Free Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr Page A

must learn to think of herself as Myrtale, could not tell what she was thinking. Troas offered no awe, but neither did she seem to disapprove. She simply rose from the bed where she had been sitting, stitching a bit of needlework. “Good. You’re back. The men are waiting.”
    She did not ask if Myrtale had broken her fast. Maybe that was punishment.
    Myrtale was not hungry in any case. She had been so full of the Mother that her stomach had forgotten how to be mortal.
    *   *   *
    The men from Macedon were on the shore, preparing to embark on a ship of somewhat more size but rather less opulence than the ship from Epiros. Their king loaded cargo with the rest of them, wearing no mark of rank and claiming no signs of respect. But Myrtale would always know him.
    There was a sort of contract between them, an agreement that needed no words. One glance spoke for both.
    I’ll send for you, his eyes said.
    Her own lowered in assent. I’ll be waiting, the gesture promised.
    Macedon’s ship set off first, raising a sail the color of dark wine, with the bright rays of a sun painted on it. Myrtale’s heart contracted at the sight. It was not exactly as she remembered from her vision of darkness shot with fire, but near enough.
    This the Mother had meant for her. And she was meant to take it with both hands.
    But first she had to look on her own mountains again, to come once more to Epiros. For her, everything began there. Even this.
    It was hard to climb into her sister’s ship and not his; to see him sail away and not know for certain when they would meet again. That they would, she knew surely. But it would be in the Mother’s time.
    â€œSoon,” she said under her breath as the oars began their steady rhythm, carrying the ship out of the harbor. “Please the Great Gods, let it be soon.”

Ten
    The embassy from Macedon clattered into the king’s house of Epiros a month to the day after Myrtale had returned to it with her new name and her new secrets. They had come over the mountains on horseback, riding with a bravura that made the young men of Epiros sit up and take notice.
    Myrtale knew better than to expect that Philip would have come for her himself, but she was a little disappointed even so. Patience was not her strongest virtue, and she had waited for a month and had meant to wait longer.
    The man who came in Philip’s stead was big as all these Macedonians seemed to be, with a long lantern jaw and a pleasantly ugly face. His name was Lagos; he came of a noble house, some said royal—though he said nothing of that. Myrtale gathered it from the servants’ gossip.
    They gossiped, too, that the king had sent an ugly man on this errand for cause; he would hardly want his bride to fall in love with the messenger. But Myrtale reckoned that a falsehood. Lagos was a capable man; his mind was keen and he spoke well. Macedon was honoring Epiros with the best it could spare.
    He brought gifts for the king, fine armor and weapons and a team of horses with a gold-inlaid chariot; to the queen he offered a bolt of Persian silk, a silver mirror, and a vial of perfume from Egypt. For Myrtale there was a box of fragrant myrtle wood, and in it a golden diadem.
    It was a grand ceremony in the king’s hall, with the queen and her ladies in attendance. They all knew what Lagos was going to say; there was no mistaking the purpose of his embassy, once Myrtale had opened the box and taken up the diadem. The murmur that ran through the hall had an edge of excitement.
    It was a great thing, this matter of royal marriage. She fought for patience, and for the calm that befit a queen. Troas set the example; Myrtale wondered fleetingly if it had ever been so difficult for her. She was as gifted in serenity as Myrtale was in attacks of fiery temper.
    Lagos, thank the Mother, did not waste time in indirection. Having offered gifts and respect, he looked Arybbas in the face and