn’t need to, and the magus had no difficulty believing him. “And I don’t think you’re that stupid. Certainly she is not. But your obsession with her and that blasted marriage has been extraordinarily troublesome, and I don’t intend to let you interfere with her rule.” He had decided on his next move. One of his green towers had been left vulnerable after the capture of his pawn, and he sent it fleeing to one side of the board.

“I have no plans to interfere,” the magus replied, stung. “I’m not her enemy, or your son’s, for that matter.”

“You’ve more than enough reason to be.”

“True enough. I have him to thank for all this.” The magus waved one hand expansively, his gesture intended to take in all of Eddis. “Which is meant as a reminder, if you need one, that I am not here by my own choice. I don’t think I am the one to be accused of interfering in another nation’s affairs.”

“You aren’t the type of man to take exile quietly,” the minister said. “And it’s your move.”

He brought his knight back to the center of the board. “You think I’m plotting something?”

“I think you’re frustrated without a kingdom to run. I think you like feeling useful. I also think you talk too much.”

“That’s not an accusation I’ve heard often.”

“Too much during this game, certainly.”

“You’ve been talking as much as I have,” said the magus, confused.

The minister smiled. “And you’ve been listening,” he said, and slid one of his priests into place.

“Oh,” said the magus. “Damn.”

He was still glaring down at the board, which had somehow rearranged itself in green’s favor, when the Minister of War rose to his feet. “My Queen.”

“I beg your pardon,” Eddis said. “For the interruption, and for coming in uninvited, Magus, but I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

“It is your palace, Your Majesty.” He tried unsuccessfully to imagine Sounis coming to fetch him personally instead of sending a peremptory message with an armed guard to back it up, much less apologizing for an invasion of his privacy.

“Might I have a moment?” she asked, and she and the minister spent the next few minutes at the far side of the balcony, heads bent together, talking in low voices while the magus pretended a polite interest in the royal flower beds. After some time, he heard receding footsteps and looked up to find that the minister had gone back inside. The queen came to the table and took the seat he’d left behind.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your game,” she said. “I’ve had to call my council together.”

The magus shrugged. “It would have been mate in four.” Eddis looked down at the pieces, searching for the hole in their defenses, and she nodded when she had seen it. Her mouth looked oddly drawn. He leaned forward and saw the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. “Helen,” he said, startled. And what the Minister of War would have thought of that, he didn’t even want to guess.

“There’s been a courier from Sounis,” she said. “I wanted to tell you myself.”

The capital had fallen, he thought wildly, or gods forbid, if the king--and in the half second it took him to remember who she was, he saw the utter collapse of his country, saw it shattered and the pieces divided among whatever other powers might take an interest. But she was Eddis. Her loyalties were not his, and the ruin of his homeland would not have caused those tears.

“He had news from Letnos. Sophos is missing, feared dead.”

His eyes fell, but he didn’t need to see her to feel her sympathetic gaze boring into him. No doubt she misinterpreted his silence. How fascinating, he thought, that he should have such trouble knowing what he felt. Grief, yes, but it was a personal grief, and it was difficult to measure his sudden fear for the boy against the constant roiling anxiety for his country.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. Seizing the king’s heir was a bold and calculated move. Whoever had done it must have had more than his share of ambition and motives that went well beyond mere discontent. “Is there word on who it might have been?”

She shook her head. “You know the possibilities better than I do.”

“Eructhes is savage enough to use a child as a bargaining tool,” he said, “and brutal enough to follow through on any threats.” Sophos was not a child any longer, but the magus found it difficult to think of him otherwise. It gnawed at the magus’ stomach to imagine him in Eructhes’ hands. “On the other hand, Psoniades has a longer reach. Either of them might have done it. Or it might have been someone else entirely.” He cleared his throat. “Do you think he is dead?”

“I have no idea,” she replied, gently. “The courier didn’t know anything beyond what I’ve told you. I’d like to believe they would find him more useful, alive.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I’ve been to the temple,” she said, “and made an offering to Hephestia for his safety.”

The magus laughed thinly before realizing she was serious. “And you imagine that will help?”

“I do. That surprises you?” It did. He’d assumed she saw her religious duties as part of her role as queen, something to be carried out for custom’s sake and to keep the uneducated populace happy. She didn’t seem offended. “Your king has no heir,” Eddis said. The magus didn’t need the reminder, but she had another point to make. “That changes things for us, as well. I need to meet with my council.”

“And you don’t want me to come.”

“It would be better if you didn’t, I think.” She made a quick motion, just as quickly aborted, as though she had wanted to touch his shoulder and had thought better of it. “I am so very sorry.”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” He turned away to face out over the balcony, not much caring if it seemed rude. The queen remained there for a moment without speaking, and then he heard her turn and leave.

He felt a little stab of pain and looked down. He still held the little green pawn and had been gripping it more tightly than he’d realized. He set it back on the board, but the sharp edge of its base had dug deeply into his skin, and a long red mark stood out on his palm. It took some time to fade.

*******

Most nights after that, he felt hands in the dark. His mother’s were cool and soft against his forehead, checking for fever; his father’s were rough and warm with the sun as they lifted him into a saddle for the first time. His brother’s fist curled around his thumb, fingers barely long enough to circle it. His tutor’s was hard and heavy, each casual blow across the side of his face enough to send him reeling, but surprisingly delicate when forming the mysterious characters of ancient scripts on white parchment. The woman in Sounis he’d once tried to love traced the lines of his mouth and palms with a quick and sure touch; her face eluded him now, years later, but he remembered perfectly the feel of a finger against his lips. Sophos’ hands were more comfortable holding a pen than the hilt of a sword, and they clenched awkwardly around the leather as the magus corrected his grip. Ambiades, who had been stupid and treacherous and his responsibility, clawed at the air as he went over the cliff. Pol’s hands were desperate, clutching at his for the barest of moments before they fell finally and terribly away.

Gen had no hand, he remembered, but he imagined instead the bite of cold steel and woke sweating in his bed.

********

It was easy to arrange an audience with the Queen of Eddis, even when he wasn’t attending her council meetings. He knew that she liked to spend some hours after dinner at her desk, reading reports of the day’s events and revisiting her decisions on each, or writing letters, or, on very rare occasions, sitting down with a book. So it was only a matter of approaching her seneschal, with whom he was friendly, and asking if she might spare a few minutes one evening.

She seemed glad to see him. He thought it might have had something to do with the reports on grain imports that lay an inch thick on her desk. He’d have been grateful for the distraction, too.

“We haven’t seen much of you at dinner lately,” she said. “I hope nothing’s wrong?”

“I’ve been writing.”

“Your history of the invaders?”

“I’ve had to put that aside,” he said. “I’m at a point where it’s difficult to continue without my notes from home. Forgive me, but your library can’t compare to Sounis’.” She smiled to show there was no offense taken. “No, this is a new project. That’s why I’ve come to ask for a favor.”

“Ask whatever you like,” she said, “but if it’s your library you want back, I should warn you I’ll have trouble getting it without a reliable Thief in my service.”

He laughed. “It’s nothing that inconvenient, I hope.”

“What is it you need?”

“A horse,” he said, “and a little money.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I had no idea you were in financial trouble. Or have we failed to support the kind of lifestyle you enjoyed at Sounis’ court?”

The magus smiled. “You have been more than generous, Your Majesty. I’m asking for a small loan, one I can repay as soon as I’m back in Sounis. It’s hard to access funds from so far away.”

“Especially when the king has seized all your assets,” Eddis agreed. The magus managed not to wince; he still expected to return home before long, and in the meantime, he had begun to find his exile almost palatable. “Why do you need the money?”

“I’d like to see some of the countryside. I won’t go far,” he hastened to add. “I give you my solemn word not to stray over Eddis’ borders, and I’ll accept a guard if you insist on it.” This was a meaningless gesture, and they both knew it. Since the treaty with Attolia, he was unlikely to find himself in much danger in that country, but still the best he could hope for was to be sent straight back to Eddis in case of discovery. Wandering into Sounis was out of the question.

“No escort,” she said, “unless you are concerned for your safety, traveling alone in a backward country of goatherds and woodcutters.”

“A man of my advanced years can hardly be too careful,” he said solemnly, “but I think I am willing to risk it.”

“What is it that you want to see? It’s not as though you’ve never been through my countryside before--though the last time, you certainly didn’t bother to ask my permission.”

“On that occasion I was doing my best to avoid meeting any of your subjects.” He had, of course, been traveling with one at the time, but neither of them needed reminding of that. “Now I want to seek them out.”

“Why?”

“I’m collecting stories. I’ve found some surprising variations on the older myths, but I suspect I’m getting a limited picture by remaining in the city. And--” The magus stopped. She was listening politely, but he thought he detected a hint of skepticism in her expression. “Call it a distraction.”

The queen nodded, not unsympathetically. “Very well. A horse, and some money, though I think you’ll find Eddisian hospitality doesn’t stop at the palace walls, and you’ll have an easier time finding a family to put you up for the night than locating a decent inn. And if you are worried about protection, you may go to the captain of my guard and tell him I’ve granted you the use of a sword.”

“That won’t be necessary. I would like to speak to your physician, though, and see if he would lend me a few supplies.”

She laughed. “The captain’s swords are all mine, but I would hesitate to claim any of Galen’s herbs and instruments; there you are quite on your own.”

In the end the magus did persuade Galen to part with a few basic necessities of the profession, and as the queen predicted, very seldom were his offers of coin for food and a bed accepted. He did manage a good trade in stories for medical services, however, treating the usual ailments and small wounds that were so common in rural life. Occasionally he was called upon to treat problems well outside his small degree of expertise. On one memorable occasion, a local midwife was visiting a cousin many miles away and could not be reached, and he was asked to help with a breech birth. Inexperienced as he was, he had little expectation of being able to help and still less hope for either of his patients; but by some miracle, he sat back after hours of hard labor to watch the child suckling at its exhausted mother’s breast, still warm from her womb and steaming in the cool night air, and he reflected with some astonishment at the unpredictable course his life had taken of late.

More often, however, his services as a scribe were most valuable, and before long his small traveling pack was stuffed with letters to relatives in the city, bearing news of weddings and deaths, harvests and herds, and soon he was running low on parchment with little opportunity to purchase more. He stopped relying so heavily on his notes. Though he would write down, for example, the unique pronunciation of names in certain remote areas, his memory served him just as well when it came to the details of the stories. Some of the villagers found his interest in their myths bewildering, and more than a few laughed at his ignorance, but most were happy to repeat the tales they’d known so well since childhood.

He kept the horse only for the first few weeks, before the climbs grew too steep and the trails too narrow. From the maps he’d seen back in Sounis, based partly on the reports of army scouts but mostly on rumor, he thought he remembered the location of an army post nestled in the lee of one mountain; to his immense gratification, the camp proved to be precisely where he had hoped. He rode the horse in and handed it over to the surprised officer of the watch, leaving instructions that it should be taken back to the queen’s stables whenever convenient. From there he continued on foot. At first the ache in his thighs every morning was a reminder, not entirely unpleasant, of his marching days, but before long it had faded and gone, and soon his legs were as hard as they had ever been.

One bitterly cold evening--and still it was summer!--he had been climbing for hours longer than he had expected without seeing any sign of habitation. He had just begun to consider trying to make camp in the paltry shelter of some firs when, much to his relief, he saw a glimmer of light through the trees. It proved to be coming from the window of a small but sturdy cabin with a promising curl of smoke from the chimney. The magus knocked three times at the door, and when it opened, he found himself looking down at an old woman with a bent back and wizened face.

“There’s nothing here to steal,” she said in the queer mountain dialect, before he could get a word out. “If that’s what you’re here for, young man, I might as well tell you that I’m alone, and I won’t try to stop you if you find anything you like enough to take.”

He smiled as well as he could around chattering teeth. “I’m not here to steal, mother, but to beg a place by the fire, if you won’t turn a cold and tired traveler from your door.”

“As though I could stop you coming in even if I wanted,” she replied, but she didn’t seem at all reluctant to draw up another crude wooden chair at her table and pour out a second serving of hot soup from the pot. The meat was tough and unseasoned, but he’d had much worse, and it only took a few mouthfuls to warm him through. Once his extremities were thawed, he set to interrogating his hostess. She put up a brief show of reticence, but before long he had her chattering away happily. Likely she had few opportunities for conversation, living in such an isolated place.

Her name was Anna. Her husband had been a woodcutter who had built this home for them shortly after their marriage, and he had succumbed to an ague several winters ago. Only two of their children had lived to adulthood. Her son had lived with her until the previous year, when he left to serve in Eddis’ army, and he had not survived the wars. The magus wondered whether he had fallen to Attolian or Sounisian troops but decided it was better not to ask. The daughter was married and lived in a small village over the next ridge, with children and grandchildren of her own, though, she said querulously, they rarely visited now. Her grandson had stayed on after his father’s death until only a few months ago, when he decided to try his luck in the capital.

“He’s a man grown now,” Anna said, with no trace of bitterness, “and you can’t expect him to be happy always chopping wood and hunting game for an old woman like me. A man wants to live under his own roof, to make his own way. He’s clever, just like his grandfather. He’ll do well.”

“And you?” the magus asked, leaning over his steaming bowl. “How do you manage, out here on your own?”

“Not as well as I used to. My daughter wants me to move into her house,” she said, “but I’ve lived and grown old here, and I’d much rather die in the home my husband built than packed into a bed in a corner of a house where I don’t belong. I get by without too much trouble. Although,” she said thoughtfully, and her eyes narrowed at him, “I do find it a strain to get my own firewood. My grandson used to cut it for me, but now I have to wait until someone comes in from the village and go cold if they decide not to come any given week, which is as often as not.”

“Very well, mother,” he said, another smile pulling at the corner of his eyes, “though you drive a hard bargain. If you will let me stay here for the next two nights, I’ll leave you with enough firewood to last through the fall. But I want one more thing in return.”

“A story?” she asked, once he had made his request. “My son and grandson were forever asking for stories of the old wars with the invaders, when they were young. Is that what you mean?”

“The wars would do,” he said, “but I was hoping for something else. Could you tell me about Eugenides and the Sky God, or Lykaon and his bull calf?”

“Ah,” Anna said, warming to her audience. “Now that would be a very different thing. I know those stories. But you’ve heard them before?”

“Many times, but I would happily hear them again.”

She shook her head and frowned for a moment, deep in thought. “When I was a child, my mother told me a story that she said came from the hills near here. It’s not a story about the gods, though they do play a part. It’s a story about men. Have you heard of Theron and Erastos?” The magus had not. The old woman sat back in her chair, staring into the fire and humming low in her throat. “It’s been years since I told this story,” she said, “and I’ll probably leave some parts out. But this is not much different from the way my mother told it to me.”

Theron was the firstborn son of a minor lord, and Erastos was his younger brother. Their parents died when Erastos was a child, but Theron stepped easily into his father’s place, caring equally well for his brother and for the okloi under his care. He was well loved by his servants and friends, and by Erastos most of all.

The brothers were very different in temperament. Theron had been a dignified man from his youth, handsome of face and noble of bearing. He was often sought out for his wisdom in judgement, and he was always calm and reasoned--except when his sense of injustice was truly roused. When he found cause for mercy, he was gentle, but when he found real proof of deliberate wrongdoing, his rage was terrible indeed.

Erastos had been blessed with twice his brother’s looks but little of his nobility. Rarely did he show any anger, but then again, rarely did he show much wisdom. He was clever, but his attention seldom turned itself to matters more serious than wine and dancing; and he had on occasion been cruel, though without meaning to be, in spurning the young women who were so willing to cast their hearts at his feet. Yet few who knew him could bring themselves to think harshly of his faults, for his beauty was matched in full by his charm and cheerful nature.

Despite their differences, the brothers were the closest of friends, and when Theron could be spared from his duties they would spend weeks at a time hunting together in the woods surrounding their family’s land. On the day Erastos reached twenty-four years of age, Theron left all his attendants and responsibilities in his hall, and Erastos left his friends to their drinking, and they sought out the quiet of the woods and the pleasure of the easy companionship that they shared.

The gods smiled on them, for Theron was an exceptionally devout man, and the goddesses who cared about such things took great pleasure in Erastos’ bewitching face and graceful form. So the woods were cool during the day and their camps were dry at night, and the brothers’ arrows never failed to find their mark. The evening before they planned to return home, Theron brought down a particularly magnificent buck. They settled in together to skin and dress the deer, Erastos preoccupied with no problem more pressing than whether they should prepare quail or rabbit for their dinner--a pleasant question, to be sure. But it soon became obvious that Theron had another matter on his mind.

“Erastos,” he said, setting his bloodied knife aside, “I have tried to be like a father to you. I wonder at times how well I have succeeded.”

Erastos hastened to reassure his brother, but Theron pressed on. “I know you have never wanted for food or shelter; you have received the best education I could arrange, you have had sufficient amusement for an active young man, and I think you have been happy until now. But I am not certain that I have prepared you to be happy later in life.” He went on, over Erastos’ protests, to remind him that their father’s greatest happiness had been the love of his wife and children, and he did not see that Erastos had considered the weight of these responsibilities. His beauty and easy manner had made him a favorite among young women, and there were many among their people who would have been pleased to make a husband of him, but Theron feared that his attentions to them were motivated more by vanity and self-indulgence than by any permanent interest.

Erastos sighed. “It is true; I enjoy the company of women, but I do not see that I ought to encourage any one of them to think herself bound to me. I have seen men made foolish by love and sour by marriage, and neither state seems to offer sufficient compensation for its indignities.”

“You may think very differently before you are much older.”

“But you are older than I, and need to provide an heir besides--and you have never married.”

Erastos was surprised to see a slight color in his brother’s cheeks and an unaccustomed light in his eyes. “Not yet, but I intend to. For nearly a year now, I have been seeking the hand of a woman from the lowlands, and her father has just given his consent. She comes of a wealthy family, but she is not proud, and though she is accustomed to a sweeter climate and a more elaborate life than we have here in the mountains, she says she would be glad to be my wife.”

Erastos was slow to reply, for he had heard nothing of the woman before this, and he was used to thinking of himself as his brother’s intimate friend and confidante. But he saw the joy it brought his brother to tell him the news, and he offered his congratulations. On the following morning, they returned to Theron’s hall.

The country in which Erastos and Theron lived had its share of beauty, but Theron knew that his bride would miss the luxuries of home. He wanted to serve her all sorts of sweetmeats at their wedding feast, and to play such music as would keep his household dancing until dawn, and to strew their marriage bed with the finest silk and linen; and so when they returned to his hall he prepared to set out again immediately. He told Erastos that he might be gone for some time, but he had told his bride and her family that his brother would make them welcome in his hall when they arrived. Erastos promised to offer them all the hospitality he could, and, satisfied, Theron left for the wealthy merchant cities near the coast.

Now Erastos was truly pleased by his brother’s happiness, but there was a part of him that knew he would no longer be the center of Theron’s life; it shamed him, but he was jealous. He had no intention of allowing Theron to see this, however, so he set out to find a wedding gift that would communicate only affection and goodwill. Rich gifts were harder to come by in the mountains than on the coast, but eventually he found the perfect present: an ivory hunting horn, wonderfully carved with scenes from distant lands, that blew sweet and clear.

The very next day, Theron’s bride arrived with her family, and all Erastos’ secret bitterness was forgotten. It was impossible for him to resent her. Her name was Thalia, and she was beautiful, of course, and young, but she also had a laugh that put the mountain brooks to shame and a goodness of spirit that warmed his heart. He took eagerly to his task of making her welcome, and she thanked him most warmly for his efforts--in short, they were both young and lovely, and it was not long before it fell out as these things so often do.

Erastos spent the days leading up to his brother’s return thinking of love and marriage and everything he had claimed he could do without. It was all the worse because he could see quite clearly that Thalia loved him as well. Eventually, knowing that Theron was must be close by and the wedding would not wait much longer, he went to her secretly to declare himself. In the end the decision was not difficult, though it pained them both. That night they stole together out of his brother’s hall and fled, traveling hard and quickly until they could go on no longer.

It was easy enough to find a priest in a small village nearby, a remote place where no-one was likely recognize Erastos as Theron’s brother, who was willing to perform the marriage. So Thalia had no sweetmeats or music or silks, but in the end, of course, this mattered not at all. They made their wedding bed in a hunting lodge deep in the woods where Erastos had once camped as a boy. It promised to be a hard life so long as they stayed there, and it would have been lonely, but the joy of young love is not easily dampened by such considerations.

Now the goddess Lygeia was walking in the woods. She is the daughter of Etesia, whose wind is a comfort to land-dwellers in the heat of the summer but a bane to so many sailors, and Boreas, who blows so cruelly from the north. You hear Lygeia’s breath in the mountain treetops on pleasant days, and you may think her a mild-tempered goddess, but ‘ware her cold bite in the winter.

Here the magus smiled ruefully--he’d learned all he needed to know of winters in this mountain country, and he took little joy in them.

Lygeia came upon the lodge one afternoon while Erastos was hunting for their supper. She paused to watch Thalia as she mended bedclothes and tended the fire, and it roused her curiosity to see this gentle-born woman keeping house in such a lonely spot. Dressed as a peasant girl picking herbs, she approached Thalia and asked for her story. Thalia, still a new bride, was eager to tell the anyone who would listen of her husband’s perfection and the happiness they had found; yet she was cautious, as well, and did not mention her engagement to Theron or explain why the couple had fled so deep into the countryside, or even give her husband’s name.

Lygeia listened patiently to Thalia’s raptures. The gods are not swayed as we are by the pangs of love, nor are their affections and loyalties very much like ours, but some take an interest in these curious mortal preoccupations, and Lygeia was one of these. “But where is your husband now?” she asked the moment Thalia stopped to draw breath.

“Hunting,” Thalia answered, “for there is nowhere we can buy food, and I have no loom, so we must make blankets out of furs and clothing out of hides.”

“And are you not afraid, out here alone? What if you should have need of him?”

Then Thalia drew the ivory hunting horn from under her cloak and explained how Erastos had told her to use it. “I am to blow it once if I am thinking of him, and twice--twice,” she said, a delicate blush on her cheek, “if I long for him and want him at my side. But three times only if his brother should find us.”

“His brother?”

But Thalia would say nothing more about that and feared that she had already said too much. News has a way of traveling quickly even in the deep woods, and scandal travels most quickly of all. Lygeia saw her discomfort, but in truth she cared little enough about the couple’s history, for she was also one of those gods who find especial pleasure in the delights of mortal flesh. She knew enough of human affairs to realize that Erastos was unlikely to live up to Thalia’s description, but she knew also that high-born daughters of the lowlands do not often leave their families for penniless hunters without good reason, and she thought she would very much like to see this exceptional young man. So she did not press Thalia to speak of his brother, but instead she laid an admiring hand on the ivory horn. “It is lovely,” she said. “Does it sound as well as it looks?”

Thalia admitted that she had never used it.

“Oh do, just once,” Lygeia urged, “for I have never seen its like. And what harm can it do to let your husband know that you are thinking of him?”

There was no arguing with this, so Thalia blew one lone note, rich and piercing in the calm of the wood. Lygeia thanked the young bride and kissed her, but even as she took her leave she snatched the sound of the horn out of the air, for she had seen how she could use it to lure Erastos to her.

She held that note, beating like a bird against the palm of her hand, until she was well away from the lodge. Then she threw it high up into the air and sent it away on a light breeze. She knew all the queer twists and turns a sound can make in the mountains, and she cast it against the side of a cliff until it broke in two. Only then did she let it carry on to meet the hunter’s eager ear.

Hearing what he thought was his wife calling him to her arms, Erastos lowered his bow and turned toward home. His step grew quick and light, and he did not bother to hide himself or to conceal the sound of his passage, as a man does when hunting. So the goddess was able to hear him coming and placed herself directly in his path. Just as she was about to reveal herself, she saw his face clearly, and she recognized him.

Lygeia, as I have said, had a fondness for mortal men, and she was willing to travel far to meet those with a reputation for beauty. She had heard women speak of Erastos’ charm and good looks, had sought him out once before, and had tried to take him as a lover. As a goddess, however, she was better at being flattered than at complimenting others. No doubt she had made it clear to Erastos that she was the one offering a great favor, not he. This did not sit well with that rather conceited young man, and he spurned her as he had so many other women. This had hardly pleased her at the time, but there are other men in the world, and she soon forgot the offense. But now, to see him playing at house with a human--barely a child, and not so fair after all, if Lygeia was any judge! This was not to be borne. She sat brooding on the side of the mountain to consider how she could best seek her revenge, and soon she remembered Erastos’ name, and the place where she had first met him, and the man she had heard spoken of as his brother. So she decided to pay Theron a visit in his hall.

His beds were always open to weary travelers and his court to those in need of justice, so it required no great cunning to gain entrance and meet him in the same guise with which she had approached Thalia. She found him still white-faced with anger and embarrassment at the double betrayal of his brother and fiancée. When she begged for a private audience so that she might explain a matter of great sensitivity, he agreed. Once she had him alone, she asked him why he was so unhappy.

Theron was not usually the sort of man to pour out his troubles on the ears of anyone who might be willing to listen, but he had just been abandoned by the two people he loved most, and he was lonely. It did not take much urging for him to explain what had happened. He was still searching for the young lovers, he said, but no-one he asked could tell him where they had gone.

“And what would you do,” Lygeia asked, “if you knew where they were?”

Theron clenched his fists. “I would find them,” he said, “and bring my wife back to my home.”

“And your brother?” she asked.

“To him I would give such punishment as is my right.”

And Lygeia smiled, for the theft of a man’s wife was punishable by death.

Then she revealed herself to him and explained what she had seen and heard at the hunting lodge, and she told him how he might find his brother and his wife. Theron was very quiet as she spoke. Being, as I have said, a devout man, he gave her all the deference due to a goddess and thanked her very humbly for coming to him. She looked into his eyes and read a dark purpose there, and she was very pleased with her choice of revenge.

Theron set out the next morning as she had directed him. He rode alone on a strong horse that made short work of the mountain trails, and he carried a sharpened sword at his belt.

When he came to the hunting lodge, it was midday. Thalia was alone, as when Lygeia had visited, and Erastos had gone hunting once again. Theron bent to tie his horse, and when he looked up he saw the young bride standing in her doorway, watching him with an ashen face.

“My dear,” he said. “I have need of that horn you keep inside your cloak.”

But Thalia understood that he meant to call Erastos to them, and she saw the sword at Theron’s side, and she was afraid. So she refused to do as he asked.

Theron was angry, but he could not bring himself to take it from her by force. So when she took out the horn and hurled it at the stone steps that led up to the lodge, he made no move to seize her wrist, and the beautiful instrument broke cleanly in two.

“Very well,” he said. “May I come inside? I will wait for my brother, if you will not call him now.” So they went into the lodge and sat together in silence until Erastos returned. She offered no explanation for her actions and made no plea for mercy, and he made no accusation; but if he had wanted to cause her pain, he must have been satisfied, for the despair was written plainly across her face.

At last they heard the sound of a man moving through the woods. Theron watched her to see if she would scream or cry out a warning, but she did neither, for she knew that this would only bring Erastos to them more quickly. When the footsteps reached the clearing where the lodge stood, they stopped, for he had seen Theron’s horse. Then they began again, this time at a run, and then Erastos threw the door wide open and stood staring in at them.

“Brother,” he said, and his whisper was like a prayer. Theron rose suddenly from his chair and drew his sword, raising it to strike, and the two men stood transfixed.

Then Theron sighed and lowered the weapon. “Your life is mine by right.”

“I know,” Erastos replied, still waiting for the sting of the blade, for well he knew his brother’s devotion to justice.

But Theron shook his head. “Both of you are dearer to me than anything else in this world,” he said. “If I kill you, I will lose a brother and a wife as well, and what will I gain?” Tears in his eyes, he opened his arms to Erastos, and the two embraced. When they broke apart, he looked through the door into the woods outside and called, “Goddess.”

Lygeia stepped out from the trees where she had been waiting to see Erastos face his brother’s judgment. “I did not bring you here to forgive them,” she said, her disapproval clear.

“I do not know what quarrel you have with my brother,” Theron told her, “but his troubles are mine. If he has offended you, pray tell me how I can make it right.”

“You have done nothing to anger me,” she said.

“No; I have made many offerings at your father’s altar and your mother’s, and I have poured out wine on the ground whenever I ate in the woods you call home. I think I have earned your goodwill, Goddess, and I ask you to grant my request. Whatever punishment you would give him, give to me instead.”

Erastos protested, but Lygeia looked at Theron thoughtfully. “Oh very well,” she said. “He told me once that he would never take a mortal bride, and he broke his word. See that you keep it instead.” And Theron agreed. Lygeia left, tossing her head in irritation with the lot of them, and went out in search of better diversions.

Erastos bent and picked up the pieces of the ivory horn, which lay just outside the door. Shamefaced, he handed them to his brother. “This was meant to be yours,” he said.

“A handsome gift indeed,” Theron said gravely. “I will treasure it.” And he put Thalia’s hand in Erastos’ and blessed them, and the three returned together to his hall.

“That’s a very neat conclusion,” the magus said.

“You don’t like happy endings?”

“I don’t mind them as a rule,” he said, “but sometimes they seem a little too simple.”

“So you think that was a simple story.”

“Clearly you don’t.”

The old woman looked at him sternly in the fading light of the coals. “Not for Theron, it wasn’t. Imagine what happened to him afterward.”

“Very well. What did happen?”

“He kept his promise,” she said, “and he never married, but he brought Erastos and Thalia into his home, and every day of his life he saw them together at his table.” No, not simple at all, then. “But when their first child was born, he loved the boy as his own son and took him to be his heir. And he had sons, and they had sons, and eventually one of them moved into the mountain valleys and became a king called Hamiathes. So it worked out well for Eddis in the end.” She unfolded herself from her chair and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It is very late,” she told him, “and when you are my age, you need your sleep. But the fire could use tending.”

He slept that night on a hard pallet beside the fire in what had been her grandson’s place. They had eggs the next morning from the chickens she kept in a shed beside the cabin, and she served up large slices of dried mutton that sputtered and grew moist when she dropped them into a pan of grease. The magus’ appetite was keen from the walking and the fresh mountain air, and he ate as much as she would serve before taking the axe she gave him and heading outside to earn his keep.

The second night she told him the story of Eugenides and the Sky God, including some intriguing variations he’d not heard before. Afterward she tsked over the blisters he’d gotten from the axe and asked him where he had gotten such soft hands, at which he would have blushed if he’d remembered how, and he had to admit to months of easy living in the capital.

“Is that where you will go when you leave? What do you do there?”

There was no easy answer to that question, but after some fumbling he managed to convey the impression that he had a position in the queen’s household, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. She looked thoughtful, but she said no more about it until the following morning. As he was taking his leave, she handed him a ring, a dark green stone set in bronze.

“It was my husband’s,” she said. “I’ve kept it for years, but I think it should go to my grandson. Will you find him for me, when you return to the capital?”

He assured her that he would. She closed his hands around it and patted them. He kissed her knuckles and brought them to his forehead, a sign of respect for an older relative he hadn’t had the chance to use since he was very young. She accepted the gesture with equanimity. On impulse, he leaned down and kissed her cheek as well.

“Now be off with you,” she said, “and keep warm.”

“Thank you, mother,” he replied, and turned to make his way back into the wood.

Link to Part II