Heir of Troy: The Third Son

The ship came into the harbour on the evening tide, its sail slack, its deck empty except for a single crewman who had not spoken since they left the island. He had been a sailor for fifteen years, had weathered storms and pirates and worse, but he had never carried cargo like this. The clay jar sat in the hold, sealed with wax and rope, and he had not touched it once during the voyage. He had barely looked at it.

Lysander was on the tower when the ship docked. He had been there since dawn, watching the sea. The Greek fleet would sail soon—Ampelos’s latest intelligence said the omens were being read, the kings were gathering, the final preparations were being made. Days. Weeks at most. He had been counting the fishing boats, tracking the weather, doing all the things he always did when he was waiting for something he couldn’t control.

He saw the ship enter the harbour. He saw the single crewman stumble onto the dock, his face hollow. He saw the clay jar being lifted from the hold. He went down to the harbour.

The crewman’s name was Doron. Lysander recognized him—one of Fylon’s contacts, a man who had run messages across the eastern islands for years. His hands were shaking. His eyes were red. He had been crying.

"Prince Lysander," he said. His voice cracked. "They killed him. Teresh killed him. He sent his head back in a jar."

Lysander looked at the jar. He did not open it. He did not need to.

"Akoras," he said.

Doron nodded. He could not speak. Lysander stood very still, the harbour sounds washing over him—the creak of rigging, the cries of gulls, the distant ring of the harbour bell. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary life. Continuing.

"Did he say anything else," Lysander asked. "Before he died."

"He said he knew this might happen. He said you told him. He said if he was afraid, he didn’t have to come." Doron wiped his face with a trembling hand. "He said he came anyway. And then Teresh gave the order. Both of them. The Greek and our boy. They killed them both at the same time. Two blades. Two bodies. Then he told us to bring the heads back to our masters."

Lysander went still. "The Greek envoy is dead too."

"Yes. The merchant. Theron. Teresh killed him alongside Akoras. He sent his head back to Agamemnon on the Greek ship. He said—" Doron swallowed. "He said the Sea Peoples are not to be bargained with. He said they will see us all on the battlefield. Greeks and Trojans alike. He said they are not anyone’s sword. They are not anyone’s shield. They will wait, and watch, and when the war is over—whoever wins—they will take everything."

Lysander absorbed this. Teresh had refused both offers. The Sea Peoples were not allies. They were not enemies. They were something worse. They were waiting. Waiting for the Greeks and Trojans to exhaust each other. Waiting for the moment when both sides were too weak to stop them.

"Take the jar to the temple," Lysander said. "Akoras will be buried with honours. His family will be provided for."

Doron nodded and turned away. Lysander stood alone on the dock, looking at the sea. Both envoys dead. Both strategies failed. The Sea Peoples would not help them, and they would not be neutral. They would come when the time was right, and they would take whatever was left.

He turned and walked toward the palace. There was nothing he could do about the Sea Peoples now. The walls were ready. The fleet was ready. The city was as prepared as it would ever be. All that was left was to wait for the Greeks to come.

Paris was in the training ground behind the barracks, working through the drills he had not been able to do for weeks. The wound in his side had healed—Antiphus had removed the stitches three days ago, and the scar was a pale line along his ribs. He could move without pain now. He could draw a bow without his side pulling tight.

He was not a swordsman. He had never been a swordsman. The blade in his hand felt foreign in a way that a bow never did. But he had been practicing, and his form was improving, and Miros had stopped correcting his grip every five minutes. That was progress.

"You’re still leading with your right shoulder," Miros said from the edge of the ground. His useless arm was bound against his chest, his left hand resting on the hilt of his lighter sword. Deia sat on the low wall beside him, her tablet in her lap. "You’re not a swordsman. You’ll never be a swordsman. Stop trying to fight like one."

"Then what am I supposed to do."

"You’re an archer. One of the best I’ve seen. Antenor said your draw is as good as any hunter in the eastern hills. That’s what you should be doing. Not this." Miros gestured at the sword. "Leave the close combat to the men who are built for it."

Paris lowered the blade. "I wasn’t here. When the black ships came. When the harbour was attacked. I was in Sparta. I was—" He stopped. "I was doing something else. Everyone else fought. Everyone else held the line. I wasn’t here."

"And now you are here. And you’re trying to make up for it by learning to fight in a way you were never meant to fight. That’s guilt, not strategy. Guilt gets you killed." Miros walked toward him. "You want to help when the fleet comes. Good. Pick up a bow. Stand on the walls with Antenor and his hunters. Put arrows into Greek ships from three hundred paces. That’s what you’re good at. That’s what you should do."

Paris looked at the sword in his hand. Then he set it down on the weapon rack.

"You’re right."

"I know. I usually am." Miros turned to Deia. "Note that. He admitted I was right."

"I always note everything," Deia said without looking up. "But I don’t think this counts. You’ve been telling him the same thing for weeks."

"And he finally listened. That counts." Miros looked at Paris. "The bow. Tomorrow. Antenor will be on the eastern wall at dawn. He’s been asking about you. He said he’d never seen a prince who could shoot like that."

Paris nodded. "I’ll be there."

Hector was on the northern wall when Lysander found him, looking down at the plain below. The winter fields were brown and bare, the distant hills grey against the pale sky. Somewhere beyond those hills, a thousand ships were gathering. Somewhere in the city, a family was mourning a young man who had volunteered to carry a message and had come back in a jar.

"The Sea Peoples killed our envoy," Lysander said, coming to stand beside him. "The Greek envoy too. Both of them. Teresh is not going to help either side. He’s going to wait until we’ve exhausted each other, and then he’s going to strike."

Hector absorbed this without changing expression. "Then we deal with the Greeks first. The Sea Peoples are a problem for later."

"They could be a problem while we’re dealing with the Greeks. If Teresh attacks our supply lines while the fleet is blockading the harbour—"

"Then we fight on two fronts. We’ve been preparing for that possibility." Hector turned to face him. "What else."

"The Greek fleet will sail soon. Ampelos says days. Maybe weeks. The omens are being read, the kings are gathering. They’re waiting for the spring winds."

"Then we wait too." Hector looked at the plain again. "How is Paris."

"Training. Miros told him to stop trying to be a swordsman and pick up a bow. He’s going to join Antenor on the eastern wall."

"Good. He’s not a soldier. He never was. But he can shoot." Hector paused. "I should have told him that myself. I was too busy."

"He knows. He’s been trying to prove himself since he got back. You don’t need to tell him. He just needs to do it."

Hector nodded slowly. "The Sea Peoples. What do we tell the council."

"The truth. The envoy is dead. Teresh refused our offer. The Sea Peoples are neutral for now, but they won’t stay that way forever. We need to end the Greek war quickly so we can deal with them when they come."

"And if we can’t end it quickly."

Lysander looked at the plain, the empty fields, the distant hills. "Then we hold. As long as we can. And hope the Greeks break before we do."

Fylon was in the small room above the wine shop, going through the latest reports from his network of watchers. The second mole—the source who had been feeding information to the Greeks after the priest’s network was dismantled—was still out there. Still active. Still invisible.

Lysander found him there an hour after sunset. The old spymaster looked up from his tablets, his face tired but his eyes sharp.

"Anything," Lysander asked.

"Nothing. The mole has gone quiet. No messages. No meetings. No suspicious activity. It’s as if whoever it was simply stopped." Fylon paused. "Or they’re being more careful. They know we’re looking. They know we’ve already found Akastos and the priest and Rethon. They’re not going to make the same mistakes."

"Can you find them."

"Eventually. Everyone makes a mistake eventually. But it will take time. And we don’t have much time."

"The fleet will sail within weeks. Maybe days."

"I know." Fylon set down his tablet. "I’ll keep looking. But I need you to consider something. The mole had access to information that only a handful of people knew. The patrol schedules. The fire ship plans. The sulfur from Tarsus. That’s not a servant overhearing gossip in a corridor. That’s someone in the inner circle."

"Someone we trust."

"Yes." Fylon met his eyes. "Someone you trust."

Lysander was silent. He had been avoiding this thought for weeks. The inner circle was small. Hector. Paris. Arsini. Miros. Daidalos. Ampelos. Maea. None of them were traitors. None of them could be traitors. But someone had given the Greeks information that no one outside that circle should have known.

"Keep looking," Lysander said. "And Fylon—be careful. If the mole is someone in the inner circle, they’re more dangerous than the priest ever was."

Fylon nodded. Lysander walked out into the cold night air and stood for a moment, looking at the stars. Someone in the inner circle. Someone he trusted. Someone who had access to everything. He didn’t know who. But he would find out.

The supply office was quiet when Lysander entered. Helen was at her usual table, surrounded by tablets, her stylus moving in steady strokes. She had been working since dawn—she often worked since dawn now. The inventory had become her anchor, her purpose, the thing that kept her hands busy and her mind focused.

She looked up when he entered. "You look like you haven’t slept."

"I haven’t. The Sea Peoples killed our envoy."

She set down her stylus. "I heard. The sailor brought the news."

"They killed the Greek envoy too. Teresh refused both offers. He’s not going to help either side. He’s going to wait until we’ve exhausted each other, and then he’s going to strike."

"Can we stop him."

"Not right now. Right now we have to focus on the Greek fleet. The Sea Peoples are a problem for later." He sat down across from her. "How are the supplies."

"Holding. Grain for six months. Oil for eight. Dried fish for four. The medical stores are fully stocked. Antiphus has trained thirty new assistants. The water supply is secure." She paused. "I know every number now. Every jar, every sack, every roll of bandages."

"That’s impressive."

"It’s terrifying. Knowing the numbers doesn’t make them better. It just means I know exactly when we’ll run out."

He looked at her—at her tired face, her ink-stained fingers, the tablets stacked around her in neat rows. She had been a queen once. A prize. A symbol. Now she was a woman who counted grain sacks and medical supplies, who had memorized every resource the city had. She had made herself essential.

"The city owes you more than it can repay," he said.

"The city doesn’t owe me anything. I’m doing this because I want to." She met his eyes. "I’ve spent my whole life being a symbol. A prize to be won. A wife to be controlled. Here, I’m useful. I’m not a symbol. I’m a person. That’s worth more than any debt the city could repay."

He nodded slowly. "Paris told me he’s joining the archers on the eastern wall."

"I know. He told me this morning."

"Are you all right with that."

"No. I’m terrified. But I’m not going to stop him. He needs to fight. He’s been sitting in the east wing for weeks, and it’s been eating at him. If I asked him to stay, he would. But he would resent it. And I would resent myself for asking."

"That’s very wise."

"It’s not wise. It’s selfish. I don’t want him to fight. I want him to stay here, in the palace, where he’s safe. But he’s not going to be safe. None of us are going to be safe. The fleet is coming. The walls will be tested. People are going to die. And Paris needs to be out there, fighting, because that’s who he is now." She picked up her stylus. "So I’m not going to stop him. I’m going to count grain sacks and medical supplies and make sure there’s something left for him to come back to."

Lysander looked at her for a long moment. "You’ve changed since you arrived."

"I know. I used to be afraid of everything. Now I’m just afraid of losing him." She looked at him. "The rest I can handle."

He stood to leave. At the door, he paused. "Helen. If you ever need to talk—about anything—I’m here."

She smiled—a small, tired smile. "I know. Now let me work. The inventory won’t count itself."

He walked out into the corridor. The palace was quiet. The city was waiting. Somewhere in the west, a thousand ships were preparing to sail. Somewhere in the east, the Sea Peoples were sharpening their blades. Somewhere in the shadows, a traitor was still hiding.

But the walls were ready. The people were ready. The city was ready. And whatever came next, they would face it together.

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