“I am sorry Hermes followed me here,” he said. “I hope you will not blame my master. King Poseidon bade me take precautions, and I did, but it is almost impossible to hide anything from that master of mischief.”
“No, I do not blame Poseidon,” Demeter said slowly. “He has been a good friend to me.”
She had only taken in what he said with the surface of her mind, and her reply was mechanical. She was thinking as she spoke of the first part of Nerus’s prophecy—that she would get back her daughter—and remembering her fear when she first tried to think of a plan to steal Kore from Hades that the lord of the underworld could rise up out of the earth at her feet. Even if Zeus bought Kore back, what was to stop Hades from seizing her again?
The answer had come when she said the name Poseidon. Water! That would stop Hades. He was master of earth and rock, but not of water. He could not pass through water any more than Poseidon could pass through rock. If Zeus did get Kore back, they would both be safe on Aegina—if Poseidon would permit them to stay there. Demeter remembered all too well Poseidon’s first refusal to ask Hades to return Kore and his hidden fear of the King of the Dead. But if he feared Hades, he must hate him too, and if Hades could not reach Aegina, Poseidon was safe from him—and might well enjoy keeping her poor Kore safe from recapture. Demeter smiled at Nerus and began to speak.
* * * *
Having closed the door between himself and Demeter, Hermes was free of his oath not to work a spell without her permission. He pulled at his Gift, imaged a spot before Zeus’s throne in Olympus, and gritted his teeth as a cold beyond cold leeched energy out of him. He barely had time to think that it was fortunate the spells he created to move others from one place to another took their energy from the one who used the spell, when he appeared at the spot he had imaged before the empty throne. His knees trembled slightly, having made two passages in so short a time, but he set off to find Zeus without delay.
Five days later Hermes appeared in a similar spot in Hades’s great throne room. His legs did not tremble because it was the first passage he had made that day, but there were deep bruises under his eyes and his cheeks were hollowed by the heavy drawing on his power since he had first spoken to Demeter.
Hermes had chosen to arrive in Hades’s great cavern at a time when the King of the Dead usually gave public audience. As he expected, the throne was occupied, and his arrival out of thin air caused some stir among the waiting petitioners. However, Hermes was almost as surprised as they. Beside Hades’s throne was another chair, equally magnificent, which held a woman of ravishing beauty. Her hair poured like a gilded waterfall down over her shoulders and back, her eyes put to shame the glow in the best yellow diamonds, power was an almost palpable haze around her. That her quality was appreciated was evident; her gown was a diaphanous mystery and the brilliance and quantity of exquisite goldwork and precious stones that adorned her hair, brow, ears, neck, arms, waist—everywhere—was stunning.
“It is a long time since I have seen you, Hermes.” Hades’s deep voice was calm; he was not shocked by Hermes’s sudden appearance nor in the least concerned about his purpose in coming. His black stare was level, compelling, as he continued, “Let me introduce you to my wife, Queen Persephone, who is also high priestess of the Goddess among us.”
Hermes smiled—nervously—and bowed. The name probably meant “dazzling brightness,” but there was another meaning for “Persephone” in the old language, with which Hermes’s love for words, especially words with double meanings, had made him familiar. Persephone could also mean “brilliant destroyer.” Either meaning seemed remarkably appropriate to the woman, and she looked at him as calmly as did Hades.
Hermes was never easy around Hades, not because he had any fears of being trapped in the underworld, but because Hades was indifferent to him. Unlike others, Hades did not fear Hermes’s mischief; the quiet, dark power in him swiftly quenched any inclination on Hermes’s part to practice tricks or tell lies. Hades was always patient, never angry, but every time a wicked notion flicked through Hermes’s mind in Hades’s presence, the young mage had a vision of a large, empty hole where his palace had once been.
“I bring a message from Zeus,” Hermes said.
Without replying, Hades turned his head to look at Persephone. “Perhaps,” she said, “it would be better to hear Zeus’s message in private.” She cocked a finger, and a big, strong man hurried forward and bowed. “Aktaion, would you be kind enough to take Hermes to the central audience chamber in the palace? Koios might wish to join him there while we finish our business here.”
Hermes opened his mouth to ask if there were a new ruler in Plutos, but Hades had already turned his attention to a man with blackened face and hands who was saying something about a golden death that crept into a deep fissure. For one moment the woman beside Hades faded and looked uncertain and Hermes thought, Kore, Mother bless me, that is Kore. Then the woman’s face firmed into a kind of disgusted hatred and Hermes shivered. No, he thought, that was Kore. She is Persephone now without a doubt.
He shuddered again as he followed the big man, who had bite scars on one cheek and one arm and shoulder, not because of the time he would have to spend with Koios, although the crippled steward made him feel sick, but because he feared he would be preaching a lost cause. He had counted on Hades having grown tired of his simpering captive, of a tearful and terrified little girl—not that Kore was any smaller of stature than Persephone, but that she seemed somehow less—begging to be allowed to return to her mother. He uttered a cracked laugh at the idea of Persephone begging for anything, particularly for her mother.
Olympus would starve, he thought. With the crops they had and the secret importation of grain from the natives through the many temples where the Olympian “gods” were worshipped, they could eke out existence this year. But if they had no better crops next year, the cattle would have to be slaughtered because of the lack of fodder, and— The anxious thoughts were interrupted by a near hysterical gasp of laughter. Apollo would have a fit if his precious “golden” cattle were threatened.
Hermes caught his lip between his teeth. That might not be all bad. Perhaps Zeus could use the threat of slaughtering the cattle to convince Apollo and the other mages who controlled winds and temperature to alter the weather in the valley to provide grazing over the whole winter. No. Hermes shook his head. Such extended effort by the mages of Olympus would be seriously debilitating; it might not even be possible. He was already exhausted by the repeated effort of leaping between Olympus and Eleusis and Aegina. The thud and drag of Koios’s approach was almost a relief.
The cripple struggled into the room and nodded as well as he could with his crooked neck. “You will not wish to eat here,” Koios said, with a smile that made Hermes look away. “But sitting down will not bind you in any way, and I…find standing uncomfortable.” He dropped into a chair and gestured toward another.
“I was not born when Kronos was Mage-King,” Hermes said.
Koios uttered his rusty, gargling laugh. “I do not blame you for the damage done me. Nor did our lady intend to make you miserable by my presence. She is so kind and tender-hearted, she loves me because I love Hades. She does not think of how I look but enjoys my company and forgets that I make others uncomfortable.”
That was true enough, but Koios knew Persephone had not sent him to join Hermes because she wished to give Hermes pleasure but because she did not wish to give Hermes any chance to get into—or make—trouble.
Hermes smiled blandly, but kind and tender-hearted was scarcely what he had thought likely characteristics of the woman Hades called Persephone. However, Koios’s remark had given him one thread of hope. He had seen that something of Kore remained, and Koios seemed to imply that more remained than he had thought. Kore had been gentle and kind. Perhaps all was not lost. If he could play on what was left of Kore inside Persephone, she might pity her mother and the people of Olympus and induce Hades to let her go.
He
had not intended to expose the parlous state of Olympus, simply to say that Zeus had changed his mind and wanted his daughter back, that he would supply another priestess to take Kore’s place. That approach was hopeless. The idea that Hades could be indifferent to the magnificent creature who sat beside him—and to whom he deferred—was impossible. However, it was barely possible that Hades had bitten off more than he could chew and was regretting it. Persephone was rather overwhelming.
Hermes made some general answer to what Koios had said, adding his own praise of Persephone’s startling beauty. He got from Koios a litany of the lady’s perfections but the remarks were all so personally related to Koios himself that Hermes could not judge what Hades felt about so overpowering a consort. His hopes rose and fell during the conversation, but he was no wiser when Hades and Persephone joined them.
First his heart sank when he saw the possessive way Hades’s hand rested on his wife’s shoulder as they came through the door. His hopes rose again, however, when Persephone stripped off most of her jewels and dropped them carelessly on the table next to Koios as she bent to kiss the cripple’s cheek and ask a low-voiced question. She was still lovely, but the incandescent beauty and aura of power that had startled him in the throne room were gone. Her expression was indeed kind and gentle.
Koios did not answer, only smiled and patted the hand she had laid on his arm, and she straightened and moved to a chair. Hades seated himself too, and they both faced Hermes.
“You may give me Zeus’s message now,” Hades said.
“It is about Demeter,” Hermes said. “She knows where Kore—”
“There is no Kore!” Hades’s voice grated like stone on stone. “Persephone is my wife and my queen.”
“I beg your pardon,” Hermes said. “I was thinking of Demeter, and she uses…ah…that word.”
Although his attention seemed to be fixed on Hades, Hermes’s eyes had flicked once to Persephone. It did not take more than that flickering glance to tell him that the lady was even less fond of the name Kore than Hades was. Persephone felt no longing to be again the nameless daughter of Demeter.
“We are aware that my mother knows I am Hades’s wife,” Persephone said. “Although he does not welcome the living of the outer world, my dear husband was kind enough to invite her to come to visit me. She did not choose to come. Perhaps she did not believe what Hades’s messenger told her. I hope you will tell her that I am very happy here. You have seen for yourself in what honor I am held.” She glanced at Hades and smiled. “You can also see that I am even more indulged, cosseted, and pampered here than I ever was in Olympus. My every wish is granted, almost before I know I have wished it. Let her heart be at ease.”
Hades smiled and nodded. “And let her know that my offer for her to come, stay as long or as short a time as she desires, and to go when she will and where she will, still stands. In fact, I will buy a spell.”
Persephone put a hand on Hades’s arm and he stopped and looked at her. She shook her head infinitesimally. Hermes barely managed to keep his face expressionless. That little shake of the head said clearly that Persephone did not want her mother to visit. Hades had been about to offer to buy a spell from him that would bring Demeter to Plutos and take her back to Olympus at her own will—which should certainly reassure her if she was afraid of being trapped—and her daughter had stopped him. But Hermes pretended he had not seen. His quick mind was leaping here and there seeking some opening.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I cannot tell her anything—”
“Is something wrong with my mother?” Persephone asked, seeming concerned at last. She caught at Hades’s hand.
Hermes was extremely tempted to say Demeter was dying and begging for her daughter on her deathbed. The lie would not have troubled him, nor would tricking Kore/Persephone. She was only a single person; her happiness should not weigh heavier than the well-being of an entire city. But Hermes felt Hades’s black gaze chill through his flesh to his bones. He looked up and realized the salvation of Olympus meant very little to him if he were not going to enjoy it, and though his lips were parted to speak, no sound came out.
“Well, what is wrong with Demeter?” Hades prodded.
The lock on Hermes’s tongue was broken, but he did not like the taste of fear and he resolved to tell the truth, or at least as much of it as would serve his purpose. “She—she is mad,” he said. “She will not listen to anything anyone says. All of Olympus tried to calm her. She does not desire hope or reassurance. She only moans for her daughter to be returned to her.”
To Hermes’s intense disappointment, instead of showing an increased sympathy for her mother’s sad condition, Persephone’s expression cleared. “I am sorry if she is making herself unhappy,” she said, “but I cannot see that there is anything more Hades or I can do.”
That door was closed, and Hermes had realized when Hades sealed his lie in his mouth with a single glance that no argument would convince him to yield up his wife. Hermes had nothing left but one last bitter truth. “Her unhappiness is somewhat more important to us,” he said harshly. “She has been wandering, looking for you, since last winter. She was not in Olympus to bless the fields and quicken the seed this spring—and we have less crops than grow wild in the natives’ lands.”
“But the temple—did not Aglaia and Dorkas—”
“They tried. Aglaia nearly died. The only reason we are not starving already is due to what she blessed before she collapsed because Dorkas—she was worse than useless. I think the fields she blessed bore less than those that went without altogether.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” Hades said. “My people are accustomed to doing without, so I can trade some grain for…more pigs, I guess, or—” He looked at Persephone. “Would you rather take some sheep?”
“We can think about pigs or sheep later,” Persephone said. “Surely now that she knows where I am, my mother will return to Olympus. And I know she will not withhold the blessing of the Goddess once she is there.”
“She will not return. She is settled into a temple the Eleusinians built for her and threatened to stab me if I tried to come close enough to transport her. She says that Zeus sold you to Hades and that she will never set foot in Olympus again until you are there.”
“Then Olympus is very likely to starve,” Hades remarked coldly. “I suggest that you and Zeus bend your fertile minds to some ruse by which Demeter can be persuaded. It will be for a better purpose than your devices usually have, and the pinch in your bellies should be a fine inspiration. I know what you are hinting at, but that easy path will not be yours. Remember, Persephone has been eating the food of Plutos for nearly two years.” His lips quirked, but his eyes were empty pools of darkness. “Have you not yet learned that the dead do not return?”
“Kore—Persephone is not dead,” Hermes said desperately. In spite of Hades’s frown, he struggled on. “I told you, Demeter is mad. She began the curse of the living death because I tried to stay and reason with her—”
“But that would destroy her power as well as blasting you, and the earth, and…” Persephone’s voice faded away.
“I said she was mad!” Hermes cried. “That is why no clever device of mine or Zeus’s is worth trying. She will destroy herself and the whole valley. I tell you, she will feed Olympus only if her daughter is with her. Hades, have mercy. You can have any or all of the priestesses in the temple. Only let me take Ko—Persephone back with me.”
“No.”
Hermes drew himself up. “Hades, we will not die without a fight. We are great mages also, and all our lives are at stake. Your powers are great, but against all of us—”
“No.”
“Wait, Hades,” Persephone said. “Yours is not the choice of whether I go or stay. Remember—the choice is mine.” She turned her head to meet Hermes’s eyes. “Come here, tomorrow at this time, and I will tell you what we have decided.” She cast a glance back at her husband’s face, which seemed carved in stone, and sa
id to Hermes, “Go! Now!”
Hermes went on the instant—gratefully.
Chapter 14
There was only the sound of moving air as the spot where Hermes had been sitting was filled, then Persephone cried, “Hades, please!”
He rose slowly, then went and helped Koios to his feet. “Farewell,” he said to Persephone.
“You are about to jump into a cave full of chrusos thanatos because you are too stubborn to turn back,” Koios said, raising his crutch and blocking Hades’s way to the door. “Perhaps there is no need to turn back. Stand still and see if you can avoid going deliberately to a lingering death. What can you lose by listening?”
“I do not wish to leave you,” Persephone cried.
Hades turned to face her and Koios made his way to the door, went out, and closed it behind him.
“There is no need for you leave me,” Hades said. “I do not see what there is to talk about. If you are still here tomorrow, after Hermes is gone, all will be well.”
“No, it will not,” she snapped. “We will all soon be dead.”
Hades uttered a bitter bark of laughter. “We are all dead already, are we not?”
“I am not a fool!” Persephone exclaimed. “I know that no one who has really died is here. My father Iasion is not here, nor Adonis, nor Narcissus, nor many others that have truly died in the body. How long did you think I could work with the women in the temple and the men in the fields and not come to understand what you meant when you told me your folk were dead in the outer world but alive in the underworld?”
He walked a few steps away, half turning, as if to put himself at a safe distance. “You are cleverer than I thought you would be that first day. You believed the tale of the six pomegranate seeds, so I thought you would believe I had cast a spell that made the wraiths seem solid.”
“For a while I did. When I first saw Koios, I did not believe anyone could live with such injuries. But Koios is not dead. No dead mind could be like his. Our people are the outcasts, the exiles, the scapegoats—dead only in the sense that they were driven out or escaped into Plutos. That is why they cannot return to the outerworld, and why they must eat and drink and have clothes to keep them warm. Did you think I would not notice that the children are not scarred or burned or broken, and that women bear children in a perfectly ordinary way—a strange thing for the dead to do.”
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