Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-nine: fatherly wisdom

The general regards her closely, feeling cold anger rise in his chest again. Brasidas quickly quells the need to reach for his short sword and meets Lesya's laurel gaze. "Wise choice," he notes, returning to watching the horizon, hands clasped behind his back, "not venturing into Sparta." She has more enemies within the polis than just the two kings —Lysander had publicly vowed to bring justice to the two demigods who slaughtered his men in Achaia. Before Korinth, even Brasidas wished to confront the ones responsible for sending back so many Spartans on their shields.

"I know when I will not be welcomed," Lesya deadpans. Many places in Hellas would not be keen to welcome her back after the things she did over nigh two decades in the name of Kosmos. There wasn't a city or island in the Greek world where she and Deimos hadn't split blood.

His lips twitch. "So you are capable of more than slaughtering men," he quips, letting his temper get the better of him.

Lesya bristles, eyes narrowing as she sizes up the general. She is not a Champion of the Cult any longer, but Enyo still lies dominant within her and wakes every time Lesya wields a blade or bow. "Do not press your luck, general," she bites, "I've killed men of your rank before without shedding a drop of sweat or blood."

"I have no doubt," he replies, thinking of his men sent to Hades on the edge of the two blades she carries on her back. Silence settles between the two, though before Lesya turns to rejoin the crew of the Adrestia, Brasidas stops her with a question Kassandra had not been able to answer. "This Cult of Kosmos," he glances around, seeing only fishermen within earshot, "have they infiltrated the Spartan regime?"

She does not have an answer, either. The Cult functioned under the anonymity of its members. No single Cultist knew the identities of the others. Though if Kleon succeeded in taking Athens for Kosmos and himself, then Lesya imagines Sparta is at risk too. Lesya recalls one of the letters she'd found in the Arbon House in Korinth, calling for Brasidas of Sparta to be deposed by the Monger. "They have eyes all over Hellas," she tells him. "And some of them belong to powerful men who are not pleased with your efforts to end the war."

Brasidas nods, his lips twisting. Those who fought against injustice would always become targets of the people who profited from it. "If I am a target," he says with no small amount of pride, "then I must be doing something right." Lesya meets his dark gaze, offering a small smile. I wonder what will get you killed first, Brasidas, she thinks, your stubbornness or your loyalty?

KASSANDRA RETURNS TO the small fishing village with requests from each of the kings more than a fortnight since leaving. Pausanias requires an Olympic wreath for Sparta, and Archidamus wants to secure the war-torn region of Boeotia. Two daunting tasks necessary to restore her and Myrrine's citizenship and reclaim their home. She breathes a heavy sigh, already feeling the added weight of the tasks resting on her shoulders and the despair from parting ways with her mother so soon.

The Eagle Bearer approaches the helm of the Adrestia just as Lesya finishes packing a small pouch of gear and provisions. "I will meet you in Boeotia," Lesya says after hearing what Kassandra must do. It is here their paths must diverge, even if their goals remain aligned. Uncertainty lingers in Kass' dark gaze. Noticing the troubled look, Lesya grips onto her shoulder —offering a reassuring smile. "You must do this for Sparta and yourself," she notes, and Kassandra nods, regaining her home in Sparta was the only thing more important than defeating the Cult. "And I must do this for myself."

Lesya slings the pack across her shoulder and ties off the belt around her waist, housing a quiver of arrows and her twin daggers. "Be careful," Kassandra says, but then her lips twist —knowing what it is she is setting off on her own to do, "and good hunting." Nodding, Lesya turns from the Adrestia setting her sights on the eastern rise as the trireme pushes away from the docks.

"I overheard you are going to Boeotia," Brasidas says, gripping onto the reins of a pale mare as Lesya spreads a rough spun blanket over the horse's back —securing it in place with a soft strip of leather. The general had come to see Kassandra off to the Olympics before turning his attention to Arkadia. Though Lesya suspects it is only a poor excuse to spend a few more moments with the Eagle Bearer. She nods. The road ahead will lead her to Boeotia —eventually. "If you come across the leader of the Spartan faction there­–" he holds out a sealed scroll of papyrus "–deliver this to him."

She takes the scroll, securing it between her chiton and belt before swinging herself up into the saddle. Both her and the general nod to one another before parting from the stables in different directions.

ON THE DOCKS of the Nauplia harbor, the Ippalkimon waits after receiving word from its captain's sister. Tundareos paces the deck at dusk, halting when he sees a familiar head of copper hair among the crowd in the agora. Lesya boards the trireme, travel-worn from riding for nearly a moon from Lakonia to the Argolid but smiling as she embraces Tundareos. "It's good to see you, brother," she notes, stepping back.

His scarred lips twitch into a smile too as he calls over his shoulder for Tryphena to prepare the crew for departure —lingering at port bearing the blackened sails of pirates rarely ended well. She shouts over the deck. Her command echoed below by the kybernetes. The war galley lurches to the side as the oarsmen push away from the dock, turning toward open water.

Lesya follows Tundareos to the helm, taking a long drink from his offered wineskin with a soft sigh. Wind dances through the rigging, and once far enough from Nauplia, the sail is loosed and filled with the cool sea breeze. "What's our heading?" Her brother asks.

She looks between him and the sun-soaked horizon as nightfall creeps closer. "The seas around the Silver Islands," Lesya answers. Rumor was the Cultists who called themselves the Gods of the Aegean Sea frequented those waters. It is a good place to start, for even if the Cultists have sailed south, there will still be puppets to depose. For now, her bloody work had begun.