Song of Princes (Homeric Chronicles #1) by Janell Rhiannon Page A

as it appeared and kept counting until the glimmering specks numbered beyond tracking.
    Being out in the fields at night might frighten most boys his age, but he’d been accompanying his father since he could walk. The night sounds of crickets chirping and the eerie calls of owls comforted Paris, letting him know all was well. Once, when he was younger, a black wolf had wandered into their camp. The fire had died low and from the blackness beyond the orange glow a dark shape stepped tentatively out in front of them. Agelaus had jumped up and started yelling and waving his arms like a man possessed. The startled wolf practically spun into the fire by accident. It ran for its life probably thinking Agelaus a ghost of Hades himself. When his father stopped yelling and flailing his arms about, they’d looked at each other and started laughing. So, on this first night of his first unaccompanied watch, he wasn’t even afraid of the black wolves.
    The thing he feared the most was the cattle thief. No bizarre immortal creature or nighttime prowler concerned young Paris more than knowing that this treachery could be out there stalking his family’s herd. Cattle rustlers often worked in a wicked ring, struck fast as a bolt of Zeus’ lightening, and could ruin an entire year of careful breeding and field tending within an hour. The night air grew colder as the sky grew darker. Paris stoked the camp fire and pulled his himation close around his shoulders; in its warmth he could smell the campfire smoke and his mother’s arms. All he had to do now was remain alert to strange noises or any distressing sounds from the cattle themselves. Since they were not accustomed to the touch of any man, they would sound the loudest alarm if disturbed.
    Paris settled his back against the same wild olive tree he always camped under when Agelaus was with him. He’d been there so often that the earth was dented under his rump; rounded perfectly as if scooped by a god’s hand just for a boy his size. The trees twisted roots rose to the surface gripping the earth like gnarled fingers. Unripe fruit dangled in small clusters on the wild silver-green branches, canopied above him. He poked the small campfire, more embers now than flame, with a long charred stick. Delicate cinders floated into the deepening night. Paris opened his knapsack and pulled out his bundle of flat bread and cheese. He ate to stave of sleep more than hunger. Anything to keep his mind sharp. He reminded himself to chew with deliberation so the food would last and he would have something to occupy his time with.
    He blinked the heaviness from his eyes as the night stretched into early morning; even the crickets ceased their nighttime vigil and finally slept. A wolf howled far in the distance. An owl screeched and he looked up from under the olive canopy to see the white feathered underbelly pass low overhead. Athena , he thought.  The top of the tree shook with the weight of the night hunter as it perched without knowing the boy was there. Paris laughed to himself thinking he’d somehow tricked Athena. An owl would never land this close to a person on purpose. But, soon the beady orange gaze bored into the top of his head. He looked up and the owl’s neck was craned in an awkward position starring directly at him. Paris unsuccessfully squelched an excited squeak. Athena, not amused, leapt from the tree and took wing elsewhere. The glowing sliver of moon offered little light for guidance, and the night passed uneventfully.
    Like the changing of the tides, the sky began to lighten from black to pale wine. Paris had managed to stay awake all night, despite the chill and the silence, never leaving his post. All had gone well. He stood and stretched his bones, cracked his back with a twist, and shook his legs to wake the muscles.
    The sparrows began their morning greetings before they could be seen. He heard them jumping from branch to branch in the olive tree above him. He knew his