Wrath Goddess Sing Read online

  Dedication

  For the kallai—

  And for Shannon, who taught me the ways of magic.

  “We came into being as the food of the gods,

  But now we have opened our mouth.”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six: Pallasu-Atana, Aten, the Silent One

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One: The Myrmidon, Patroklos Menoitiou

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Queen of Heaven, Who Was Once Great Mother

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Dramatis Personae

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Chapter One

  Achilles was still drowning. She was still trapped in the well, kicking against the water, clawing at the slick walls, fighting to break the surface, while Kheiron watched clinically from above, dangling a rope just out of reach.

  But then the memory faded and the world regained its solidity. Achilles was safe on Skyros, clutching at the frame of Deidamia’s bed. Damia was still tangled up in their shared blankets, her pale chest rising and falling in the soft rhythms of wine-soaked slumber. Last night must have been fun, but Achilles could not remember.

  Tense, barely able to breathe, Achilles stalked out into the terrace garden. The western horizon was still a blur of dark blue seas and dark blue sky, so she ascended the stairway from the women’s terrace and climbed the palace watchtower that looked out toward the mainland. She had befriended the watchmen months ago. As far as they were concerned, she was a noble lady from Aiolia, a pleasant, quiet girl with a sad smile and a fondness for staring out to sea at odd hours. If they thought she was looking for anything in particular, it was probably the sails of some lover or friend, some kinsman she longed to see.

  The sun inched up. A few familiar fishing boats were out, small craft with unmarked sails in the distinctive style of the Sporades—boats from Skopelos and Skyros. Longships from the mainland would mean danger. Sails embroidered with the six-legged ant of Phthia would mean Kheiron and the Myrmidons had found her.

  The wind shifted. “No ships will come today,” said Dolops, the older of the watchmen. “Storm’s coming off Euboia.”

  That was a relief. Though Achilles prided herself on despising superstition, she always watched the sea more closely after a flashback, hands clenched at her sides.

  Dark clouds were indeed massing in the west, driven by a southwest wind. It was too far to discern the waters at the stormhead, but she could imagine them: swells of gray as deep as the eyes of the owls in her dreams, their violence still held in reserve, while the wind picked up and the clouds thickened and the first flash of lightning sheeted across the southwest sky.

  “What do you see?” asked Lykourgos, the younger watchman.

  Achilles narrowed her eyes. Until he had spoken, she did not realize she was focusing on anything in particular, but now she made out a tiny speck of white just above the line of the horizon, the sail and mast of a distant longship. Her body tightened. And then—

  Brrrrmmmmm. Distant thunder shuddered through her body, and she braced herself against the stone turret, straining to see. The harder she stared, the clearer the speck became: a longship surging up the crest of a swollen gray wave, riding the peak, and sliding down into the trough. She could almost taste the cold salt spray on her skin, in her nostrils, could almost hear the rumble of the boat’s drum, the grunts of the rowers, the strain of the sail. Fools or unlucky, to be out in a storm like this. They would never reach Skyros in time.

  Or so she hoped.

  “A longship,” she said. “Just ahead of the storm.” Her throat burned with sudden bile. She couldn’t make out the sail clearly, but a thousand fears and plans stormed through her brain regardless. If it was a Myrmidon ant sail, she would hide herself in the caves below the palace, or out in the forest, or in Skorpia’s farm village down the coast. She would stay there for weeks, until it was safe to come out.

  I will never let them find me. I will never go back alive.

  “They’ll drown.” Dolops seemed resigned. “Do you know what it’s like to drown, Lady Red?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” It was easier to lie. Better to hear him explain again how the body died in water than to tell him what it really felt like, the way her lungs had burned in air, then in water, then in what felt like subtle fire. “Maybe they won’t drown.”

  But it would be easier for her if they did.

  The longship had risen up out of the trough, mast taut on the wind, sail jerking like a living thing. The ship raced ahead of the black clouds, fleeing toward the shoals of Skyros.

  It seemed to her that she could see even better now, her eyes impossibly keen. The tiny black speck was alive with struggling men, straining oars, flapping sail, while in her ear the morning breeze sighed and Dolops droned softly on about a watery death.

  The longship leapt, battered by wind and sea, but kept together, knifing down the shallow slope of the next wave and immediately slicing up the next. Now Achilles could see the sail clearly: not the black ant of Phthia, but a seven-branched tree. Relief washed over her . . . and then terror for the sailors.

  A man clung to the bow, shaking his fist in the air as if shouting defiance at the sea. Magnificent he was, slashing the air with his hand. The oars rose and fell on his signal, and the sails billowed, warped and twisted by sailors clinging to the ropes. Thunder echoed again.

  “I see it now,” said Lykourgos. “They’ll never make it.” The waves were rising nearer, and the sea was black, and the storm from the mainland was quickly closing in. “They’re probably praying to half the gods in the world right now.”

  “Gods won’t help them.” Achilles gripped the stone turret ledge. She could not look away, but the idea that she would watch them die was too cruel. Still, she stood frozen, staring.

  The man on the longship shouted to his crew and the boat turned as it picked up speed, cutting up the next wave at an angle, down the next one even sharper still, finding the safest heading. The sail tightened again and Achilles gasped. They knew exactly what they were doing. Lightning flashed, and the longship skimmed nearer, seconds ahead of the storm.

  “I don’t believe it,” Dolops exclaimed.

  “I’ve never seen such sailing,” said Lykourgos. “They’ll be here by noon.”

  “So will the storm.” But not the storm she was dreading. Her flashbacks were just memories, not prophecies. Kheiron was not coming. She was still safe.

  A little
before noon, Achilles went down to the women’s quarters and asked Damia to come down with her to the docks and to lend her an umbrella.

  Damia’s umbrella was enormous, set up on a stand in the middle of her bedchamber, covering her makeup bench in a grand wood-and-hide canopy hung with dangling charms of bronze and silver, magical talismans from Assur, and a long cedar handle carved in Nineveh with scenes of tranquility to appease the Lord of Thunder. The umbrella was a gift from the Great King of Assur to Damia’s father, who had given it in turn to his firstborn daughter.

  “Why do you want to take my Assyrian royal umbrella to the docks in the middle of a downpour?” Damia was still in bed, hair tousled, knotted up in her blankets. “I don’t feel well.”

  “A ship came in ahead of the storm. I’ve never seen such sailing. I want to meet these madmen.”

  Damia looked grave. “The Earthshaker is not to be trifled with. And shouldn’t you be avoiding outsiders?” But she writhed free of the blankets and stood out on her tiptoes, stretching toward the ceiling. A slow yawn traveled up from her belly to her fingertips. Something like tenderness caught in Achilles’s throat, and her eyes breathed in Deidamia’s lines, her slim curvature, the particular way her belly rose and fell with each breath, the lofty carriage of her neck and head—

  She had never thought that Damia would love her back. She had never thought any woman she loved could love her back, not in the same way she loved them. She swallowed, choking down a sudden irrational impulse to cry or fling her arms around Damia’s neck.

  “I see I’ve used up my questions for the day.” Damia turned to frown down at Achilles. “The things I do for you. But if I don’t like your reckless mystery sailors, I’ll fling them back to the sea.”

  The first droplets were falling from a still-clear sky as they rushed down the Mese, the broad paved road that descended through the terraces of Skyros. The tiny paving stones were smooth under Achilles’s feet, and Damia’s sandals flapped a step behind her. Past the weaving hall they ran, and the spinners called out greetings; they ran past the smokehouses and the bakeries, and the women waved; they ran past the tanners’ and carpenters’ halls, where the men called, “Damia! Red! Not so fast in the rain!” Finally they reached the docks.

  At the end of the longest pier, the island-rigged longship rolled with the waves, tied in place now, sails furled, safe from the gathering storm. The magnificent man who had stood at the prow now stood on the dock, in a hooded cloak of waxed wool. He was as splendid as she thought he’d be: full-armed and deep-chested as only a skilled sailor was, his elegant face stern and composed, his dark eyes difficult to read. He looked the girls over, then bowed. “Greetings. I am Diomedes of Argos, and in a moment—when he finishes tying the sails—you will meet Odysseus of Ithaka. We request the hospitality of King Lykomedes in the name of the Silent One and the Queen of Kings.”

  “We welcome you in the name of Athena and Hera.” Damia opened the umbrella just as the rain began to come down in earnest. She pushed the pole into Achilles’s hands, and Achilles held it, grateful that Damia and her umbrella would absorb this man’s attention and allow her a chance to study him. “I grant hospitality in my father’s place. I am Deidamia, and this is Pyrrha. Shelter with us under this awning.”

  Diomedes joined them under the umbrella. A moment later, another man sprang down from the ship, less elegant than Diomedes, with a hairy chest, a rough beard, a mop of curly hair, and bright darting eyes. Odysseus of Ithaka stepped under the umbrella uninvited, pushing his waterlogged curls away from his forehead. “What a wonderful idea. A portable roof! From the Hittites?”

  “From the Assyrians,” Damia said placidly. She pointed up the Mese toward the palace. “Come. In the name of the gods we will wash your feet and welcome you. Even on Skyros we know the name of Diomedes of Argos, hero of Thebai.”

  “But not the name of Odysseus,” said Odysseus with a grin. “Only the worst people know my name.” When Damia offered Diomedes her hand to guide him up the Mese, Odysseus drew closer to Achilles, marveling at the little hinges that held the umbrella struts in place. “Such tiny bronze fittings!” Before they had passed the Fisherman’s Gate, Odysseus offered to carry the umbrella, for surely, he said, she too was royalty.

  She handed him the umbrella, not disabusing him of the notion. “Why did you come here in such a storm, Odysseus of Ithaka?”

  “We travel under the protection of the Silent One,” Odysseus said boldly. “She taught me to sail like that. Let the Earthshaker do his worst!”

  Damia stiffened, giving Odysseus a sidelong look. Everything about her face said, Do not trust this one, he will bring down divine judgment.

  But Achilles grinned. She liked a man who wasn’t afraid of the gods. “What if I said there was no Earthshaker, Odysseus of Ithaka, only wind and waves?”

  Odysseus’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The stories speak of thunderbolts that shattered mountains, shouts that leveled hills, walls of water higher than the highest peaks.” Achilles thrust her hand through the watery curtain of rain that ran off the umbrella. “Here I am—with the Earthshaker’s enemies!—and you are still alive. Either the gods are powerless or imaginary.”

  “Are all the women here such radical intellectuals?” Odysseus had a light in his eye that softened the condescension of his words. His face fell a little. “I mean that question sincerely. I am told my greatest flaw is how much I love to talk to women.”

  “His greatest flaw?” murmured his companion, who had been walking silently next to Deidamia. “He loves to talk. Don’t encourage blasphemy, old man.”

  “I love to listen,” said Odysseus. His fox eyes darted back to Achilles. “Are you from here?”

  “I’m a mainlander,” Achilles said. “Women come to Skyros from all over. For the climate. Why are you here?”

  Odysseus leaned closer to her, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “We were sent here by Athena the Silent One to find her son Achilles, prince of Phthia. Have you seen him?”

  The jolt came again. For a moment, nothing was real but the icy tightness in her lungs and belly. Achilles let her face lie for her. She had a lifetime of practice not reacting to her name pronounced in the masculine gender, Akhillewos instead of Akhilleas. Hopefully he had not seen her flinch.

  She frowned as if considering the question and glanced sidelong at Damia.

  Damia was talking to Diomedes in a low voice and did not seem to have heard, but Diomedes was exchanging glances with Odysseus every few dozen steps. So, they were a practiced team.

  “I would know if any princes had come to Skyros,” Achilles said. “Is he handsome?”

  “Scrawny as a spider, they say.” Odysseus frowned, keeping his voice low. “He is a cross-dresser and may have come to this island disguised as a woman, but I’m sure he couldn’t fool the ladies here.”

  Achilles gave Odysseus a sharp look. He seemed sincerely not to realize he was talking about her, not to realize this was an unforgivable insult, something she would have challenged with a spear back in Phthia—and gotten herself thrown down a well. Your final lesson, faggot—here’s a rope, but it’s only for Akhillewos.

  Deidamia was frowning too. “Customs are different in Skyros,” Damia said. “Such women—like me—are known as kallai here, and we are welcomed as sisters.” They were nearing the palace, and the gates were creaking open. “If your Prince Achilles is here, she may be here to stay.”

  They passed into the great antechamber, where enormous braziers filled with coals warmed the whole room, and a porter took the royal umbrella to be dried.

  “I meant no offense to you, Lady Deidamia,” said Odysseus. “But he is a prince with duties. We need him.”

  “Why do you need this Achilles?” Damia asked, frowning, her expression suddenly very intent. “Did he say, Red?”

  “No.” Achilles kept her face coolly neutral. “I am curious myself.”

  Odysseus
ran his fingers through his wet curls, trying to squeeze the water out of his hair. “I have an untrustworthy face, and everyone assumes from it that I am some sort of deceiver, but in fact I am absentminded. I have news from the mainland that concerns everyone here, and Prince Achilles is part of that news.”

  “Odysseus is in fact a great deceiver,” Diomedes said softly. “But in this he tells the truth.”

  “I am not a great deceiver,” Odysseus said. He leaned toward Achilles. “Lady Red, I think you may be trying to protect Prince Achilles. But he does not need your protection. He is a deadly fighter trained by Kheiron. If he is your kinsman or your lover or betrothed—”

  “—or my pet—”

  “—or your pet—I mean him no harm. But he is a man and has the duties of a man.”

  Achilles narrowed her eyes. He would not be standing so close to her if he thought she were a man, nor look so friendly. Nothing felt real but the coldness in her stomach and the dread, and the way she could not stop smiling like some simpering chieftain’s daughter, too afraid to let her fear reach her face. “Skyros is not a large place,” she said. “If a prince is hiding in our midst, he must be very crafty.”

  Odysseus’s eyes glinted, and he seemed to be mulling a reply, but at that moment a servant came to usher the visitors into the guest wing for the hospitality rites, and Achilles and Damia went up to the women’s wing to dress for supper.

  When Achilles first came to Skyros the year before, she had looked utterly different: gaunt from the overland and sea voyages, hollow-cheeked with the starvation she had used to stave off manhood, and feverish with a terrible, foolish hope that on Skyros everything would change, that on Skyros she would become everything she longed for. Girls like her were safe on Skyros—so said the herbalist of Phthia. And the temple whores of Tempe who fed her thick temple-beer when she swooned outside their sanctuary.

  So she had come to this island, a wild spider of a boy-girl with a shocking mass of red hair that fanned out about her head like flames, and sat numbly at the threshold of the palace until Deidamia had come to investigate and recognized her face from long ago, when they had met in Aiolia as children and played together without a care.