The Sea King's Daughter (13 page)

I waited,  hardly daring to breath, but seconds ticked by and the door did not open. I waited another minute. Nothing. I let out a long sigh of relief and continued my painful journey down the hall. My legs had never hurt so much as they did on this night.

When I reached Lysander's door, I hesitated an instant and then gave it a gentle push.  It creaked a little as it swung on its hinges and opened just a crack. I slid through and into Lysander's bedchamber. I'd never been inside before; it wasn't considered seemly for a young woman to visit a man's room.

Starlight filtered through the high window and fell on the simple furniture, the long staff in the corner, the jug of olive oil, and a heap of soiled tunics over a high-backed chair. As I inched forward, I almost bumped into a stack of wooden tablets covered with wax and a bone stylus for scratching letters. A shelf along the east wall held half a dozen brightly
painted, hand-modeled clay figurines: a man riding a goose, another on a horse, and a pair of little boots. Lysander's toys. I smiled in spite of myself. He was not so terribly grown up after all.

The pale starlight also fell on Lysander's sleeping figure. He slept like a child, loose and long-limbed, sprawled out on his back with one of his legs draped over the edge of the couch. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of his perfect profile. A single dark curl drooped down onto his forehead.

I fell to my knees and crept toward the bed. With one finger, I brushed Lysander's cheek. He muttered something and turned his face away from me. He rolled onto his side. His body curved like a seahorse's as he nestled up against the wall.

I couldn't bring myself to wake him. Instead, I crawled up onto his couch and fitted my body to his. I wrapped my arms around him. His skin warmed mine. I felt the rise and fall of his chest. At that moment I knew that this was all I wanted from life: to stay here, nestled up against Lysander's spine, listening to the beat of heart and feeling a mad sort of joy. Even suspecting the pain that was to come, I could not fight back the tide of happiness that caught me up and carried me off to sleep that night.

Someone shook my shoulder. I started  to cry  out. A hand clamped down over my mouth and the cry was stillborn. I struggled like a tunny in a net and struck out wildly with all my strength. My nails sunk deep into my assailant's flesh.

"Zeus' bones! Stop that, will you please -- it's only me," Lysander hissed, his mouth poised over my ear.

"Oh!" I remembered where I was with a sudden shock. Sunlight flooded Lysander's room. I rolled over to stare into his sleep-dazzled eyes. He blinked  three times and then -- when I didn't disappear -- uttered a muffled groan.

"What  were you  thinking, to creep into my chambers? You must hurry and creep out again, little one,  before anybody discovers us together."

I shook my head. My hair grazed his bare chest. Lysander  looked down, flushed pink under the bronze of his tan, and tugged at his linen coverlet so that it concealed more of his body. His modesty amused me. Hadn't I  seen him naked when I dragged  him from the sea, and many times since when he ran or wrestled or boxed?

A half-moon of nail marks ringed his forearm. "I've injured you," I said. I used my fingers to wipe away the pinpricks of blood welling from the scratches I had inflicted. "Do you have any cloth for a bandage? I ought to bind it up."

Lysander pulled his arm away. "Never mind that. You've got to get back to where you belong. I'll help you slip out. . . ."

"I belong here in your bed." I forced my lips into a smile. "Aren't  we to be married?" I ran my fingers down his neck to rest on the tight, ropy  muscles of  his shoulder. "When Lenaea's gone, we'll --"

Lysander caught my hand, roughly, and thrust it back at me. "She's not going  anywhere. You know that. She's the one, the girl from  my dream, and I love her. I know I said we'd marry, but that was before Lenaea. Please try to understand." He looked stricken and miserable.

Something inside me seemed to harden and grow colder at his words. But I wasn't ready to give up, not yet. I crawled down from the sleeping couch and knelt on the floor so I could gaze up at Lysander. I didn't let my smile falter. He wouldn't see  my desperation.

"You don't mean that," I said, in a calm and reasonable voice that did not match the way I felt. "Dreams mean nothing. Lenaea's still a stranger, still your father's pawn. Don't let him win now, after fighting against him for so long. Marry me and I'll make you happy. I promise I will."

Lysander refused to meet my eyes. "I can't."

"That's not good enough," I said, the anger showing through my frayed calm. "I love you, Lysander. You made me love you. You can't just change your mind -- you can't just  -- you have to give me a reason, something --"

"I don't love  you."

The words were a knife in my heart. A small, bewildered sound escaped my lips. Heat rose in my cheeks.

"You're a  wonderful girl," Lysander  said. "So sweet, so beautiful, so devoted --  you'll always be precious to me, little one. But I don't love you. I'm sorry."

A deep, dark caldera opened in my heart. "What will I do?" I whispered, more to myself than to Lysander. "Whatever will I do?"

"Don't worry," Lysander said. "I'll ask my father to find you a husband, if you'd like. Phidias, for example. He's told me himself how he admires you. You needn't be frightened, little one. I'll always see that you're taken care of."

Every word was salt ground into the wound. I stood up. "I don't want your promises," I cried. "I loved you, I gave up everything for you, and now --"

Lysander sprang up and took me in his arms to comfort me. He wasn't so hard-hearted after all. "Hush," he said. "Hush, now. Someone will hear you." He shot a glance in the direction of his parents' room.

I looked up and, for the first time, I saw that he was weak and afraid. I was hurting, and he cared only that we escape discovery. I frowned. Had he been such a coward all along?

I tore myself from his arms, flung open the door, and  ran through the hallway. I didn't care who saw me. Lysander would marry someone else. My life was as good as over. I belonged nowhere and to no one.

"Nyx! Are you feeling better?"

Lenaea stood before me in the hallway. I was in my nightdress, with my tangled hair around my shoulders. She was tall, fresh-faced, and regal. She looked far more like a princess than I. "I was so worried," she said, "when you fell into a swoon last night. And babbling nonsense -- Corinna said you were out of your head with fever."

There was real concern in her expression, but I could not bring myself to like her. I knew Lenaea had not stolen Lysander away from me. She didn't even know I  loved him. Still, I wanted to hurt her.

I drew myself up and lifted my chin. "Yes, I'm nearly recovered. I was quite well enough to spend the night with your bridegroom." With that, I brushed past her into my own room and left Nicias' daughter to stare after me.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Corinna found me out on the portico later that morning, where I leaned against the railing and stared out at the bright water. If I shaded my eyes against  the dazzle, I could see the dark smudges of other islands on the horizon. Theros was just one pebble in a wider sea.

She came up and  brushed my feverish cheek with the back of her hand. "You are still not well. You ought to rest another day or two." I thought I saw pity in her glance.

A haze drifted over the sun and dimmed its brilliance. "Should I stay in bed while Lysander marries that simpering girl?" I snapped. "Should I waste away to nothing, to save you trouble?"

Corinna's eyes widened. I'd never spoken sharply to her before. "You're ill, child, ill with grief. I've seen it before. I promise you will recover, with a little time. A broken heart is rarely fatal."

"What do you know?" I said. My voice cracked on the final word. One of the slaves, on the portico to shake out a wall hanging, stared at us. I scowled back at him until he looked away.

"I know better than you can imagine," Corinna said. When she turned away from me to squint into the sunlight, the network of silvery creases near her eyes deepened until she seemed to grimace in pain.

I remembered the boy she'd spoken of, the one she'd loved, and was sorry. I wished I could tell her the truth. "Anyway," I said, "there are things about me --things you can't even --"

Corinna  took my hand in hers. She stretched my fingers apart and touched the tender webbing. "Don't  try to speak of it, my dear. I see how it hurts  you."  She cocked her head to one side and smiled. "Besides, I prefer my own imaginings. A child cast up from the sea, with eyes like the deepest water, who cannot speak of her past. . . . " She sighed. "Perhaps I've heard too many tales of gods and centaurs, satyrs and sea nymphs."

Her words made the day brighter, the sky bluer. Someone here, in the upper world, understood who I truly was. How much of my secret had Corinna guessed? I opened my mouth, but she laid her fingers against my lips. "Don't, Nyx. It is not wise to defy the gods. Let us speak no more of it."

Reluctantly, I changed the subject. "Will Lysander marry her, then?"

Corinna nodded. "Nicias and Philemon are setting the terms even now. Lysander wishes to wed soon, within the week. My husband will no doubt agree. He's thrilled by the turn of events, as you can imagine."

"Yes," I whispered. "He would  feel that way. And you?"

Corinna wrapped her arms around me. I buried my face in her neck. Her perfume smelled clean and sharp this morning. "Oh, Nyx, I am so sorry to see you hurt," she said. "But whatever happens, you will always be like a daughter to me."

At dinner Lenaea said nothing about our encounter in the hallway, though her lips trembled when she looked my way and her smile grew thin and strained. The dining room was crowded, the air choked with the smell of smoke and bodies. I could hardly breathe. My eyes never left the betrothed couple for more than a few moments. The servants had
positioned Lenaea's low couch next to Lysander's, and she clung to him with grim determination all through the meal. She threw him admiring glances up through  her lashes, giggling when he whispered into her ear.

"To the young couple," Nicias said. He raised his wine cup. Rust-colored sea nymphs danced gaily around the cup's rim.

"May the gods bless them with many sons," Philemon said. He, too, lifted his cup. "They will wed in less than a week's time. We shall sacrifice my prize bull for the feast, and the entire village will attend. And, as a gift, I will order a house built for the wedded pair." He beamed at his son. "You may choose the site."

After a split-second hesitation, Lysander bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."

"The poets will speak of this wedding for years," Philemon boasted. He didn't look at me. He didn't need to. I could feel him gloating.

Lysander, too, lifted his cup. "To my bride," he said, and smiled shyly at Lenaea. She smiled back and then, when  no one  was looking, shot me a triumphant glance.

I stared down into the crimson dregs of my wine and wished I were dead.

The next few days passed in a painful blur. Lysander avoided me. When I tried to approach him, he fled. When I watched him, he turned away. Lenaea glared whenever she spotted me. Corinna was too busy with the preparations to pay me any mind. I wandered from room to room, lost and afraid, but all I ever did was get in the way. My mood felt as delicate as the glass perfume bottles on Corinna's dressing table. Every moment I feared my self control might shatter.

The day before the wedding, Corinna asked me to supervise in the kitchen. I was glad to do it. In the crowded room, amid the smoke and noise and bustle, I hid from Lysander and all of the dark thoughts that kept me awake at night. Still, no matter how frantically I worked to oversee the chopping of herbs, the tending of fires, and the washing of fruit, I couldn't escape the wedding talk.

"Her dress is by far the loveliest thing I've ever seen," Hygeia said, after a visit to the bride's chambers. "And her jewelry -- oh, her father's given her a necklace of gold, with amber beads, that hangs nearly to her waist." In her excitement, she waved her knife in the air and almost took my nose off.

I stepped back to a safe distance. "Do be careful with that," I said, in an unkind tone.

"Sorry, ma'am." Hygeia set the knife down. It clattered on the stone countertop. "I only wanted to tell you about the dress. Such fine linen, gauzy and floaty as something woven from spider's web, or a dandelion gone to seed. And her so tall, with that fine young figure . . . ."

The other women gathered around to hear about Lenaea's dress, her jewels, and how she intended to wear her hair for the wedding.

I edged away, choking on the thick smoke that clouded the air. The smell of fire singed my throat. How could I listen to their talk without bursting into tears?

I sank my fingers deep into the fleshy bread dough, lifted it up, and pounded it down against the countertop. Wheat flour flew up into the air and settled down again, coating my pale arms with a layer of pale brown.

"Here, let me do that," Lydia said. "You needn't dirty your hands, ma'am."

"I don't mind," I said.

It was true. The sun filtered through the leaves of an olive tree, crept through the kitchen window, and made dappled shadows on my arms. The dough felt like warm flesh under my hands. I found some small comfort in the rhythmic motion of the work.