Harvest Moon (7 page)

“Impeccable reasoning, Father,” said a rather stern-looking young woman in a helmet and metal breast-plate in addition to the usual draperies. In her case, the draperies covered a disappointing amount, from her collarbone down to the ground.

His conscience chided him for that thought; he put it aside. Besides, she was carrying a spear and looked as though she knew how to use it.

“Four
black
horses? Then it can't have been Helios or Apollo,” the young woman continued. “It's unlikely to have been Hephaestus. That leaves only one possible candidate.”

“Two, if you count Thanatos. Hades lets him drive, sometimes,” the man on the throne corrected with a sigh. He turned his attention back to Leo and was about to say something, when there was a soundless explosion
of black smoke, and two
more
women appeared at the edge of the courtyard. One, dressed in a dark blue drape, was visibly distraught. The other, dressed in black and carrying a torch, with a huge dog on either side of her, looked sterner than the young woman in the helmet.

“Hold, Zeus!” the black-clad one intoned. “Hear now the pleas of Demeter, whose daughter has been foully riven from her this day!”

“What,
another
one?” exclaimed a young man, who was dressed in sandals with wings on them and not much else, exclaimed. “There hasn't been this much excitement around here since Zeus turned into a swan!”

The man on the throne colored, and the oldest-looking of the women glared metaphorical thunderbolts at both of them.

“Or was it a bull?” mused the irrepressible young man, glancing slyly at the chief of the gods.

“Hermes!”
the young woman in the helmet hissed at him. The oldest woman glowered.

The woman in dark blue—Demeter—wept. Leo shifted his weight uncomfortably, but—
damn it, I was here first.
He firmed his chin and stood his ground.

But at this point all the gods started talking at once. The males were adamant that whatever had happened to Demeter's daughter,
they
had nothing to do with it. The females had started to group themselves around Demeter and the other one. Clearly, this was turning into a potentially ugly situation.

It was broken up when two literally radiant young men appeared in another explosion of smoke, this one white instead of black. “Hail Zeus!” said the handsomer of the two. “Ha—”

He did a double take.

“What in the name of heaven and earth is going on?” he demanded.

The gods all started talking again. Finally the young woman in the helmet silenced them all by pounding the butt of her spear on the marble, which rang like a gong.

Leo blinked.
That
was certainly an interesting trick. And effective.

“Hail Apollo,” the young woman said, with no hint of mockery. “This mortal came before us on god-horses, making a claim that one of the gods falsely stole his wife away. He had not done making his testimony when Hecate appeared with Demeter, saying that Persephone was also stolen. That is the long and the short of it. However, now that you are here, you—or rather, Helios—are in a position to answer both those accusations, for Helios sees all things.”

“Most
things, wise Athena,” said the other young man with a slight bow. “In the matter of Persephone…” He hesitated.

“Speak, Helios!” the woman in black commanded him sternly.

Helios sighed. “Much as I hate to break a mother's heart, I did see Hades take Persephone. But it looked to me as if she went willingly.”

Demeter let out a wail that woke tears in Leo's eyes, and at least half the gods' as well. “No, great Zeus, this cannot be! Hades? Lord of Darkness and Gloom and Death? He is no fit mate for my golden child!”

Helios coughed. “Ah, gracious goddess, I hate to contradict you, but Hades is ruler of the Underworld, the third part of creation, and is the brother-equal to Poseidon and Zeus himself. If
he
isn't worthy, no one is.”

“Then I shall linger here no longer!” Demeter let out
a heartbroken cry and fled, vanishing among the gardens and marble edifices below. The woman in black watched her go, broodingly, then turned to Zeus.

“I would learn the truth of this myself, Zeus,” she declared.

“By all means, Hecate, do as you please,” the man on the throne said weakly. “Don't mind me, I'm only the king here.”

With a sardonic smile, the woman in black vanished in another poof of black smoke.

Now Helios turned to Leo. “As for this mortal…” he said, his brow wrinkling thoughtfully. “Ah, yes. It was Hades's chariot that took his golden mate. But it was Thanatos who took her.”

A leaden silence fell. It was the woman in the helmet who broke it. “Mortal, what was it you said that Thanatos called out?”

Leo licked lips gone dry. Whoever this “Thanatos” was—the gods thought the situation was very serious indeed. “Uh—he said, ‘Well, there you are! You went to the wrong meadow, just like a girl. I've been looking all over for you!' Then he grabbed her and vanished into the earth.”

“Oh, dear.” The silence grew even heavier. “Mortal, I am sorry. Given that Hades was seen to leave with Persephone—who is a golden-haired maiden—and given that Thanatos, Hades's servant, was driving Hades's chariot—I believe your wife is the victim of a case of mistaken identity.”

Zeus looked unhappily down at the helmeted woman. “Do you think?”

She nodded. “Aye. I think he sent Thanatos to fetch Persephone, so that her mother would have no way to
take her back. But Thanatos had never seen the girl, and took the first woman that matched her description. This mortal's wife.” She turned to Leo. “Mortal, I am sorry. There is nothing we can do for you.”

Leo's anger erupted again. “What do you mean, there is nothing you can do for me? He's one of you, isn't he? Order him to bring her back!”

“Mortal—” The oldest woman stepped forward, a sympathetic and sorrowful expression on her face that filled him with dread. “Mortal, even the gods are subject to rules. Thanatos took your lady. Thanatos is the god of death. Not even we can take her back from him. That is why Hades must have sent Thanatos to take Persephone.” She shook her head. “I am sorry. But we are as helpless as you.”

 

“Is there a precedent for getting someone out of here?” Brunnhilde demanded.

“Well…” Hades paused.

“I didn't actually
die,
you know!” she snapped. “I was kidnapped by your dim-witted flunky!”

“Hey—” Thanatos objected weakly.

“She has a point,” Persephone said patiently. “Just because Thanatos took her doesn't mean she actually died. He took her body
and
spirit.”

“It's a technicality, but it's the technicality we were going to use to keep
you
here,” Hades pointed out.

Brunnhilde's eyes darkened dangerously. “Do you really
want
to get into a battle between my people and yours?” she asked, her voice low and menacing. “You wouldn't like that. We're not civilized.” She moved very close to Hades and narrowed her eyes. “We
live
for fighting. We
thrive
on doom. My father actually
tried
to bring on Ragnorak. He'd be overjoyed to find a way to destroy not just one, but two entire sets of gods. If only to get away from his wife.”

“What's Ragnorak?” Thanatos wanted to know.

“Never mind. I don't want to know.” Hades waved his hands frantically. “No, we have to work together to figure out a solution. There has to be an answer.”

A puff of black smoke erupted next to Hades's throne. “By Gaia's left breast, Hades, you really are a moron,” said a sardonic female voice from inside it. The smoke cleared away, revealing a handsome dark-haired woman with a torch in one hand, accompanied by two dogs. “I cannot believe what a hash you made of this business. And you're no better,” she added in Thanatos's direction. She looked down at her dogs. “You two, go run and play with Cereberus.” She stuck her torch in a nearby holder, and the dogs, suddenly looking like perfectly ordinary canines, yipped and ran off.

She turned to Brunnhilde. “I'm Hecate. You must be the abducted barbarian.”

Brunnhilde nodded, and drew herself up straight. “Brunnhilde, of the Valkyria, daughter of one-eyed Odin, king of the gods of Vallahalia, and Erda, goddess of the Earth.”

“Or, in other words, half-Fae like all the rest of us.” Hecate did not quite smile. “When we choose to remember it, that is. Bah! A fine mess this is.”

She sat down on Hades's throne. Hades didn't even bother to protest. “All right, first things first. Persephone, I assume you're here of your own free will?”

Persephone looked ready to burst. “Aunt Hecate, I am
sick to death
of being treated like a toddler! I love my mother, really, I do, but she—”

“Was smothering you, as I told her a dozen times in the last year alone. You, Hades. Is this some enchantment or some other trick?” The gaze she threw at Hades would have impaled a lesser man.

Persephone answered before he could, proudly detailing how Hades had met her as a simple shepherd-god, much her inferior, and wooed her gently and with humor and consideration. Brunnhilde caught Hecate's lips twitching a little during this ebullient tale, as if the goddess was having trouble keeping her expression serious.

“All right, all right,” Hecate said when Persephone paused for breath, before she could start in on another paean to her love. “I'll take that as a no. And I suppose Athena was right—you intended to have Thanatos take her so you'd have the rules on your side to keep her here. Right?”

Hades confined himself to a simple “Yes, Hecate.”

“By Uranus's severed goolies, this is a mess. Let me think.” Hecate drummed her fingers on the marble arm of the throne. Her nails made a sound like hailstones. “Persephone, keeping you here should be easy enough. Eat. Eat something that was grown down here.”

Hades grimaced. “Ah…not…that…easy. The only thing that grows here is the asphodel—and that only nourishes spirits. We bring all the food we eat from Olympia. There just aren't that many of us that need real food.”

“Try the Elysian Fields, at least there's light there,” Hecate suggested. “Persephone, there has to be some of your mother's powers in you, go coax something to grow, then eat it. That will make you part of this realm. That's what works for the Fae realms, and The Tradi
tion should make it work here.” She pointed a thumb at Brunnhilde. “Now, you, and your mate. What is it, usually, Hades? Nearly impossible tasks?”

Hades nodded. “As few as one, as many as seven.”

Brunnhilde quickly saw where this was going, and nodded, though not with any enthusiasm. “And a year and a day, usually,” she said with resignation. “Damn.”

“Hades, you figure out some tasks for the barbarian woman. I think the best thing to do with the man is to set him to guard Demeter so she doesn't manage to get herself abducted by something nasty, or fall down a well, or something.” Hecate pondered. “I'll manufacture more tasks for him if I need to. Or who knows? He might just fall into some, thanks to The Tradition. Let's see if we can't get this happening sooner than a year and a day, or everyone and everything in Olympia is going to starve to death.”

She got up and reached for her torch. “Wait!” Brunnhilde said.

Hecate paused.

“This was all
your
fault,” Brunnhilde said, pointing at Thanatos. “I want something in exchange for going along with this and
not
just summoning my father and giving him an excuse for a war of the gods.”

Hecate raised one eyebrow. “She has a point. And I'm a goddess of justice, among other things.”

Hades nodded. “All right.” He sighed. “What is it you want?”

Brunnhilde smiled in triumph. “I want you to make my husband an immortal.”

 

So this was Elysium.

It was certainly pretty. Flowers, flowers everywhere,
underfoot, overhead in the trees, clouding the bushes. But not a hint of fruit. Nothing like a vegetable garden. No fields of grain.

Which, all things considered…was not at all surprising. Everyone here seemed to be blithely uninterested in the humbler tasks, or indeed, in work of any sort. Well, it wasn't as if they
had
to work; they were spirits after all, they didn't eat, or drink, they had everything provided for them. But it made her feel just a little impatient, looking at them lolling about, doing nothing but exercising, having games, discussing ridiculous things like “How do I know the color blue is the same to you as it is to me?”

Hecate was at least right about one thing. Elysium did have light. It had its own sun, and its own stars, which were in the heavens at the same time. She had gone to it by means of an imposing gate in an otherwise blank wall; here the gate stood, quite isolated, in the middle of a field of—yet more asphodels. She had the feeling that she was going to be very, very tired of asphodels after a while.

Perhaps if this experiment worked she could get other flowers to bloom in the gardens of Hades's palace.

There was none of that all-enshrouding mist here. Aside from the extraordinary sky—in which the sun, as near as she could tell, did not move, but simply winked out from time to time, making “night”—it was rather like the slopes of Mount Olympus, minus the animals and birds. No flocks of sheep, no songbirds, no insects. Hmm. And no bees.

Which means I am going to have to pollinate whatever I am trying to grow by hand.

But it wasn't wilderness. It was all very tame. Man
nered groves, manicured meadows big enough to conduct games in, hills with just enough slope to make a good place to watch, rocks where they were most convenient to sit on, small, “rustic” buildings or miniature temples dotted about.