The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(64)
“Your sister died in honorable combat,” I said, then turned to address Areto again. “You profess there is no honor in killing an unarmed opponent. And yet you would sacrifice my sister to your goddess like some dumb bellowing beast trussed up on an altar? Without even giving her a chance to defend herself first? That’s what you deem your goddess’s justly deserved spoils?” I turned back to the others. “What kind of a warrior people are you?”
“We are Amazons!” a ragged few called out. “We are—”
“The Amazons are myths!” I shouted over them. “Relics. Painted on vases, carved on monuments. The men of Greece brought you here as slaves. But they’re gone. Why do you continue to live like slaves?”
Thalestris went white with rage. But the others, weapons still at the ready, were listening to me. And I knew that whatever I said next could mean my death. I stood at the center of their oppidum, defenseless, and I could feel the cold iron of every blade trained on me as if they already pierced my skin.
“What is one death supposed to accomplish?” I continued. “What kind of goddess is this Cybele that you hope to appease her and regain some measure of bygone greatness by spilling the blood of a woman who—by all rights—should be your sister?”
“She killed my sister!” Thalestris’s voice skirled wildly upward. “Murdered Orithyia in cold blood—”
“You mean defeated her in a fair fight!” I countered. “A matched duel that they were both forced into, against their wills, by men! And what glory would Orithyia have won for herself if Sorcha hadn’t fought for her life with every measure of her warrior soul? You said it yourself, Areto. There’s no honor in killing the defenseless. The outcome of that battle was kill or be killed. And there is no dishonor in your sister’s defeat. No stain, no shame . . .”
The warrior women exchanged glances.
“The only shame here is what Thalestris has done in the name of base vengeance—”
“Retribution!”
“Vengeance!” I took a lurching step toward her, my own fists clenching convulsively. “And to do it, you betrayed our entire ludus to a man—a man—who would enslave us once more so that he can force us to kill each other and then feed our souls to his black god!”
That hit home. For a moment, at least.
Thalestris’s face twisted in an expression that was half fury, half wretched anguish. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. I turned away before pity had a chance to take hold, and saw the fishergirl who’d attacked us on the path murmuring to some of the younger warriors. They shifted uncomfortably, casting frowning glances at Thalestris. Clearly, what I’d just described was not the kind of endeavor they considered worthy of their tribe.
I turned and addressed those women directly, and the fishergirl translated my words into Greek as I spoke. “Thalestris bartered Sorcha’s life,” I said, “for the lives of the young women warriors that she swore an oath to protect and train. Without a second thought she abandoned us to the cruelties of a man who would feed on our strengths and our souls like a leech. She did that. Knowingly.” I shook my head sadly. “My sisters are to me as yours are to you,” I said. “And I would grieve for the loss of any one of them bitterly. But I ask you this: Is one life—taken unwillingly and at the behest of a male oppressor—worth the lives of so many kindred spirits?”
The murmuring among the younger Amazons grew.
The older ones exchanged glances.
“My sister told me what your Queen Penthesilea once said,” I continued, remembering clear as day the words Sorcha had recited to me when I’d stood beside her looking at the stone carving of the legendary queen and her warriors, “‘Not in strength are we inferior to men’ . . .” I took a step forward, pleading my case directly to the younger girls: “‘the same our eyes, our limbs the same; one common light we see, one air we breathe. What then denied to us have the gods on man bestowed?’” I looked from face to face. “Help me prove the truth of her words. Help me see that we are not only the equal of men, we are better.”
Areto turned then and, in the softest of voices, said, “Lay down your weapons. We will not carry this battle any further today.”
It could as well have been a shouted command. The response was instantaneous as every one of the Amazon warriors threw their weapons to the ground. Every one except Thalestris. Areto waited for a moment, and then stepped forward to take the weapon from her clenched fist.
“Enough, child,” she said. “Orithyia’s honor remains unstained. Yours should too.”
“Thalestris.” I stepped forward and held out my hand. If I could make peace with her, I would. Even if only for the simple, calculated reason that it would make for a safer path for the rest of us to walk. “Will you let go of this vendetta and help us retake what is ours?”
She was having none of it. The grief and rage she’d carried around inside her had eaten her soul hollow, and there was nothing left there that could reconcile itself with forgiveness. Instead she just glared at me in bleak hatred.
“How?” she ground out between her teeth, ignoring my outstretched hand. “How did you even find me?”
I dropped my hand back down by my side and held my peace. So be it.
After an eternity of nothing but silence from me, she broke eye contact and her focus shifted, gaze roaming over the faces of those at my back. Her glare turned narrow, and I glanced back to see that she had picked Leander the kitchen slave out of our little crowd. With all the cocky guile I’d always known, he grinned apologetically and winked at her. For a moment, I wondered if she wouldn’t just lunge for him to wring his neck, but she did nothing. She just turned her back on him—on everyone—and walked toward a cluster of small, thatch-roofed houses on the outskirts of the oppidum. She ducked low through the door of one and, a few moments later, emerged with a small leather traveling satchel slung over her torso, and a fishing spear clutched in her fist.