Chapter 137
Her trembling gaze dropped to the base of the tree where Atalanta had been. Her lioness was already gone.
“…Kybellaune, I’ve brought you something to eat.”
In that moment, an all-too-familiar voice echoed from behind her, stirring up old memories. Pherenike slowly turned around.
Dexikos was standing there, dressed in the breastplate of the royal guard.
She opened her mouth to speak several times, then finally set the bow down on the window sill. Her old bodyguard, looking quite unruffled, placed a basket on the table and stood before her.
Pherenike walked the few steps to the table, lifted the cloth covering the food, and quietly looked up at him.
Dexikos spoke in a low voice, barely audible outside. Pherenike noticed that he’d set up a faint Orthea barrier—a trick he’d learned from his lord. After all, it was her own father who had taught Deucalion how to do that.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“You’re still as irreverent as ever.”
“People should eat at regular times.”
“Even during wartime?”
“All the more so during war.”
She narrowed her eyes and moved closer to him. Dexikos raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped back.
“Please, don’t crowd me. His Lordship will scold me.”
“I don’t think you have the kind of face that’d get you in trouble with that boy. You’ve gotten quite arrogant with age.”
“Do you think it’s just age I’ve gained?”
“How did you manage to get in here? Didn’t anyone recognize you?”
“Quite a bit of time has passed.”
“I suppose so. You really have aged.”
“How can you say that? The real reason is that none of the current guards know me by face or by assignment.”
“Hmph.”
Pherenike tapped his stomach with the back of her hand, then pulled a small roll from the basket and bit into it. Out of habit, Dexikos poured her some water.
“The moment Lykke’s gates open, I was ordered to get Kybellaune and the princess out first.”
“And how exactly is Dexikos going to manage that?”
“Aren’t you being a bit too endearing with your insults?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Oh, by the way—the centurion outside has changed. Apparently, he’s become a bit too ‘lenient’ after receiving your favor.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“There are eight outside right now.”
“And?”
“Could you handle two of them?”
She paused her swallow and looked up at him. Dexikos nodded toward the bow by the window with a slight shrug.
“I’ll take care of the other six.”
Meanwhile, Atalanta pricked her ears and followed the deep shadows as she moved.
Whenever she sensed someone approaching, she’d crouch under the thick brush and wait until the danger passed. Once things were quiet, she’d resume her slow, cautious steps; if she ran out of cover, she waited patiently.
She was always careful when walking out in the open, just as Pherenike had always warned her. This lioness, raised among humans, never harmed people unless they meant harm. But humans, foolish as they were, didn’t understand the language of eyes.
At last, the beast’s clever golden gaze scanned the quiet alley, where no one walked. Atalanta didn’t want to hurt even foolish people any more than she did wise ones, so she quickly slipped through.
For now, it was enough to know where Pherenike was. Atalanta paused, calculating how many windows she’d have to climb past to see her mistress.
Even from afar, the air was filled with the clamor of chaos, but the alley itself was eerily still.
She lapped up a little rainwater from a forgotten bowl and hid beneath a bush covered in wildflowers.
That’s when she heard the ‘voice.’
[…I’m bored.]
Startled, her rounded lion ears perked up, and she relaxed her tense paws, resting her chin atop them.
[It’s too dark.]
She forgot all about resting and poked her head out from the bush, glancing around for the source of the sound.
It was a voice that sounded just like Pherenike’s when she was a child, only even younger and less sure. The voice, drifting straight into her mind and not through her ears, carried the essence of the person. Something Atalanta only recognized from her mistress.
[There’s no figs, either.]
Sometimes the nymphs or daemons sounded like children, but their voices, for all their innocence, always had an elegant beginning and end. This voice, though, was clumsy, unfinished. She was certain it came from Pherenike’s child.
[I should have saved my figs. I wish I’d eaten less before…]
The lioness crept out, sniffing the air, trying to pin down the direction of the voice.
[I’ll check the basket again!]
She started moving in the direction of the voice.
[No more figs. I’m sad.]
Atalanta wrinkled her nose. Was there nothing to eat?
[I shouldn’t have spilled them. Now the bread’s all dirty. Silly… I should pick it up quickly…]
The childish voice was laced with regret. The lioness felt a sudden urgency and quickened her pace.
[I can’t see very well. What’s this thing sticking out? Oh, I scratched myself. It hurts…]
Where could she be?
[No, Leuce’s not bleeding. If there’s no blood, it doesn’t hurt. Then it doesn’t hurt. Leuce’s fine.]
[…]
[But it does hurt.]
[…]
[There’s blood.]
[…]
[Leuce wants to cry. I want figs. I wish Mother were here to make it better…]
[If you can’t see, just stay still, Leuce.]
At last, Atalanta lost her patience and reached out to the child with her mind. The voice fell silent.
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