laid me low. He will say, “You dared to spill the blood of Odysseus, and now yours is spilled in turn.”
“Telemachus is sworn to kill you!”
He stared at me. All the stories he had heard of avenging sons, and it was still a surprise to him. “No,” he said, slowly. “If he wanted to, he could have done it on the way.”
“That is proof of nothing,” I said. My voice was jagged. “His father had a thousand wiles, and the first of them was to pretend friendship. Perhaps he means to try to harm us both. Perhaps he wants me to watch you fall.”
A moment ago we had held each other. But now he stepped back.
“That is my brother you speak of,” he said.
That word, brother, on his lips. I thought of Ariadne reaching out her hands to the Minotaur, and the scar on her neck.
“I have brothers too,” I said. “Do you know what they would do if I were in their power?”
We stood on his father’s tomb, yet still we fought that same old fight. Gods and fear, gods and fear.
“He is the only blood of my father’s left in the world. I will not turn him away.” His breaths were harsh upon the air. “I cannot undo what I have done, but at least I can do this. If you will not have us, I will go. I will take them somewhere else.”
He would do it, I had no doubt. Take them far away. I felt that old rage rising in me, the one that swore it would burn down the world before I let any harm come to him. With it, I had faced Athena and held up the sky. I had walked into the lightless deeps. There was a pleasure to it, that great hot rush through me. My mind leapt with images of destruction: the earth sent spiraling into darkness, islands drowned in the sea, my enemies transformed and crawling at my feet. But now when I sought those fantasies, my son’s face would not let them take root. If I burned down the world, he would burn with it.
I breathed, letting the salt air fill me. I did not need such powers, not yet. Penelope and Telemachus might be clever, but they were not Athena, and I had held her off for sixteen years. They overreached if they thought to harm him here. The spells were still in place that protected him on the island. His wolf never left his side. My lions watched from their rocks. And here I stood, his witch mother.
“Come then,” I said. “Let us show them Aiaia.”
They waited on the deck. Behind them, the pale circle of sun glowed against the cold sky, casting their faces in shadow. I wondered if they had planned that. Odysseus had told me once that half of a duel is maneuvering around the sun, trying to get the light to stab at your enemy’s eyes. But I was the blood of Helios, and no light could blind me. I saw them clear. Penelope and Telemachus. What would they do, I wondered, half-giddy. Kneel? What is the proper greeting for the goddess who bore a child with your husband? And if that child then brings about his death?
Penelope inclined her head. “You honor us, goddess. We thank you for your shelter.” Her voice was smooth as cream, her face calm as still water. Very well, I thought. That is how we will do it. I know the tune.
“You are my honored guest,” I said. “Be welcome here.”
Telemachus wore a knife at his waist. It was the kind men used for gutting animals. I felt my pulse leap. Clever. A sword, a spear, these are articles of war. But an old hunting blade, with its grip unraveling, passes without suspicion.
“And you, Telemachus,” I said.
His head jerked a little at his name. I thought he would have looked like my son, brimming with youth and flashing grace. But he was narrow, his face serious. Thirty years, he would have been. He looked older.
He said, “Has your son told you of my father’s death?”
My father. The words hung in the air like a challenge. His boldness surprised me. I had not expected it from such a look.
“He has,” I said. “I grieve for it. Your father was a man about whom songs are made.”
A stiffening across Telemachus’ face. Anger, I thought, that I would dare to speak his father’s epitaph. Good. I wanted him angry. He