He leaves for the oars again, and her grandfather climbs into the sky again, and the sea is flat, without any wind at all.

Many of the crew still sleep, and those who pull at the oars have slowed. They’ve become lazy. They think they’re safe, but Medea knows her father. They won’t be safe until they reach Iolcus and Jason’s people and their fleet and army. He won’t stop until then.

Do not stop, she says in their language. Hurry.

They do not hurry. The Hieros mountains are in view now, pale and washed out, without substance in this light. She knows these mountains. Thermodon river just beyond. If she still knows names, they are not far enough away to lose her father.

The sun rises higher and the decks burn, planks so hot it seems they could erupt in flame. No shade, no sail, no breeze.

The men wet and shining, skin burnt dark. Medea’s skin far whiter, turning red now, painful.

The water all around them on fire, too bright to look at, so she closes her eyes and kneels on deck bowed down, hiding from the sun, and waits for this to end. Each day on this boat is longer than any day she has known before. Her grandfather’s path across the sky without measurable progress from hour to hour, some punishment from him, to hold back the reins and let her feel his wrath for how she has destroyed his line, the future king cut into pieces. No forest to shield her, no fog or mist or cloud or darkness or man-made shelter. A merciless god.

Jason brings her water every few hours, which is not enough. Ship’s rations, held below deck in a narrow space above the ballast stones. She has seen them move aside the deck planks and reach below, and she wants to lie there in the shade. She believes she’ll die soon if she remains in the sun. So she crawls forward and pulls up the short planks. The men watch her. Jason is rowing and says nothing.

She crawls into shadow below, and there is nothing soft. Stones and clay jars and tools: the sharp wide green blades of adzes, chisels, axes, whetstones, tongs, awls, drill bits, every hard and sharp and dangerous thing, raw ingots of copper and tin to make bronze. Smell of bilgewater and rot, mold. But in a narrow space between the rudder posts, she finds coils of rope, and here she can lie down. Rough fiber but not sharp or hard. A place to rest away from the sun.