Quoted By:
Despite the crushing fatigue, you and your troupe soldier on – threading your way through the Damachidean countryside. You’re hoping to put as many stadia between yourself and whatever madness has been set loose in the palace before yellow-robed Dawn makes her presence known. This far from the palace, you can no longer hear echoed shouts or cries of bloodlust, but you desperately fear the morning – it’s possible that whoever has won the bloody contest may send sweeping spearmen forth to arrest all travelers that can be accosted, or worse, that leaderless and roving bands of freshly-made bandits spiral out into the Thessalian hills, raping and murdering as they see fit.
Time passes strangely as you stagger through the night without the help of your staff – your group does not speak at all, and you hear only the labored breathing of yourself and your compatriots as you heft carts of stolen wealth through uneven dirt paths – your way through the shadowed glens illuminated by the daughter of Hyperion, charioteer of the silver car and winged steeds.
Hours pass – or perhaps only minutes? before you come to a fork in the path, and your group pauses briefly to drink water and rest a few moments. It’s here that Myrethuia makes her separation.
She says little, really, only wishing yourself and Gerasimos safe passage to whatever polis you might be headed to – she doesn’t seem to think that you are a local noblewoman, at least at this point in time. She manages to maintain an air of dignity about herself, even as she pulls at her cart of rugs and blankets (and hidden Timae) – her back straight, and her strides even. To travel as an unarmed woman, tugging at a cart of treasure, through rugged Thessaly is the height of insanity, but you are somehow certain that she will survive. The memory of her calculating eyes will stay with you a long time, you think - her final words drift under the shadowed boughs of oak and cypress before reaching your ears:
“If ever you come to Argos, Pylia – find me in the court of the young king Diomedes!”
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Your morning doze is interrupted, and you start awake, bleary eyes squinted against the radiance of the morning sun. Your hand finds your father’s dagger and without thought, you raise it against the throat of –
“Lady Deianira! Please...lower your blade.” Gerasimos swallows anxiously, before you come to your senses. You sheathe your knife, collecting yourself. Rising, you feel the aches and pains of yesterday’s adventures wallop your body. There is a strong smell of…sheep?
>cont
