Chapter 37 (Revised Numbering): Foxes in the Henhouse
King Aeëtes of Colchis was in a foul mood.
It wasn't the petty irritation of a bad harvest or a disrespectful courtier. This was the deep, gnawing, kingly kind of agitation that came from knowing a pack of wolves had just strolled into your sheepfold wearing smiles and calling themselves shepherds. He sat on his sun-bleached cedar throne, fingers drumming an impatient tattoo on the carved armrests, as the source of his headache held forth in the center of the audience hall.
Jason, son of Aeson, captain of the Argo, was in full oratorical flow.
"...and upon my rightful ascension to the throne of Iolcus, our kingdoms shall be bound by bonds of iron and gold! Trade will flow like the rivers! Your name will be sung in my halls for a thousand generations! All I ask in return, great king, is a token of your faith—a simple fleece of gold that currently… gathers dust in your sacred grove."
Aeëtes stifled a yawn. He'd been listening to variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. Empty promises, grandiose visions of future alliance, all wrapped around a naked demand for his kingdom's most famous relic. It was the diplomatic equivalent of a street magician's shell game.
Bullshit, the king thought, his expression a mask of polite interest. You get the wool, sail over the horizon, and your 'eternal friendship' evaporates with the sea spray. He knew the taste of power too well. Pelias had sent his nephew on this suicide mission precisely because he had no intention of giving up the throne. This whole quest was a death sentence with good publicity. And Aeëtes had no intention of playing along.
"Fascinating proposal," Aeëtes said, his voice a dry rumble that cut through Jason's rhetoric. He leaned forward, resting his chin on a fist. "You speak of worth, of destiny. Very well. Prove it to me. Prove you have the quality to be entrusted with a relic of the gods."
Jason's face lit up, the desperation in his eyes momentarily masked by hope. An opening! A trial! That was Heracles's language. That was hero language. "Name your test, Your Majesty! I am ready!"
Aeëtes allowed himself a small, cruel smile. "A simple agricultural matter. I have two bulls in my fields. Bronze-hoofed, bronze-lunged. They breathe fire. A trifle for a hero such as yourself, yes? You will yoke them, plow a field, and sow the teeth of the dragon that once guarded the Fleece."
Jason's hopeful expression began to curdle.
"And," Aeëtes continued, savoring the dawning horror on the younger man's face, "once the harvest springs forth, you will… tidy it up. By hand. No helpers. Just you. Demonstrate this, and the Fleece is yours."
The blood drained from Jason's face. Yoke fire-breathing bulls? Fight a crop of… whatever sprouted from dragon teeth? Heracles would have cracked his knuckles and asked for directions to the field. Jason felt his bowels turn to water.
"I… I see," he managed, his voice tighter than a lute string. "A test worthy of… of the prize. Might I… have a few days to prepare? To meditate, to gather my focus?"
"By all means," Aeëtes waved a dismissive hand, his disdain now barely concealed. "Take your time. But remember—you alone. No crew, no friends. Just the man who would be king."
Jason left the hall with a stiff bow, his retinue of Argonauts trailing behind him, their murmurs a mix of concern and morbid curiosity. Aeëtes watched them go, then slumped back in his throne, massaging his temples. Jason was a toothless threat. But what of the next hero? And the one after that? The Fleece was a curse disguised as a treasure.
"Where is Medea?" he asked a guard abruptly, a sudden, sharp fear cutting through his annoyance.
"The princess remains in her chambers, my king," the guard replied. "She has taken her meals there since yesterday."
Good, Aeëtes thought, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Keep her out of sight, out of mind. The last thing I need is that snake Jason getting ideas.
---
In Medea's tower chamber, buried under a mountain of goose-down blankets and silken pillows, Medusa slept. Truly slept. Not the light, wary doze of a monster on a monster-haunted isle, but the deep, boneless sleep of a creature who, for the first time in memory, felt utterly safe. Cyd was nearby. That was enough.
---
Back on the Argo, Jason's bravado evaporated the moment the gangplank was raised. He paced the deck like a caged animal, his mind racing down blind alleys of panic.
Fire-breathing bulls. Dragon-tooth warriors. Me. Alone.
It was a death sentence. A theatrical, humiliating death sentence.
He waited until full dark, when his crew was either drinking themselves into a stupor or lost in anxious sleep. Then, cloaked in a plain traveler's mantle, he slipped over the side and into the sleeping city.
His destination: the Temple of Aphrodite. If strength of arms was impossible, perhaps strength of… persuasion… would work. A love-struck princess, a besotted guard captain, a favorable interpretation of the rules—the goddess of desire could twist fate in subtle, powerful ways. It was a coward's plan, but he was fresh out of heroic ones.
He never made it to the temple steps.
The attack was professional, brutal, and utterly silent. A shadow detached itself from a column. There was a whisper of movement, a fleeting glimpse of a raised club, and then a world-ending CRACK at the base of his skull.
Jason's vision exploded into white stars, then into perfect, velvet blackness. He crumpled to the cobblestones without a sound.
"Pathetic. I still wonder how you are Chiron's student?" a familiar, dry voice muttered above him.
Cyd stood over the unconscious hero, a stout oaken club in his hand. He prodded Jason's flank with his foot. The man didn't stir.
"He's bleeding," a softer voice said from within the folds of Cyd's own dark cloak. Medea emerged, her face a mixture of clinical interest and distaste. She produced a small, crystal vial containing a viscous emerald liquid. Uncorking it, she poured it directly onto the nasty gash on Jason's scalp.
The effect was immediate and unsettling. The blood sizzled, emitting a puff of sweet-smelling white smoke. The flesh beneath knitted itself together with an audible fzzzt, leaving only a faint pink line and a patch of hair that was slightly… cleaner than the rest.
"Good as new," Medea said brightly, tucking the empty vial away.
"Right. Let's get him off the street before a patrol wonders why there's a fancy puddle here." Cyd grabbed Jason under the arms and dragged him unceremoniously into a nearby alley—a narrow, dead-end passage that smelled of wet stone and rotting vegetables.
With a final heave, he slammed Jason's back against the wall, then delivered a sharp, stinging slap across his face.
"AGH! What—?!" Jason jolted awake, hands flying to his throbbing cheek and his mysteriously healed head. His eyes, wide with panic, focused on Cyd. "Cyd? What… what happened?"
"Good, you're awake," Cyd said, his expression a masterpiece of concerned irritation. "You almost got yourself killed. Aeëtes had men watching the temples. They were waiting for you."
"I… I was?" Jason touched the back of his head again, his fingers coming away tacky with half-dried, oddly clean blood. "But… you healed me?"
"Lucky I was passing by. Looks like they clubbed you and left you for dead. I did what I could."
The man who clubbed you is literally holding the club! Medea screamed internally, her fingers digging into the cloth of Cyd's tunic where she hid behind him. And you're blaming my father! The audacity!
Incensed, she reached around and pinched a handful of Cyd's side, trying to twist. His flesh felt like granite under linen. She couldn't budge it.
Cyd didn't even flinch. "Listen, Jason. The king is onto you. He knows you'll try to cheat. Any temple, any shrine in Colchis—you set foot near it, and his men will finish the job. No divine help. Not here."
The color, which had been slowly returning to Jason's face, drained away again. "Then… then what do I do? I can't do the trials! It's impossible!"
"Relax. You eat. You drink. You get a good night's sleep. Then you walk into that field looking well-rested and confident." Cyd placed a firm hand on Jason's shoulder, his gaze intense. "The rest? You leave to me."
"Why?" Jason's voice was small, confused. "Why would you help me? I thought… you hated me."
"I hate the idea of you," Cyd corrected, his voice dropping. "The man who wears a hero's name like a cheap cloak to cover his own appetites. But if you have even a sliver of the man you pretend to be… if you have the courage to actually step toward the abyss instead of just talking about it… if you are, in any way, a student of our teacher…" He tapped Jason firmly in the center of his chest. "...then stand up straight. A student of Chiron doesn't flinch from a challenge. Now answer me. Are you going to do this, or are you going to crawl back to your ship?"
The words were a lash. They struck at Jason's deepest, most fragile vanity—his connection to the legendary centaur, his carefully constructed self-image. He couldn't back down now. Not in front of this infuriating, capable man who seemed to see right through him.
"I… I will do it!" Jason blurted, straightening his spine unconsciously.
"You will pass the trial. You will take the Fleece. You will sail home a hero." Cyd's smile was thin, but it reached his eyes, lending the prediction an air of inevitability. "That is your fate. All you have to do is wait for it to arrive. Trust me."
For a moment, Jason simply stared. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now wrapped in a strange, giddy hope. This wasn't a nebulous prayer to a god; this was a promise from a man who had, against all odds, survived everything thrown at him so far. "Thank you," he said, the words genuine for perhaps the first time on this voyage. "I… I take back what I said. You are a hero."
Oh, the irony, Cyd thought. You only see the hero when he's handing you a lifeline. And I'm not even giving you the real prize.
"Now go," Cyd said, gesturing down the alley. "A victorious hero can't look like he's been dragged through the gutter." He pointed at Jason's chiton, which was indeed stained and torn from the impromptu cobblestone drag. "Shed it. Shed the doubt with it. Start anew."
"Yes!" Jason's eyes shone with renewed fervor. He ripped the soiled garment off over his head and flung it to the muddy ground with a dramatic flourish, as if casting off the weight of his own inadequacy. "I believe in you!"
He strode past Cyd and out of the alley, his step lighter, his shoulders squared. He looked, for all the world, like the confident leader who had first set sail from Iolcus.
Cyd watched him go, the faint smile still on his lips. He bent down, picked up the discarded, muddy chiton, and began to methodically fold it.
"I don't believe in you," he murmured to the empty alley. "That's precisely why I have to 'help' you."
"He… he trusted you," Medea whispered, her forehead pressed against Cyd's back. She had seen the transformation in Jason's eyes—the desperate, grateful belief. "He thinks you're doing this for him."
"I am doing it for him," Cyd said calmly, finishing his folding. The bundled cloth was neat, square, a problem packaged away.
"But you're lying to him."
"Ah, innocent princess," Cyd sighed, turning to face her. He reached out and gently booped her nose with his fingertip. "The human heart is an unreadable scroll. A good deed—is it born of secret purpose, or pure virtue? Who can truly say? And who has the right to dig through a man's soul to find out? My actions, for Jason, are undeniably good. They solve his problem. They grant his desire. What I think while doing them… that matters little to him. As long as I deliver, in his eyes, I am…"
He grinned, a flash of white in the dark alley.
"...a good man."