He turned quickly to rush away from the ugly revelation and saw the weapons and pack laid out and then the note. Bitterness could not really kill hope. He seized the note, hoping it was an explanation addressed to him, but all he found was a list of items that proved she planned a long journey.
The stroke that killed hope bred violence. He whirled back to the bed, seized her, and shook her brutally. “Where did you plan to escape to, you lying whore?” he bellowed.
“Teras!” she shrieked; her eyes had shot open when he seized her, but they were still glazed with sleep. “Teras, help me!”
“Teras will kill you, if you do not tell the truth for once. Where were you going?”
She had begun to struggle when she screamed for help, but when he spoke again she blinked and lay quiet. “To you, you idiot!” she said. “To Olympus, to find you.”
“I do not believe you,” he snarled.
She burst into tears. “I know, and you have reft from me my chance to prove my words. Why could you not stay away another few days?” she asked bitterly. “If I had come to you in Olympus, you would have known it was you I wanted to be with always. To come so far would have proved that I could go anywhere, that I do not live here and pretend love because I have nowhere else to go.”
Eros sat heavily down on the side of the bed. “I do not know what is wrong with me, Psyche. Why am I torturing us both?”
“It is partly my fault,” she said, sighing. “I made a mistake. Not in wishing to go back to Iolkas; that was necessary because the old strings around my heart had to be cut. The mistake was in clinging to my hatred of Aphrodite so that I could not go to the temple and ask for help in coming home. If I had come, as I intended, on the second day…but I did not, and you were hurt beyond bearing.” She hesitated, shrugged. “And partly the fault is yours, because you cannot believe what you know, that the outer appearance is nothing.”
He guessed that her next words would be an appeal to show himself in his true form, and he bent and kissed her. Had he only been a monster, he could have solved all his doubts that way. As it was, what would be proved by exposing his physical perfection to her? Oh yes, she would fling herself gladly into his arms and swear she had always loved his inner self, but he would not believe it.
She tried for a moment to push him away and break the kiss, but then she lay still. Nor did she try again to speak when he released her lips. She let him undress himself and opened her arms to him in silence, but when he kissed her again, he tasted the salt of tears. He almost pulled free, almost said angrily that he did not need to take a woman who was so unwilling that she wept, but one hand was stroking his hair with infinite tenderness while the other stroked his shaft with great skill. That was all. She tried no crazy tricks, no lewd contortions, but when he touched her, she was moist and ready and he could feel her quick, eager breathing.
Still when he came into her, legs and hands restrained his plunging. And when he drew slowly and then pressed in equally slowly, she took his face in her hands and kissed it, his brow, his cheeks, his mouth and chin, slowly, tenderly. She stroked his body, embraced it, stroked it again as if she wanted to learn every bulge and hollow, every smoothness and crevice, every hair. And all the while she moved with him, ever so slowly speeding the rhythm until at last she gripped him fast and ground herself against him, wailing aloud in an ecstasy that too clearly was half pain.
Hearing her, Eros wept himself, but he was also inflamed by the peculiar eroticism of mingled grief and passion. He drove himself faster and harder, feeling Psyche sobbing beneath him, but there was no refusal in that weeping. Her hands now stroked his inner thighs and his knotted scrotum and she plunged with him, adding her movement to his own to bring on his climax. His seed poured out in torrents, pulsing and pulsing until he felt as if his vitals would be torn loose and flow out with it, and he cried out in a kind of agony. Yet he could not stop, and he continued thrusting until he fell half-fainting into Psyche’s arms.
Half-conscious though he was, Eros did not want those arms to hold him. He rolled off her, limp as a bludgeoned ox, and with nothing to say. In the past he had always kissed her, teased her a little, made clear how much joy she had given him. What she had given him this night, he was sure, had brought joy to neither. There had been something wrong, not false—he could not say false—just wrong, something that made him uneasy about her lovemaking.
That made worse what had passed between them earlier. Although every word she said seemed true, inside him was an urgent hissing: treacherous, lying bitch. It was better to pretend he had fallen instantly asleep than to try to find words that would not disclose how much his suspicions had been increased by her peculiar behavior. And it was not long before he did sleep; sleep was an accustomed escape for him. Still, that escape had always been from boredom and nonfeeling rather than misery, so this sleep was not the same and was not deep or easy.
Once he felt a dreadful sense of loss, dreaming that Psyche was leaving, creeping from the bed to run away. He cried out, or dreamt he cried out, and then felt as if hands were passing over his body. That comforted him, and he lay still, lulled, just on the edge of sliding away into the depths of slumber when a glittering mist spun into the cloud of darkness, spread over him, and attached itself mote by mote along the fine black network of Hecate’s spell.
So stunned was Eros at the image his Gift sensed that he hardly felt the pain when the counterspell spread over him. He made no effort to protect himself for just a heartbeat—and then it was too late. The glittering motes burst into flame, searing the dark net. Eros screamed, and screamed again as the burning motes sank into him, piercing and tearing his skin, burning deeper and deeper as they sought the root of the spell of darkness. And then the slight misting that marked what was utter blackness to unspelled eyes was gone and he lay naked, panting with agony, under Psyche’s startled gaze.
“Mother have mercy,” she shrieked, backing away. “What have I done? Tell me you are not truly Eros!”
The words pierced his agony. Had she known he was Eros, she would not have worked the spell! She thought she was attacking a monster. He saw a stained piece of cloth fall from her hand and he knew it was his blood token, that Psyche, frustrated in her plan to escape the monster, had gone one step farther and tried to kill him.
Between his agony of mind and his agony of body, thought was impossible. Instinct cast the travel spell that would carry him to kindness, to safety, to where he would find comfort. But the use of power while spell and counterspell were already burning each other away only added to the conflagration, and Eros was far beyond screaming when his body collapsed bonelessly on the floor of his chamber in Aphrodite’s house.
* * *
Ordinarily Aphrodite did not trouble herself with Eros’s comings and goings. The faint trembling in the air that she recognized as the sign of a translocation spell would not normally impinge on her awareness. Fortunately, that night she was both awake and aware when Eros arrived because she had been too troubled to go to sleep.
For the seven past days, Eros had been what she remembered only from years past in a halcyon period between his gaining control of the spell of revulsion and the onset of remorse—and boredom. He had been alive, awake, interested in everything, eager to accompany her or to make innocent mischief for her. She knew he was not whole; she could sense the bond to Psyche remained, but he seemed to be stretching the tether longer and longer each day. Aphrodite had felt she had reason to hope it would soon hardly hold him. Then, in the middle of an idle game, he had jumped up, shaking his head angrily.
“I am eating my heart out,” he said. “Why should I sit here and suffer because I am away from her? Why should I deny myself the pleasure she gives only because I also suffer when I am with her? If I have the pain in any case, I might as well have the pleasure too.”
The suddenness of Eros’s action had startled Aphrodite so that she did no more than raise her brows. In any case he left so quickly she would not have ha
d time to argue, but she sat staring at his empty chair and an overturned piece on the playing board just in front of the chair and began to wonder for the first time whether the accursed Psyche had some sorcerous hold on him. And then she realized she knew virtually nothing about the girl. Hyppodamia had said Psyche hated her and was exceptionally beautiful; Eros had spoken mostly of Psyche’s cleverness, but he did not speak of her often. Frowning with annoyance, Aphrodite found a warm wrap and translocated to the temple in Iolkas.
She was even more annoyed when she returned, having apparently wasted the energy expended on the translocation spell as well as her time. Hyppodamia could tell her no more than gossip: it was known that Psyche had studied with the local witch. Brought to the temple and questioned, this woman said that Psyche was quick and clever about learning spells and casting them, but that she had so little power that the spells were usually without effect. She admitted a few envious women said that Psyche’s beauty was owing to a spell but she knew it was not true; Psyche, she said with mild contempt, could not cast a spell that would remain active. A spell cast by Psyche might bring a flash of beauty, but it would be gone almost immediately. It was no spell that made Psyche breathtakingly lovely.
Hyppodamia herself had sensed no power in the girl at all, but she admitted that she had been so overwhelmed by the fierce flood of resentment and rejection that poured out of Psyche, even while she agreed and then begged to be taken into the temple, that her senses could have been blinded to a small, weak Gift. However, she felt certain that she would have been aware of the kind of power that could force a god like Eros to obey Psyche.
The trouble with that assessment was that Aphrodite knew Eros was not a god and that he was particularly vulnerable and attuned to Psyche because of his emotional attachment to her. Still, it did not seem possible that Psyche could control Eros against his will unless she had far more power than either the witch of Iolkas or Hyppodamia suspected. There was no sense in asking Eros; since he was already bound to her, he would never acknowledge that she was summoning him and he could not resist. Aphrodite bit her lip. If she wanted an answer, she would have to have it from Psyche herself, and she had a feeling Eros would not like that.
Just as she was considering ways in which to intimidate Psyche, she became aware of a kind of shuddering in the direction of Eros’s apartment. She uttered a low-voiced obscenity and started to leave the central chamber where they had been playing and to which she had thoughtlessly returned. At this time of night, or morning, really, she should be either with some lover or fast asleep in her own bed. If Eros found her here, seemingly waiting for him, it was too likely he would feel she was trying to manipulate him. But as she stepped out into the corridor to return to her own quarters, she heard a child crying and the sound of running feet, and she turned just in time to receive into her arms one of the little boys who slept on a pallet in Eros’s chamber unless he was told not to wait.
“He is dead!” the child sobbed. “He fell on the floor and will not speak or open his eyes. He is cold and wet.”
Struck mute by the terror that she would be alone, without a friend, forever, Aphrodite shook the child furiously before she found her voice. “He is not dead,” she shrieked when she could speak. “Stop your weeping at once.” Then she swallowed hard and spoke in a softer voice. “I will go to Eros now. You run to the menservants. Send two to Eros’s chamber to help me get him to bed and a third to bring Asclepius the physician here.”
Chapter 16
When Eros disappeared, Psyche was furious. Rage alone gave her the strength to stand after the draining of casting her spell. She wanted nothing so much as to tear out those great, luminous eyes that had glared at her when she exposed his deceit. But he was gone! The coward! Unwilling to face her. How could he face her? What explanation could there be for saying he was a monster and blanketing himself in darkness?
Panting and sobbing, Psyche cursed the empty bed, raised her head, and howled curses at the air. She knew now that she had been the victim of a cruel joke. How he must have laughed at her, she thought, all the while she struggled to conquer her fears and be kind to the “monster”. It was just the sort of joke that cruel, arrogant pseudo god would enjoy. And she had loved him!
Psyche bent and scooped up the bloodstained cloth she had dropped when she saw Eros’s face. She would tear it, burn it, and hope that that self-satisfied snake would be rent and burnt with it. But she only cradled the cloth against her breast and then burst into tears of rage and pain and shame. She still loved him! Trembling with weakness and weeping bitterly, she staggered to the bed and fell into it. She did not weep for long.
The tears added to the draining of spell-casting atop an emotionally exhausting day soon sent her fast asleep.
* * *
When Psyche woke, the blinding rage was gone. Only shame and sadness remained, and she lay abed, fingering her blood token, and wondering why Teras—no, Eros—had continued the jest so long. It had been many, many months since she had given a single thought to the “monster’s” appearance or had been afraid to enter the black cloud. What pleasure could he have found, then, in fooling her?
The word “pleasure” brought back a flood of memories, of all the time they had spent together talking and working and making love. No, he had not been laughing at her, not for a long time, anyway. Then why keep up the pretense of being a monster? She would have loved him just as much… The thought trickled into emptiness, then looped around and repeated: would she have loved him just as much if she had seen him as beautiful?
In fact, Psyche realized at once that she would have resented Eros bitterly had he presented himself to her and said she had been given to him by Aphrodite. It would have taken him months, not days, to convince her to become his lover. Or, if she had yielded to him because of his beauty, she would have been angry and ashamed, which would have lain at the heart of her relationship with him always. For the monster, once her worst fears had been allayed, she had felt only pity and sympathy. Teras had been easy to love; she had assumed he was as much a victim as she, and yielding to him made her feel generous and noble and strong.
Psyche uttered a soft laugh, but then she bit her lip. If that had been Eros’s reason, he was devilishly clever and knew far too much about women. Then she burst into loud, ringing laughter. How ridiculous! Of course he knew a great deal about women. With a face like that and Mother alone knew how old, how could he not know too much about women? They must leap out on him in the public street— The grin she had been wearing froze on Psyche’s face and changed to a grimace as her lips turned down. It was not funny. She remembered the man who had seized her in the woods when she had just grown into her beauty and the hot eyes, the swollen mouths that hung half open as if they waited to eat her, the hands that reached to stroke her intimately as soon as any man caught her alone. And not one had known her, not one had cared what Psyche truly was. She caught her breath on a sob and shuddered. But was it the same for a man?
A slight frown wrinkled her forehead. Actually, she thought, it must be worse for a man. They were accustomed to choosing their prey and pursuing it. They might not care much what the prey thought or felt, but they wished to conquer, to be master by strength or skill. If, because of an accident of birth, the prey leaped out of the bushes and impaled itself willingly on the hunter’s weapon, a man who was not an utter fool would soon feel diminished—as she had felt diminished for being desired only for her face, but even more so. Women were accustomed, trained, to account physical beauty a thing of great value, so most of them were satisfied to be admired for their outer shell although even those often sought praise for other things also. On the other hand, most men would not be at all pleased to be valued first by their appearance. Men were vain too, of course, but their training put many things before a handsome face: courage, skill in the use of weapons, cleverness, loyalty—
That word sent Psyche’s thoughts off on a tangent. Men did not account loyalty to a woman of any value.
How many women had leapt on Eros when he shed his disguise during the day in Olympus? She waited for the stabbing and burning of jealousy, but all she felt was an impulse to laugh, for the vision she had was of Eros, hair and garments streaming behind him, fleeing as fast as he could run. Then she shivered. No, it was Teras who would have fled, even if his face was beautiful; it was Teras she knew, not Eros.
Psyche thought for a few minutes about whether Teras and Eros really were the same being, even if they inhabited the same body, then sighed and shook her head. It did not matter; she felt not a stir of jealousy over either one. Teras she knew and loved, and Teras with a beautiful face would have been disgusted by women who seized on him for his appearance. He would, indeed, have run away as fast as he could, and if something, say pity, had constrained him to accept the advances, he would have been ashamed. The simple joy of coupling he could have with her at any time, and a woman who loved only his face had nothing more to offer. Eros…she did not know Eros, did not love Eros, and did not care if he coupled in the open street with ten at a time.
Teras was going to be very annoyed with her for exposing him, Psyche thought, as she sat up and got out of bed. She remembered now the shouts of rage he had uttered when he felt the counterspell take hold. She would have to convince him that she was indifferent to his appearance.
“Ekkrino!” she exclaimed, utterly exasperated, and then she laughed aloud, realizing that she had been reading so much in the old language as she learned spells that she had said “shit” in that tongue instead of in her own.
The old language! Teras meant “monster” in the old language. That devil Eros! Her exasperation returned in full measure, but it was not over how slyly he had avoided telling her a lie. She had just realized that she had turned a difficult task into one that was nigh impossible. When she’d cast the spell, she had been trying to convince Teras she would love him no matter how horrible he looked. She might have accomplished that if he had been a monster and she had been able to kiss him and fondle him and couple with him. Could she prove to Eros that she loved only the inner man, that part of him that was Teras?
Shimmering Splendor Page 24