Chapter 6

On the day of the Festival of Dionysus, drums sounded without pause from dawn onward. The streets teemed with citizens wearing masks of woven grapevine. That night, the procession would pass through the Temple of Hera, and most of the guards would be pulled away to maintain order.

The antidote had only partially suppressed the venom spreading across her arm. Fever still came in waves, her knee remained swollen, and every step felt like a dull blade grinding against bone.

To prevent the foreign envoys from sensing unrest in the court, the priests had placed the golden laurel crown back on her head that morning. The battered gray robe, the unhealed wounds, and the gleaming crown came together like a hollow display of decorum staged for outsiders.

This was Althea's only chance to escape. But from daybreak, Ianthe kept piling task after task on her, never allowing a moment's rest.

"The birthing room needs clean water."

"The ceremony is still short two jars of wine."

"The wool swaddling for the prince needs to be re-fumigated."

Althea's wrist wound had not yet gone down. Each trip hauling clay jars through the corridors left her back drenched in cold sweat. Ianthe sat comfortably in the shade while a handmaid fanned her. "Take your time, Your Majesty. If you break any ritual vessels, the temple will charge you with sacrilege."

Althea set down the jar without a word.

Ianthe waved away every servant except her two closest handmaids. "Are you still waiting for your people from Dodona to come for you?"

Althea looked up. Ianthe drew a tarnished coin from her sleeve and turned it slowly between her fingers. One side bore a ship. The other bore Myrrhine's name. It was a ferry coin, placed with the dead so they could pay the ferryman to cross the River Styx. Althea's breath caught.

"Where did you get that?"

"My father had Myrrhine's burial ground dug up." Ianthe's tone was light. "Her remains have been moved out of the sacred grounds. The name on the headstone has been ground away completely." She held the coin up to the sunlight. "Without a name, without a ferry coin, she can never cross the river. She can only wander along the banks forever, until no one left alive remembers her."

Althea stared at the coin, her fingers slowly curling tight. A Greek could endure poverty, exile, even defeat in war. But stripping the dead of their name and ferry coin meant a soul adrift for eternity. Ianthe knew exactly which weapon could break her.

"Give the coin back to me."

"A bastard who doesn't even dare name her father in the civic rolls thinks she is fit to preside over her mother's burial?"

Althea stepped forward. The two handmaids moved to block her. Ianthe set the coin casually on the edge of the incense burner. "If you'll hand over the Thunderbolt Seal and swear upon the River Styx to never again contest the queen's title, I might consider giving it back."

"I said, give it back."

Her voice was low, but the thunderbolt mark on her chest was already burning. A flicker of excitement crossed Ianthe's eyes. This was exactly the scene she had been engineering.

Althea shoved past the handmaids and seized Ianthe's wrist. Ianthe stumbled backward, toppling the bronze incense burner as she went. Sparks scattered across the hem of her white robe. She was about to scream when her face contorted. Blood began to seep through the fabric. She had only planned to stage a scene of being attacked. The child in her womb chose that moment to come early.

People rushed in from outside. Lysandros was at the front. He saw Ianthe on the ground, Althea still gripping her wrist, and his voice cracked like a whip. "Let go of her!"

Althea did not release her grip right away. She pried the coin from between Ianthe's fingers. In the next instant, Lysandros shoved her hard. Her back struck a stone table, and the snakebite on her wrist tore open, bleeding fresh. Ianthe clutched her belly, sobbing. "Your Majesty, the queen only wanted to take back her mother's keepsake... It was my fault. I shouldn't have brought up the burial ground..."

Lysandros did not probe further. "Chain Althea to the ritual pillar outside the birthing room." He fixed her with a cold stare. "If anything at all happens to the child, you will answer to the Court of the Furies first."

The guards produced cold iron chains and shackled Althea to the pillar. She wanted to explain the truth about the headstone, the remains, and the ferry coin, but Lysandros had already scooped Ianthe into his arms and rushed into the birthing room. Every word died in her throat.

He never asked why the coin had been in Ianthe's hand. He had no interest in hearing why she had acted. The scene before his eyes was verdict enough.

Dusk settled over the city. The drums of the Festival of Dionysus pulsed closer and closer from the streets. Inside the birthing room, people streamed in and out. Basin after basin of bloody water was carried past. Ianthe's screams went from shrill to hoarse. Althea remained alone, chained to the pillar. No one brought her water. No one spared her a second glance. She clutched the coin in her palm. Only half remained. The other half was still in the burial ground or in Philocles's possession. She bent her head, running her thumb over the broken name, wiping away the blood.

When full darkness fell, a piercing cry rang out from the birthing room.

"The prince is born!"

The temple erupted. Priests rang the bronze bells. Handmaids crowded into the birthing room. Even the guards at the pillar were called away to collect their rewards. Lysandros's voice carried through the door. "Light the flame three times over! All prisoners in the city receive reduced sentences for the Festival. The crown gifts wine to the entire city!"

No one remembered that a woman was still chained to the ritual pillar.

Althea looked up at the night sky. In Thrace, she had been chained to a pillar just like this, waiting desperately for Lysandros to come. Back in the palace, she had waited for him to uncover the truth, to see her scars, to honor his old vows. She had waited far too long.

This time, she was done waiting.

She slipped the Thunderbolt Seal into her mouth and used its sharp edge to cut open her palm. Divine blood dripped onto the cold iron chain. At first, nothing happened. The sound of the changing guard drew nearer down the corridor. Althea clenched her teeth and pressed her bleeding hand against the base of the pillar.

The seal blazed hot. A thin thunderbolt pattern lit up beneath her palm and sank through the stone into the ground. The moss on the floor parted under an invisible force, revealing an ancient groove leading to the abandoned drainage channel. The chain did not break. Instead, a rusted bronze latch sprang loose from the base of the pillar. From the grating of the drainage channel came a coded knock: three short, one long.

Althea crouched. A hand reached through the iron bars, offering a slender key. A stranger's low voice answered. "Daughter of Myrrhine. The old watergate is open."

The key turned in the lock. The clatter of the chains hitting the ground was lost entirely beneath the Festival drums that filled the city.

Althea dropped into the narrow channel. Her guide wore a dark cloak; she was the contact Damaris had planted in the temple. They moved through the abandoned drainage system. Behind them, the guards' shouts rose quickly. "She's gone!" "Seal all underground passages!"

The group reached the old watergate. The massive stone door was open only a crack. The contact threw herself against the stone, but an iron portcullis overhead jammed the door. Footsteps closed in behind them. Althea removed the golden laurel crown from her head.

This crown had weighed on her since the day of the coronation. It held the promise she had longed for since girlhood, and the life Lysandros had mapped out for her. She set the crown at the entrance to the channel, then pressed her bleeding hand over the Thunderbolt Seal.

"In my own name," she whispered. "Open."

For the first time, true lightning erupted from her palm. The portcullis shuddered violently and sprang free. The watergate swung outward. From the direction of Dodona, far away, rolling thunder answered. No command had been given, no summons issued. Only a single voice reached her ears.

"Daughter of Zeus, you choose to leave."

Althea stepped through the watergate. She turned and pushed the stone door shut, sealing the palace lights behind her. In the darkness, the golden laurel crown lay where pursuers would surely find it. She did not look back.