Serpent and Stone

Chapter 8

I had suspected as much when I first saw those men armed to the teeth and plated with armor walking through my island. Why else would men come with such weapons to the island of a monster? Only to kill her and bring her head back to their kings in glory.

It was only my rare good fortune that two different armies had both wanted that glory for themselves and fought each other for it. Neither side could overcome the other, forcing both of them to retreat. But if there had been no such battle, if only one determined army had stormed through my forests in search of my home... I repressed a shudder, a chill crawling down my spine. I had no question that they would have succeeded in their quest.

I asked my question without emotion, numb to the discussion of my own death. "And which kings sent their armies to win the head of Medusa?"

"King Polydectes of Seriphos," he said, his tone souring as he spoke the name. "And King Acrisius, ruler of Argos."

Argos was a city I had heard of many times over in tales and stories told both by my mother and the books housed in the temple. It was one of the grandest in Greece, sustained by a history rich with heroes and victories. The name Seriphos, however, was strange to me.

"And which king do you fight for?" As if it made a difference to me- both men wanted my head on a spike. But the way Perseus had spat the names of those two kings had piqued my curiosity.

He hesitated. "Polydectes," he said at last. And there it was again, that downward curl of his lip as if the very name dripped with poison.

I opened my mouth to speak. It doesn't sound like you enjoy fighting for this King Polydectes, I wanted to say. But I stopped myself before I could start down that path. That was a conversation for another time. For now, there were more urgent questions that required answers.

"And will they come back, these kings?" I attempted to make my tone nonchalant but was afraid my paranoia showed through. "Will they try to kill Medusa a second time?"

Luckily, it seemed Perseus took no note of my fear. His troubled, pale blue eyes stared off into the distance as if he were looking at the retreating ships of his king on the water.

"Yes." His words were confidant. "They will be back. They won't give up their prize so easily."

This, too, came as no surprise, but didn't feel to make my stomach sink with dread. What would I do when they returned? How could I defend myself from two armies, each equally intent on my death? There was no way to stop them. If they did return as Perseus said, I would be killed.

I took a shaky breath. One problem at a time. If the armies were returning, I would have at the very least several weeks before they gathered more men and supplies and sailed all the way back to Sarpedon. If I was lucky, I might even have months. I scowled to myself. The Fates had not seen fit to give me much luck on this day.

Perseus' cry of pain interrupted my thoughts. He bent forward, clutching the bandages wrapped around his torso. I shot to my feet in an instant, grabbing his arm to pull it away.

"Don't move," I ordered him sharply. "And don't touch the wound. You could reopen it."

"Easier said than done," he said through gritted teeth. He grimaced, baring his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. I could tell he was straining to remain still, but the sudden flare of pain was making it difficult.

I immediately strode across the room and flung open my box of potions and medicines. I wrapped my hand around a small, thin bottle filled with a dark liquid: a sleeping draught. I moved quickly back to the bedside, uncorking the bottle. Sweat beaded on Perseus' forehead as he gasped in pain, his unseeing eyes darting around everywhere. I touched his shoulder and he flinched, but more in surprise than pain.

"I need to give you a sleeping draught," I told him. "I can't risk you reopening the wound when I've only just stitched it. When you wake up, it should be easier."

He shook his head. "There's too much left to discuss. I haven't even asked about-" He cut himself off with a hiss, his breath coming in ragged pants. He inhaled deeply and found the strength to keep talking. "About burial for the fallen soldiers. Their bodies need to be buried, so they can find the path to the Underworld. If it's not done quickly, their souls will be lost."

"I will take care of the dead," I said. I pressed the bottle into his hand and he took it. "Now drink and sleep."

He hesitated, staring in my direction. "Do you swear you will?"

"I swear it on the River Styx," I said. "I will give the soldiers a proper burial."

My solemn oath seemed to satisfy him. He released the tension in his shoulders and brought the bottle to his mouth, swallowing it in one swig. He made a face at the bitter taste, but kept the draught down. Gradually, his breathing evened out, his gasping breaths transforming into deep inhales. The draught acted fast. Within minutes he let himself lie back onto the bed, his eyes at last fluttering closed.

I waited a few minutes longer to make sure he was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, the worried lines in his face fading in that way that only sleep can achieve. The draught had done its job. If the dosage was as strong as I thought, he would be in a deep sleep for ten, maybe twelve hours. Enough time for the stitches to begin to do their work.

And hopefully enough time for me to fulfill my promise.