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something—the prince’s head in his hands,
    Akastos
    whom I loved once—loved as I loved myself, I’d have
    said.
    Guilt-raised ghosts.
    â€œI know, I think, what they want of me.
    Climb back. Redeem your home through Corinth’s
    power. Atone.
    My mind stretches toward it, trembling, and all at once I’m afraid. Beyond old Pelias’ ghost and that severed
    head
    There’s darkness, an abyss. —And yet what is it I fear,
    I wonder?
    Is conquering Jason the slave at last?” He paused, lips
    pursed,
    and glanced at the seer. “The night has a growl of
    winter in it.
    Stars like the flicker of corpse-candles, a sparkle of frost on the bronze lich-gate. Over soon. Grain of the valleys winnowed, garnered … whatever claims we’ve made
    on the season
    silenced, settling in the bin; on the snowed-in storehouse
    walls
    no lamps but dreaming bats. And for those who’ve made
    no claims—”
    Again he paused, reflecting, staring at the ground. At
    last:
    â€œIf I went my way I could make Medeia rich, respected; if not a queen, then mother, at least, of kings—no cost but a night, now and then, alone in her golden bed.
    That would not
    wreck her, I think. In any case, let this chance slip, let some old enemy of ours snatch Kreon’s throne—
    and where are we
    then? This too: If I try and lose, that’s one thing.
    But to let some fat fool win it by default—
    â€œNo, plainer than that.
    She’s an Easterner, and a woman. She reasons with
    her chest, the roots
    of her hair. I should know too well by now where such
    reasoning leads
    â€”her brother murdered, betrayed to confound Aietes’
    ships;
    my uncle carved, strained, boiled by his daughter’s love;
    and us
    adrift, horrible to men. Late as it is, I should seize my duty as husband and father—the hope that lies in
    Akhaian,
    masculine brains, detached, remote from the violent
    instincts
    of child-bearing and giving suck, what women share with the lioness. I’ve left our destiny too long in witchcraft’s hands.” He paused, glanced at the blind
    Theban.
    â€œSay what you’re thinking.”
    The blind man sat like stone, the light
    of torches stirring on his cheek. His sunken eyes stared
    out
    at darkness beyond the harbor. “Men come for my help
    in prayer,”
    he said, “or for reading of oracles. What right have I to advise?”
    â€œBut say what you think.”
    The old black Theban sighed,
    continued looking at the night. The end is inevitable,” he said. His eyebrows, silver and thick as frost on rock, drew up, and he groped for Jason’s hand. He found and
    held it.
    â€œYou want no advice from me, and even if you did,
    the end
    is destined. I need no help of signs to see that much, heavy as I am with experience. For seven generations I’ve watched the world’s grim processes. I saw the teeth of the dragon Kadmos slew rise up as fierce armed
    men; I saw that perfect king and his queen
    transmogrified
    when Lord Dionysos—power that turns spilt blood to
    wine,
    unseen master of vineyards—awarded them mast’ry
    of the dead.
    And I’ve seen things darker still, though the god has
    sealed my eyes.
    All I have seen reveals the same: Useless to speak. Well-meaning man—” He frowned, looking into
    darkness. “You may
    see more than you wish of that golden fleece. Good
    night.”
    But Jason
    stayed, questioning. “Say what you mean about the
    fleece. No riddles.”
    â€œUseless to say,” the blind man sighed. He shook his
    head.
    But Jason clung to his hand, still questioning. “Warn
    me plainly.”
    Again the blind man sighed. “If I were to warn you,
    Jason,
    that what you’ve planned will hiss this land to darkness,
    devour
    the sun and moon, hurl seas and winds off course,
    kill kings—
    would you change your course, confine yourself to your
    room like a sick
    old