Hades' Daughter

by Sara Douglass

  “Because of my lineage! I was born to lead, and I have the right to claim my heritage. I am born of the god-favoured…my own great-great-grandmother was Aphrodite, and my line is favoured by the gods!”

  “Not your father, most apparently,” Assaracus murmured, but Brutus took no notice.

  “And because of my fifteen years spent wandering. Do you think those years were spent in vain? I have three shiploads of seasoned warriors at my back and these fifteen years have made me a seasoned leader of men. And yet further, because my people, my fellow Trojans, are kept here in slavery—I cannot believe they wish to remain so. And, finally, do either of you believe that Mesopotama will escape the fate of so many other cities of our once-proud region? Sooner or later Ariadne’s revenge will envelop this city as well. It is time to leave now.”

  “How?” Deimas said. “This talk of freedom is all very well, but how shall it be accomplished. Will you ask Pandrasus for our freedom?”

  “Aye,” Brutus said. “That is what I will do.”

  “Bah!” Assaracus replied. “I know Pandrasus, and a prouder man I have never met. He will not let his enslaved work force just ‘leave’. And leave how? Would you have your fellow Trojans walk to wherever you decide to build your new Troy? The land about here is mountainous and treacherous…and you have only three ships. Deimas, how many Trojans are there?”

  “Seven thousand.”

  “Seven thousand. I ask you, Brutus, how will you shift seven thousand, including women and children, ancients and infants, and all their worldly goods, to a ‘new Troy’ in some far distant land?”

  “I intend to ask Pandrasus for the ships,” Brutus said, and grinned at the expression on the faces of his companions. “Listen to me. If I can get Pandrasus to not only agree to allow the Trojans their freedom, but also to provide the ships and provisions for our journey far distant, will you then agree to sail with me? Will you agree that if I accomplish that much then I have the right to claim my heritage?”

  Assaracus and Deimas looked at each other, and Brutus could see the misgivings in their faces.

  “I am sorry,” Deimas said, “but none of this has convinced us you are the heir of anything but hopes and words. You cannot seriously mean us to believe that you can somehow manage to persuade Pandrasus to grant freedom to his slave force, then manage to get him to donate several score ships so that we may sail to ‘somewhere’—a somewhere that the gods will reveal to you in their own sweet time—so that you can build a ‘new Troy’. Brutus, I can’t possibly—”

  “I am the man,” Brutus said, his tone very low, “and I have the means to accomplish this. The way will be hard, yes, but I can lead the Trojans back into their pride and their heritage.”

  “Then prove it!” Deimas snapped. “And with something other than words!”

  Brutus stared at him, then abruptly he again reached for the water and linen cloth and rubbed away at the other kingship bands, revealing their golden splendour.

  Then he briefly closed his eyes, praying to Artemis for strength.

  He thought he heard a soft laugh, and knew that she was with him. Let me tell you a secret, she whispered into his mind. Ariadne left the Game alive, weak and insignificant, in one place only. This is it. If you wish to impress these two fools, then draw on the power of the Game as you were trained.

  Brutus almost stopped breathing. Draw on the power of the Game? Here and now?

  I believe in you, she whispered. Do it.

  Brutus opened his eyes, then made a strange gesture with his right hand that had Deimas suddenly leaning forward in his chair, his eyes sharp with puzzlement.

  “See,” Brutus whispered, and with his right hand still open from the gesture it had made, he pointed to the eastern wall of the andron where spread the scene of Troy’s fall.

  Save that now the scene had shifted, and the mural did not depict Troy’s death at all. Instead, it showed a city rising on the far bank of a mighty river. As yet the city contained little in the way of buildings, save for a magnificent palace atop a mound in one corner, but the walls had been completed in pale dressed stone. They were thick and high, with fortified semi-circular bastions every three score of paces.

  At one end of the city there sat the main gateway, and before this gateway danced two long lines of maidens and warriors, holding in their hands flowers and torches.

  A beautiful, black-haired woman led one line, while at the head of the other danced Brutus.

  “I am heir to all that Troy implies,” Brutus said softly. “All of it!”

  He dropped his hand, and the mural reverted to its aspect of Troy destroyed.

  Assaracus and Deimas stared a moment longer at the wall, then, very slowly, turned back to face Brutus.

  It was Deimas who finally spoke. “I will speak to my people,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “but already I know that they will say, we are with you.”

  “Good,” said Brutus. He looked at Assaracus. “And you?”

  “I am yours, too,” Assaracus said.

  Brutus nodded, and smiled. “Now, these ‘swords’ that you mentioned, Assaracus. What exactly do they comprise?”

  Two nights later—as the guards at the gates lay insensible, drugged with the wine Assaracus had sent down earlier—a group of some three hundred men, well-armed and armoured, slipped out of the city.

  Assaracus was at their head, and Deimas, leader of the enslaved Trojans, as well as several score of Trojan men, their hair cropped close to their skulls to lose their hated mark of slavery, ran among Assaracus’ mercenaries. They exited the city, then turned on to the road that led east to the steep, forested Acheron gorges.

  There, silently and patiently, awaited the bulk of Brutus’ warriors.

  Behind him, Assaracus left a Trojan population holding their collective breath in hope, and a small but courageous boy on his way to Pandrasus’ palace to deliver a modest roll of parchment wrapped in pristine linen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Llangarlia

  Loth sat close by his father, his head bowed in respect.

  They were alone in the stone house that Genvissa’s third foremother had caused to be built. Unlike most Llangarlian houses, which were round with conical thatched roofs, this was a rectangular structure with a heavy (but admittedly completely weatherproof) slate roof. It made Loth uncomfortable, as if the strangeness of the structure kept him a prisoner from the land he loved so much, and he rarely came in here. He couldn’t understand why his father wanted to live here with Genvissa…but then, Aerne was all too clearly approaching his ancient addledness. Genvissa had him where she wanted him: in her house, in her bed, and, like any defenceless infant, dependent on her breast for comfort, nurture and safety.

  Tonight, however, Loth had ventured into the hated structure because he wanted to speak with his father alone, and he knew Genvissa was meeting with Mother Mais at her house some way distant.

  Loth almost grinned at the thought. Mother Mais was one of his, and he doubted she’d be giving Genvissa much more than the merest courtesies demanded of any host.

  Aerne patted his son’s knee, happy to have him near for a change.

  “I am pleased you came, my son.”

  Loth successfully fought the urge to roll his eyes, and merely nodded, as if this domestic harmony was what he, too, had craved all this time.

  “I needed to speak with you, father. Genvissa—”

  “I know what you want to say, Loth. No reason to speak it aloud.”

  “But I need to. Father, I have strange doubts regarding Genvissa. I distrust her, and yet cannot form that distrust into words. What she proposes, to bring a strange magic into Llangarlia to counter Og’s weakness, is…is…”

  “Is necessary, Loth. You know that. What can you and I do, weak as we are?”

  “We still have some power left, some of Og’s benefice! Surely—”

  “What we have is a mere shadow of what once existed, Loth. I should know. I once commanded all of O
g’s power. Tell me, how long has it been since anyone has seen the stag run wild through the forests?”

  “Only last week Coel brought down a magnificent red stag.”

  Aerne smiled sadly. “You know that is not what I meant. How long has it been since anyone has seen the stag? The white stag with the blood-red antlers. Og himself, running free.”

  Aerne gave Loth a long moment of silence, then spoke again, infinitely gently. “The last time was the night of your conception, Loth. Running as if panicked through the forests in which I lay with the witch, Blangan. And he had good enough reason to fear…didn’t he?”

  Loth hung his head, hating himself for his own conception, hating his mother for what she had done.

  “You have been the best of sons,” Aerne said. “I wish I was able to hand over to you Og’s full power on my deathbed.”

  “Perhaps, when you die, the power will be reunited in me.”

  “No. No, Loth. When I die what I have will die with me. Og will be even less. Genvissa needs to bring in this male magic, Loth, for this land…if not for our peace of mind and pride. She needs to act now, for if we are both dead before she has completed her task, then this land will lie defenceless.”

  Loth shook his head, desperate not to accept what his father was saying. “I know what Genvissa proposes makes sense. I know it in here,” he tapped his deformed skull, “but not in here.” He tapped his chest. “Every part of me hates it.”

  “That is your pride speaking, Loth.”

  Loth raised his head and stared at his father with his beautiful green eyes. “What if it is not my pride, father? What if it is the remaining part of Og within me that speaks?”

  “Oh! Loth.”

  Both men jumped slightly, as if they were boys caught out in some mischief, then looked behind them.

  Genvissa had come through the door, and had now paused just inside it, one hand resting on the doorframe.

  She looked breathless, as if she’d run all the way from Mother Mais’ house, and also fearful, as if she’d come back to her home to discover the worst of the night’s monsters cheerily settled within.

  Then she smiled, and dropped her hand from the doorframe, and walked slowly into the single large chamber of the house. The firelight from the central hearth reflected over her face and body, shadowing her eyes and shrouding her in a mysterious allure that had both men holding their breath.

  “Aerne,” she said, dropping gracefully down beside him, “will you give me some space to speak with your son alone? Perhaps I can soothe his fears.”

  Aerne returned her smile, and nodded. “I need to make obeisance to Og. That is always best done outside, beneath the trees.”

  “Take a cloak,” Genvissa said, patting him on the hand as he rose, and ignoring Loth’s grimace at the somewhat patronising action. “The night has grown cold.”

  She waited until Aerne had left, then she moved her stool about the hearth a little so that she sat close to Loth.

  “You do not trust me,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps I can give you a reason to trust me.”

  He was silent, studying her face.

  “I have a twin purpose in bringing to Llangarlia this strange male…” she paused fractionally, giving her next word added weight, “potency. This man who can replace with his magic what Llangarlia has lost with Og’s failing. True, he will bring with him a new magic, something which can be combined with Mag’s power to revive this land…but he can also bring with him something else.”

  She paused again, a smile playing about her mouth, the firelight sparking brilliantly in her eyes.

  “He will also bring with him…Blangan. Your mother.”

  “The Darkwitch?” Loth was stunned. His mother Blangan had fled a few days after she’d given him birth. No one had ever seen her again. “My mother.” He said the word with hatred.

  Now Genvissa did smile, pleased with his reaction. “Aye. He will return Blangan to Llangarlia.”

  Loth was silent, his face introspective, thinking over the myriad implications of his Darkwitch mother’s return.

  “Loth,” Genvissa said softly, leaning forward and placing a hand lightly on his leg, “there is a possibility, a faint possibility, that if Blangan is destroyed, then so also may be destroyed the darkcraft that she cast over your father. If she dies, then perhaps Og will revive, and we will not need the magic of this stranger.”

  “What are you saying?” Loth was very aware of Genvissa’s hand on his thigh, the warmth of it, the very slight weight of it, and he was dismayed at how easily his body responded to her.

  Her hand moved much closer to his groin, one of her fingers straying tantalisingly under the edge of his hip wrap, stroking, its nail teasing. Loth knew very well what Genvissa was doing—with both her words and her hand—but he was almost powerless to resist it. What she was offering was…he drew in a ragged breath…was what he had always wanted. Power.

  “If you take revenge on the Darkwitch your mother,” Genvissa said very softly, her eyes holding Loth’s, her hand now sliding completely beneath his wrap, “then perhaps Og’s power will be revived…in you, his avenger.”

  He couldn’t look away from her, and while one part of his mind screamed at him to brush aside her hand, stand, and leave, the rest of his mind was utterly seduced by the possibilities suggested by word and hand.

  “And if that is the case,” Genvissa continued, her voice still very low, her hand stroking very gently, her face, her mouth, very close to his, “then what need will I—and this land—have of this strange man and his strange magic? Og will be resurgent again, in you, and then you and I…you and I…”

  There was barely a coherent thought left in Loth’s mind at this point, but he clung to it grimly. “Then if you have no need for this strange man, if all you need is for me to take revenge on Blangan to break the darkcraft which binds Og, why bring him here in the first instance?”

  “Because I need him to bring to us Blangan…and because you might fail. Blangan may be too strong for you. If you fail, then I will need him to—”

  “I will not fail!”

  She only smiled, and increased the pressure of her hand.

  Loth closed his eyes, fought for some control, and managed to find it. “Why not my father? Why not tell Aerne this? Why not send him to—”

  “Aerne is an old man. Weak. Blangan bested him once before. Neither you nor I nor this land can afford it to happen again. You must do this, Loth. I need a strong man, Loth.” There was infinite promise in the manner she said “need”. “Not your father. Never your father.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him, and that was the final weapon that shattered the resistance both of Loth’s mind and of his body.

  He shuddered under her hand, and sighed, then nodded.

  “You spoke with Loth?”

  They were in her bed now, sweaty and relaxed from sex.

  “Aye.” Genvissa pushed her body even tighter against Aerne’s. “He has come around to my plan.”

  “My dear,” Aerne’s hand stroked her shoulder, as if apologising for what he was about to say, “I accept that you need this man to counter Og’s weakness…but will you perhaps confide in me what he will do? How it is that his magic will protect this land?”

  Genvissa lay silent for a while, thinking over what she should tell Aerne. Eventually, as Aerne waited patiently, she decided that a little of the truth might not hurt too much.

  “This man, Brutus, controls part of what is called the Game.”

  “The Game?”

  “Aye…you know that my fifth foremother was not of this land?”

  “Aye.” Aerne smiled and moved his hand to Genvissa’s luxuriant black hair. “Thus these dark curls of yours.”

  “She came from a land in the southern waters of a sea called the Aegean, Aerne. In her world, in this Aegean world, the great men of power used something called the Game to protect their lands. When my fifth foremother came to
this land, she truly became as all Llangarlians…but she remembered what she knew of the Game, and taught it to her daughter, as her daughter passed it on to her daughter, and thus to me.”

  Aerne felt a flicker of unease. “Do you mean that all the MagaLlans, from the time of your fifth foremother to you, have secret knowledge of power other than that of Mag and Og?”

  Displeased, Genvissa propped herself up on an elbow. “Indeed!” she said. “And what a good thing, too, otherwise this land would face certain ruin!”

  Aerne laughed softly, apologetically. “Of course, Genvissa, forgive me.”

  She lay down again, nestling her breasts against his chest.

  “Please,” Aerne said, fighting down his arousal, “tell me more of this Game.”

  Genvissa shrugged, as if the subject was now of no interest to her. “It is a powerful spell-weaving which uses both male and female power to protect a land against all evil set against it. There are very few left who know how to manipulate the Game, who know how to use it…two people, in fact. Myself and this man I have summoned to us, this Kingman.”

  And one who will want to destroy it, she thought, but Asterion is far away, and no threat.

  “Once, many people within the Aegean world knew how to play the Game,” Genvissa continued, “but over past generations the knowledge has died, as have the people who had access to the Game’s secrets. This man, this Brutus, is the only Kingman left…and thus his usefulness to us, my love, for if we use him to build the spell-weaving here, then there will be no one who can subsequently undo it. Our land will remain forever protected while all others about it will fall victim to plagues and disasters.”

  “And where is this Brutus from? What manner of man is he?”

  “He is a proud man, and a courageous and skilful warrior, both requisites for a truly great Kingman. His bloodline comes from a city called Troy, now destroyed…and thus the Game that he knows is the Troy Game. In that we are lucky, for the Troy Game was one of the most powerful of all the Games about the Aegean. So we shall use the Troy Game to protect this land, my love.”