Hades' Daughter

by Sara Douglass

  Then that single omission, that simple silence, and Brutus’ angry face and the hilt of his dagger thrust into my face.

  Aethylla, of course, made things no easier for me. She chided me for my stupidity, for my naivety, and my unthinkingness. Worse, she scolded me while nursing my son, ensuring I had to endure the double burden of my stupidity as a woman and my failure as a mother.

  And all this she did while Brutus stood and watched.

  I could have wept. I did weep, once Brutus, Corineus (shooting me a half-sympathetic, half-accusatory glance) and Hicetaon wandered off somewhere to discuss whatever Brutus had been told that morning, and I was left to my own devices.

  Left to consider my failings.

  And so I did, for Brutus’ departing face left no doubt in my mind that he considered me less than the dustiest, flea-ridden cur. I spent the first part of the morning sitting inside that round, stumpy stone house, alternately weeping and cursing myself silently as I rocked a sleeping Achates (Aethylla having generously allowed me to hold him) to and fro in my arms.

  Later, when I managed to calm a little, and Aethylla had fed Achates once more, I noticed that it was a wonderfully clear morning. I ventured outside, Achates in my arms, wondering if the Llangarlian guards beyond the door would allow me to walk about the town.

  The only guard, as such, was Coel, leaning against the outer wall of the house, idly chewing a twig, and looking for all the world as if he had been waiting for me to appear.

  “Cornelia,” he said, spitting away the twig and standing straight, “I would like to make amends for creating this distance between us. Can we talk?”

  Tears sprang unbidden to my already red and swollen eyes. I was so desperate for a moment’s kindness, a kindness from anyone, that I didn’t even consider that it was Coel who had begged me to remain silent in the first place.

  “I thought,” he continued, “that I might be your escort for the day. What say you? Would you like to see some of this land and its people?”

  And then he lifted his hand, and with the gentlest of fingers, wiped away one of the tears which had escaped down my cheek.

  He nearly undid me, as he had undone me in that rock pool. No one, save Blangan or Corineus, had ever been this kind to me, or treated me as a respected equal.

  I opened my mouth, unsure what to do (what if Brutus discovered it?), but before I made any sound I heard Aethylla calling my name, and her voice was hard, and spoke of further judgement.

  “Yes,” I said in a rush. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, his eyes twinkling at my obvious desire to escape Aethylla.

  We walked away down a street towards what Coel said was the market area of the town. “Many of the local hamlets and farmsteads are herding their cattle and sheep to the pens here for the autumn sale,” he said. “It is one of the busiest times of the year for Llanbank.”

  I could not have cared less about any market, but thought it impolite to say so. I nodded, and tried to look interested.

  Coel laughed. “What am I doing?” he said. “Marketing is a man’s world and of no interest to you. Besides, the ground grows muddier towards the market, and your shoes are too fine to ruin. If we go this way, along this path towards the fen lands, we will come to some pleasant meadows, where we can sit and talk.”

  Reluctantly (I truly did not want to spend a morning talking with Coel in some wild grassland to provide Brutus with yet more fodder for cruelty), I followed him along the path. The houses soon fell back, allowing sweet meadowlands to take their place. Coel led me to a spot underneath a stand of young ash trees, and we sat among the periwinkles and columbines that grew there.

  “This is a very beautiful land,” I said, made uncomfortable not only by the silence, but by the warmth and gentleness of this man beside me.

  “For a stranger,” Coel said, “you have a deep regard for Llangarlia, don’t you? A bond, almost.”

  “It is very beautiful,” I said again, briefly closing my eyes in agonised disbelief that I could be so incapable of a coherent conversation.

  Coel drew up one knee, resting his extended arm on it. He looked out at the meadowlands, and the glint of the Llan lying just beyond.

  “Brutus has been cruel to you,” he said.

  Oh Hera, if he continued on with this then I was going to cry again.

  “Yet you did not tell him about Ecub, nor of Mag’s Nuptial Dance, nor of anything else save Blangan’s death. That was well done, Cornelia.”

  I still could not speak.

  “And you did not tell Brutus of me.” Now his voice was very soft.

  He turned and looked at me. “I thank you for that, from the depth of my being. And Loth thanks you as well.”

  “Loth!”

  “Yes, Loth. There is no need to be afraid,” Coel said. “Not of Loth, anyway. He is no danger to you.”

  “He killed Blangan.”

  “He was the one who tore her apart, yes, but—”

  “How can you defend that?”

  “—he was sent there, Cornelia, sent by Blangan’s sister who wanted her dead more than anything.”

  I was silent.

  “Blangan has—had—a younger sister called Genvissa, who is now the MagaLlan of Llangarlia. She is the woman whom Brutus went to see this morning.”

  I frowned, thinking there was some connection that I should be making.

  “Loth did wrong, Cornelia, and no one is more aware and more regretful of that than Loth himself. But Genvissa sent him there saying that if he killed his mother then he would restore Og’s power to this land.”

  “Og’s power?” I had no idea what Coel was talking about.

  Coel talked for many minutes then, telling what I did not know about Blangan: the conception and birth of her son, the splitting of this power of Og, and of how Blangan had been blamed for what was probably the darkcraft of this Genvissa’s mother.

  Now Genvissa, the MagaLlan, had apparently taken up the same darkcraft with as much success as Herron.

  Coel was sitting very close to me now, our bodies touching at hip and thigh. “Cornelia, Loth is not the one you should fear. Genvissa is.”

  “But…why?”

  “Genvissa wants Brutus, Cornelia. She will make sure, one way or the other, that you are set aside.”

  “No!” But it was true, for as Coel spoke my mind had suddenly, belatedly, made the connection it should have made minutes ago.

  Was Genvissa the woman of whom Brutus dreamed? And then I wondered how I could have forgotten all about this dream woman—had I been so desperate to believe Brutus and I had a viable future together?

  “No, surely not,” I whispered, hoping the denial would ensure the fact.

  “Genvissa,” Coel said, “was the one who told Brutus that you had been in Mag’s Dance. She told him to ask you what had happened.”

  Of course, I remembered Brutus mentioning her in those horrifying moments when he had accosted me.

  “Genvissa,” Coel went on, cruelly driving home into my mind the name of my rival, “feels threatened by you, Cornelia. Why is that?”

  “I am Brutus’ wife, of course. She wants Brutus and yet here I am. She is jealous.”

  He gave a small, sad smile. “No. No wife would ever stand in Genvissa’s way…and it is hardly as if Brutus loves you, Cornelia, is it?”

  Oh, how could he be so heartless? I was crying now, for I knew that Brutus indeed did not love me. He reviled me.

  And all I wanted…all I wanted was for him to love me.

  “Cornelia,” Coel whispered, and again wiped away the tears from my cheek.

  I would have been completely undone then, I think, save that Achates stirred in my arms, and whimpered. I looked down, rocking him, glad of the interruption. “I will have to go. Achates needs to be nursed, and—”

  “I saw that on the journey north you gave Achates to Aethylla to nurse. You do not wish to feed him yourself?”

  I found myself flushing, not at the talk of nursing
, but with shame. “I cannot. I have no milk. I will need to give him to Aethylla to suckle.”

  Again Coel reached out with his thumb, this time gently touching my cheek. “You feel shame at your lack…and you should not, Cornelia. But I still do not understand. Many women give birth and find their milk does not come for several days. The child spends that time whimpering, or at the breast of a temporary nurse, but always a mother’s milk comes and she can suckle her own infant. Your milk never came?”

  I found myself blinking, unable to believe I could be having this conversation with a man. “I…I tried to nurse him on the day he was born, but I had no milk. Aethylla took him from me, and fed him.”

  And I remembered how my breasts had ached for a week afterwards…

  “And she never gave him back?” His voice was angry, unbelieving.

  “No.”

  Achates’ whimpering was rising to a fully-fledged wail now, and Coel, giving me one more disbelieving look, rose effortlessly to his feet and walked a little distance into the surrounding meadowland. He spent a few minutes looking at the plants about him, then suddenly bent, pulled an entire plant out of the ground, and tore off its fleshy root.

  He walked slowly back to me, using his teeth to strip the root of its hard outer skin, then he bit it in two, and handed me the smaller portion as he sat down beside me. “Give it to your son to suck. It will satisfy him for the time being, although he will be wanting the breast again before mid-afternoon.”

  I took the root from him, and tentatively held it to Achates’ lips.

  The baby suckled at it, whimpered one more time, then fell to the root with a vengeance, suckling madly as if it were better than any breast milk.

  Coel laughed at the expression on my face. “We call it the milk root,” he said, “for obvious reasons. Many mothers use it to soothe their babies.”

  “And you know this?”

  He looked surprised. “Why not?”

  I gave a small shake of my head, trying to imagine Brutus or Corineus or Hicetaon possessing such female knowledge, then gave up.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  In answer he only smiled once more, his beautiful face close to mine, and then he leaned that remaining distance between us and kissed me.

  I had known he would do it, and I should have stopped him, but I did not. Brutus had sent my soul plunging into the depths of Hades’ Underworld this morning, and to have this man, this stunning combination of care and sexuality, put his mouth to mine was what I desperately needed to somehow manage the rise back into the warmth and sunshine.

  I kissed him back, hard, and leaned even further into him as he put his hand to my breast.

  Oh, Hera, this man was sweet! Every part of me throbbed, my belly felt as though it had exploded in fire, and—

  Achates moved against me, and I came to my senses.

  “No,” I said, pulling my head back and jerking my breast out of his hand.

  “Oh gods, Cornelia!” he groaned.

  “No,” I said, hating myself.

  He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Are all Dorian princesses taught how to torment a man to that point where he can hardly draw back, and then say, ‘No!’?”

  I began to cry all over again at the censure in his voice, and the guilt in my own heart, and he was instantly contrite.

  “It is all right, Cornelia,” he said. “Forget your guilt. Remember, my would-be-lover, that all women in Llangarlia can choose as they will.” He smiled, genuinely now. “And they always have that right to say no. I just wish you’d said it a few minutes earlier.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, knowing that if this had been Brutus he would never have heard that “No”. He would not even have let my lips frame the word…

  “Have you had many lovers?” I blurted, trying to change the subject and, as always, only making it worse.

  “Yes. Many women have asked me to their beds.”

  “And do you have children?”

  “Two daughters, both with the same woman, and a son.”

  “And your lovers, the women who have had your children, would not be jealous that you are here now? With me?”

  “No.” He touched my face again, but it was merely the lightest of caresses, and not demanding. “They would be pleased for me, and for you. They would hope that you bore a child.”

  I was suddenly very, very glad I’d brought the proceedings to a halt. Brutus would kill me if he thought my belly was full of another man’s child.

  “Who are you, Cornelia? How can you make me yearn for you so deeply?” Coel said softly, and to that I had no answer.

  We sat there for a little while longer, hardly speaking, enjoying the sunshine and the insects as they buzzed about the late flowers. Then, as even the milk root failed to please Achates, Coel led me back to the house (my house, he called it, Cornelia’s house) and back to the less than tender care of Aethylla who by now, having searched for me all morning, had yet one more reason to chide me.

  Brutus, Hicetaon and Corineus came back to the house after several hours, sitting about the hearth with Aethylla and myself and eating a simple meal.

  Brutus ignored me, and, although I expected it, I could hardly bear his pointed dismissal. I rebuked myself yet again for being so stupid in destroying that fragile harmony which had grown between us since Achates’ birth…right to the point where Brutus’ dream woman had become a living, breathing reality.

  Hera! I doubted she would be so stupid as to alienate Brutus with ill-considered stupidities.

  Later, when we’d retired to our beds, Brutus turned to me as we settled down, and I tensed, hardly believing he could be this kind, after all.

  But he just stared at me—I could see the flat, irritated gleam of his eyes in the light of the oil lamp left burning by the door—and then turned away, rolling over to sleep with an uninterested grunt.

  Unsurprised, but hurt beyond knowing, I eventually managed to slide into sleep myself.

  I woke very late in the night, suddenly realising there was someone standing by our bed.

  “Shush,” said a woman’s voice, and I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light cast by the glowing coals in the hearth.

  A woman stood by our bed, black-haired and beautiful, and I gasped, suddenly knowing who she must be.

  Genvissa, the MagaLlan, she who wanted me gone from Brutus’ side and of whom Brutus dreamed.

  But I also recognised her. This was the “goddess” who had come to me and pushed me into precipitating the Mesopotaman rebellion.

  That was no goddess appearing to you, but the greatest of Darkwitches, Blangan had said.

  “Go back to sleep, girl,” the Darkwitch said, and her voice was an icefield. “I have come only for your husband.”

  Brutus was awake now, and he sat up in our bed.

  “Genvissa,” he said, and his voice was a seething, vast hunger.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Genvissa drew back from the bed, allowing Brutus space to stand and dress himself. She drew her cloak tighter about her, the cold of the autumn night biting deep, and saw that Brutus’ child-wife stared at her with wide, apprehensive eyes.

  Her distress pleased Genvissa. Gods, she could not understand what Brutus saw in her. She was so young, and unbelievably irritating in that youth. She was cringing back in the bed like a baby who didn’t know whether to sulk or weep in fright, and Genvissa could not for an instant imagine how Brutus had roused himself enough to get a child off her.

  Well, son or not, Cornelia would never hold Brutus.

  Genvissa lowered her lids and sent ill will coursing Cornelia’s way, wishing that Brutus had knocked the life out of her when he had discovered she kept secrets about Blangan’s death.

  And what was the girl doing there in the first instance?

  Cornelia was still regarding Genvissa with those huge childlike eyes, and Genvissa felt a moment of doubt, almost of trepidation. She shivered. Damn this girl.

  “Why are you here so e
arly?” Brutus said, finally slipping on his shoes and reaching for his cloak.

  Genvissa gave Cornelia one final, baleful glare, then searched out Brutus’ eyes in the gloom. “We have a long way to go before dawn,” she said, then brushed past him and left the house.

  Brutus saw Hicetaon sitting up in his bed, Aethylla looking over his shoulder with nervous eyes.

  He nodded at Hicetaon, then he, too, left the house.

  There was a silence, then Hicetaon sighed and snuggled down, pulling Aethylla down with him.

  Across the chamber, in the sleeping bay Brutus had left, Cornelia curled into a ball and wept silently.

  When Brutus emerged from the house he saw that Genvissa sat on a horse several paces away.

  She reached behind her, and patted the horse’s rump. “Come.”

  He looked at Genvissa’s face, then smiled and vaulted on to its back behind her.

  The horse shifted, not liking the double weight, and Brutus needed no more excuse than that to grab at Genvissa’s waist to steady himself.

  Her flesh was firm underneath the layers of material, and the shifting of her body with the movement of the horse made the breath catch in his throat.

  He dropped his hands to his thighs, re-balancing himself, and thought he saw her smile as her face turned slightly towards him.

  “Steady?” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied roughly.

  She took the halter rope of the horse in her right hand, gripping its shaggy mane in her left, and touched her heels to its flanks, guiding it towards the ford over the Llan at Thorney Island.

  “We go to the Veiled Hills?” Brutus said.

  Again she shifted slightly so that her face was half turned to him. “Indeed. I want to show you where we shall rebuild Troy.”

  She turned even more, and Brutus’ body tightened as her body moved against his. “I want to show you,” she said, “where we will play the Game.”

  He wanted to kiss her then, very hard, and he thought he would have done so save that she turned back to the front, and he was left with nothing but the flowing blackness of her hair, and the scent of her warm flesh rising through her cloak.