Becoming Medea: Book One of the Legends of Utra

By Usha Dhar

Thousands of years after humanity fled a desolate Earth, people return to begin anew. The Gods reawaken and take on new forms. Together, deities, women, and men forge a new mythology borne of compassion instead of conflict. In this world, Medea journeys through pain, passion, and motherhood in search of her power, and in search of joy. Can she outpace and outsmart an adversary who would see her, her sons, and her kingdom destroyed? Will her magic serve her as a princess and as a prisoner?

Join her in a world ruled by Asian and African queens, by heroines who desire both women and men. While Medea hungers for beauty, her determination, above all else, is to forge a future made of love.

"Becoming Medea is an epic love story, both traditional and breathtakingly original, one that gives a whole new dimension to the term "in love." In love is not only the romantic passion that the lovers fall into. In love is the realm where the mortal and immortal pair live—with each other, with friends, sisters, animal companions (including dragons and sea monsters), children, aging parents and deities, even rivals and enemies. Funny, visionary, full of witty repartee, sensual detail, flights of beauty and fancy, Becoming Medea is grounded in unshakable commitment to kindness and integrity. Long live the House of Medea!"

-Elizabeth Cunningham, author of The Maeve Chronicles

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685830670

Book preview

Chapter One

House of Aetes, The Twenty-sixth Year of His Reign

Something princessy and flirty.

You’re in my sun.

Hekate chuckles in response, steps aside, and drops to the sand beside me. The Goddess’s hair fans out – raven ringlets like mine. Only my curls never writhe when I’m in a bad mood. She rolls up her sleeves and hikes up her skirts, just as I had, baring lean, smooth, black limbs. Her incandescent body is oiled and perfumed. She knocks her knee against my dark brown, bent leg.

Aren’t you supposed to be doing . . . , her raspy voice trails as she wiggles her fingers in the air, stirring a small tornado on the beach. Her words dance, teasing, into the surf where they whip up a swirl of salt spray, then vanish as a fish leaps and dives, silver into blue, . . . things?

I grunt and roll onto my stomach, closer to her, sand falling on her from my hair and tunic. I rest chin in hand and sigh, I’m always supposed to be doing . . . things. I twirl my index finger in a circle and a faint breeze spins around us.

Baby whirlwind makes baby whirlwind, she whispers. I know my eyes change from grey to green as I watch her. Her face was my first memory. Golden-amber eyes – the colour of which I’d only ever seen in hawks and sunrises – and a full mouth, with smirking edges.

Hekate gives off a warm, silver iridescence that most people find unsettling. I find it soothing. I’m amused by the easy, cool grace and arresting beauty that imbues the Goddess. She’s an intimidator to most. The deity of forest and field, womb and moon, of crossroads, of witches, of the liminal spaces between what is known and what we fear to know. But I am one of the few who knows the Hekate who exists only behind closed doors. To me, her iridescence is the light in my windows at home after a long day away.

She was raised by the elementals of the forests and seas. Her people ascended from caves in the snowy stone cliffs of Mount Sagarmatha, at the top of the world. Some say that they rose from the core of the Earth Herself and that their light emanates from that deep fire.

Animals follow her, drawn to the warmth of her. Even while she lies there, a small snake slips from a clump of parched grass and coils itself tentatively around her ankle. Her three black dogs meander down the beach, stretch, scratch, and flop beside us; their wet, flat tongues loll from the heat. Hekate’s bay mare wanders knee deep in the water, nudging her nose curiously at something in the surf, one eye permanently fixed on her mistress.

Cute earrings, she murmurs, gesturing at the pearl in my ear as she closes her eyes. Dainty. The corner of her mouth curls up. We both know there isn’t much about me that’s dainty or cute, though sometimes I do have to make allowances in order to play the part.

Cute anklet, I quip as I watch the young snake rest its head peacefully on her foot, its tail beating a gentle rhythm on the edge of her heel. Is it new?

Don’t mock my shamanic jewels. Speaking of, can I borrow your blue set? Or are you wearing them tonight?

No, no I’m not. I’ll have them sent over.

Thanks, she offers as she opens her eyes and grins at me. She’s enchanting and she knows it; and uses it, sometimes without mercy. I know that she’s always on the edge of unleashing wild, ancient, and – if pressed – lethal magic. But I also know that she seldom actually does.

I flop onto my back again. We lie in silence. I let myself doze a while until I feel the sun shift westward, the redness of it deepening against my eyelids. I flutter my eyes open and look at Hekate, who is lying on her side, watching me. I whisper, my mouth dry, Who’s going tonight?

Everyone, she grunts and scowls, affecting the deepest, haughtiest Utrian accent, typical of the elite, and rants while waving her hand dramatically, The nobles from the south will argue with the nobles from the north. The hill people and the valley people will not mix other than to insult each others sheep, grapes, and the size of their respective privates. Then, waving her hand dismissively, A few kings and queens. All my wine will be gone by dawn and I’ll be left with sore feet, an empty cellar, dukes passed out in my courtyard, and crumbs to clean off the floor. When can you get there? No way I’m doing this alone.

Alone? I chuckle, kicking the sand with my toes. You have a temple full of priestesses falling all over themselves trying to please you – not to mention hot footmen. Bula! You have Bula. No one else has Bula.

Hekate chuckles. Bula is the short, expansively curvaceous, bearded head cook who runs Temple Hekate’s kitchen. She’s as tempestuous as she’s toothless and we both adore and fear her.

She’s her own armada. Send your mum’s good pearls with those sapphires, would you? Hekate asks. Bula will want something nice to wear tonight and she’s been through everything of mine. Won’t wear the same jewelry to two solstices – she has this weird thing with redundancy. She’s got to be over a hundred years old and I’m running out of options to keep her from biting my head off.

What are you wearing?

Those blue robes with the gold thread. Something priestessy and dramatic. You? Hekate bats her eyelashes.

Something princessy and flirty. I had a dress made of the red and gold silk I brought back from Mohenjo-daro.

Hekate props herself up on her elbows, makes a circle with her lips and sucks air in through her teeth. Sounds amazing. You’ll burn holes in my altar cloth just standing there.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. We watch the sun make its drowsy descent towards the sea. Fishing boats come into sight, cutting lazily through the calm waters of the bay. The fisherwomen and fishermen are returning early to prepare themselves and their families for the festivities. I feel my cheeks grow dry from the heat. Hekate sighs and rests her hand on my knee. The bay is already full of trading ships that fly the flags of a dozen nations.

Oh, I meant to ask you something, I turn to her. "Can I have a couple of dragons? For maybe a month?

She knits her eyebrows together. Sure! Can I ask what for?

Food and supplies.

Where to this time?

I point my finger behind us. East.

Ah. I hear it’s bad. What a bloody mess. Such a shame. Why only two? I can spare half a dozen dragons.

I squeeze her arm. Thanks Heck. That’d be brilliant!

Hekate yawns. Well, Beautiful, we’d best go do . . . things.

I sigh and groan as I push myself to my feet. The dogs stretch. They shake the sand from their fur in a gritty spray, then lean heavily against my legs as I stroke their great, warm heads. As Hekate stands, the small snake uncoils itself and slips back into the grass. She stretches, her brown skirt falling back to skim the top of her feet. Her hair catches the light of the sun and glints like hundreds of slender swords.

We wrap our arms around each other’s necks. I inhale deeply of the jasmine perfume in her hair and close my eyes. She kisses my cheek. Want a lift back to the castle, Medea?

No, I’ll walk. A few more moments of alone time before the onslaught. I smile weakly and squeeze her hand. She nods and whistles for her mare. She mounts in an easy leap, waves, and grins over her shoulder before cantering off – without saddle, reins, or bridle – the dogs in tow.

I shade my eyes against the late afternoon glare and watch them make their way to Temple Hekate. I turn towards the adjacent building, to the southeast, the castle of my ancestors, that would one day be mine. Both structures spring organically from the stone by the sea; both are surrounded by colourful, sprawling gardens that fill the breeze with sweetness and spice. Temple Hekate has its columns; and the castle, its sturdy, straight stone walls. Both are as old as Utra itself. The foundations were built by the first of us: the earliest people to settle the land after the Return.

It is said that when people left the Land of the First Mother and Father, during the First Earth Cycle, they chose to settle where Utra now sprawls. So great was the land’s beauty that we settled here again after the Return. What books remain of the time before the Departure tell us that my kingdom was part of a continent that was once called Asia.

Our ways are ways even more ancient than those spoken of in ancient tomes. We keep the memories of the First Mother and Father close to our hearts and woven into the patterns of our days. The dreams of those adventurers who long ago left the great continent called ‘Africa’ inform our visions.

We know who we are. I know who I am. And I know when I step on a piece of broken pottery.

Shit, I hiss, as I bend my ankle over the opposite knee, extracting the offending shard while hopping like a deranged pelican. I dust sand off my leg and limp the rest of my way home.

I watch my barefoot steps. My feet contrast against the white sand.

Mountains flank the castle and Temple Hekate to the north; a great, fertile valley stretches to the south. The town spreads east of the castle, its rich bustle reaching to the hills in the distance. It will all one day be mine to rule and care for, as far as my eyes can see, and farther still.

I take the great steps that descend from the castle to the seashore two at a time as I shake out my linen skirts and hair. Not one to waste a moment, Nina, my Lady’s maid, paces under the archway of the entrance. Nina and I are the same age, almost to the day; but when we work together, she has a way of making me feel like I’m annoying an indulgent auntie. When we aren’t working, she’s an intimate friend, more sister than companion. I believe that trying to navigate a day without her would be a disaster, and I certainly don’t want to ever test that theory. She looks prettily, elegantly irritated and rushes at me, black curls falling from the combs in her hair onto the collar of her fashionable, green gown that matches her eyes. Nina’s blushing and golden-brown complexion often gives her the look of someone who’s been running. Your Royal Highness, I have several points to discuss. Do you . . .

I’m fine, thanks. How was your day? I interject.

Nina makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and responds brusquely. Fine, thank you. It’s been very busy. Did you enjoy your rest on the beach? Without waiting for me to answer, she insists, We’ve several things to review.

I motion for her to fall in step beside me. She starts to prattle off a list I don’t hear, recited from a piece of parchment pinned to a wooden board in her hand. Nina likely only ever sets that board down to bathe. Parchment is often worth its weight in silver. In an indication of her family’s wealth, she goes through storehouses of it as she organizes our kingdom, one note at a time.

I raise my hand and gently hold a finger to her lips. She stops speaking with a harumph. Just give me a moment and I’m yours, I say.

I sit on a stone ledge and pat it while smiling up at Nina. She flops down beside me, dramatically passive-aggressive, as two servants hurry over. One hands me a cup of cool water, which I down in a gulp, then she places a bowl of warm water at my feet. Rose petals float on the surface. The servant bends to lower my feet into the bowl but I take her hands and shake my head. She smiles, bows with her hand over her heart, and backs away. I wash my own feet as the other servant stands with a second bowl and towel. I wash and dry my face and hands. I thank the first servant, who hands me a bottle of rose oil, the contents of which I smear gratefully on my parched face and arms. She takes the bottle back and withdraws with her head cast low.

Right. I’m all yours, Nina, I sigh.

We walk briskly into the castle hall. Kitchen maids and courtiers are hurriedly carrying baskets and piles of clothes, trays, bowls, scrolls, and bags of coin. They are all cloaked in the festive, anticipatory anxiety that precedes a feast.

Shay has delivered her pups, she begins again. I stop and smile, a warmth spreading through my chest.

Has she? How is she?

The kennel master tells me it was an easy birth. There are nine pups. All with great prospects.

I’ll see her before I go to the ceremony. Tell the kennel master to mark Shay’s favorite, the alpha, and the runt with red ribbons. I’ll keep all three.

Nina hesitates before making a note. Doesn’t the master of the stud typically have the pick of the litter?

Why should he? Other than for a moment of pleasure the bitch does all the work. In my kennels, her family has first choice.

Nina smiles softly. She makes a note on the parchment, with flourish. Princess, she says. Now, we’ve less venison than we’d planned for. The herds have moved deeper into the mountains. The hunters have returned disappointed.

How short are we?

Meat for forty for tomorrow’s evening meal.

Gabrieli’s flock is robust this year. Ask him if we can purchase enough lamb for eighty. Anything left over from the feast should be sent to Westmarket. Westmarket is populated by childless widows and widowers, and injured bachelor soldiers. Send two boys from the kitchen to the butcher to help him as well as a cask of wine and a wheel of last winter’s cheese with my thanks for his trouble. I’ll see him later this week and settle the bill.

Nina writes quickly. Anthea is concerned that her baby has yet to come. She fears it will be too large to birth without surgery.

I’ll examine her after the ceremony tonight. Or is she not coming?

She plans to, but she’s uncomfortable. I doubt she’ll stay long.

I’ll see her in my suite.

I should have the girls prepare the usual tinctures?

I chew the inside of my cheek as we climb the stairs, squeezing our way through the moving throng, nodding and smiling to people as we go. No, ask them to siphon off a bottle of the tincture marked with the raspberry leaf.

Nina scribbles. Right – raspberry leaf, she mutters.

And tell her husband to dance with her and make her feel pretty tonight. Nina looks up from her scratching.

He should romance his wife – healer’s order, I emphasize.

Nina raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, and returns to her fastidious note-taking.

Oh – could you please send my sapphires over to Lady Hekate and my mother’s best pearls to Bula? As soon as you can? The pearls are in Baba’s safe.

Nina chuckles. It’s the pearls she wants this year, does she?

We’re hoping she’ll feel the pearls. Bula had a soft spot for my mother. We don’t want her angry tonight. Nina shakes her head slowly in agreement, her eyes playfully wide. We stop at the top of the stairs in front of great wooden doors carved with stags (the emblem of the House of Aetes). Anything else that can’t wait?

No. That’s everything I’ve got for now, Nina assures me.

I pat her arm. Thanks Nina.

She gives me a shallow bow and leaves. The two guards at the door thump their fists to their chests and stand aside as a third pushes open the doors which groan on their hinges. Nina! I call over my shoulder.

Your Highness? She stops at the top of the stairs.

Get someone to oil these things, would you?

Your Highness, she says again, before rushing off as her own maids fall in step behind her at the foot of the stairs. Nina is my only Lady’s maid. I try to keep my interactions with humans to a minimum, much preferring the company of dragons, dogs, and the odd goddess. However, Nina is the heiress to a small but thriving duchy and she maintains a battalion of her own servants.

I pause for a moment before entering my father’s study. It will be full of people. As a rule, I’m not fond of rooms full of people. In court, collectives often mean a collision of personalities. If my father is settling issues between citizens, egos will be in full flare. Of all the aspects of human nature, I find egos the most unnerving.

The study serves as something of a small, secondary throne room where Aetes can work and hear minor grievances outside of formal audiences and gatherings. The words king and father are practically synonymous to me. Aetes ascended the throne before I was a year old. My mother, the gentle and joyful Idyia, died when I was not yet five. Aetes tries to be father and mother both, and often succeeds.

He’s seated on a massive, carved wooden chair, atop a red silk cushion with the light of the late-afternoon sun pouring in behind him from an open window, giving the effect of a halo. Befitting, since Utrian legend gives my father a lineage no less glorious than that of descendance from the sun. Everyone is a descendant of The Goddess, of the Wild Ones, Aetes always says. Only some of us remember. Our family agrees that this notion of our particular and unusual divinity is a flight of fancy, owing to the fact that we all have exceptionally good skin.

Aetes is dressed in a scarlet robe. His deep brown, chiseled face is weatherworn from years at sea, and very handsome. I have his rich, black hair, only his is now more grey than not. It falls in messy, tight curls around his collar. His beard needs a trim. I motion to a footman and whisper that he should send my father’s barber up before the ceremonies begin.

A broad, bulky man in a cloak, typically worn by ship captains, is standing in front of Aetes, at an enforced distance. I recognize him, even from behind, by the jagged scar – badly covered by a tattoo of a sea monster – that runs down his arm. He’s known to be an ass. A smaller man, a fisherman with a reputation for being a hard worker and good father – I try to remember his name – stands wilted in a corner. Aetes’s expression relaxes when I approach. I ignore the larger man, but smile at the fisherman, who bows nervously in response.

Ah – Medu. There you are. Come and sit with me. These men have a problem for us.

Sire, good afternoon. I bend and kiss his cheek, which he’s tilted to me, before I float – as best as I can manage a passable float – over to the smaller chair beside his and settle on my own silk cushion. When Aetes became King, he rewrote Utrian laws to give men and women equal footing. Hekate or I typically sit as advisors when he passes judgement, an oddity that foreigners often struggle with. This is likely to be the case today.

The captain all but leers at me but bows deeply. Princess, he whispers. I relax and hold out my hand. A servant passes me a goblet filled with wine, herbs, and smoke: a potion, made by Hekate, specifically for me, to give me The Sight while assisting with audiences. I sip and reach my mind out, as I focus on the middle of the captain’s forehead. This is how I hear and see a witness’s thoughts while at court; if I want to, if Aetes needs me to. It feels like misty tendrils travel through some invisible space when I extend my awareness into someone else’s mind. The captain glares at me through his bushy, uneven brows. His consciousness clearly flings out the words, Filthy witch, what I’d like to do to you!

Oh, here we go, I muse, thinking to myself. Time for a show.

It’s ‘Your Royal Witch’ to you, Captain, I say, with lazy sweetness. And hardly filthy! Actually, I just washed. It smells like you should give it a try. I turn to my father, Sire, this man has a proposition for me. Shall I entertain it? It smacks of the indecent, but I’m always up for a bit of fun. I flash my eyes, grey now, at the captain. If he dares!

The man blanches through his sunburnt skin and stutters, I-I beg your pardon?

As well you should, I snap saccharine at him. Aetes’s lip curls through his beard. His fist tightens on the arm of his chair. Careful, Captain, I say in a deeper voice. It echoes slightly and then resonates through the chamber, the metal goblets and bowls, scattered here and there, vibrate and hum. The captain spins around, disturbed by the sound.

My father leans menacingly towards the captain. Continue, he rumbles.

The man stammers and sweats and continues his tale, which bears the stretched, discordant twang of mendacity. I largely ignore him, as an aged servant from the kitchens brings two bowls of olives and places them by my side on a small table. I tilt my head to his as he whispers in my ear, Cook fears these green olives are much too salty. Shall we serve just the black olives tomorrow?

I taste both. They are too salty. Serve our black olives but send a message to Lady Hekate’s kitchen. Ask Bula for three barrels of her green ones – I had some yesterday. They’re very good this year. Make sure Lady Nina sends her my mother’s pearls well before you make the request. I wink at the servant who grunts sagely, smooths his snowy beard, and retreats.

I return my attention to the audience in time to hear the malodorous captain say, This ass slammed his shitty little boat into my fine ship and bored a hole right through it! I want ten gold pieces to cover the damage and my emotional suffering! Little prick shouldn’t be permitted to paddle a raft let alone . . .

That’s enough! my father snaps. What say you, Fisher?

The fisherman steps forward, with his head bowed. He speaks softly, eyes downcast. Thank you, Your Royal Highness. Sorry to bring you this trouble, Sire, Princess, he glances up at me and flushes. You and Lady Hekate bought some lobster from me last summer to eat on the beach with your priestesses. I was proud you did – still talk about it with my boys.

I smile at him. It was delicious – Enod. I manage to recall his name. It’s good to see you again. I will him courage.

The man trembles, but his chest puffs out and he looks right at the king. Sire, I was mending my nets, anchored, when this man bore his great boat into my skiff. My sons and I couldn’t fish for two weeks. It took us that long to fix it. He shouted and shouted that it was my fault for being there. He reeked of wine, Sire.

I focus on the images flitting through Enod’s mind and see them to be true. My father glances at me. I give him a slight nod.

The captain balls up his fist and bears down on the smaller man who throws up his arms in defence. You lying bastard, the captain thunders.

Aetes flicks his hand. Guard! he signals.

A sentry steps forward and slaps one hand over the captain’s fist, shoving it down, pinning it to the man’s chest while he casually points the tip of his dagger at his throat. A second guard slams a chair into the back of the captain’s knees and encourages him into it by pounding his fist into the top of the captain’s head. Sit, he commands. The captain sits, breathing hard and red in the face, sweating like meat going off. The guard pats him on the head. Good boy, he whispers.

I feel a hand on my arm, and I smell a familiar, rich, sandalwood and patchouli perfume. Tye, my father’s ward, my foster-sister, and my closest friend, who must have joined the fun after I arrived, leans over my shoulder and whispers, Can you squash this shit so we can get out of here? I need to do my nails.

I grunt, look at my father, raise an eyebrow and flick my chin at the captain. Aetes eases back into his chair. The guards, good-looking boys I’d played with when we were children, wink at me, making space between them. The captain trembles and whispers minor hexes as I approach. I casually wave the curses aside. I stare down at him and make a tsk, tsk, tsk sound as I hold his chin in my hand. Now what have you been up to, Captain?

I reach into his mind and see the scene of him, in a drunken stupor, slamming his boat into poor Enod’s skiff. I also see him flaying a young deckhand bloody. The captain jerks his chin from my hand. The guards tighten their grip.

Sire, this man has been telling us tales and I don’t find them in the least bit entertaining.

I return to my cushion. Tye leans close, offers a bowl of orange blossom water with which to clean my hands. She sneers sensuous lips at the captain. Creep, she groans.

I listen as my father passes his verdict. Ten gold coins to Enod for the damages done to his skiff. Another ten for the loss of income while he repaired it. Twenty gold coins to be paid to the home that cares for orphans in the village. For the crime of insulting his daughter with a loud, rude thought, and for lying in the King’s court, a permanent cessation of trading in Utra.

Enod bows and mutters a flurry of thanks. The captain sputters and swears under his breath. As he’s stumbling out the door, I call out, Oh, Captain – I need a boy for my kitchens. I like the look of that thin little deckhand you have. Green eyes? About this high? Send him to the servants’ quarters by sunset tonight or my men will fetch him from you.

The captain looks like he’s about to spit on the threshold of my father’s study, but one of the guards tosses him down the stairs before he has a chance to work up a good drool.

Aetes and I lean back into our chairs. He waves the attendants and guards from the room and signals that the great doors be closed. His treasurer goes to him, a pile of scrolls in his hand.

Tye pulls up a chair beside mine, sits, and gracefully folds her lanky legs and arms. I often think that it’s a good thing that she’s promised to the young Faraon. Her regal, elegant features are destined to be immortalized in sculpture. Tye has the habit of mixing powdered gold into her body oil. When she moves in sunlight and candlelight, the glitter gives the impression of stars sparkling in a deep umber sky.

My sister is the heiress of a lavishly wealthy noble family in Kush. Kush was once called Nubia, later called Sudan, and now, again, it is returned to its most ancient name recorded from the First Earth Cycle. Tye’s lands are bountiful. There were those in the Kushite nobility and Kemetite court who weren’t thrilled with her betrothal. Her family feared for her safety and sent her to Utra to hone her extraordinary skills in economics, and to prepare for life as the future Queen of Kemet – all within the protection of the Hall of Aetes.

The land of Kemet sprawled where Egypt once dazzled the ancients of the First Earth Cycle. In the time before the Return, the Earth had cooled and rains had returned. Kemet was now a lush and prosperous empire. It was nothing like the desert described in the few texts that had survived from antiquity. The joining of Tye’s family with the Faraon’s would make her heirs the wealthiest children on Earth.

How’d the math work out? I ask.

Looks great, she replies.

The investments she recommended have filled several rooms in our treasury. The Kushites had started pulling gold from the ground like weeds and Tye’s trade negotiations were proving profitable for both Kushites and Utrians. Travel between our lands was typically prohibitively long, but with Hekate’s dragons, who provide transportation and a daunting battalion, negotiations that would have taken months are now completed in weeks.

Utrian law never permitted slavery. We refuse alliances with kingdoms that fail to learn the lessons of the First Earth Cycle; those that engage in the most demonic trade. Utra maintains a battalion as well as a ring of spies whose sole purpose is to assist in the destruction of slavery. Maintaining our status as sanctuary and safe harbour is one of the few principles that could rouse the dovish Aetes to take up arms.

Paying servants and workers is expensive and Utra has to match visionary justice with ingenuity and tenacity in order to be competitive in a world where unpaid and ill-treated manpower is a driving, though slowly diminishing, economic force.

Tye is instrumental in giving the House of Aetes that balance. Hekate had foreseen that the noble Houses of Kush would one day take control of Kemet. She likes Tye’s intelligence, decency, and ambition and is happy to support her ascent to power.

Baba can lower taxes like he wants, Tye says. Maybe he can make the announcement at the feast tomorrow night?

Tye, you’re amazing!

She laughs the rich, bright sound of bells. The only royal family in the world that gets high off lowering taxes!

He’ll be thrilled. Can you do lunch tomorrow? We’ll look at the numbers?

Sure can.

The treasurer bows and withdraws. Tye goes to my father, rests her hand on his shoulder, and kisses the top of his head. He pats her hand absentmindedly as he reads the scroll on his lap.

Bye, Baba, she says, drawing out the vowels in her words.

Bye, Tye, Aetes drawls, imitating her.

She walks to the doors, waving her hand over her head. Gonna pick out some awesome shoes!

Who wears shoes? I call after her.

Everyone, Medu. Everyone but you! Shoes are art and a fabulous expression of style!

She turns and closes the great doors on a laugh.

Aetes and I flop our heads onto the backs of our chairs and sigh at the same time.

Hi, Love, he says.

Hi, Ba, I reply.

Good day? he asks.

The usual. You?

Same. We grin at each other.

I got some time on the beach with Heck. She says that she can spare six dragons to carry food and supplies to where it’s needed.

That’s good, he replies, stretching out his legs. Arrange it. What did Tye say?

You get your tax cut.

Aetes pumps the air with a fist. Genius girl!

Isn’t she? We’ll have lunch with her tomorrow to sort out the details. I ordered you up a trim.

He smiles. You’re good to your old Ba. Have your dress picked out?

The new red one.

What’s Hekate wearing?

A blue thing. I love that my father, raising daughters in the absence of a mother, has taken it upon himself to keep abreast of my personal style decisions as well as the fashions donned by my entourage.

Nice. You’ll be dazzling – both of you. You should enjoy a soak. I’ll do the same.

I get up and we squeeze each other’s hands. I wave to him as I walk out the door. Don’t be late! I call.

You neither.

I go up another flight of stairs and down a hall to my chambers. I open my mahogany doors, carved with dragons. I have three rooms to myself. The main chamber’s stone walls are covered in bright tapestries that are particularly showcased at sunset. My windows face west, to the sea. The doors open to a sitting area with a tall, wide fireplace. There’s an elegant dining table in the centre of the room, though I rarely choose to entertain large groups in my suite. Silk cushions in a multitude of colours cover my sofas and divans. Shelves line the walls, stacked with scrolls and books.

My apothecary is to the left, the walls also covered in shelves, only these hold jars and bottles of herbs, tinctures, salves, potions, and liniments. A long, sturdy table fills the middle of that room. A small fireplace that holds a kettle and cauldron is tucked cozily in a corner.

My bedroom is to the right. Soft carpets cover the floor. The high bed is filled with feather-stuffed pillows, bright red linens, and furs. There are two wardrobes, and most importantly, a huge, stone tub in front of windows that catch the sea breeze.

Nina, the goddess, has emptied my rooms of servants and ordered the tub filled with steaming water. I strip out of my sandy riding clothes, noticing that I smell a bit of hay and clean horses from my morning ride about the village.

I tend to the sick, aged, injured, and expectant every morning. Most of my patients are human. Some have fur. Today I saw to a half-denuded chicken. I pluck a feather from the hem of my tunic and toss it over my shoulder.

I choose a candle – a green one for fertility and abundance – from a shelf that holds my crystals, salts, and perfume oils. I anoint the taper with oils that are sacred to Hekate: mullein, lavender, mugwort, belladonna – all from her garden.

Hekate, forever unchanged, had first been like an older sister or an aunt to me. Sometimes, when she’s in a tempestuous frame of mind, she feels like a daughter. Over time, she’s become the person I most look forward to seeing every morning, the face I look for in every crowd, my first and last thought of the day. When I was a child, she read to me, taught me to ride – dragons first, then horses. We ate sweet ices together on summer nights with our feet in the surf. She showed me the glowing beings in the woods: some the size of ancient trees, others as small as the tiniest star flower. She called up the elementals of the sea when she taught me to sail and they leapt in the wake of our boat. Some of these creatures shone bright, others had a dark incandescence.

Hekate is both: easy light and the glorious, rich darkness of creation. I don’t yet know how our legends may entwine, but entwine they will.

The day my mother died, Hekate found me on the beach: small, balled up, and weeping myself muddy. She took me by the hand into Temple Hekate. I asked her, Who is the goddess of this place? She looked down at me, embarrassed.

Um, she said. Me.

I remembered laughing at her. But you dribble melted ice on your chin when you eat!

I know! she giggled. Ha! Isn’t it silly?

It was silly. It also made perfect sense. I’d seen her at work as a priestess, a healer, a diplomat, as a courtier, a warrior, a general, and as the commander of dragons. She was kind, cruel, honourable, vicious, tender, brutal, divine. She was my Hekate.

I admire that she doesn’t judge herself, or too many others. When she attacks, it’s because it’s what flows for her – it’s simply what comes next. She taught me that when The Goddess of Creation made the cosmos, It thought everything into being. Then It drummed. Then It danced. Everything, including Hekate, comes from the heart of Its creation. Its force is in every minute bit of light and dark that makes everything there is and will ever be. Lesser gods (and Hekate counts herself among them), demons, and men, judge, she told me. The Goddess of Creation does not. It flows. It is above, below, and through. It is.

And in Its mighty power, Hekate is wild and at ease with herself, confident in her place at the centre