Hades Daughter (35 page)

The city
should
have looked prosperous and comfortable, but here and there Brutus could see the
mounds of rubble left by the earth tremor, and, in many other buildings, a horrible list as if they were shortly to join their crumbled fellows.

No wonder Corineus was so joyful to have Brutus appear. This city was surely doomed.

Corineus told Brutus that because of the state of the city, most of the Trojans would have to make do as best they could on their anchored ships. With luck, however, he could find accommodation for enough of them that the crowding aboard the ships would be lessened considerably. Corineus apologised, clearly embarrassed at his inability to house all the Trojans in accommodation ashore, but Brutus waved away his apologies; Corineus was already doing more than enough.

His embarrassment only mildly allayed, Corineus directed his warship in close to the stone wharf. As soon as it had docked he jumped down to the wharf, sending messages into the city to set people to finding accommodation for several hundred people at least, and directions to set sailors in small rowboats into the bay to guide the Trojan ships into suitable anchorage sites.

Then, as the gangplank was placed into position, Corineus boarded once again and escorted Cornelia and Brutus down to the wharf.

Cornelia looked pale, and her eyes were ringed with blue shadows as if she had not slept well, but she was composed and polite, thanking Corineus for his assistance in aiding her to the wharf. As soon as she had spoken, she moved away slightly, and Corineus allowed it, knowing the reason.

For a while Corineus stood with Brutus and Membricus watching the other Trojans disembark, then, catching sight of Cornelia’s wan face, said, “Can you leave Membricus and Hicetaon to continue the unloading of as many people as we can accommodate? I think it would be best if I took you, Cornelia, and
Aethylla and her child and husband to my house, that the women may rest. It is but a short walk distant, and safe enough that you may all sleep well at night.”

“If your Blangan won’t fuss at the extra visitors,” Brutus said.

“She will adore you,” said Corineus, smiling, “and drive you to distraction with her chatter.” He bowed slightly in Cornelia’s direction. “And she will be delighted to have you to gossip with, Cornelia. I swear that before tomorrow morning has dawned, you will know all the lapses and blunders of Locrinia’s most upstanding citizens. Even, I fear, some of mine.”

He was rewarded with a smile from Cornelia, probably more at his attempt to cheer her than any eager anticipation of Blangan’s gossip, but it was enough for Corineus. “Come,” he said gently, and led the small group forward.

One of Locrinia’s wardens, a plump, cheerful man, bustled towards them, greeting Brutus and Cornelia effusively, and clapping his hands with joy at the sight of the massive fleet filling the bay. Corineus and Brutus passed a few words with him, then they were off, following Corineus up through the gently rising streets of the city.

“I have my house on this rise here,” Corineus said, leading them into a wide, paved street. One or two of the houses had fallen, and in the others Brutus and his companions could clearly see the wide cracks spreading up the walls.

“Here we are,” Corineus said, indicating a large house standing just before them. Made of a very pale pink stone, it had been built long and low with numerous large, open windows and graceful arches to allow the bay air to flow through its rooms and chambers.

It too had been cracked, and one archway had collapsed almost completely, but the walls were well
propped, and the house looked solid enough, especially compared to some of its neighbours.

As they approached, a woman appeared in one of the archways. She stood there, as still as a rock pool, one hand on a pillar, her white linen robe blowing gracefully about her tall, slim form. Her hair was dark, her skin extremely pale, her features well drawn and strong.

Brutus took a step forward, a catch in his breath, then relaxed in disappointment.

This was not the woman of the vision, but, by the gods, she was very much like her.

She was tall, and shapely, and with the same dark hair and blue eyes, but her face had many lines worn by care, and Brutus knew that while she was younger than Corineus, she actually looked his elder. Life had tired her, somehow.

Most telling, however, was that this Blangan had none of the god-power that had been emblazoned about the other woman. She carried about her only the power of a woman who loved and was loved, not the power of the gods that the visionary woman wielded.

She walked to meet them, holding out her hands and her cheek to Corineus to be kissed. Then she greeted Cornelia, kissing her on her cheek, then Brutus, then Aethylla and her husband standing a step behind.

“Blangan,” said Corineus, “if I said to you that you might be going home to Llangarlia again, what would you say?”

Blangan’s face went completely expressionless, but in that instant before the veil came down, Brutus swore he saw a peculiar mix of terror and resignation in her eyes.

They had washed, settled in their chambers, and eaten (Membricus, Hicetaon and Deimas having joined them), and now it was late at night, but Brutus could not go to bed before he’d had a chance to speak with Blangan.

He sat with her, Corineus, Deimas, Hicetaon and Membricus on a sheltered portico overlooking the bay. Everyone else had gone to bed for the night—indeed, the city itself seemed lost in a languorous slumber as it spread out below them—and they finally had some quiet in which to talk. The warm air was very still, and the scent of a flowered climbing vine across the portico hung heavy and sweet about them.

“So,” said Blangan to Brutus, a nervous, fleeting smile across her face, “you wish to build your Troia Nova in Llangarlia?”

“I do so at the goddess’ wish, Blangan.”

“Not the goddess of Llangarlia’s wish,” said Blangan. She had dropped her gaze to her lap, and she fiddled with the tassel of her belt as it lay in her lap.

“Tell me of Llangarlia,” said Brutus.

“What can I say, where can I start?” Blangan took a deep breath, and lifted her eyes to stare over the bay.

Brutus did not like it that she wouldn’t look at him. “Will they welcome us?”

Now she did look at him, steady and sure. “I cannot know,” she said. “It has been over twenty-five years since I was last in Llangarlia. But they most certainly will not welcome
me
.”

Before Brutus could ask the obvious question, Corineus, wary-eyed, broke in.

“Brutus,” he said, “may I speak a little of Locrinia’s relationship with Llangarlia?” At Brutus’ nod he went on: “Llangarlia is not a closed country; many people trade with the Llangarlians. I and my people do, the states to the north of us do, the people of Crete even traded precious spices and gold for their tin and copper. But the Llangarlians do not encourage closeness with any outsiders.”

“Yet you married an outsider, a merchant,” Brutus said to Blangan.

“I was forced into the doing by my mother,” Blangan said. “I admit myself glad when my merchant husband died and Corineus,” she reached out to him and took his hand, “took me into his home and his bed.”

“Who is their king?” said Brutus. “What strength of swords does he command?”

“Llangarlia has no king.”

“How can this be? Every land has a chief, a king, a—”

She held up her hand. “Peace. There are many tribes, or Houses, and each House has its Mother.”

A
Mother?
Brutus frowned.

“But overall we defer to two people—the living representations of our gods Og and Mag. There is the Gormagog, who represents Og,” again something in Blangan’s manner made Brutus study her well, but whatever discomfort the name of the Gormagog caused her, she suppressed it well, “and there is the priestess of Mag, and we call her the MagaLlan.”

“This priestess of Mag, the MagaLlan. Is she a powerful woman, tall and beauteous? Is there a deep russet streak through her dark hair? Does she wield the power of the gods themselves? Is she a mother, bearer of several children?”
Does she look like you?
he wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“The MagaLlan is always a mother,” Blangan said. “It is part of her duty. But as to the rest of your questions…Brutus, when I left Llangarlia, the MagaLlan was
my
mother. The woman you describe sounds like my younger sister, Genvissa.” Blangan gave a slight shiver, as if she were cold. “In Llangarlian society it is always the youngest daughter who inherits the power of the Mother, or of the highest Mother, the MagaLlan. Not the son, as in Trojan society, nor even the eldest daughter.”

Genvissa,
thought Brutus. I have a name for her! And this Blangan is her sister?

“The youngest inherits?” he asked. “How can this be so?”

“Why should the eldest inherit, whether son or daughter,” said Blangan, “when it is the youngest child who is the product of the mother’s maturity and life-wisdom?”

Brutus thought that sounded slightly naive—all knew the first-born was the strongest-born—but he left it alone. “And the Gormagog? Who is he? What manner of man is he?”

Blangan smiled very bitterly. “When I left Llangarlia the Gormagog was an ageing man,” she said, “and weaker than he’d ever been when he was in his prime. I cannot know what he is now.”

Brutus leaned back in his chair, and drank deeply of his wine. He was silent for many minutes, thinking of the woman of his vision, and of Blangan who seemed less than enthusiastic at the idea of going back to her homeland.

“Do you still speak the language of your birth?” he finally asked Blangan.

She bowed her head, and replied in something unintelligible.

He nodded wryly. “Will you teach it to me while my ships and people recover from the wild storm that so injured us?”

“I would be pleased. It is a simple language to master once you grasp its basic concepts. Brutus…” She paused, obviously uncertain whether or not to continue. “Brutus, many people have thought to conquer Llangarlia. They have marched into the mists surrounding the Veiled Hills, and they have never emerged again. Llangarlia is ancient, and unknowable…even to your gods. Be careful.”

“You don’t want go home, do you, Blangan?”

In answer, Blangan rose. “I should look in on your wife, Brutus, and make sure she is comfortable. I am
sure that you and your companions have much to talk about with Corineus, despite the lateness of the hour. Enjoy my hospitality, Brutus. I give it with great pleasure.”

A
ethylla was standing behind Cornelia, who sat on a stool, combing out the younger woman’s hair.

Blangan paused in the doorway, as yet unseen, and her lips twitched at the expression on Cornelia’s face.

“My dear,” said Blangan to Aethylla, walking across the room and taking the comb from her hand, “you look exhausted, and I am sure both your husband and child have need of you. Let me do that.”

Aethylla handed the comb over with some relief; the silence between her and Cornelia had grown so uncomfortable that Aethylla’s shoulders and neck were tense and tight. Her husband was
exactly
what she needed right now.

Blangan waited until Aethylla had left the room, then she took the woman’s place behind Cornelia and began gently to run the comb through the younger woman’s beautiful long hair.

“Your husband will be hours yet,” she said. “I have left him talking and drinking with his companions.”

Cornelia gave a small shrug of her shoulders, as if she cared not one way or the other.

“Corineus has told me a little of you,” Blangan said. As she spoke, she continued combing Cornelia’s hair with long, slow strokes, more caresses than acts of grooming. “Of how Brutus forced you into marriage, and forced that child into your belly. Of
how your home was destroyed, and your father killed under it.”

Cornelia did not respond verbally, but Blangan could see how she’d stiffened.

“I, too,” Blangan continued, very softly, “had a child forced into me when I was but a young girl, perhaps a year or two younger than you are now. I, too, was forced to leave my home. The difference between you and me, my love, is that all that misery culminated in a husband who loves me dearly. I have no idea what future awaits you, Cornelia, but I do hope that joy and love will be a part of it.”

There was a long silence, during which Blangan continued her long, slow combing of Cornelia’s hair, then, finally, Cornelia said: “I do not deserve that, Blangan.”

“Deserve what, my love?”

“Love and joy.”

“And how is it you do not deserve love and joy?”

“Because if my home lies in ruins, and my father under it, then that is nothing but my fault.”

“Cornelia? How so?”

Hesitatingly, Cornelia told Blangan of how she’d plotted with her father to kill the Trojans as they left Mesopotama, and how it had all failed, and her city, her people and her father had been horribly killed as a result.

“And yet if I’d left well enough alone, they would all have lived. Blangan, it was my fault.”

Blangan put down the comb and went to kneel before Cornelia, who was now crying, her face in her hands.

“Wait, Cornelia,” Blangan said, pulling the girl’s hands away from her face. “What of this goddess who came to you and proposed the plan? Is she not to blame?”

“Perhaps she was no goddess,” Cornelia said. “Perhaps she was just my own hopes and hates assuming dream form.”

Blangan frowned. “Which goddess was she? What did she look like?”

Cornelia spoke, describing the woman who had appeared before her, and as she spoke, Blangan felt a chill sweep through her body.

That was no goddess, that was Genvissa!

“Cornelia,” she said urgently, “I cannot now tell you
why
I know this, but know it I do. That was no goddess appearing to you, but the greatest of Darkwitches. You were pushed into doing her own will, Cornelia.
It was not your fault!
Blame lies elsewhere.”