Quiver Read Online Free PDF Page A

slowly, to the warm, wet touch of Aura’s tongue on my face. From her insistence, and her expression of concern, I guessed that she had been trying to rouse me for some time. I patted her silky head, wondering how long I had slept, then stumbled outside. The sky was the powdery blue of a jay’s crest, the sun directly overhead. No wonder Aura had been anxious. The day was half gone.
    I stretched, yawning, and as I stood there with my arms flung wide, my dreams came back to me, one by one— bright, tremulous, and clear as rocks in a mountain stream. Startled, I sank to my knees.
    Four dreams, I thought. Four messages.
    I settled on the ground cross-legged and closed my eyes.
    They came to me without effort, and I admired each one as I might admire an exotic flower, or a finely wrought javelin. They were beautiful. Even the first, so fraught with menace, gleamed alluringly. The rings sparkled; the organs in the golden bowls shimmered like jewels.
    I vowed to remember them always, for I knew they were precious even if their meaning was obscure. They had been sent; that was enough, and I was grateful. My understanding would come in time. For now I felt forgiven—though for what I could not tell—and blessed.
    My eyes filled, and I heaved such a gusty sigh of relief that Aura rushed over to me, whining. She barked, eyes aglow, then cocked her ears at the sound of my rumbling stomach.
    I sprang to my feet. “Let’s eat,” I said.
    Artemis:
Well done, brother. Thank you.
    Apollo:
You are welcome. I do enjoy doing prophetic dreams.
    Artemis:
These were lovely, though you may have revealed too much with that last one. The fur, the licking—?
    Apollo:
Great thundering Zeus! She’s happy now, isn’t she? She’s talking again, isn’t she? I thought you wanted to help her!
    Artemis:
All right, all right. Forget I said anything. The dreams are wonderful. And they will help her—in ways that I never could.
    Apollo:
Is that an apology?
    Artemis:
Older sisters don’t apologize. You know that.
    When I met Zoi on the path to the beach, she greeted me by saying quietly, “Your prayers have been heard.”
    Smiling, I replied, “I am fortunate.” The hunters had told me this so often—usually when I was howling with outrage at some terrible childhood injustice—that it felt odd to be saying the words with such conviction, to know beyond a doubt that they were true.
    She tilted her head appraisingly. Her hair was as white as sea-foam, her face as lined and weathered as driftwood.
    “You are hungry?”
    I laughed. “So hungry.”
    “Come.” She led us down to her tiny, whitewashed hut. Next to it, sheltered by tall pines, was a shrine, and a painted wooden statue of Asclepius. Dappled sunlight played across the god’s face, which wore a placid smile.
    Zoi brought bread, honey, dried fish, figs, grapes, and a jug of lemon water. I placed an offering of food on the shrine, bowing. Then Aura and I consumed every remaining morsel.
    When we finished, I thanked Zoi, adding, “I am Atalanta. From Arcadia.”
    “The huntress.”
    I must have looked surprised that she knew.
    “You arrived with a hound, carrying a bow,” she said dryly, adding, “I also have been sent dreams. One of them was about you.”
    I waited.
    “You stood before Artemis and Aphrodite,” she said. “They asked you to choose between them. You chose Artemis.”
    So I would, I thought. My loyalty had always been to Artemis, Mistress of the Wild. Aphrodite, who busied herself ensnaring lovers, seemed soft and foolish by comparison.
    At my nod Zoi said, “The decision brought you pain. A wound . . .” She faltered, her eyelids fluttering like moths.
    “A wound?” The words filled me with alarm. I had never been injured, and feared the experience mightily, though I kept that to myself.
    “Sudden. Very deep. That is all I know.” She placed a small brown hand on mine. It was as light and dry as a withered leaf.
    “Your fame as a hunter will grow,” she