Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The letter was still on the table.

Paris had left it there that morning, folded and sealed with the crude mark—a circle with a line through it. He had shown it to Lysander, who had shown it to Fylon, who had promised to trace it. Now it sat beside the lamp, the wax catching the light every time the flame flickered.

Helen had not asked about it. She had seen his face when he came back from the war room, and she had not asked.

She was at the small table by the window, a tablet in her hand, the supply inventory Arsini had assigned her half-finished. Her stylus moved in steady strokes, but her eyes kept drifting to the letter.

"Stop looking at it," Paris said.

"I’m not looking at it."

"You’ve looked at it four times since you sat down."

She set the stylus down. "Who sent it."

"Fylon thinks it’s someone from the temple. One of the priest’s followers. The language matches his sermons."

"’The goddess demands your blood, thief.’" She recited the words without inflection. "He calls you a thief in the temple. I’ve heard him. The servants talk about it."

"The priest calls a lot of people a lot of things. Most of it isn’t worth the breath he wastes on it."

"This is different. This is a threat."

"Troy is full of threats. I’ve been threatened by better men than an illiterate acolyte with a grudge." He walked to the window and looked out at the garden. The fig tree was bare, the benches empty. "Lysander is increasing the guard. Fylon is tracing the seal. We’ll find whoever sent it."

"And then what."

"Then we deal with them."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she picked up her stylus and went back to the inventory.

The corridors were quiet when Paris left the east wing. The torches had been lit for the evening, the flames guttering in the cold drafts that seeped through the ancient stone. He had refused a guard. Lysander had insisted, Hector had ordered, but Paris had refused. He would not walk through his own home surrounded by armed men like a prisoner. He had spent months in Sparta as a merchant, hiding in plain sight, and he had survived. He could survive his own palace.

He was thinking about Helen. About the way she had looked at the letter, her grey-green eyes steady but her hands tight around the stylus. About the way she had said this is different and then gone back to her work, because that was what she did now. She worked. She counted things. She made herself useful. It was the only way she knew to fight the fear.

He did not hear the footsteps behind him.

The knife punched into his side just above the hip—not deep, a glancing blow that skidded along his ribs instead of sinking into the soft flesh beneath. He stumbled against the wall, his hand reaching for a sword that wasn’t there. The attacker was already drawing back for a second strike, a thin blade held in a white-knuckled grip.

Young. Gaunt. Hollow eyes. Temple robes.

Paris saw these things in fragments, disconnected images that his mind assembled even as his body was failing to respond. The acolyte’s mouth was moving, but the words didn’t register. The knife rose.

Something crashed into the attacker from the side. The knife went wide, skittering across the stone floor. Paris slid down the wall, his hand pressed to his side, blood welling between his fingers. He watched as Miros wrestled the acolyte to the ground, his knee on the young man’s chest, his sword at his throat.

"Stay down," Miros said. His voice was calm, unhurried, the same voice he used when correcting a recruit’s stance in the training ground.

The acolyte’s hand went to his mouth. Miros lunged to stop him, but he was too late. The young man convulsed once, twice, and then lay still. The smell of bitter almonds filled the corridor.

Miros straightened. His tunic was dark with blood—not the acolyte’s, his own. The knife had caught him across the shoulder during the struggle, a deep gash that ran from his collarbone to his upper arm. He looked at the wound as if it were a minor inconvenience.

"You’re bleeding," Paris said.

"It’s not bad."

"It looks bad."

Miros swayed. His hand went to the wall. "It’s not—" He didn’t finish. His knees buckled, and he went down.

Paris caught him before he hit the floor.

Antiphus worked through the night.

The wound in Paris’s side was shallow—a gash along the ribs that would heal cleanly with stitches and rest. The wound in Miros’s shoulder was not. The knife had cut deep, slicing through muscle and tendon, nicking the bone. Antiphus did what he could, his hands steady, his face grim. Reos assisted. Demas brought fresh water and clean cloths. The medical wing was quiet except for the sound of Miros’s laboured breathing and the occasional murmur of instruction from Antiphus to his assistants.

Deia arrived an hour after the attack. She had heard the news from one of the settlement children, who had heard it from a guard, who had heard it from another guard. She ran all the way from the school, her tablet clutched to her chest. When she reached the medical wing, she stopped in the doorway.

Miros was on the table, his shoulder wrapped in bandages that were already staining red. His face was grey, his eyes closed. He did not look like the man who had taught her to defend herself, who had corrected her grip on the practice spear, who had never once treated her like a child.

Antiphus saw her and shook his head. "He’s alive. The wound is serious, but he’ll live."

"Can I stay."

Antiphus hesitated. Then he nodded. "Sit in the corner. Don’t get in the way."

She sat in the chair beside the cot and did not move.

Lysander found Paris in the corridor, still sitting against the wall where Miros had fallen. His tunic was stiff with drying blood. His face was blank. The dead acolyte lay a few feet away, covered now with a guard’s cloak.

"Antiphus says you’ll live," Lysander said.

"Miros."

"He’s still in surgery. Antiphus says the arm may never fully heal. He may never fight again."

Paris closed his eyes. "He saved my life."

"I know."

"He didn’t hesitate. He just—he saw the knife and he moved."

"That’s what Miros does. He moves. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t calculate. He just acts." Lysander knelt beside his brother. "The acolyte had poison. Same as the one who tried to kill Father. Same as the one in the temple robes. The priest sent him."

"We can’t prove it."

"No. Not yet. But we will." Lysander stood. "Can you walk."

"I think so."

"Then get up. Helen is waiting. She’s been asking about you since the news reached the east wing."

Paris pushed himself to his feet. The wound in his side pulled, sharp and hot, but the pain was distant, muffled by something heavier. He looked at the covered body on the floor. "The acolyte. He said something. Before he struck. He said—" He stopped. "He said the goddess demands blood. The same words as the letter."

"The priest has been preaching that from the pulpit for weeks. The goddess demands blood. The city must be purified. The strangers must be cast out. It’s the same sermon, over and over."

"He’s not just preaching anymore. He’s sending people to kill."

"I know." Lysander looked at the covered body. "Fylon is working on the seal. We have the letter. We have the robes. We have the poison. It’s not enough for an arrest—not yet. The priest is too well-protected. But it’s enough to start building a case."

"And in the meantime."

"In the meantime, you don’t walk alone. You don’t go anywhere without a guard. You don’t make yourself an easy target." Lysander’s voice was hard. "That’s not a request."

Paris nodded. He didn’t have the strength to argue.

Helen was waiting in the doorway of their chamber. When she saw him—his tunic dark with blood, his face pale, his hand pressed to his side—she didn’t speak. She just crossed the room and put her arms around him, carefully, avoiding the wound.

"They said you were attacked," she said against his chest. "They said Miros was hurt. They said—"

"I’m fine. It’s a scratch."

She pulled back and looked at him. Her grey-green eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying. She touched the bloodstained fabric of his tunic, her fingers gentle. "This is not a scratch."

"It will be. Antiphus stitched it. I’ll have a scar. It will make me look distinguished."

She didn’t laugh. She looked at the blood on her fingers and said, "The letter. The one you found this morning. It said the goddess demands your blood."

"Yes."

"They tried to kill you. In your own palace. Surrounded by guards."

"Yes."

"This is never going to stop, is it. The threats. The attacks. The hatred. Even if the war never comes, there will always be someone who wants you dead because of me."

He took her face in his hands. "The priest sent that boy to kill me. Not you. Me. Because I’m a symbol to him—a symbol of everything he hates. The refugees. The reforms. The walls Lysander built. You’re not the cause of this. You’re not the reason. You’re just—"

"The excuse. I know. You keep saying that." She pulled away and walked to the window. The garden below was dark, the fig tree a shadow against the stars. "But the priest doesn’t hate you for the refugees. He hates you because you brought me here. Because I’m the woman who left her husband. Because I’m the excuse Agamemnon needed. If I wasn’t here, that acolyte wouldn’t have tried to kill you tonight."

"If you weren’t here, Agamemnon would have found another excuse. The war would still be coming. The priest would still be preaching. Nothing would be different except—" He stopped.

"Except what."

"Except I would be alone. And I would be miserable. And I would spend the rest of my life wondering what happened to the woman I met in a garden three years ago."

She turned from the window. Her eyes were still wet, but her voice was steady. "You’re a fool."

"I know."

"You almost died tonight."

"I know."

"And you’re still glad I’m here."

He crossed the room and took her hands. "I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad every day. Even tonight. Even with the blood and the knife and the dead acolyte in the corridor. I’m glad you’re here."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, "You need rest. Antiphus’s orders."

"So do you."

"I’ll sleep when the inventory is finished."

He watched her walk back to the table, pick up her stylus, and return to the endless columns of supplies. The letter was still there, its crude seal catching the lamplight. A reminder. A threat. But the woman who sat beside it, her head bent over her work, was not afraid.

She had been afraid when she arrived. She had been afraid in Sparta, afraid on the ship, afraid in the garden, afraid in the council chamber. But something had changed. The attack. The blood. The boy who had died believing a lie. She had seen it, and instead of breaking, she had gotten angry.

Paris closed his eyes and let the darkness take him. The last thing he saw was Helen, her stylus moving across the tablet, her face calm and steady in the lamplight. The woman who had been a queen, a prize, a symbol. The woman who was becoming something else.

Something fiercer.