wanted, but if I did, then he too would have increased his skills.
In the time I had been by the lake I had learned a great deal about the rajathuks, the wooden totems of this land. At one time or another I had met them all, though only four had been friends with me. My difficulty was that those friendships were so very long in my past! I had maintained my appearance and mind as a young man, and my memory was powerful. But Time is a terrible enemy of detail and accuracy.
Those friends, now these idols, were very powerful sources of enchantment and vision, each specialised in a different way. The one who could help now was Skogen, the shadow of forgotten forests. It might be persuaded to draw out the memory of the tragedy in Iolkos from behind our eyes and present it in all its gory trickery again.
A winding archway of hazel marked the final approach to the sanctuary of the Skogen. At its end we faced a wall of crude stone, covered with niches in which carved bones and animal skulls had been placed over the years. Our guide added something in a pouch to one of the niches on our behalf. We passed round the wall and into the grove where four circles of wooden pillars surrounded the stone effigy. Four torches cast a net of flickering shadows. Acrid smoke billowed from small fires around the grove.
The stone was twice my height, a grey slab deeply and intricately carved with scenes from the past. The face that watched us was leafy and gnarled, the eyes at a curious slant. These were eyes that could see the shadows of the past and already I sensed its curiosity about Jason.
We were kept in the outer circle for a long while, repeating a short charm as instructed and inhaling the fumes from one of the fires. The priest performed one of the sing-chant rituals that are so common in northern lands, and scarified his skin. After a while he came back to us, grinning through broken teeth and dark beard. He picked up his skin drum and began to beat it rapidly with a piece of bone.
‘He’s very curious about you. Ask to see whatever it is you want.’
Jason and I stepped forward into the second circle, looked up at the watching face. Around us, the beat of the drum became a frantic, rhythmic tattoo, exaggeratedly loud, that seemed to make the whole grove shake. I was dizzy with the smoke. The trees seem to revolve around us, only Skogen staying still. This was the dream-trance, the crude magic of the shamans. At my prompting, Jason called out in a slurred and anxious voice, ‘The death of my sons. Show me the death of my sons.’ The request etched his face with pain, I saw.
For a moment the grove continued to thunder. Then abruptly it was still and silent.
I stared at Skogen, at the wide, stone eyes.
I heard the sound of men running, the stink of burning wood, the screaming of children and the clash of metal blades …
Jason cried out, ‘Oh gods! I remember that stink of blood and burning leaves! The witch is here!’
The grove seemed to draw in on itself and a strange fire dazzled my eyes …
* * *
We had fought our way through the palace grounds and seven of us survived to enter the building, storming its halls and corridors, finally facing the unnatural flames at its heart. I recognised their supernatural nature and hesitated, but before I could say a word Jason had leapt through the fire. Close on his heels, I followed him, slipping and sliding on the polished marble floor that stretched to Medea’s private chambers. The other argonauts, those who had survived the earlier fighting, burst through the flames behind me, round shields held at arm’s length before their faces, swords extended.
After that, things happened so fast I had retained only a fragment of memory of the moments before the dreadful deed we would witness.
‘Antiokus!’ Jason shouted in warning. ‘Look to your left!’
I turned in time to parry the javelin thrust from one of Medea’s guards. The wide blade struck my arm a glancing
In the time I had been by the lake I had learned a great deal about the rajathuks, the wooden totems of this land. At one time or another I had met them all, though only four had been friends with me. My difficulty was that those friendships were so very long in my past! I had maintained my appearance and mind as a young man, and my memory was powerful. But Time is a terrible enemy of detail and accuracy.
Those friends, now these idols, were very powerful sources of enchantment and vision, each specialised in a different way. The one who could help now was Skogen, the shadow of forgotten forests. It might be persuaded to draw out the memory of the tragedy in Iolkos from behind our eyes and present it in all its gory trickery again.
A winding archway of hazel marked the final approach to the sanctuary of the Skogen. At its end we faced a wall of crude stone, covered with niches in which carved bones and animal skulls had been placed over the years. Our guide added something in a pouch to one of the niches on our behalf. We passed round the wall and into the grove where four circles of wooden pillars surrounded the stone effigy. Four torches cast a net of flickering shadows. Acrid smoke billowed from small fires around the grove.
The stone was twice my height, a grey slab deeply and intricately carved with scenes from the past. The face that watched us was leafy and gnarled, the eyes at a curious slant. These were eyes that could see the shadows of the past and already I sensed its curiosity about Jason.
We were kept in the outer circle for a long while, repeating a short charm as instructed and inhaling the fumes from one of the fires. The priest performed one of the sing-chant rituals that are so common in northern lands, and scarified his skin. After a while he came back to us, grinning through broken teeth and dark beard. He picked up his skin drum and began to beat it rapidly with a piece of bone.
‘He’s very curious about you. Ask to see whatever it is you want.’
Jason and I stepped forward into the second circle, looked up at the watching face. Around us, the beat of the drum became a frantic, rhythmic tattoo, exaggeratedly loud, that seemed to make the whole grove shake. I was dizzy with the smoke. The trees seem to revolve around us, only Skogen staying still. This was the dream-trance, the crude magic of the shamans. At my prompting, Jason called out in a slurred and anxious voice, ‘The death of my sons. Show me the death of my sons.’ The request etched his face with pain, I saw.
For a moment the grove continued to thunder. Then abruptly it was still and silent.
I stared at Skogen, at the wide, stone eyes.
I heard the sound of men running, the stink of burning wood, the screaming of children and the clash of metal blades …
Jason cried out, ‘Oh gods! I remember that stink of blood and burning leaves! The witch is here!’
The grove seemed to draw in on itself and a strange fire dazzled my eyes …
* * *
We had fought our way through the palace grounds and seven of us survived to enter the building, storming its halls and corridors, finally facing the unnatural flames at its heart. I recognised their supernatural nature and hesitated, but before I could say a word Jason had leapt through the fire. Close on his heels, I followed him, slipping and sliding on the polished marble floor that stretched to Medea’s private chambers. The other argonauts, those who had survived the earlier fighting, burst through the flames behind me, round shields held at arm’s length before their faces, swords extended.
After that, things happened so fast I had retained only a fragment of memory of the moments before the dreadful deed we would witness.
‘Antiokus!’ Jason shouted in warning. ‘Look to your left!’
I turned in time to parry the javelin thrust from one of Medea’s guards. The wide blade struck my arm a glancing
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