the-song-books.yossr

The herald lifted the list. The room seemed to tilt, and myy eyyes would not
focus. He began to read.
Antenor.
Eurypylus.
Machaon.
I recognized manyy of the names; we all did. Theyy were the heroes and
kings of our time. But theyy were more to me than that. I had seen them, in a
stone chamber heavyy with fire-smoke.
Agamemnon. A memoryy of a thick black beard; a brooding man with
narrowed, watchful eyyes.
Odysseus. The scar that wrapped his calf, pink as gums.
Ajax. Twice as large as anyy man in the room, with his huge shield behind
him.
Philoctetes, the bowman.
Menoitiades.
The herald paused a moment, and I heard the murmur: who? Myy father
had not distinguished himself in the yyears since myy exile. His fame had
diminished; his name was forgotten. And those who did know him had
never heard of a son. I sat frozen, afraid to move lest I give myyself awayy. I
am bound to this war.
The herald cleared his throat.
Idomeneus.
Diomedes.
“Is that yyou? You were there?” Achilles had turned back to face me. His
voice was low, barelyy audible, but still I feared that someone might hear it.
I nodded. Myy throat was too dryy for words. I had thought onlyy of
Achilles’ danger, of how I would tryy to keep him here, if I could. I had not
even considered myyself.
“Listen. It is not yyour name anyymore. Sayy nothing. We will think what to
do. We will ask Chiron.” Achilles never spoke like that, each word cutting
off the next in haste. His urgencyy brought me back to myyself, a little, and I
took heart from his eyyes on mine. I nodded again.
The names kept coming, and memories came with them. Three women
on a dais, and one of them Helen. A pile of treasure, and myy father’s frown.
The stone beneath myy knees. I had thought I dreamt it. I had not.
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