Ghost Queen in the House of Love

18. Onia

By accident, in my room, I scrape my elbow against the sharp edge of a display table. Marble slices through the skin, my blood welling to the surface. I suck in a breath, stare at what I can see of the wound, and concentrate. When I shut my eyes, the blue sand scuttles in the darkness.

In a matter of seconds, gold glitters across the expanse of the wound and usurps it. Like my flesh is withdrawing from the horrible necklace that has plagued me for an eternity, my elbow twinges and heals.

I am healing, and I tell myself, yes, it won't be long now. I don't know if that's true, whether I'm starting to feel too safe, too confident that things will not go awry.

Though we rarely have horribly cold days here, the weather grows warmer. When I go out into the gardens, the sun's kiss on my skin, I no longer feel like a sickness in me is repelling it. When I sit on the throne besides Cadmus', it is still not a comfortable seat. But it shouldn't be, and I am bearing it's hard edges better.

In the throne room, the easy plucks of many lyres swim across the marble and gold. Alone above the space, the throne hard-edged and without cushions, I listen. Though I hear the rigmarole of land squabbles and such, I am almost in a dream.

Kora slips beside me as I listen with several colorful cushions piled in her arms to inform me that they will make the seat more comfortable. I let her place them, and as I settle on their softness, I begin to forget the weight of the wreathed crown.

But that changes when shouts erupt by the throne room entrance. I hear one woman above the rest, her voice high and urgent, and I see a rush of gray linothorax reinforced with bronze scales atop the shoulders and sides of the hoplites' torsos. In battle, they would wear bronze greaves and chest plates emblazoned with the symbol of Olympus, the letter Omega.

I only see the elite soldiers converging around something. I lean forward.

Someone, a woman trying to rush into this space, trying to come to me. Her skin is a deep copper. Her eyes meet mine. Green as mine, watery, bloodshot. But I don't see malice or violence.

Grief.

My body goes cold. The soldiers seize her, their scarlet gloves gripping her shoulders and arms as she tries to surge toward me. I see no weapon, and her chiton is simple and white, but scuffed with dirt and something like ash.

Soon, someone else watches closely: Stratigos Telesilla, the esteemed Argive general who bested the Spartans, the captain of our elite palace soldiers. She stands above the others, her sleek, black hair under her golden helmet.

In her mortal life, she was lithe, someone who rallied all the other women to pick off arms and defeat a threat when all their men were killed or incapacitated. Now, her muscles are distinct, though she still maintains the wiry frame of a wild lion. I admire her, but despite her obligation to this palace for centuries, I don't know her; I don't know my people. If they blame me, hate me for it, I understand.

The stratigos looks at me and calls, jamming a knife under the woman's bobbing throat, "Should I have her killed, my queen?" If I weren't immortal, I might not be able to hear her over the din of whispers. Even the musicians have paused to whisper among themselves.

Now, their eyes travel from the esteemed general to me. I cannot let anyone know the weight of their stares. I must not wince or let my voice break. I can no longer afford to face them with my shoulders hunched, my gaze watery and cast to the floor.

Standing, I hold up a hand. "No. Of course not." Out of the corner of my eye, runes of the moon and sea glint on my skin, my left shoulder.

The stratigos has always been here on the periphery, watching for threats. She's taught even the feast attendants and Kora how to defend themselves; the good thing about immortality is that a mere unenchanted knife will do Cadmus and I no harm.