Achilles bent again into the trunk, pulled out a second instrument, and came to join me.
He settled it on his knees. The wood was carved and golden and shone with careful keeping. It was my mother’s lyre, the one my father had sent as part of my price.
Achilles plucked a string. The note rose warm and resonant, sweetly pure. My mother had always pulled her chair close to the bards when they came, so close my father would scowl and the servants would whisper. I remembered, suddenly, the dark gleam of her eyes in the firelight as she watched the bard’s hands. The look on her face was like thirst.
Achilles plucked another string, and a note rang out, deeper than the other. His hand reached for a peg, turned it.
That is my mother’s lyre, I almost said. The words were in my mouth, and behind them others crowded close. That is my lyre. But I did not speak. What would he say to such a statement? The lyre was his, now.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “It is beautiful.”
“My father gave it to me,” he said, carelessly. Only the way his fingers held it, so gently, stopped me from rising in rage.
He did not notice. “You can hold it, if you like.”
The wood would be smooth and known as my own skin.
“No,” I said, through the ache in my chest. I will not cry in front of him.
He started to say something. But at that moment the teacher entered, a man of indeterminate middle age. He had the callused hands of a musician and carried his own lyre, carved of dark walnut.
“Who is this?” he asked. His voice was harsh and loud. A musician, but not a singer.
“This is Patroclus,” Achilles said. “He does not play, but he will learn.”
“Not on that instrument.” The man’s hand swooped down to pluck the lyre from my hands. Instinctively, my fingers tightened on it. It was not as beautiful as my mother’s lyre, but it was still a princely instrument. I did not want to give it up.
I did not have to. Achilles had caught him by the wrist, midreach. “Yes, on that instrument if he likes.”
The man was angry but said no more. Achilles released him and he sat, stiffly.
“Begin,” he said.
Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as lyre strings themselves, and shone.
He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me.
“Now you.”
I shook my head, full to spilling. I could not play now. Not ever, if I could listen to him instead. “You play,” I said.
Achilles returned to his strings, and the music rose again. This time he sang also, weaving his own accompaniment with a clear, rich treble. His head fell back a little, exposing his throat, supple and fawn-skin soft. A small smile lifted the left corner of his mouth. Without meaning to I found myself leaning forward.
When at last he ceased, my chest felt strangely hollowed. I watched him rise to replace the lyres, close the trunk. He bid farewell to the teacher, who turned and left. It took me a long moment before I came back to myself, to notice he was waiting for me.
“We will go see my father now.”
I did not quite trust myself to speak, so I nodded and followed him out of the room and up the twisting hallways to the king.
Chapter Five
ACHILLES STOPPED ME JUST INSIDE THE BRONZE-STUDDED doors of Peleus’ audience chamber. “Wait here,” he said.
Peleus was seated on a high-backed chair at the room’s other end. An older man, one I had seen before with Peleus, stood near as if the two had been in conference. The fire smoked thickly, and the room felt hot and close.
The walls were hung with deep-dyed tapestries and old weapons kept gleaming by servants. Achilles walked past them and knelt at his father’s feet. “Father, I come to ask your pardon.”
“Oh?” Peleus lifted an eyebrow. “Speak then.” From where I stood his face looked cold and displeased. I was suddenly fearful. We had interrupted; Achilles had not even knocked.
“I have taken Patroclus from his drills.” My name sounded strange on his lips; I almost did not recognize it.
The old king’s brows drew together. “Who?”
“Menoitiades,” Achilles said. Menoitius’ son.
“Ah.” Peleus’ gaze followed the carpet back to where I stood, trying not to fidget. “Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip.”
“Yes. But it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a companion.” Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were his honor guard; in peace, his closest advisers. It was a place of highest esteem, another reason the boys swarmed Peleus’ son, showing off; they hoped to be chosen.
Peleus’ eyes narrowed. “Come here, Patroclus.”
The carpet was thick beneath my feet. I knelt a little behind Achilles. I could feel the king’s gaze on me.
“For many years now, Achilles, I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?”
The question might have been my own. I had nothing to offer such a prince. Why, then, had he made a charity case of me? Peleus and I both waited for his answer.
“He is surprising.”
I looked up, frowning. If he thought so, he was the only one.
“Surprising,” Peleus echoed.
“Yes.” Achilles explained no further, though I hoped he would.
Peleus rubbed his nose in thought. “The boy is an exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation.”
“I do not need him to,” Achilles said. Not proudly or boastfully. Honestly.
Peleus acknowledged this. “Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?”
“I will tell them nothing.” The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. “It is not for them to say what I will do.”
I found my pulse beating thickly in my veins, fearing Peleus’ anger. It did not come. Father and son met each other’s gaze, and the faintest touch of amusement bloomed at the corner of Peleus’ mouth.
“Stand up, both of you.”
I did so, dizzily.
“I pronounce your sentence. Achilles, you will give your apology to Amphidamas, and Patroclus will give his as well.”
“Yes, Father.”
“That is all.” He turned from us, back to his counselor, in dismissal.
OUTSIDE AGAIN ACHILLES was brisk. “I will see you at dinner,” he said, and turned to go.
An hour before I would have said I was glad to be rid of him; now, strangely, I felt stung.
“Where are you going?”
He stopped. “Drills.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. No one sees me fight.” The words came as if he were used to saying them.
“Why?”
He looked at me a long moment, as if weighing something. “My mother has forbidden it. Because of the prophecy.”
“What prophecy?” I had not heard of this.
“That I will be the best warrior of my generation.”
It sounded like something a young child would claim, in make-believe. But he said it as simply as if he were giving his name.
The question I wanted to ask was, And are you the best? Instead I stuttered out, “When was the prophecy given?”
“When I was born. Just before. Eleithyia came and told it to my mother.” Eleithyia, goddess of childbirth, rumored to preside in person over the birth of half-gods. Those whose nativities were too important to be left to chance. I had forgotten. His mother is a goddess.
“Is this known?” I was tentative, not wanting to press too far.
“Some know of it, and some do not. But that is why I go alone.” But he didn’t go. He watched me. He seemed to be waiting.
“Then I will see you at dinner,” I said at last.