“She has asked it of me, and you cannot stand between us.”
A great dread settled over him. “Asked what?”
Distinct glee emanated from the shade. “Asked for you.”
Adrea wept against him in helplessness, and Afias began to understand. “I have power here. I have command over my own soul.”
The demon laughed. Long, loud – a powerful chortle.
“My brother faced you, and he survived,” said Afias again, his desperation mounting. “So shall I. You are nothing but a phantom.”
Where eyes might have been, two circles of fire suddenly blazed up and then disappeared again, sucked back into the void. “I am the most powerful being in the world! Of all the gods, I am Might! I am Rule! I am Power!” His voice consumed the chamber, nearly sucking Afias’ breath away. He shook with Adrea.
“Petty mortals, so sure of themselves. All alone in the vast world. No one to help you.”
A fog over his mind, slowly bearing him down and wiping him empty, Afias felt as if his soul were being sucked from his body. With desperation, he remembered Trinian’s story and how he had called upon their father. Surely, there must be a god in the heavens willing to help him now!
He lifted his voice to defy the god, and recited the goddesses that he remembered from the myths of his youth. “Gods of goodness! Gods of right! Knowledge, I call upon your name. Peace, come to my aid. Hope, lift me from death; Joy, restore my soul; Knowledge, teach me to resist!” With each new name, his voice grew louder. With each call, his strength grew greater. “Gods of the heavens who despise not the souls of passing mortals, hear my plea and come to my assistance!” Then, suddenly, there were four new lights in the chamber, glowing stronger each moment with a pale white radiance. “Do not forsake us here to our dire fate. Save us! We are helpless alone.”
The wind in the chamber whipped so fiercely that the prince fell to the ground, Adrea still clutched in his arms. She curled in a ball, whimpering, but he rose to his knees and watched in astonishment as the four points of light converged on the void and filled it with a white shock so bright that the chamber shone like the clearest day. With a flash, it blinded him, and then it was gone.
All was ended, and the room was empty but for the man and woman upon the ground.
Afias drew Adrea up and held her at arm’s length; the paleness of her countenance and the wideness of her eyes frightened him so that he pulled out a chair and placed her in it. She refused to look him in the eye.
His voice was neither stern nor gentle when he spoke at last; only hollow. “How did the enemy come here?”
“A woman,” she quivered. “She did this. She called upon the help of the gods, and they possessed me.”
“What woman?”
“Etchta,” was spoken so quiet it was hard to hear; but when he did understand, he left.
* * *
The darkness of her soul was gone, leaving only emptiness. She wept, long and hard. She felt Etchta’s death when it came and the last vestige of connection with the dark arts departed, with a painful wrench, from her heart. When Afias returned she saw through her tears and tangled hair that his sword was clean, but she knew all the same that he had exacted justice.
He went to the window and stood with his back to her. She said, “I’m sorry,” but it came out as a breath. She cleared her throat and sobbed. “I nearly destroyed Drian. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
He turned slowly to look at her. “Why did you do it?” he asked simply.
“I thought – no…I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought you could rule better than I. You thought you would get me out of the way.”
She hung her head in shame. “Yes.”
He sat down in front of her. “I’m not perfect, Adrea. I know that. But I did not think you hated me so much.”
“I was wrong,” she quivered. “I was wrong.”
“I don’t think you’re capable of murder,” he went on. “Not really. It was the enemy preying upon your weakness, and he used you. But you let him.” He was silent then for a long time. She deserved to be locked up, even killed, and she knew it.
Finally, he said, “It will take awhile for me to trust you again, I think. But I think I will. Some of this was my fault; but if we both do better, I think we can get there. I know I can. Can you forgive me, and move on?” She was shocked, trying to understand: he was offering her mercy. He was offering her an apology.
He waited. Patient and steady and strong, he waited.
At last, she nodded. “I can move on.” She looked at him, and though she knew it was he who should say it to her, she needed to voice it, so she took a deep breath.
“I forgive you.”
He said it at the same time.
47
Goddesses
Hope was neither an active nor a social force, but she was a contagious one. Because of this, many of her sisters often gathered about her for tea and talking, and she liked this very much. Today was such a day, and a flutter of skirts, blouses, wide-legged silk pants, scarves, and ribbons played in the jasmine-scented breezes of the palace gardens.
Her sisters Joy, Peace, Knowledge, Famine, Plenty, and Charity were gathered on a picnic blanket on the grass, and even Solitude sat outside the circle, gazing contentedly upon them all. The only ones absent were Resolve and Passion, and so naturally, as is common among all women, whether mortal or goddess, they soon became the topic of conversation.
“They are obsessed with this new whim of Power’s,” said Plenty, picking up a bare grape stalk and watching plump fruit re-grow in her hand. “Does he really think he can defy the Golden King?”
Knowledge shrugged. “Apparently, he thinks it worth a try. But I’m at a loss how he sees that it will help in the long run.”
“He has always been a misunderstood god among the mortals. He never exactly have an advantage like the rest of us,” said Joy, who was a beloved goddess and thrived on the love mortals sent her. “Besides, he was created to wield power, and then had to watch the mortals use it instead – what kind of divinity is that?”
“A misused one,” said Solitude quietly, and they all turned to look at her. She was picking daisies and weaving the stems through her fingers. “We are not all beloved. It is not our job to wield our gifts over the mortals, but to teach them to understand them. I know, because loneliness is a terrible reality – but inevitable. And without it, there is no growth. I am not meant to bring it whenever I wish; but when I must, I do it as gently as I can. They do not often love me.”
Knowledge laughed, nodding at the insight of her sister. “I am a very inconvenient goddess as well, and I know it. There are many mortals who hate me.”
“And I do not think anyone loves me. That is hardly how I know when I am successful,” put in Famine.
Joy pouted and slumped her shoulders, suddenly curious. “If not on mortals’ love for us, then how are we to be judged?”
“On merit, I suppose; on duty,” answered Knowledge dismissively. She never doubted that the Golden King would reward her when he returned, for she had never squandered her gifts by interfering with the mortals – not like some of her brothers and sisters.
“On love,” whispered a new voice, and all the sisters turned to look at Charity who, to their astonishment, was weeping quiet tears. “I have known it for so long, but I was afraid of rejection, so I kept it to myself. Now I will not be rewarded. But more than that – I shall have to face the Golden King’s disappointment. His good, beautiful eyes will be so full of displeasure, and I shall wither away into nothing.”
Peace, who as the eldest usually kept her own counsel, took Charity in her arms and soothed her gloriously beautiful black hair from her troubled brow. Everyone fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Knowledge leaned toward Plenty, and said quietly to her. “Have we not loved? We never caused harm.”
Plenty was not used to discord, and shifted on the blanket uncomfortably. “I am sure I do n
ot know,” she said, her voice tinged with tension. “I gave to the mortals whenever I had to – is that not enough?”
“I thought so, but Charity does not seem to.”
“What do I care what Charity thinks? She has always been sensitive, and she is hardly all-knowing.”
Famine leaned over and caught the end of their intercourse. “But she does know the most about love. Maybe Solitude is right; maybe we owed the mortals more.”
“We never owed the mortals anything,” snapped Plenty. “They had everything they needed for life, and it was their duty to make the most of it!”
Knowledge grew uncomfortable and her heart squirmed inside her. In her distress, she spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “But what if…they needed guidance? What if we failed to give it to them when they needed it?” She was accustomed to having all the answers, and this uncertainty tore her apart.
“The Golden King never gave us any guidance, nor did any of his court, so how would he expect us to give it to those beneath us?” demanded Joy. Famine and Plenty visibly relaxed, settling themselves into the grass and nodding their heads in agreement.
But Charity was still weeping quietly, and Knowledge and Solitude frowned, unconvinced. Hope watched them all, silent and uncritical. She did not know what she thought – unlike the others, she never, in the past twelve hundred years, believed she had the answers. So not having them did not plunge her into despair.
“Peace,” said Knowledge suddenly, “what do you think?”
Peace smiled her beautiful, sad smile. She was always regal, with her hair piled in silken silver folds, keeping in her mind always how fleeting was each beautiful, sacred moment. She was aged and wise, thoughtful and caring. And she never answered questions. So she said instead, in her deep-timbered voice, “Knowledge, my dear, and Hope and Joy, why did you fly to Prince Afias’s aid when he called upon us? Many mortals call upon us every moment of everyday, but I have never seen anything like I did when I saw you, with your beautiful lights, fly to save him. What makes him so special?”
Joy said decisively: “He did not deserve to be possessed by a god.”
“I see a wonderful future for him,” said Hope dreamily, “so long as he remains free.”
Knowledge was the last to speak, and took her time about it. At last she said, “I see. I understand now.”
Solitude leaned forward. “What do you see?”
“I will explain…when I know more.” She smiled at her quiet sister. “I promise.”
VII
DESPAIR
“Love is a trick played on us by the forces of evolution. Pleasure is the bait laid down by the same. There is only power. Power is of the individual mind but the mind’s power is not enough. Power of the body decides everything in the end and only might is right.”
- T.H. White, The Once and Future King
48
How to Light the Fire
While leaving Rarks, following Asbult in the darkness as their group silently departed the forest haven, Merciec was vigilant for any more enemies from Kelta, but it seemed the dark-haired man was the only one. Saying nothing to Garrity or Asbult, but keeping the wild, desperately volatile princess at his side, he remained on his guard.
The verdant green wood of Mestraff was overwhelming in its thickness. The many trees pushed against each other like people in a crowd, shoving against those around them to see something on the other side. So thickly clustered, they formed a multi-layered wall impenetrable by sight. The branches above intertwined as a yellow/green barrier between the earth and the sun, with only occasional shafts of golden beams streaking through. Underfoot, and creeping up all around, grew thick moss and trails of lichen that muffled footsteps. Little waterfalls and streams ran courses through the wood, trickling and flowing over the rocks and stones, catching the scattered light and throwing it back in sparkling patterns, or else stagnating into little pools that added to the overwhelming green with their algae film.
It was impossible to travel in a straight line. For three days, Asbult led the group across the forest, wading through ankle deep moss and pushing through crisscrossing branches, wandering away from their destination, and then trudging round about again back to it.
Asbult had assigned Merciec to the rear as guard, and Lavendier traveled with him. If anyone thought this a strange development, they kept it to themselves: Lavendier had never been so quiet in her life.
Asbult naturally took advantage of making any and all jokes about the terrain that he might, but he was deceptively carefree. He knew that gorgans patrolled the land, and he was forever on guard for raiding parties.
“We’re going to set up camp here!” called Garrity on the third day. They had trudged long, and the wood was falling into emerald dusk.
“We need dry wood and kindling,” said Asbult, about to assign the task to one of the other men.
“Princess Lavendier can do that. Can’t you?” said Merciec.
Her heart soured, but she stood up from where she had dropped against a giant fir. “Yes,” she said quietly with a set face, and set off into the trees. She grumbled aloud as she picked up sticks and fallen logs, her curly hair frizzed around her temples and forehead, and puffed out of a pony-tail at the nape of her neck. Cursing her long dress train, she picked it up and tucked it into her belt. She had not changed clothes in three days, and her shoes were cold, wet, and clumped with mud. Despite the lack of a mirror, she was convinced she looked worse than the gorgans themselves, and she justified neglecting her toilet by deciding that neat hair or a freshly washed dress would look grotesque when paired with her dirty fingernails and haggard, plain, unmade face. For the past three days she had slouched and tramped and grimaced, refusing to glide, smile, or stand with dignity since she looked like a hovel witch.
As she was gathering the sticks into her arms and cursing the way they snagged against her sleeves and hair, she suddenly dropped them and glanced toward the forest. There was a loud rustle approaching. Something was coming near. Frozen in place, staring in wide-eyed terror, the bushes parted before her – and a stag bounded into the clearing. She screamed and raced back to camp.
“Captain!” she cried at Merciec, who was quietly rubbing lard up and down his bow.
“Yes, my lady. Is there something you want?”
“I can’t defend myself!”
He coolly looked over her tall figure. She expected him to scowl, as she would have done, but she was constantly surprised by his mild, pleasant manner. His looks often made her feel like she was far more powerful than she thought, and now he only frowned grimly. “Fire is always contagious,” was his enigmatic answer.
“Fire cannot light itself,” she whined, her quick wit coming out before she could stop it. She hated to appear smart before men.
“And a good thing, too. No, my lady, I don’t grant your request. I don’t yet trust the fire to spread where it ought to go.”
She huffed, and he raised his eyebrows. “Did you get the firewood?”
“No!”
He was silent.
She scowled at him. “Fine.”
When the fire had been kindled and Asbult was preparing to heat water for dinner, Jacian grew quarrelsome and restless. Adlena attempted to quiet him but he only grew more belligerent and irritable, until finally, he sent up a wailing howl. It did not echo or carry far, dampened as was all sound by the close forest, but it was loud nevertheless.
“Silence him,” cried Asbult to Cila, who swiftly covered his mouth with her hand. The little prince continued to whine and struggle until Garrity bent down to his level, looked him in the eye, and sternly commanded him to be quiet. The prince was awed by the big, silent man’s gaze, and fell still.
Asbult was craning his neck, listening. “They’re coming. Get ready.”
“What do we do?” asked Adlena, clutching her son as fear swept through her, chilling her blood.
“It will be alright,” Merciec assured her while the men formed a circle ar
ound the women. “Stay still and we’ll protect you.”
“That’s what you think,” muttered Lavendier, but he ignored her. Hardly even realizing what she did, the eldest princess remained close to the skilled archer, following, almost unconsciously, his every movement.
Then the attack came. There were seven gorgans, their man-like shapes, untamed eyes, and fearsome brawn making them seem like something out of a nightmare. On facing them so near, Lavendier’s heart leapt as if fleeing her body, and she stumbled backward. The hem of her long gown caught at her feet, and she fell to the ground. If they came for her, she could not run away.
More and more gorgans poured through the trees, congesting the clearing and pushing the defenders closer together. Merciec told the ladies to climb the trees nearby, and they clambered up and took refuge in the branches. Merciec handed Jacian up to the queen, and he, Garrity, and Asbult fought with unyielding energy.
Lavendier saw one of the villains make for Asbult, who was locked in a body-hold with another gorgan. In a bright flash of indignation, she fished in her pouch and found an apple she was saving. With quick aim, she threw it, and it hit the creature squarely on the forehead. Like a mad dog, it turned from her brother-in-law and shot its gaze toward her with blazing eyes. It leapt upon the tree and tried to clamber up but failed. So instead, it leapt upward, and at each leap it went higher, its open jaw snapping at her legs. Viol screamed in terror from where she sat on the next branch.
Lavendier, incensed but feeling helpless, grabbed hold of a limb above her head and swung when it next leapt, kicking at it. It grabbed her, but with her free foot she hit it squarely in the jaw so that its tongue tore and blood splattered over her. With an angry cry, it slid down her leg, ripping it with its nails.
Merciec noticed them then and flew an arrow at their attacker, killing the gorgan, and Lavendier clambered back up into the tree. The battle, to her relief, was over, and gorgan bodies were strewn about on the ground.
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