Hades Daughter (64 page)

“I was born as any other child,” he said, “and grew as did any other child. But when I was six or seven, I was stricken with aches in my head so painful, so agonising, I could barely move. I could not stand light, and I was racked with nausea so bad that whenever I retched my head exploded in pain infinitely greater than what I already experienced.”

“And that was the growth of these horns?”

“No. I endured these pains and spasms for many months, with scarcely a single pain-free day in all that time. I would not eat, and lost so much weight my father and aunts thought I would die.

“Eventually, driven to desperate measures, they trusted in an old man with a cruel skill. He was a head borer, a lifter of evil spirits.”

He stopped, not only talking but walking as well, and I could see his face twist with the memory.

I wanted to tell him to stop, that I did not want to know, but somehow the words would not come out.

“They thought that if they released the evil spirits from my head then I would be well again,” he said, “and so one day they caused me to drink great quantities of honeyed mead—I retched most of it up again, but enough stayed down to blot out much of my consciousness—and held me down. And this old man took to my head the tools of his trade.”

I gaped at him, appalled.

“He had a drill made of hardened bone, and this he drilled into my skull.”

Without thinking I took his hand, feeling the shudder that shivered his flesh.

“They say,” his voice had dropped, “that when he drilled into my skull, great black matter bubbled its way free…” He took a deep breath. “They bound up my head, and waited. For some days it seemed as if the hole had indeed let escape the vile spirits that had plagued me…but then one day the headache struck again, infinitely worse than usual, and in a different part of my head.”

“Oh, Loth…”

“And so the old man came back, and he drilled again. And then again the next week when still the pain did not abate. And each week for seven weeks after that until I swear my skull was nothing but
searing holes that leaked black vileness. Eventually the pain in my head
did
abate…and the old man packed up his bone drills and let me be…but as my skull re-grew about the holes he’d drilled into its bone, so it grew in strange humps and lumps, and thus…”

His free hand waved vaguely at his head. “Thus I am marked. But…but in a strange way I did not mind all that pain and despair…for amid the worst of it Og came to me, and held me and comforted me. He said I had shown strength and endurance, and that this strength and endurance, bolstered with his love, would see me throughout my life.”

He looked at me, a peculiar light in his eyes. “I thought to have lost his love and support, Cornelia. I thought Og was dead. But tonight I find I have hope again.”

I was still holding his hand, and now I let it go and backed away, fearing Loth would try once more to persuade me to plot against Genvissa.

But Loth’s face suddenly clouded over, and all the hope and light in his eyes dimmed.

“My father,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My father. He is dying.”

G
envissa lowered her head over Aerne’s struggling chest, her eyes dutifully moist. Behind her stood her three daughters, Brutus, and some fifteen or sixteen Mothers all crowded into the house.

Witnesses.

This was a terrifying moment for most of the Mothers. With Aerne’s death, they were launched totally into the unknown. Always there had been a Gormagog and a MagaLlan, guiding and directing them in the love and care of Og and Mag. But Og was dead, and his final representative, Aerne, was dying also.

Aerne’s final breath would herald a new age, frightening for its unknowability.

For Genvissa and Brutus, contrariwise, it was merely another step towards their ultimate goal.

Nevertheless, Genvissa appeared truly saddened at Aerne’s dying. She wiped his brow, and brushed back his hair with a soft hand. She leaned and kissed his cheek, and smiled so that his final sight would be pleasing.

“I have let you down,” Aerne whispered. “Everyone. If only I hadn’t lain with Blangan—”

“Hush,” said Genvissa, “you were not to know she was such a Darkwitch.”

“I tried so hard to make matters well again,” Aerne continued. “You cannot know what a bitter blow this has been to me that I have failed.”

“There was nothing any more or any different that you could have done,” Genvissa whispered, stroking Aerne’s brow. “May all the gods in the Far World bless you and defend you.”

“If only Loth…if only Loth…” Aerne said, weeping.

“Loth is here,” said a gentle, loving voice, “and Loth will do all he can to take your regrets and rectify them.”

Brutus turned around, very slowly, and looked at the man—the deformed monster—who was now walking calmly through the throng of Mothers to Aerne’s bedside.

Gods, no wonder Cornelia was so terrified of him.

“What do you here?” Genvissa’s voice was flat, and very cold.

“I come to farewell my father,” Loth said. “He may have regretted my mother, but I have never regretted him.”

“Go away, Loth,” Genvissa said, but Loth ignored her, and sat down on Aerne’s bed, taking his father’s hand.

“There is no hope, save for Genvissa,” Aerne said.

“There is always hope, and in the strangest places,” Loth said.

“Promise me you will aid her,” Aerne said. His eyes were watering, his lip trembling with the effort of speaking.

“I will do everything I can for this land,” Loth said, wiping away one of his father’s tears, “and if the only way to do it is by aiding Genvissa, then that is what I will do.”

Genvissa gave a hard, triumphant smile, and Loth looked at her.

“I will do
everything
I must in order to protect this land,” he said softly, and Genvissa’s smile slipped.

For some time no one spoke, all eyes back on Aerne. The old man’s eyes were now closed, although tears
still trickled from under their lids; his skin was grey, his breathing was becoming ever more erratic. Genvissa laid her hand on his brow, and Loth’s hold on his father’s hand tightened.

Softly, regretfully, weeping, Aerne died, and one among the Mothers wailed.

Loth raised his face, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I am my father’s heir,” he said, looking between Genvissa and Brutus. “Never,
never
forget that!”

Then he rose, and was gone.

Genvissa’s eyes locked into Brutus’, and they knew they had a bitter enemy.

Not so far distant, a matter of several days’ journeying only, King Goffar of Poiteran stood and stared unbelievingly at his wife.

She stood before him, trembling, her head bowed, her hands splayed over her stomach.

She had just told him that after so many years of barrenness, she was now some five or six weeks gone with child.

Goffar burst into laughter. “I shall have a son,” he roared. “A son!”

G
envissa bent her head back and let the late autumn sunshine wash over her face. Winter was rushing upon them: the nights were heavily frosted and the days bitter with northerly winds and miserable flurries of icy rain. This hour or two of sunshine was to be treasured, a gift perhaps from her foremothers watching over her from the Far World, wishing her love and wellness in these days leading to the final accomplishment of their dream.

To reconstruct the Game, to build a citadel of power, to ensure that they could never ever again be thwarted: to cement their power in the walls of this city and the labyrinthine enchantments of the Game.

It had taken so long…but Ariadne’s dream would shortly be realised.

Genvissa tipped her head forward again and looked about her. She stood on Og’s Hill, the Llan and Llanbank spread before her, Pen and Llandin at her back. Brutus, her partner in her dream, was conferring with Hicetaon a few paces away, talking of walls and foundations and water levels. Their faces were animated, their voices excited—now raised in frustration at the complications of an errant stream across the proposed line of the city wall, now energised with purpose as they discussed the local rock, a grey sandstone, and whether it would be strong enough to
carry not only the weight of the proposed walls, but the weight of the years and expectations it would of necessity have to bear.

Genvissa smiled, content. Whatever Loth had rambled about at his father’s deathbed, Og and Mag were surely gone, or so enfeebled as to be of no threat whatsoever.

Asterion…well…not even he could darken Genvissa’s happiness. She knew he had been conceived by Goffar…but it was too late, far too late, to stop her.

There was just her and Brutus now, and this land.

Soon no one would remember Og’s and Mag’s names; all would celebrate hers and Brutus’.

As if her thoughts had communicated themselves to him, Brutus looked up, and smiled at her.

Ah, but how she adored him. He was everything to her; so strong and virile (and how she looked forward to their first bedding, that magical moment when she would bind him to her entirely, and when he would sire her daughter-heir), he was the one who would turn her dreams, and all the dreams and hopes of her foremothers, into a reality.

The astonishing reality: Troia Nova, citadel of dreams, keeper of the Game, their road to immortality.

His smile deepened, and she wondered if he, too, was thinking of that moment when they could allow their lust free rein. If they had just been man and woman, then they would undoubtedly have already consummated their passion.

But they were not just man and woman. They were the Kingman and the Mistress of the Labyrinth, and that meant their physical desires must be played out to the steps of the Game so that both it, and they, would be the stronger for it.

They would be wedded to each other
and
to the Game, for there could be no other possible existence for them.

“We will enclose these three mounds,” Brutus said, his eyes still locked into Genvissa’s. “The southern wall of the city will run along the Llan, making full use of the cliff faces of its northern bank. Then,” his eyes moved away from Genvissa, to the north, and he gestured with his hand, “the wall will curve in a flattened semicircle above the Llan, enclosing the White Mount, and Mag’s and Og’s Hills. This will be a good city, strong and easily defended and, sitting atop these mounds, it will command the entire Llan valley.”

She walked down to join him and Hicetaon. “Will it have grand bastions and walkways, Brutus? Will the wall shine in the sun, dazzling all who gaze upon it?”

Brutus laughed, sharing a glance with Hicetaon. “If we can make the foundations strong and deep enough, then yes, Genvissa, it will be a dazzling city, surrounded by the mightiest wall in the world.”

“We can entirely enclose the Wal,” Hicetaon said enthusiastically, referring to the wide stream that flowed between Og’s Hill and Mag’s Hill into the Llan. “Troia Nova will have a permanent and secure water supply. No one will ever be able to lay successful siege to it.”

“Llangarlia will be strong,” said Genvissa.

“Indeed,” said Hicetaon, then forgot what else he was going to say as his eyes shifted. “Ah, here comes Cornelia. You have not yet shown her the site, have you, Brutus? Perhaps you can point out where you will build you and her a palace.”

He was looking at Cornelia as he spoke, and missed entirely the furtive glance shared between Brutus and Genvissa.

Genvissa sighed and straightened, moving away from Brutus to look down the hill.

Her face tightened, irritated beyond measure. Cornelia was indeed making her way up the slope, a somewhat
forced smile on her face and a sway to her hips that the silly thing undoubtedly thought was attractive.

Then, stunningly, Genvissa felt a moment’s queasiness in her stomach, as if a darkened fate walked up that slope rather than Cornelia, and she kept her face expressionless only with great effort.

Why was Asterion’s name so allied with this girl? Why? Why?
Genvissa sent a short, but fervent, prayer to whichever gods were listening that Brutus would rid himself of this girl. Soon. Permanently.

And if he did not…Genvissa nodded slowly to herself, her dark, hard eyes not once moving from Cornelia. If Brutus did not, then Genvissa would.

Soon. The night of the Dance of the Torches.

She almost smiled. How…balanced. A conception and a death, and the Game would be safe forever.

Cornelia threw Genvissa another glance, even more apprehensive now that she saw the cruelty in the older woman’s eyes, and walked to Brutus’ side.

“Cornelia,” Brutus said, and Genvissa’s determination increased as she sought, but failed, to detect any discernible irritation in Brutus’ tone.

Cornelia spent a moment studying the view, apparently riveted by its beauty, then turned to her husband. “Are you planning your city?” Cornelia said. “Will you show me?”

Genvissa rolled her eyes, knowing Cornelia could see her, and turned away, hoping that Brutus would dismiss Cornelia.

But he didn’t. He merely sighed. “I had not thought you to be interested,” he said. “Will you not be bored with talk of masonry and footings?”

“I have not come all this way to be bored,” she said, trying too hard to appear relaxed. “I want to know. Please, will you show me?”

Brutus looked at her, wondering if this was coquettishness on her part (when had Cornelia ever
been interested in what he planned?), but, seeing only genuine interest, he began to feel a little guilty. Since his arrival at the Veiled Hills he’d made no secret of his alliance with, and deep attraction to, Genvissa. Cornelia must surely be certain they were already lovers, and yet she had said nothing to him. Indeed, she had made no complaint, acceded to his every request and demand without hesitation or question, and had been compliant and submissive.

Almost as if her spirit had been broken.