Santángel said nothing. He didn’t fight or resist or cry out. His gaze waslocked on Víctor, but there was no light in his eyes, only a long cold night.

“Álvaro, break his fingers. If ourstudent is making such wonderful progress, she will be able to repair them.”

“Pomegranate,” she gasped, delighted.

ut in thisroom, in the quiet of the morning or the afternoon, there was only the lessonand the pleasure of letting magic take shape, of feeling it expand and growstronger. It was why she forgot herself so easily with him, why sheneglected to curb her tongue or hunch her shoulders

Heremained in his chair, staring at Luzia, still as a cat that has spotted its prey.

the faint glimmer of anisland in the darkness

kind of dye to burnishred.

She had heard of heretics and witches being burned alivealongside Jews and Muslims suspected of keeping to their laws after beingbaptized.

Later Luzia would understand that when it came to anything worthhaving, there was no end to more. She would reflect on the path she’d seenbefore her and how wrong she’d been about where it would lead.But on this day she only smiled at her aunt and said, “They will tire ofmy tricks eventually and then I will return to my sad servant life.”“If you’re lucky,” Hualit said. She gave Luzia a little shove through thegate. “And our family has never been lucky.”

and rage and something nameless that had the shape of a bird, lost inthe rafters of a building, searching for sky.

“Señorita Cotado, I am employed at Casa Olmeda and my mistress bademe inquire if you might consider a change in position. She can offer you afar better wage and situation.”

“I hear Quiteria Escárcega has two lovers and lets them both take her atthe same time,”

Valentina’s handswere trembling as she took it.The tear was gone

Lucrecia deLeón had dreams of the future, the disgraced prophet Piedrola claimed hespoke to angels, and the Mendozas were said to have a holy sage in theiremploy who could move objects with his mind.

It felt like a mouse inher hand,

At well past twenty,

None of it was strictlyMoorish, but it was all decadent enough to give De Paredes the feeling ofthe forbidden.

Now the girl looked up, and Valentina was startled to see her eyes weredeep brown, nearly black.“What did you see, señora?” she asked, her dark gaze like a slick river

endure the discomfort of DoñaValentina’s anger than the peril of her interest

it was said to deny themiracle of resurrection.

but since her son had fallen inlove with that dashing lady playwright

“MagnusBane.”

Jem took the ruby pendant from Tessa to bring it tothe vampire

“Oh, God,” she said in a soft whisper to Jem. “I—my heart’snot beating. I feel as if I’ve died. Jem—”He stroked her hand, carefully, soothingly, and looked up ather with his silver eyes. The expression in them had not changedwith the change in her; he looked at her as he had before, as ifshe were still Tessa Gray. “You’re alive,” he said, in a voice so softonly she could hear it. “You’re wearing a different skin, but you’reTessa, and you’re alive. Do you know how I know that?”She shook her head.“Because you said the word ‘God’ just now to me. No vampirecould say that.” He squeezed her hand. “Your soul is still the

“And of course you wouldn’t be going alone,” Will saidimpatiently. “I would go with you. I wouldn’t let anything happento you.”“Will, no,” Charlotte said. “You and Tessa alone, in a house fullof vampires? I forbid it.”“Then who would you send in with her, if not me?” Willdemanded. “You know I can protect her, and you know I’m theright choice—”

I was atthe gambling house that night because a warlock friend of minewas hoping to win a little easy money at cards.

Will and Jem, walking on either side of her

Tessa looked at him measuredly. The witchlight made his skinpaler, his eyes more intently blue. They were the color of thewater of the North Atlantic, where the ice drifted on its blue-black surface like snow clinging to the dark glass pane of a

When no onereplied, she turned to Jem as the likeliest to give her an answer

Jessamine bared her teeth at him. “You’re being ridiculous.”“You are, you know,” Charlotte told him.“I mean, I’m wearing blue. Blue goes with everything,”Jessamine went on. “Which, really, you ought to know. You’revain enough about your own clothes.”“Blue does not go with everything,” Will told her. “It does notgo with red, for instance.”“I have a red and blue striped waistcoat,” Henry interjected,reaching for the peas.“And if that isn’t proof that those two colors should never beseen together under Heaven, I don’t know what is.”“Will,” Charlotte said sharply. “Don’t speak to Henry like that.Henry—”Henry raised his head. “Yes?”Charlotte sighed. “That’s Jessamine’s plate you’re spooningpeas onto, not yours. Do pay attention, darling.”

and Willwas lying on the floor at her feet in a welter of broken crockeryfrom the sideboard

As he turned his head tolook at Tessa, she saw something green gleam against the base ofhis throat

“But Mr. Carstairs is not like that. He isn’t at all like theothers.

“Him.” The disgust was plain in Sophie’s voice. “He’s—Well,he’s a bad sort, isn’t he? Reminds me of the son of my lastemployer. He was proud just like Mr. Herondale. And whateverhe wanted, he got, from the day he was born. And if he didn’t getit, well . . .” She reached up then, almost unconsciously, andtouched the side of her face, where the scar ran from mouth totemple.

t’s modeled exactlyon the house we lived in, on Curzon Street.

Mortmain looked faintly surprised to be asked. “The Magister.”

“Ihate you!” Jessamine shrieked, her voice thin and trembling. “Ihate you, and everything like you—Downworlders—disgusting,disgusting—”“Jessamine!” Tessa ran to the other girl and threw her armsaround her, pinning Jessamine’s arms against her body. For amoment Jessamine struggled, and Tessa realized there was noway she could hold her. She was strong, the muscles under hersoft feminine skin coiled and as tense as a whip.

. “Charlottenever listens to anyone. She’s always henpecking poor Henry. Idon’t know why he married her at all.”“I assume because he loved her?”Jessamine snorted. “No one thinks that. Henry wanted accessto the Institute so he could work on his little experiments in thecellar and not have to fight. And I don’t think he minded marryingCharlotte—I don’t think there was anyone else he wanted tomarry—but if someone else had been running the Institute, hewould have married them instead.”

advised enough times—not to force on Henry affection heprobably did not want.

“You’re not a bumbler, Henry,” Charlotte said gently. Shelonged to reach out and stroke his face, push his hair back andreassure him. But she held herself back. She knew—she had been

“Goodness,” Tessa said to the back of his head. “If you keepseeing Six-Fingered Nigel like this, he’ll expect you to declareyour intentions.”Jem choked on his tea.

“Bah.” Jem spoke lightly, but there was an edge to his voice.“He made his fortune in opium. All of them did. Buying opium inIndia, sailing it to Canton, trading it for goods.”

“We’ve met,” Jem said quietly, and Tessa felt a rush of heat inher face. She couldn’t help staring at him as he picked up a pieceof bread and applied butter to it. It seemed hard to imagine thatanyone quite so ethereal-looking could possibly eat toast.

“He is quite well enough.” The voice wasn’t Charlotte’s. It wasJem’s

nd Tessa wondered who BenedictLightwood might be

“You’d better tell Benedict Lightwood, too,” said Will. “Youknow how he is.”

“Please, Tessa.” There was a pleading urgency in Will’s blueeyes. “It would be better if you said nothing about it.”Somehow Tessa found she could not say no. “I—all right.”“Thank you.” Will released her shoulder, and raised his hand totouch her cheek—so lightly she thought she might almost haveimagined it.

Something about the way he smelled wasstrange, but she couldn’t place exactly what it was.

“I’ll get it, then.” It was as gently as Tessa had ever heard Willsay anything. “Stay here.”

Will unhitchedhimself from the doorway and sauntered into the room.

as if he had just come fromoutdoors, and his cheeks were flushed.

—tea from Fortnum and Mason, and chocolates. Andthen Aunt took sick and died,

“I was three when they died in a carriage accident

His eyes were closed. “Will?” he said, without opening his eyesor ceasing to play. “Will, is that you?”

But they were, she thought, so I can’t possiblybe a warlock, thank God.

a tiny piece ofland sliced out of what was then the Holy Roman Empire

“I never said I was an orphan.” Will spoke with unexpectedsavagery. “And I loathe poetry. So, as it happens, you really don’tknow anything about me at all, do you?”

“Not at you,” said Will, grinning, “more because of you. I’venever seen anyone get so excited over books before. You’d thinkthey were diamonds.”

“But she can’t be any good at it, can she? I mean, women don’thave those sort of feelings.”“What kind of feelings are those?”“Bloodlust, I suppose,” Tessa said after a moment. “Fierceness.Warrior feelings.”

thehard T, the caressing S, the way it seemed to end on a breath.

or there would be morethan you and Jessamine—”“And Jem,” Will reminded her.

“Oh! Do you have A Tale of Two Cities?”“That silly thing? Men going around getting their headschopped off for love? Ridiculous.”

Will’s eyes were very blue. “There’s plenty of sense in nonsensesometimes, if you wish to look for it.”

“Do you think the library has The Wide, Wide World? Or LittleWomen?”“Never heard of either of them,” said Will. “We haven’t manynovels.”

He leaned against the door, his arms crossedover his chest. “I said I would get you more books, didn’t I?”

Tessa was glad to hear it. She’d felt awful about her reaction toSophie’s scar, and the thought that Sophie had a male admirer—and a handsome one at that—eased her conscience slightly.

Oh,no you don’t,” he added as Tessa reached for the box. He deftlystepped in front of her. “The Pyxis can’t be touched by anyonewho isn’t a Shadowhunter. Nasty things will happen.

Thomas grinned. He had asweet, pleasant, open sort of face, and a lot of curling hair. Hisshirt was open at the neck, showing a strong throat. Despite hisobvious youth, he was extremely tall and muscular

Tessa couldn’t help wondering what it was thatHenry Branwell did, and where he did it.

Will looked horrified. “What kind of monster could possiblyhate chocolate?”

She shuddered. “Oh, no. I hate chocolate.”

(InNew York, he added, the term was “Conclave.” AmericanShadowhunters, it seemed, had their own lexicon.)

“Lost?” inquired a voice behind her. A slow, arrogant voice,immediately familiar.Will.Tessa turned and saw that he was leaning carelessly against thewall behind her, as if he were lounging in a doorway, his feet intheir scuffed boots crossed in front of him.

Magnus Ban

harlotte cast Jessaminea freezing look.

For a moment Will’s eyes met hers, his own a very dark blue.Then his expression changed—only a slight change, but she sawit, though she could not have said what the change meant

he feltsomehow as if she knew him better than she really did

I had been told, was aDown-worlder brothel catering to mundanes with unusualtastes.”

Jessamine ignored him. “Is it dreadful, being so evil? Are youworried you’ll go to Hell?” She leaned closer to Tessa. “What doyou think the Devil’s like?”

“It was awfully kind of her—Miss Jessamine, I mean—to lendme this dress.”

Whatif one of the times I Changed, when I turned back into myself, Ididn’t do it quite right? What if this isn’t even my true face?

“She has a strict manner, but she’s really very kind,” Sophiesaid, laying out on the bed the dress Tessa was meant to wear.“I’ve never known anyone with a better heart.”

But Charlotte only looked rueful. “Sophie is my good angel,”she said. “I tend to be a little too blunt.

Before Charlotte could answer, the door opened, and aslender, dark-haired girl in a white cap and apron came in,carrying a tea tray, which she set down on the table betweenthem. “Sophie,”

she was so slight that the chair roseup high above her, as if she were a child sitting in a parent’s chair.

and Tessa saw with some surprise that she had darktattoos. A woman with tattoos!

eside him stood a very small woman, almost child-size, withthick brown hair knotted at the nape of her neck, and a neat,clever little face with bright, dark eyes like a bird’s. She wasn’tpretty exactly, but there was a calm, kindly look on her face thatmade the ache of panic in Tessa’s stomach ease slightly,

She turned her head to the side and sank herteeth into the hand gripping her left arm. Someone yelled and letgo of her; spinning, she saw a tall man with a shock of untidyginger hair staring at her with a reproachful expression, hisbleeding left hand cradled against his chest. “Will!” he shouted.“Will, she bit me!”

For a moment they stared at each other,silently, across the space that separated them

Then do it! Whip me bloody. Kill me. I don’t care!” Tessashouted, and was gratified to see that the Dark Sisters looked atleast a little taken aback by her outburst;

“Henry! Some assistance, please!Henry!”

The place was a slaughterhouse. There were long woodentables running the length of the room. Bodies lay on one of them—human bodies, stripped and pale. Each had a black incision inthe shape of a Y marking its chest, and each head dangled backover the edge of the table, the hair of the women sweeping thefloor like brooms. On the center table were piles of bloodstainedknives and machinery—copper cogs and brass gears and sharp-toothed silver hacksaws.

He stared at her for another long moment, the corners of hismouth twitching, then held out his hand

. “By the Angel, it’s like the ninthcircle of Hell down here—”“The ninth circle of Hell is cold,” Tessa said automatically.Will stared at her. “What?”“In the Inferno,” she told him. “Hell is cold. It’s covered in ice.”

Though anyone who lookedlike that wouldn't need to tie girls up and imprison them in order to get themto marry him.

"Doyou often sleep tied to the bed?"

bowlegged creature

what I do, as long asI don’t “totally screw up like Faisal.”

This is NYU, man

The only people I’ve seen pull off those kinds of glasses are Korean popstars. Does Professor Pryce think he’s more attractive than a Korean popstar? The nerve. He does have a nice jaw, admittedly. He’s pretty young fora professor, too, but he’s already got the beginnings of salt-and-pepper hairat his temples, which I’m pretty sure is one of those weird things thateveryone agrees is a sign of Hotness. Like dimples or rolled-up sleeves.

and Hassan’s celebrating Eid in Virginia

Imran’s visiting fam in Bangladesh

: I got your number from the six flags fieldtrip a month ago

I bite my lip. It’s true; dating in the casual sense is still frowned upon inmany Muslim communities, and it’s not something you can openly talkabout unless you’ve practically made a formal Jane Austen–styledeclaration that you’re in pursuit of a life partner.

Or before Mom died.

Then again, he has virtually zero observation skills and probably doesn’teven realize I wear the same sweatpants three times a week

N THE DARKNESS, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk.Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urnspouring out of the sun.

“I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see thetomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES , it reads. Andbeside it, PATROCLUS.“Go,” she says. “He waits for you.”

Why are you not with Pyrrhus?Something flickers in her eyes. “He is dead.”I am fiercely glad. How? It is a command, almost.“He was killed by Agamemnon’s son.”For what?She does not answer for some time. “He stole his bride and ravished her.”“Whatever I want,” he said to Briseis. Was this the son you preferred toAchilles?

Her mouth tightens. “Have you no more memories?”I am made of memories.“Speak, then.”

T HE G REEKS SAIL, and take my hope with them. I cannot follow. I am tiedto this earth where my ashes lie. I curl myself around the stone obelisk ofhis tomb. Perhaps it is cool to the touch; perhaps warm. I cannot tell. A C H IL L E S , it says, and nothing more. He has gone to the underworld, and I amhere.

“I have a wife. I have not seen her for ten years. I do not know if she isdead, or if I will die before I can return to her.”

Odysseus shrugs. “We cannot say. We are men only, a brief flare of thetorch. Those to come may raise us or lower us as they please. Patroclus maybe such as will rise in the future.”“He is not.”

Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Somemen gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in onegeneration is abhorred in another.” He spread his broad hands. “We cannotsay who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?” He smiles.“Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.”

I am only an honestman, who likes to see right done.”

“I cannot say I was your father’s friend, nor he mine. But I admired hisskill and valued him as a soldier. And in ten years, you get to know a man,even if you don’t wish to. So I can tell you now that I do not believe hewould want Patroclus to be forgotten.”Pyrrhus stiffens. “Did he say so?”“He asked that their ashes be placed together, he asked that they beburied as one. In the spirit of this, I think we can say he wished it.” For thefirst time, I am grateful for his cleverness.

Odysseus .He sleeps lightly, eyelids fluttering.Odysseus. Listen to me.He twitches. Even in sleep he is not at rest.When you came to him for help, I answered you. Will you not answer menow? You know what he was to me. You saw, before you brought us here.Our peace is on your head.

Pyrrhus’ hand closes on the shapeless, blowing dress of the princessPolyxena and yanks her towards the altar. “This is what my father’s souldeserves.”He will not. He dare not.As if in answer, Pyrrhus smiles. “Achilles is pleased,” he says, and tearsopen her throat.I can taste it still, the gush of salt and iron. It seeped into the grass wherewe are buried, and choked me. The dead are supposed to crave blood, butnot like this. Not like this.

I haunt their dreams. Do not leave, I beg them. Not until you have givenme peace . But if anyone hears, they do not answer.

plucks the child from her arms and dashes his head against the stone of thewalls, so hard the skull shatters like a rotted fruit. Even Agamemnonblanched when he heard.

Her limbs lift into the gray waves like the steady beats of wings. She hasalways been the strongest swimmer of the three of us. She used to swearshe’d gone to Tenedos once, two hours by boat. I feel wild triumph as shepulls farther and farther from shore. The only man whose spear could havereached her is dead. She is free.The only man but that man’s son.The spear flies from the top of the beach, soundless and precise. Its pointhits her back like a stone tossed onto a floating leaf. The gulp of black waterswallows her whole.Phoinix sends a man out, a diver, to look for her body, but he does notfind it. Maybe her gods are kinder than ours, and she will find rest. I wouldgive my life again to make it so.

“Yet your father loved him well, and honored him. He would be wellpleased to know they were buried together. He had no need of me.”Pyrrhus stares at her.

“Them?”There is a slight pause. “Your father and his companion. Patroclus.”“And why should this man be buried beside Aristos Achaion?”The air is thick. They are all waiting to hear Menelaus’ answer.“It was your father’s wish, Prince Neoptolemus, that their ashes beplaced together. We cannot bury one without the other.”Pyrrhus lifts his sharp chin. “A slave has no place in his master’s tomb. Ifthe ashes are together, it cannot be undone, but I will not allow my father’sfame to be diminished. The monument is for him, alone.”Do not let it be so. Do not leave me here without him.The kings exchange glances.“Very well,” Agamemnon says. “It shall be as you say.”I am air and thought and can do nothing.

If it is so, we are indeed glad to have you,” Menelaus says. “We weretalking of your father’s tomb, and where to build it.”

“I have come to take my father’s place.” The clear voice cuts across theroom.

Agamemnon’s face is caught between disbelief and displeasure. He hadthought he was done with Achilles. And the boy’s affect is strange,unnerving.

I feel nothing

Closest totears is Ajax, leg bandaged and healing. But perhaps he is just thinking ofhis own long-awaited promotion.

Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. Heturns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyes and feels itspoint push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way past the

Penthesilea

an old man comes to our tent

His chest heaves. “Then who is it, Mother? Am I not famous enough? Ikilled Hector. And who else? Send them before me. I will kill them all!”Her face twists. “You act like a child. At twelve Pyrrhus is more of a manthan you.”“Pyrrhus.” The word is a gasp.“He will come, and Troy will fall. The city cannot be taken without him,the Fates say.” Her face glows.Achilles stares. “You would bring him here?”“He is the next Aristos Achaion.”“I am not dead yet.”“You may as well be.” The words are a lash. “Do you know what I haveborne to make you great? And now you would destroy it for this?” Shepoints at my festering body, her face tight with disgust. “I am done. There isno more I can do to save you.”Her black eyes seem to contract, like dying stars. “I am glad that he isdead,” she says.It is the last thing she will ever say to him.

Hector’s eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, “Grant methis. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.”Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains betweenlions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.” His spearpoint flies in adark whirlwind, bright as the evening-star, to catch the hollow at Hector’sthroat.

Achilles’ face is sweat-streaked, his breaths harsh. But he does not pause.“Hector!” he screams. And the hunt begins again.Somewhere, the gods whisper:He has beaten one of us.What will happen if he attacks the city?Troy is not meant to fall yet.And I think: do not fear for Troy. It is only Hector that he wants. Hector,and Hector alone. When Hector is dead, he will stop.

Achilles buries his face in his hands. But she does not relent. “You havenever deserved him. I do not know why he ever loved you. You care onlyfor yourself!”Achilles’ gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. “Ihope that Hector kills you.”The breath rasps in his throat. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” heasks.

B RISEIS IS KNEELING by my body. She has brought water and cloth, andwashes the blood and dirt from my skin. Her hands are gentle, as thoughshe washes a baby, not a dead thing. Achilles opens the tent, and their eyesmeet over my body.“Get away from him,” he says.“I am almost finished. He does not deserve to lie in filth.”“I would not have your hands on him.”Her eyes are sharp with tears. “Do you think you are the only one wholoved him?”“Get out. Get out!”“You care more for him in death than in life.” Her voice is bitter withgrief. “How could you have let him go? You knew he could not fight!”

Achilles’ eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let youall die.”

Odysseus grabs his shoulders. “Tomorrow,” he says. “He has gone insidethe city. Tomorrow. Listen to me, Pelides. Tomorrow you can kill him. Iswear it. Now you must eat, and rest.”

He snatches for his sword to slash his throat. It is only when his handcomes up empty that he remembers: he gave the sword to me. ThenAntilochus is seizing his wrists, and the men are all talking. All he can seeis the bloodstained cloth. With a roar he throws Antilochus from him,knocks down Menelaus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up inhim, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And thenanother, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from hishead. Golden strands fall onto the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says,Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only.

But he cannot feel it. There is a numbness in him. The writhing field islike a gorgon’s face, turning him slowly to stone. The snakes twist and twistbefore him, gathering into a dark knot at the base of Troy. A king has fallen,or a prince, and they are fighting for the body. Who? He shields his eyes,but no more is revealed. Patroclus will be able to tell him.

and the last image I see is of Hector, leaning seriouslyover me, twisting his spear inside me as if he is stirring a pot. The last thingI think is: Achilles.

My breaths are shallow gasps that feel like new wounds tearing.Remembrance drums in me, like the pulse-beat of blood in my ears. Hecannot kill me. He must not. Achilles will not let him live if he does. AndHector must live, always; he must never die, not even when he is old, noteven when he is so withered that his bones slide beneath his skin like looserocks in a stream. He must live, because his life, I think as I scrapebackwards over the grass, is the final dam before Achilles’ own blood willflow.

Somehow I am quick enough,and it passes over me, ruffling my hair like a lover’s breath.

I set my jaw and begin again; I will not let it defeat me. I amdelirious, fevered with my dream of Helen captive in my arms. The stonesare like dark waters that flow ceaselessly over something I have dropped,that I want back. I forget about the god, why I have fallen, why my feetstick in the same crevices I have already climbed. Perhaps this is all I do, Ithink, demented—climb walls and fall from them. And this time when Ilook up, the god is not smiling. Fingers scoop the fabric of my tunic andhold me, dangling. Then let me fall.

A voice like music, above me. I look up to see a man leaningon the walls as if sunning,

The thought of Troy’s fall pierces me with vicious pleasure. They deserveto lose their city. It is their fault, all of it. We have lost ten years, and somany men, and Achilles will die, because of them. No more

I have killed a son of Zeus,

“Be careful,” he said.“I will.”There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would beother times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that.He let go of my hand

I feel like Daphne,” I told him, barked up in her new laurelskin.

I must stay away from the walls of the

“Then do something else. Send the Myrmidons at least. Send me in yourplace. Put me in your armor, and I will lead the Myrmidons. They will thinkit is you.” The words shocked us both. They seemed to come through me,not from me, as though spoken straight from a god’s mouth. Yet I seized onthem, as a drowning man. “Do you see? You will not have to break youroath, yet the Greeks will be saved.”

His face had gone cold as I spoke. “If they are dying, it is Agamemnon’sfault. I told him what would happen if he took my honor.”

nd so many wounded kings—Diomedes,Agamemnon, Odysseus, strewn about the camp like crumpled tunics.

have lived eighteen years

The smile is thick in her throat. “I am glad.” I do not say that I do notthink I will ever leave Troy.

, you will not leave Troywithout me. I know that you cannot

I am nolonger to guide the course, merely to be carried, into darkness and beyond,with only Achilles’ hands at the helm.

Hereis Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the samepieces as mine, only reversed.

He stormed off to his room to lie with his wife,Cleopatra, and be comforted.”When he speaks her name, Phoinix’s eyes flicker to me.

Itell you as a friend, it is better to seek it on your own terms, to make it go atyour pace, than theirs.”

“You have eked out ten more years of life, and I am glad for you. But therest of us—” His mouth twists. “The rest of us are forced to wait for yourleisure.

I am glad that there is only Ajax with him, who will not understand theexchange.

The excitement of the day has flared through him, like flame in drygrass. For the first time, he dreams of killing: the stroke of glory, hisinevitable spear through Hector’s heart. My skin prickles to hear him sayso.

“That the best of the Myrmidons will die beforetwo more years have passed.”

“Apollo is angry and looks for ways to move against the Greeks. You willsacrifice to him today?”“I will,” Achilles said. We always observed the festivals, dutifully slittingthe throats and roasting the fat.“You must,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on Achilles;

Achilles would shake his head. “I don’t know howyou remember them all. I swear they look the same to me.”

But then Diomedes stepped forward, praising the plan and frightening themen with visions of night raids and burning ships.

“I havealways said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say thesame, now.”

Andromache, and she is the only daughter of King Eetion ofCilicia. Hector is said to love her above all things.“He first saw her when he came to her father’s kingdom for tribute. Shewelcomed him, and entertained him at the feast that evening. At the night’send, Hector asked her father for her hand.”“She must have been very beautiful.”“People say she is fair, but not the fairest girl Hector might have found.She is known for a sweet temper and gentle spirit.

But Machaon saw how well theshoulder healed, with no infection and little pain, and next time there wasan arrow wound he called me over and passed me a sharp blade, looking atme expectantly.

“No.” He was quiet a moment. “But I can see it. That’s the strange thing.Like in a dream. I can see myself throwing the spear, see him fall. I walk upto the body and stand over it.”Dread rose in my chest. I took a breath, forced it away. “And then what?”“That’s the strangest of all. I look down at his blood and know my deathis coming. But in the dream I do not mind. What I feel, most of all, isrelief.”

Afterwards, when Agamemnon would ask him when he wouldconfront the prince of Troy, he would smile his most guileless, maddeningsmile. “What has Hector ever done to me?”

Hector. He was always alone, strangely solitary in the space theother men gave him. He was capable and steady and thoughtful, everymovement considered. His hands were large and work-roughened, andsometimes, as our army withdrew, we would see him washing the bloodfrom them, so he could pray without pollution. A man who still loved thegods, even as his brothers and cousins fell because of them; who foughtfiercely for his family rather than the fragile ice-crust of fame.

Diomedes, unlike his commander, was fearless. He fought like a feral,savage animal, leaping forward, teeth bared, in quick strikes that did not somuch puncture flesh as tear it. After, he would lean wolfishly over the bodyto strip it, tossing the bits of gold and bronze onto his chariot before movingon.

Odysseus carried a light shield and faced his foes crouched like a bear,spear held low in his sun-browned hand. He would watch the other manwith glittering eyes, tracking the flicker of his muscles for where and howthe spear would come. When it had passed harmlessly by, he would runforward and spit him at close quarters, like a man spearing fish. His armorwas always soaked with blood by the day’s end.

“So which of the suitors would you have picked?”I shoved him, and he laughed.

I hoped that Achilles might object, declare that there was no glory inkilling farmers. But he only nodded, as if this were his hundredth siege, asif he had done nothing but lead raids his whole life.

Later, I would see those walls up close, their sharp squared stonesperfectly cut and fitted against each other, the work of the god Apollo, itwas said. And I would wonder at them—at how, ever, the city could betaken. For they were too high for siege towers, and too strong for catapults,and no sane person would ever try to climb their sheer, divinely smoothedface.

If the pick had beenOdysseus’ design, we owed him our thanks—it was the best of the campsby far, offering green and shade and quiet.

Protesilaus, Prince of Phylace, leaptlaughing from the bow of his ship and began to swim to shore. Perhaps hewas drunk; perhaps his blood was fired with hopes of glory; perhaps hewished to outdo the prince of Phthia. A spinning spear, from Hectorhimself, hit him, and the surf around him flushed red. He was the first of theGreeks to die.

No spearman could throw half so far as an arrow could fly. Itwould fall well short.It did not.

A chariot flew along their ranks,churning up sand. The man in it wore a horsehair helmet, and even from adistance we could see the strong lines of his body. He was large, yes, butnot as large as Ajax or Menelaus.

If you aretruly his friend, you will help him leave this soft heart behind. He’s going toTroy to kill men, not rescue them.” His dark eyes held me like swift-running current. “He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use aspear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.”

If it helps his conscience, tell him I placed Diomedes where he was onpurpose. So Achilles would see too late.”I hated him so much I could not speak.

Yes. It was the only way Clytemnestra would letthe girl come.” The mother, back in Argos.

The goddess is appeased.

She was too shocked to struggle, to know even what was happening.Agamemnon yanked something from his belt. It flashed in the sun as heswung it.The knife’s edge fell onto her throat, and blood spurted over the altar,spilled down her dress. She choked, tried to speak, could not. Her bodythrashed and writhed, but the hands of the king pinned her down. At last herstruggles grew weaker, her kicking less; at last she lay still.Blood slicked Agamemnon’s hands. He spoke into the silence: “Thegoddess is appeased.”

I watch his eyes as he does—they are cold and almost sad. Later, I will remember this.

“I have a daughter, Iphigenia. I would wish her to be yourwife.”

goddess Artemis

She is a priestess of Artemis, and the youngestwoman ever to have been so anointed; perhaps she can soothe the raginggoddess.

. But most ugly of all are his eyes:blue, bright blue. When people see them, they flinch. Such things arefreakish. He is lucky he was not killed at birth.

There was no wind, I realized.

Did they believe thoseslender limbs could hold against an army of Trojans?

nd then Odysseus was there, his handhard on Achilles’ shoulder, wrinkling the fabric as his voice smoothed theair.

My gaze caught on Odysseus and Diomedes; their eyeswere sending sharp messages

Achilles, went rolling down his hair and back and skin, turning him to gold.He seemed suddenly larger, and his tunic, wrinkled from travel,straightened until it shone white and clean as a sail. His hair caught the lightlike buoyant flame.Gasps amongst the men; new cheers burst forth. Thetis, I thought. Itcould be no one else. She was pulling his divinity forth, mantling it likecream on every inch of his skin. Helping her son make the most of hisdearly bought fame.

thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old.And then I remembered: he will never be old.

As he lay alone in his rose-colored cave, had some glimmer of prophecy come to him? Perhaps hesimply assumed: a bitterness of habit, of boy after boy trained for music andmedicine, and unleashed for murder.

As for the goddess’s answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. Idid not plan to live after he was gone.