Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Myrina’s gang and Cassandra performed the slow dance for the dead about the burning pyre.

  “I was the first to hold her in my arms when she was born,” Myrina whispered as the dance came to a quiet ending.

  “And you were the last to hold her when she died,” Bremusa agreed. “That was right and good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The War God’s Daughter

  AS THE FUNERAL pyre burned low, the sun began to set in the west. Myrina looked at the ragged fringe of dark shapes that were Agamemnon’s huts and tents all along the dark peaceful blue of the Aegean Sea. The smoke from their campfires rose into the sky and small movements of carts and wagons made them look almost domestic. Each war leader’s own small camp was set slightly separate from the others, as with any great meeting of the nomadic tribes. The thought came to Myrina that most of them were just ordinary men, who must wish desperately that they were at home. Why did they not pack up and go?

  As she stood there, watching, two Trojan guards rode out from the Southern Gate and spoke to Coronilla. She came at once to Myrina. “We should go back within the city walls,” she said. “The guards have seen dust rising in the east.”

  “They swore there would be no attack.” Bremusa’s hand went to her bow strap.

  Cassandra turned her head toward Mount Ida. “This is no Achaean attack; the War God’s Daughter comes,” she said, pointing toward the distant peak, her blue and green eyes staring wildly. “She comes at the head of an army and they will fight for Troy.”

  They all looked at her with concern.

  “Who comes?” Myrina asked, her mind still cloudy with sadness. But though Cassandra gave no answer, she suddenly knew. “Ah . . . it’s Penthesilea. I should have known. She has looked in her mirror and seen Yildiz—she has seen it all.”

  “Of course,” Bremusa agreed, suddenly animated. “She could not watch our firefly die and stand by. She’ll lead the Thracians and the Phrygians to avenge the child, and I say she does right!”

  “But have the Ethiopians come?” Myrina asked. “Has she got the allies all together at her back? I should have looked in my mirror. I should have looked for Tomi.”

  “I can see them,” Bremusa cried, pointing in the direction of Ida.

  Everyone turned to look and it wasn’t long before they could all see the dust rising and the dark movement of riders.

  “They are here!” Bremusa was shouting wildly and waving. On the far eastern horizon the shapes of warriors on horseback with banners aloft, riding fast in full body armor, emerged from the cloud of dust that rose before them. They looked magnificent.

  Myrina’s gang leaped up and down, lifting their voices in the ululating Moon Riders’ joy-cry. Myrina could not help but feel a surge of fierce pride at the sight of them as they galloped over the higher land above the plain of Troy.

  The Achaeans had got wind of what was happening and the warning sound of horns could be heard all along the camps by the sea. Penthesilea rode at the head of the army, leading the warrior priestesses in their battle caps and leather greaves, racing toward the Mound of Dancing Myrina. Thracians, Phrygians, and Pelagian warriors followed, fierce Paeonian bowmen, muscular Cicones, Mysians, and Carians, all armed to the teeth. They slowed their horses as they approached and dismounted, gathering about the smoking pyre, falling on their knees to pay their respects to the lost firefly.

  Myrina was deeply moved to see so many battle- hardened warriors honoring Yildiz, but she looked about, anxiously longing for a glimpse of Tomi’s broad shoulders and square jaw. He was not to be seen and nowhere could she spy the dark skins of the Ethiopian warriors. “Where is King Memnon?” she cried.

  Cassandra shook her head and her mouth was grim. “I fear our brave Penthesilea has come without the Ethiopians.”

  Myrina strode through the crowd toward Penthesilea. She grabbed her by the shoulder and shouted at her, “Where are the Ethiopians? Where is King Memnon?”

  “A fine welcome!” Penthesilea’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I swore that I would avenge your Little Star and so I shall. I will not wait for warriors from distant lands, who may never come!”

  “You swore to wait for King Memnon,” Myrina spat back at her. “You have come at half strength!”

  Penthesilea rose to her full height, snarling with fury. “Half strength? I will show you what half strength can do! I shall blow the war horns and ride at once to Achilles’ tents and challenge that foul murderer to fight. How dare you challenge my right?”

  Myrina, half dazed, saw that Akasya had moved fast to her side, but then Cassandra stepped in front of them both.

  “No, dear friend,” the princess said calmly to Penthesilea. “The Achaeans have sworn a truce today so that we may lay Yildiz properly to rest. It would bring shame to her memory if that truce were broken. Tomorrow when the sun rises—that is the time for you to fight.”

  Cassandra’s words cooled Penthesilea’s anger, for the thought of acting dishonorably was terrible to the fierce Moon Rider.

  Myrina’s anger and disappointment also slipped away. Penthesilea had spoken fairly. What right had she to decide what should or should not be done? Surely her own carelessness had been partly to blame for the loss of Yildiz? “Forgive me,” she said, catching Penthesilea by her shoulder in a more loving way. “My anger at Yildiz’s fate makes me turn on those most dear to me. I should have protected the child and kept her safe—it is I whom you should challenge, for I have neglected her.”

  Penthesilea engulfed her at once in a fierce hug. “I saw her in my mirror,” she whispered. “I watched as every flaming arrow flew to its target. None of us could have prevented it. Cassandra is right! Tomorrow we will rid the shores of Anatolia of these murdering invaders. Come, Snake Lady, you and I must not fall out.”

  “No—we will not,” Myrina agreed.

  Then the army of Trojan allies led their horses steadily toward the city, while lanterns and lights along the shoreline bobbed in the distance as great numbers of Achaean warriors watched them with swords drawn and spears at the ready.

  King Priam stood at the Southern Gate to greet them, along with Aeneas. Hecuba was there, dressed in her finest gown and looking cleaner, her face wreathed in smiles. “My son is coming home, my son is coming home,” she whispered to all who would listen.

  The arrival of Penthesilea had been seen from the high towers of the citadel and at once a feast had been prepared. There were so many horses to accommodate that corrals had to be set up again outside the walls, but this time with Trojan guards. Myrina could not help but feel that it was unwise to hold such a feast, as the food they had brought from the Isle of Marble was half consumed already.

  “We couldn’t persuade your father to hold back a little?” she asked Cassandra.

  The princess looked as sad as ever. “My father is a stubborn man,” she whispered. “He will rarely listen to advice and I suppose he believes that tomorrow will bring us victory at last.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “I see a bloodred mist hanging over the Trojan plain,” she murmured. “Nothing can be stopped. Nothing can be changed.”

  “We do not need this feast—it is foolishness,” Myrina insisted. “Our food should be saved. Everything is going wrong—I can see that so clearly—and yet I have no power to make things different.”

  Cassandra looked at her sharply—a look of recognition, almost of joy.

  Myrina understood. “This is how you feel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” the princess replied. “All the time, all the time! But it is not in our power to change these things and somehow we must accept them. There is good there as well as evil. We will have a feast and perhaps it is only right that our firefly should have her funeral supper.”

  “Yes,” Myrina agreed at last. “That is the only way that I can face it. This is a feast for Yildiz.”

  Akasya came forward with a clean gown for her to wear, one of Cassandra’
s, worn and mended but still beautiful. Myrina challenged the slave woman: “You were not afraid of the Moon Riders’ fierce leader then?”

  “No.” Akasya shook her head. “In the streets of Troy they call her the War God’s Daughter, but now I realize that she would not have hurt you, Snake Lady.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that!” Myrina smiled.

  The feast was lavish by recent standards; wine was mixed and poured and all the Trojans raised their cups to Penthesilea. “To the War God’s Daughter!” they cried.

  Helen and Paris made a grand entrance in their finery and jewels, rarely seen in war-torn Troy, their two small children, led by their nurses, behind them.

  The War God’s Daughter eyed them both with suspicion, but Helen worked her charm even on such a one as Penthesilea, who was little impressed by jewels and fine clothes.

  Later, flushed with wine and compliments, Penthesilea told Myrina that she could understand the prince’s desire for the woman. “She’s not as beautiful as I had heard,” Penthesilea judged. “But still the woman has a warmth and a vulnerability that makes me want to protect her, and . . . despite her look of helplessness, she’s no fool.”

  “You are right,” Myrina agreed. Helen had pointed out to her that while Troy was rejoicing in the arrival of Penthesilea, on the shoreward side of the city three small boats had set sail from Agamemnon’s camp over to the island of Tenedos.

  “What do you think that means?” Myrina had asked.

  Helen smiled her charming smile and her mouth twitched a little wryly at the corners. “Reinforcements?” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

  Myrina said nothing. Whether there were Achaean reinforcements coming or not, there would be no stopping Penthesilea from fighting in the morning, of that she was very sure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Atonement

  MYRINA COULD NOT sleep that night. Her mind was full of pictures of Yildiz, first a tiny baby in her arms, then riding like a wild firefly and setting Achilles’ tents aflame. At last she got out of bed and went to look for water. Her stomach had recently been trained to accept only a small amount of food, and the unaccustomed feast and wine had left her feeling bloated. She wandered down the marble passageway to where the water ewer and its little beaker were kept, and saw that a torch still blazed in the chamber allotted to Penthesilea.

  “Another one who cannot sleep?” she said as she saw her friend sitting on the balcony, looking down at the lights and fires of the distant Achaean camp.

  Penthesilea turned to her and Myrina was shocked to see traces of tears on her cheeks. In all the years they had ridden together, she had never known Penthesilea to weep.

  Myrina stood there uncertainly, feeling that she had intruded into something private, but Penthesilea held out her hand. “Come sit beside me, Snake Lady,” she begged. “I have need of one who can bolster my courage.”

  “You?” Myrina was stunned. “Your courage has never failed.”

  Penthesilea laughed low. “But tonight it fails me. I have been waiting all my life for this moment and tomorrow I must face Achilles, the dreaded Ant Man himself. His followers swear that he is immortal, you know. They say his mother was a magical sea nymph and that she made him invincible.”

  Myrina went to sit close beside her. “But we do not believe in such a thing,” she insisted. “All of us must return to the womb of Mother Earth and Achilles will not escape that fate.”

  “No, he will not,” Penthesilea agreed. “But how many more will he send before him?”

  Myrina sat in silence, Yildiz in her thoughts as well. At last she spoke. “You do not have to face Achilles tomorrow. Your fate is in your own hands. You can decide against a battle charge and we may dig in our heels and wait till winter sends many of the Achaeans searching for more comfortable sleeping quarters.”

  But Penthesilea shook her head sadly. “It is my fate to ride tomorrow. It is more than that, it is my penance.”

  Myrina was puzzled but said nothing, sensing that she must be patient.

  Penthesilea turned to her, smiling. “Did you know that I was once a princess—daughter of a king?”

  “No!” Myrina tried to conceal her astonishment.

  “Oh yes.” Penthesilea laughed, but the sound was mirthless. “I was as royal as your Cassandra, but I did something that was unforgivable.”

  “I cannot believe that.” Myrina put out her hand and gently stroked the leaping panther that Penthesilea bore on her forearm, the symbol of her wild spirit, scratched in when she was a child.

  “Oh yes,” Penthesilea insisted. “It was unforgivable. I had a young sister; her name was Hippolyta, after the famous Moon Rider. She rode like a centaur and we were inseparable; we wrestled and fought and hunted together.”

  Penthesilea paused, and it seemed that she could not utter the words, but at last she swallowed hard and went on. “I killed her.”

  “No!” Myrina cried involuntarily.

  “Yes,” Penthesilea insisted. “One day when we were out hunting I threw my spear into some bushes and instead of the deer I thought we stalked . . . I killed my own sister.”

  “But . . . that was an accident . . . a terrible accident,” Myrina told her at once.

  “Yes . . . it was an accident, but that does not make it any less true or any less dreadful. I killed my own sister. Can you imagine how my parents felt? They—they could not even look at me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I had seen eleven springs; the same as Yildiz. You see, when I saw your Little Star, so angry and vengeful, well . . . I knew what it was like to be so young and to feel such hurt inside.”

  “But it was not your fault,” Myrina insisted, though she could imagine only too well the terrible guilt that must follow such a thing. “What happened to you?”

  “My parents sent for Atisha and begged her to take me as a Moon Rider. It was agreed that the Old Woman would let me ride with her, but I was never to return to my home. I was banished.”

  Myrina frowned. It seemed a terrible punishment for one so young. She offered what comfort she could: “Atisha loves you as her own child,” she said.

  “Yes, and I love her as though she were both mother and father to me, but . . . I have always known that I must find the courage to do something great with my life—something that will atone.”

  “You have done it already,” Myrina replied at once. “You rescued Iphigenia from the evil priest; we could never have succeeded without your daring. That is atonement enough for any wrong! There is a life that you have truly saved!”

  “No.” Penthesilea shook her head. “That was not enough. What I do tomorrow . . . this is what matters. I have to face the warrior of warriors and bring him down.”

  Myrina was full of sadness and fear, but she knew that all the arguments in the world would make no difference to Penthesilea’s resolve, so she simply wrapped her arms around her friend and they stayed like that, sitting close together, until the first glimmerings of light appeared in the east.

  As dawn spread over the plain of Troy, Penthesilea stirred. She wiped all traces of tears from her cheeks, then turned to Myrina and planted a fierce kiss on her brow. “I have never told anyone else what I confided to you last night,” she said. “Only Atisha knows. Remember, Snake Lady, whenever I bawl and shout at you, that I love you still.”

  Then suddenly she was her usual bossy, energetic self. She snatched up the torch and was soon striding about the citadel, ordering her disparate followers to feed and water the horses, then strap their armor on.

  All was bustle and energy within the walls of Troy. Myrina could feel the tension thrumming through the streets. Every warrior was preparing meticulously for this fight, tempers drawn tight as bowstrings. If ever the tide could be turned against the Achaeans, it must be now.

  Back in her chamber Myrina joined her gang and fastened on her horse-skin body armor. She tied across her chest the strong leather strap that protected the right br
east, so flattening it and giving the impression of being one-breasted. She smiled, remembering how Atisha laughed when their enemies called them Amazons: “breastless ones.” “If they are stupid enough to think that we would do such a thing as cut off a breast—let them think it!” the Old Woman would say. “They may well fear us more if they think we are capable of such madness.”

  Myrina picked up her leg leathers, but found that other deft fingers at once set about strapping them into place. “Akasya—you are here again.”

  Akasya nodded and did the job with grim efficiency, while Myrina pulled the stiffened Phrygian cap over her ears, so that it protected her like a helmet. But then she suddenly stopped. Atisha’s scathing words about the straps reminded her of other matters that the Old Woman had been very clear about, and much more recently: “Do not go out and fight with Penthesilea,” she had warned. Myrina’s mind had been so full of Yildiz that she had forgotten all about Atisha’s last words to her.

  After the closeness that she and Penthesilea had shared last night, such a thing was unthinkable. How could she refuse to follow Penthesilea onto the battlefield?

  “What is it?” Bremusa asked, reaching over to help her fix the Moon Rider’s quiver to her thigh, so that arrows could be drawn at great speed. “You look troubled.”

  Myrina shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “She cannot have meant now.”

  “What is wrong?” Coronilla demanded.

  Myrina struggled to explain, her face full of pain and shame that she should be voicing these words. “Atisha—” she said, “Atisha told me not to fight alongside Penthesilea—she made me swear it.”

  Akasya stopped her work at once; there was stillness in the chamber. All three Moon Riders stared at her, shocked. Atisha had never told anyone not to fight before—it was unheard of.

  “But . . . when the black ships came, we all turned warrior and we swore to defend the traveling lands of the tribes.” Alcibie spoke in a whisper.