Carrie Vaughn: Discord's Apple

What neither of them hadn’t explicitly said, what she hadn’t understood until she was lying there in the dark, nested in the bed that made her feel like a child, in the room next to the room where her father lay dying by increments, was that she was here to help him die. She would stay until he was gone, whether it took weeks or months or—maybe?—years, and then she would be alone with the house and the dark.

She missed her mother at that moment. She missed her mother all the time, really, but the longing was the phantom ache of an amputated limb. It was part of her, and most of the time she didn’t notice. But certain moments were like reaching for something with a hand that wasn’t there. Evie wanted to run to her mother and cry, make her talk sense into Dad, make her stay with him and watch him die. But it was left to Evie to do by herself.

She wasn’t ready to lose her father, too. She’d be crippled all over again.

If they’re going to believe that I escaped your plan to sacrifice me, I’ll have to look like a prisoner,” Sinon said.

“I’ve thought of this.” Odysseus had stood so proudly before the war chieftains, not at all cowed by their wealth or power. He made no secret that he thought most of them vain and petty. He had wanted to let Helen rot in Troy and blame Menelaus for letting Paris carry her off.

Now he looked grim, preoccupied with the details of his plan. His gaze turned inward, and his face was furrowed with worry. Sinon thought, This is what he will look like as an old man.

Sinon had come to Troy a boy, an untried warrior wearing his first growth of beard and carrying his first spear. Under Odysseus’s command, he had grown to manhood, shed his first blood, seen his own blood shed, learned of honor. And of common sense. He would follow Odysseus to the end of time itself.

“Maybe we could get Neoptolemus to have at me.” Sinon grinned, meaning it as a joke.

Odysseus shook his head quickly. “I don’t trust that vicious whelp to know when to stop. I had planned on doing it myself.”

Of course. Odysseus planned for everything, and he hated asking other men to do the difficult work.

Sinon and Odysseus went some distance along the beach, away from camp, where they could have privacy. The camp itself was in chaos—hundreds of tents being brought down, horses being loaded onto ships, supplies packed and carried off, all by torchlight. More than that, the sound of construction—men hammering hundreds of planks of wood into place—overwhelmed even the sound of waves breaking.

This was all part of the plan.

They stopped along the river that poured from the hills above Troy to form a brackish marsh where it joined the sea. Here, the rolling waves and chatter of night insects were audible again.

An escaped prisoner would have rope burns around his wrists. Sinon stripped down to a thin tunic. Odysseus tied his hands with rope and bound his wrists to a post driven into the beach.

Pulling on leather gloves to protect his hands, Odysseus said, “I don’t want to do this, Sinon.”

“I know. But it must be done.”

“A few choice bruises. A black eye. That’s all.”

Sinon nodded and squared his shoulders, bracing.

His jaw clenched, Odysseus made a fist and backhanded Sinon. His head whipped back as he fell, his arms jerking on the bindings.

Over and over, Odysseus struck him. Sinon had been hit before, he’d been wounded in battle. He knew how to block pain. Keep breathing. No matter that his ears rang and that blood clogged his nose. It would be over soon.

Sinon flinched back when Odysseus grabbed his hair to hold his head up.

“Easy, there. I’m done. Priam himself will pity you.”

He tried to smile, but winced when his lip cracked. His left eye was swelling shut already. “You hit like a thunderbolt. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“Gods, you’re bleeding.”

“I thought that was what we wanted.”

“Save your breath for the Trojans, my friend. Let’s have a look at your hands.”

The ropes had made bleeding rashes around both his wrists. Odysseus brought a waterskin and made him drink, but they didn’t wash the wounds. Let them swell, blacken, and look as grisly as possible.

The pain would put truth into his voice.

Time was passing. The ships had already set sail, carrying the bulk of the army into hiding. The horse was ready. Odysseus needed to take his place among the warriors hiding inside.

“Wait in the swamps. At dawn’s first light, make for the city gates. If they suspect the horse, if they destroy it—and us—you may still live. They may still believe your story and spare you.”

“No—”

“If so, you must go back to Ithaca and tell Penelope I’m sorry that I could not return.”

That task, bringing news of Odysseus’s death to his wife, was more daunting than lying to a city full of Trojans.

“This will work,” Sinon said to his mentor.

Odysseus took Sinon’s face in his hands. “I will see you again inside the walls of Troy.”

“Inside the walls of Troy. Yes.”

Odysseus left him.

Sinon splashed water from the river on his face to clear blood from his nose, mouth, and beard, and to keep himself awake. The bruises and cuts would heal—Odysseus had calculated the blows to look awful without causing permanent damage. Ever an optimist. His head ached, but he didn’t dare lie down and sleep. Timing was everything. He had to be at the gates before the Trojans could make a decision about the horse. He had to be there to convince them. His tunic was spattered with dirt and blood. He certainly looked the part of an escaped sacrifice victim.

Just before dawn, he started the walk. He wanted to be sure he had enough time to reach the city. The gates looked far away.

Sunlight crossed the sky when he saw the finished horse for the first time.

Taller than the city gate, it stood like a war steed preparing for a charge, head held high, body stout. It was made of planks lashed together, darker wood making a harness, hooves, and glaring eyes. An immense sculpture, it appeared seamless. Sinon couldn’t see a trapdoor or any sign that it was hollow at all. It stood on a wheeled platform, a tempting prize to simply roll inside the walls.

The city of Troy with its great temples and palaces, all shining marble decked with gold, occupied a set of hills and dominated the plains around it. Invincible stone walls surrounded it, and for ten years, the Achaeans had thrown themselves uselessly at those walls. The morning sun rose behind it to form a halo, and cast golden light on the prize the Trojans would never be able to resist.

By the gods, this could work.

Trojans were already gathered around the horse. They’d awakened to a sight they had not seen in ten years: the beach clear of Greek boats, the camp of the Achaean army empty. The invaders had fled. The Trojans had immediately come out to explore. As if disbelieving their eyes, they had to walk the ground to convince themselves the Greeks were really gone.

A pair of soldiers on patrol found him creeping along the outer wall. “You! Greek! Hold there!”

He waited for them to catch him. They did so as brutally as he might have expected of a people who’d been under siege, throwing him to the ground, kicking him, reopening the cuts and waking the bruises Odysseus had given him. When they drew daggers, Sinon thought they would kill him right there, ruining the plan entirely. But he begged like the piteous exile he was playing, and they put their knives away. Mindless of his wounds, they bound him and dragged him to the gates, where the lords and priests of Troy waited.

Think of the story. Tell them the story.