Hades' Daughter

by Sara Douglass

  Now Stella looked further down the Thames to where the Houses of Parliament rose in the distance. “Perhaps—”

  “Them? They are merely the tired sons of a long line of tired aristocrats. They can do nothing against what Asterion is going to throw at London this time. Ye gods, Stella, have you not thought of what weaponry Asterion can use now? Have you not thought of what he can do with it?”

  “Brutus—”

  “Don’t call me that! Brutus died a long time ago, a sad, broken, hateful man. I stand here now.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “What I need to know, Stella my dear, is whether I stand alone. Are you with me? Can you do what is needed?”

  Stella turned aside her face as answer, and Skelton’s expression hardened.

  “Tell Asterion,” he hissed, “that if he wants the remaining kingship bands, then he is going to have to kill me to get them!”

  And then he was gone, his footsteps ringing out into the night.

  “He is going to kill us all,” Stella whispered. “You should know that by now, Brutus.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Llangarlia

  She rose from her bed, and walked naked from the house to greet the dawn.

  They had survived, and had they not, Genvissa would have hunted through this world and the next to tear the senseless Cornelia apart.

  To expose Brutus to such danger!

  Genvissa drew in a very deep breath, more angry than she’d ever been in her life…and yet, puzzled also, for through all of this she had felt Mag much closer than she had felt her for many long months.

  Did it have something to do with Blangan?

  Suddenly all of Genvissa’s ill-humour dissolved, and a small smile curved her lips.

  Blangan was with Brutus’ fleet. And when Brutus’ fleet drew close…suddenly Mag felt much closer than she had for months.

  Blangan. Of course.

  Mag had fled to Blangan. Genvissa should have thought of it before.

  Well, wasn’t Mag the senseless one as well? Now she was as trapped as poor, almost-dead Blangan.

  A slow grin lifted her mouth. Bad place to hide, Mag.

  Cheered, Genvissa walked back inside to wash and robe.

  Some good had come of the day, after all. Not only had she realised where Mag had secreted herself, but Cornelia’s petulant adventure had resulted in Membricus’ death. Genvissa splashed cold water over her face, singing under her breath. Membricus had been a nasty, horrid little man. A nuisance with too much hold over Brutus.

  Now he was gone, and there was no one, no one, to stand between Genvissa and Brutus.

  Not now she knew where Mag was.

  Asterion shivered, seeming for the first time to be aware of his surroundings. He looked up, staring at the alps soaring to either side of him, feeling the murderous intensity of the wind.

  It was, finally, time to leave this place and this body; time to arrange his rebirth in circumstances infinitely more suited to his plan.

  An image of Brutus’ golden kingship bands flashed into Asterion’s mind, and his tongue flickered over his lips. How he wanted those bands!

  Asterion picked up the twisted-horn handled knife, running a finger along its edge to test its mettle.

  The blade sliced open his finger with only the slightest of pressures, and Asterion grinned.

  “I wonder,” he said, “if Genvissa knows of that vow Ariadne made to me when I taught her the darkcraft? That if she reneged on her word, then she became my creature entirely. I wonder if Genvissa possibly knows the implications of that? No, I think not, for if she did then she would be beside herself with terror.”

  He laughed, soft and joyous. “How will it be, Genvissa, when I stand before you and demand what is mine? How deeply will you cringe before me, Genvissa?”

  Then, even as he continued to laugh, Asterion put the blade to that vulnerable flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder and without hesitation pushed it in to the hilt of the twisted-horn haft.

  Instantly blood pumped from his neck, and while he still had the strength, Asterion tore the knife downwards, further opening the tear in his flesh.

  Blood poured down his chest, pooling between his still-crossed legs, then expanding out to fill the heart of the labyrinth Asterion had drawn in the earth.

  Asterion continued laughing, but the sound was wet and horrible, and bloodied froth bubbled out of his mouth. He maintained both laughter and posture as long as he was able but, as the blood emptied out of him, his laughter came to an end, and his dying body pitched forward.

  As his face hit the earth, Asterion whispered a single word.

  “Resurgam!”

  His eyes fluttered closed, but his heart, even as weak as it was, continued to beat spasmodically for some minutes further, pumping more and more blood out of the rent in Asterion’s neck.

  It collected in the heart of the labyrinth, then, when it could be contained no longer, seeped along the pathways of the labyrinth until, finally, it trickled out the entrance.

  At the precise moment his blood escaped the labyrinth, Asterion’s heart fell still.

  CHAPTER TWO

  He woke, suddenly and completely, the dream still vivid in his mind.

  He trembled, the anger which had consumed him in the dream even stronger now he was awake.

  The girl beside him murmured and shifted, and Loth eased himself away from her, untangling their limbs, and sliding out of the bed.

  He waited a moment, willing her back into sleep, and she quieted, pulling the wraps tighter about herself, forgetting his presence.

  Loth lifted a piece of beautifully woven green and red cloth from the end of the bed, deftly tying it low on his hips, slipped his feet into his leather sandals, and took from a bench a short cloak of a similar but heavier material than that of his hip wrap.

  As he tried to throw it about his shoulders, the cloak caught for an instant on one of the protuberances on his skull, and Loth gave it an impatient tug to settle it where he wanted.

  He smoothed down his hair where the cloak had disturbed it, then moved, not toward the door of the large circular dwelling, but to another sleeping niche on the far side.

  There the Mother of the House lay awake.

  As he approached the Mother stood, not bothering to hide her nakedness from this man. She was an old woman, her breasts scrawny and low, her belly lost in many folds, her long pubic hair grey and straggly.

  “I must go, Mother Mais,” Loth said very quietly as he reached her. She held out her hands, and he took them in his. “For your food and shelter and warmth this night, I do thank you.”

  “There is trouble,” she said.

  “There is trouble,” he agreed. “Great trouble.”

  The woman took a deep breath, but she knew, they had all known, this was coming. She looked past Loth to the bed he had left.

  “Has she conceived of her daughter?” she said.

  Loth smiled, and nodded. “She will be a strong and healthy child.”

  “I thank you! You honour my House.”

  He leaned his malformed head forward and kissed her gently on the brow. “I increase the herd,” he said. “It is my duty, and it is my privilege.”

  The six round houses were grouped together at the edge of the northern forest. Loth paused as he left Mother Mais’ house, looking at the trees.

  Normally, Loth would have found the pull of the trees almost irresistible, but tonight his concern drowned out even his need for the forest and its mysteries.

  He turned to the open fen land before him, striding forward.

  Within moments he broke into an easy jog, his long legs covering the soft ground with the grace and economy of movement of a forest deer.

  It was still dark when he left Mother Mais’ house, but by the time Loth reached the small rise that overlooked the valley floor and the sacred mounds the sun had crested the horizon, tinging the Llan’s marsh mists a soft gold.

  Loth paused, his breath easy despite t
he distance he had covered, his face reverential. Slowly he dropped to his knees, bending his forehead to the ground in obeisance to the valley of the Veiled Hills, the sacred heart of the land.

  Then, rising, Loth skirted the northern perimeter of the Veiled Hills, jogging across gently undulating ground thick with late summer flowers and grasses.

  There were hares and birds and badgers out in this early morning: they all raised their heads to study the strange half man, half beast that ran among them, then, unconcerned, resumed their morning feeding.

  The sun had fully crested the horizon by the time Loth reached his destination—Genvissa’s strange stone house.

  She was waiting, as he knew she would be.

  “Loth,” she said calmly. “Have you seen?”

  “Yes. Where is the Gormagog?”

  “Your father is asleep. He is old, and weary, and not given to early risings any more.”

  “Genvissa…does he realise how many there are? By Great Og himself! I saw countless score after score of those black-hulled ships! And they were packed with people.”

  “Loth—”

  “Tens of thousands. You never mentioned tens of thousands! And they are only just across the narrow seas. They can be here within a day!”

  “Loth—”

  “They will swarm over us!”

  She reached out and grabbed his elbow, giving it a little shake. “For mercy’s sake, Loth, will you listen?”

  He subsided, and Genvissa let out a relieved sigh. “There are not tens of thousands. A little over ten thousand, yes, but not tens of thousands,” she said. “And they will not swarm. They want to settle here, and they, and their leader, are intelligent enough not to swarm like demented hares.”

  She forced a smile back to her face. “Besides, you know as well as I that we may not need them.”

  “My mother.”

  Genvissa almost smiled at the vengeful hunger on his face. “Aye, Blangan. She is with them. Did you not see her amid all your tens of thousands?”

  Loth shook his head. If truth be told, his sight had been unusually attracted to the woman who gave birth. Every time he’d tried to drag his mind’s vision closer to the occupants of the many score black-hulled ships, it had been dragged back to the hovel where the young woman had almost died.

  It was rare that Loth was granted such power of vision, and to have it drawn constantly to the young woman when he could have scried out his mother…

  “Well,” Genvissa continued, “Blangan is with them. She is our chance, Loth.”

  He nodded, his eyes aglow at the thought of Og’s restoration at her death. “Where?”

  “Mag’s Dance.”

  “Mag’s Dance? Why there?”

  Genvissa shrugged. “Trust me, Loth. It will be best there.” The best place to take both Og and Mag in one economical swoop.

  “But their ships are just across the seas. They will sail straight to the mouth of the Llan.”

  She shook her head. “There will be a wind awaiting them once they gather themselves enough to set to sea again. It will drive them south, far south. They will land close to the Dart. Loth, can you speak to Coel? Ask him to move south to meet them. He can then lead a small party of Trojans north to meet with myself and the Gormagog. A small party that shall include Blangan, of course.”

  Loth grinned. “And their path shall pass straight by Mag’s Dance.”

  “Exactly. Send Coel today. It will take him a week or more to get to the Dart.”

  “Should we not consult with my father?”

  “I speak for both of us, Loth. Your father needs his sleep. Leave him be.”

  Then she stepped forward, put her hands on Loth’s shoulders, and kissed him softly on the mouth. “When Blangan is dead, and Og’s power is returned…”

  He seized her, stricken with longing, and for a moment or two Genvissa allowed him to rub against her breasts and belly, and to kiss her mouth.

  Then she pushed him back. “Not yet, Loth. Not yet.”

  He growled, and made as if to snatch at her again, but she spoke sharply. “Not yet!”

  He turned away, breathing heavily, bringing himself back under control, hating himself for his yearning and lack of control.

  When he finally looked back to Genvissa his face was neutral. “And if we take Blangan, and all goes well?”

  “Then you may take this Brutus,” she said, “and do what you will with him. I shall have no need for him.”

  “And the ten thousand?”

  “They will be back at the Dart,” Genvissa said, then she laughed. “Where they will be surrounded by half a country’s worth of forest.”

  “And the forest can take them?”

  “Whatever you wish, beloved,” she whispered, a hand to his cheek. “Whatever you wish.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mag stood to one side of the labyrinth in the centre of the stone hall. Her head was down, her hands folded before her.

  She waited.

  In the heart of the labyrinth, the flat stone with the word Resurgam inscribed on it moved slightly. It appeared as if it floated on a pool of black, bubbling blood.

  Mag prayed, seeking within herself the courage for what she now had to do. Oh, Og! This was such a loathsome alliance, but it was the only way Genvissa could be stopped and, eventually, Llangarlia freed of all her darkcraft. Mag could not do it by herself. She needed help.

  “Poor Cornelia,” Mag whispered to herself. “I am sorry to be the one to set you down such a path.”

  There was a step from the far distance within the hall.

  Mag raised her head. Her expression was calm.

  Another step and then, in the shadows at the eastern end of the hall, a man stepped forward.

  He was of a haunting dark beauty.

  Asterion walked slowly. He had expected this invitation, but he kept an expression of mild surprise on his face, as if both circumstance and stone hall were curious to him.

  The hall stank of the girl he had seen giving birth beneath the Poiteran’s sword. Cornelia. Asterion almost nodded to himself. Yes, Cornelia was going to be as useful as he had hoped.

  He caught sight of the small, dark and undoubtedly fey woman standing by the labyrinth carved into the floor of the hall. He smiled, and stepped confidently towards her. He was not even going to have to work for Cornelia.

  The poor innocent was about to be handed to him on a plate.

  Mag watched him approach, watched him smile malevolently when he saw the word that was carved into the heart of the labyrinth.

  “This is a place of great power,” he said, now standing at the edge of the labyrinth, opposite Mag. Very slowly he began to walk about the outer rim of the labyrinth, playing ignorance to perfection. “Who are you?”

  “I am Mother Mag, the mother goddess of a realm called Llangarlia where Genvissa, fifth daughter-heir from Ariadne, now seeks to build this.” She nodded at the labyrinth.

  “Why am I here?” Asterion said. He was three parts of the way about the labyrinth now, every step deliberate, his unblinking dark eyes never once leaving Mag.

  “You are here so that I may offer an alliance,” Mag said.

  “You know who I am?” He had almost reached Mag now.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly he was upon her, and he allowed his heavy hand to fall on her shoulder.

  She jumped under his touch.

  “You are terrified,” he said, leaning down so he could whisper the words in her ear.

  “I am filled with terror, yes, but I am not afraid of you.”

  He drew in a sharp, affected breath, as if it were he who was afraid. “Have I met my match?”

  She twisted away from his touch. “Do not make fun of me, Asterion. We both want the same thing, yet we are weak singly.”

  Her face was averted from him, and she did not see the gleam of amusement in his eyes at her words.

  “If we ally,” she continued, “then we will be powerful enough to stop Genviss
a.”

  “But why is it,” Asterion walked a few paces away, wagging a finger as if he deliberated a mighty problem in his mind, “that I feel that once you were allied with Ariadne?”

  “I welcomed her into my land. I thought her magnificent. I thought she was what I had been seeking. But she betrayed me, and she betrays my land with her Game. If she constructs this Game you will be trapped forever and my land will be turned into a dustbowl. We were both once allied with Ariadne, Asterion. Once we both loved her. Now we suffer for it.”

  He had turned back to her now, all affectation dropped. “And your proposal is…?”

  She nodded about her at the stone hall. “That we use Cornelia to work our will for us.”

  “The girl who just gave birth.”

  “You know of her already?”

  “Her screams drew my vision to the place where she gave birth. The land of the Poiterans. They shall prove useful, I think.”

  “You will be reborn among the Poiterans?”

  “They seem a kindly enough race for my liking.”

  “It will take you years to act on your own.”

  Of course, you stupid bitch, Asterion thought, keeping his face neutral. This will not ever be over with a single sweep of the knife. What I plan is going to take far longer than just “years”. “I know this.”

  Again Asterion walked away, as if considering the matter. In truth, there wasn’t much to be considered at all. He needed a tool, a knife hand, and Cornelia would do as well as—better than—any other. It also did no harm to allow Mag to think that he was indeed weak, and that he needed this alliance as much as she did.

  Asterion stopped, his back to Mag, allowing his triumph a momentary release across his face. He knew very well what Hera had told Mag, and what Mag now planned.

  Fool! She had no idea of what power she was toying with.

  “Very well!” he said, turning about on his heel. He offered Mag his hand, and she took it. “The bargain is made.” He grinned. “Shall we cement the bargain with the sweat of our bodies?”