Destroyer of Light
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Authors: Rachel Alexander
Destroyer of Light
Rachel Alexander
Destroyer of Light, Copyright © 2016. An electronic novel by Rachel Alexander.
All rights reserved.
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e ISBN-13: 978-0996644730
Cover image and design © ms.morgan graphic design 2016
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The following book is meant for an adult audience and contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and violence. Readers of this book should be 18 years of age or have reached adulthood as defined by the laws of their respective locale. Please store this book in a place where it cannot be accessed by minors or those offended by explicit content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and sole intellectual property of the author, or they have been used in a fictitious manner. And resemblance to any characters or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author holds exclusive rights to this book, in all its editions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used for the purpose of reviews or promotion. Please do not support or participate in the piracy of copyrighted material. The author appreciates your support. If you feel you have received an unauthorized or pirated copy of this book, please contact the author immediately at the email address listed above.
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This book also contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Destroyer of Light
. This excerpt has been set for this edition only, and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
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Version 1.1
for Robert, my muse
“Just a little further
, my love… a little further.” The rabbit pelts bundled around his feet had kept out the snow, but not the cold. The wet leather straps holding those flimsy wrappings around his ankles chafed and bit into his skin.
“Why…”
“There’s food ahead in Eleusis,” Dimitris said. “Everyone says so.”
She stumbled, leaning on her husband to take one more step. “Everyone?”
“Yes, love,” he said gently. “Everyone we’ve met and all we walk with. We’re nearly home. And Eleusis is not far beyond. ” More feet crashed through the snow onto their path, a caravan of the starving and sick, bound for the promise of food, praying to all the gods that they’d make it. Dimitris pointed at the shadowy outlines of those around them, some walking faster, driven by hunger or by grief for the dead they had left along their journey. Others trudged slowly across the frozen landscape: those with children, the elderly, and the ones refusing to abandon their dead. “Demeter is in Eleusis. There’s food there. And so many people.”
“You said that about Athens.”
“This is different.”
She coughed violently and he stopped again, the third time in the last hour. Dimitris stroked Melia’s back and held a rag against her mouth to keep her from breathing in the chill air and the blinding flurries of snow. She leaned harder against him, her coughing subsiding. He pursed his lips when he brought the linen away. More bright flecks of blood had joined the ones that had already dried brown. She wheezed, and dropped to one knee. “Dimitris, please. Let’s stop. Build a fire.”
“We can’t,” he whispered. “There’s no more kindling. And the branches are too green to burn, and frozen through.”
“Oil, then,” she rasped. “Burn the oil.”
“It’s the only thing that keeps you from coughing. We shouldn’t—”
“There’s nothing—” she coughed again. “There’s nothing that can stop it. Please. I just want to feel warm. Just once… just once.”
Dimitris looked around them for shelter or anything that could stoke a fire. Oil could set a branch or two aflame. They had nearly reached their small farm. Surely these reserves could be spared. He tilted her head up. “Melia, my heart. Look there. You see? You see the grove there?”
“Yes.” She smiled for the first time in days. “We were married there.”
“Yes, we were.” He spoke low and stroked her back as she coughed again. “And I will wager that none of these people know that our grove has scattered kindling. Enough to make a fire. It can’t be seen from the road. They would have missed it.” He forced a smile.
“Go gather wood there.”
“Alone? Melia, it’s only half a mile—”
“I can’t.” She sat still closing her eyes. “I need to rest.”
He nodded to her, somewhat relieved. By himself, it would take a third the time to collect wood. And with the sun setting, time was in short supply. He wrapped the extra blanket securely around her, and propped her against their meager provisions and belongings. Dimitris kissed her on the forehead. “Stay warm. I’ll be right back.”
Dimitris struck off from the road, trudging through the drifts and banks. His feet sank through new fallen snow and crunched against the packed ice, the cold biting at his shins. He grabbed the branches above for balance and kept himself from sinking into a fresh drift, then plowed into the center of the grove.
He shook his head. Melia had told him the morning after their wedding that Kore, Demeter’s flower-bearing daughter, had been there to bless their union— that she’d felt the young goddess’s presence at their ceremony. Dimitris had brushed off her fancies. Why would a goddess pay a visit to two lowly mortals on their wedding day? They weren’t royalty, and neither of them had divine blood.
He chuckled. Dimitris had always thought Melia was a goddess among women. She always wore flowers in her hair. A daughter from the next farm over, he had known her since childhood, and they had secretly promised themselves to each other in youth. When she came of age, Dimitris had begged his father to speak with hers and make the arrangements, even though he was still too young to marry. The second happiest day of his life had been when Melia’s father gave his approval.
It had been sunny the day of their wedding. He still remembered the taste of honey and barley cakes and her soft lips. The day after was eerily calm, and other farmers reported strange fallow spots in their fields. They’d thought nothing of it until the next day, when the sun had disappeared behind clouds, the wind howled, and all the wheat and flowers died.
“If you’re there, Maiden, as she thought you were that day, then please…” Dimitris whispered in prayer. “Please… please let us reach Eleusis. I’ll sacrifice the rest of our stores. Anything. Please help us. Help her.”
Dimitris reached the clearing. The trees above had shielded it from snowdrifts and passers by, but the ground was bare. Every piece of fallen wood had been gathered, the shrubs had been uprooted, and even the lower branches of each tree had been hacked away. His prayers were unanswered. The Maiden Kore couldn’t hear him anyway. She was in the Land of the Dead. His shoulders dropped. He would return to Melia empty-handed.
There wasn’t time to fell any trees. He had to get back to her. He’d carry her on his back if he had to. They only needed to get home. Eleusis could wait. He could tuck Melia into bed, safe from the wailing wind and burn everything they had in the hearth— chairs, tables, linens, and oil. She would be warm while he went to Eleusis to bring her food, and perhaps a healer. Surely there would be one among the throngs that had traveled here. He tripped and fell into a bank, the snow suffocating and wet on his face. He jumped back up and brushed his clothes off before it could melt and chill his bones.
Dimitris reached the road and quickened his pace. A man and his son trudged past him, bound for Eleusis, their bodies cloaked and faces bundled. Through the haze of drifting snow he made out the outline of Melia, her knees huddled against her chest under layers of shawls and blankets, leaning against their packs.
His strides became longer. He would pick her up and carry her. It wasn’t far. If the grove was so close, then their home was just beyond the ridge. They needn’t build a fire here. They could wait for home. Home…
“Melia!” He called out, waiting for her to turn. She didn’t move. “My love, it isn’t far. Let’s get you up. It’s time to go home. Melia?”
She lay still.
“Melia!
”
Indigo was the color
of mourning, she thought. Mourning was the unwillingness to accept that the time spent above was a fleeting moment in the journey of the soul from mortal to shade and back again. Hecate pulled the darkly dyed himation tightly around her body. She longed for her familiar crimson, the color of the living, beating heart— and long ago the color of the Olympians’ proud banner. She didn’t begrudge the mortals their displays of sorrow. They knew no better. Mortals’ numbers grew every century, and for many souls these days, this was only their first lifetime; and any that had returned from below remembered nothing that would help them understand the path their soul had walked.
But as for the Goddess who encouraged them to keep their sad vigil… she expected better from her onetime student. Here, indigo meant more than mourning— it represented unmitigated suffering. Desolation. Demeter had isolated herself here at Eleusis, her inconsolable grief threatened to destroy the world, and with it mortals and gods alike. Hecate held a long, four-headed torch in each hand to light her way. The flames guttered in the wind, clinging to the torches and turning ghostly blue every time she passed between buildings.
She hadn’t set foot in Eleusis in aeons. She remembered it as a tiny village, all mud huts and warm fleece and scattered grains. The priestesses here once blessed the fields with the tribal lords, praying for the fertile harvest with the ritual rhythm of their bodies, giving of themselves to one another to ensure that their people would not go hungry. Now great houses with cold stone floors stood in place of the earthen homes, and women were shut away indoors to be sold by their menfolk into childbearing as if they were sheep on two legs. Though all the worlds were open to Hecate, it was little wonder that she preferred Chthonia above all others— even when the earth had been warm and green.
She squinted. Wind-borne ice stung her eyes. In the fertile countryside, vestiges of the old ways had remained mere months ago, but the famine and cold had killed off the country folk, the warmth of love matches, and the maidens who would choose their husbands. Desperate and starving, mortal men had scrounged and scraped for the last arable land, and divided the earth, their chattel, and their women among them.
Hecate waited, listening for the sound of the
koudounia
. The veiled girl standing at the door represented Demeter’s lost daughter, her bells a promise to the worshippers that Kore would return. The Goddess of the Crossroads thinned her lips. The child was as frail as a baby bird. In six or seven years, as soon as she flowered, her father would sell her off to her new husband— a stranger over twice her age. She shook her head. A little bird girl standing in for the powerful, regal, fearsome Iron Queen of the Underworld. The only being the Keres would obey. Demeter wouldn’t even recognize her own daughter were she to walk through the doors of the Telesterion this very moment.
The future, what little she could see of it these days, was awash in pandemonium and forked into infinite paths. Some of them wavered and changed, many more were too terrifying to follow, but Hecate knew one thing for certain— this day was the tipping point. If she failed to convince Demeter to relent…
She wouldn’t consider that possibility. She
must
succeed. The Lady of the Harvest had once been her cherished student. Now she was the only Olympian receiving offerings— powerful beyond her wildest imaginings. Demeter herself might not even realize the extent of that new balance of power, thanks to her isolation. The Goddess of the Harvest would allow no guests from Olympus. Hecate watched initiates file out of the Telesterion, once the home of pastoral King Celeus. He was now her highest servant. Him, and the boy. Hecate looked for Triptolemus, wondering if Demeter’s lover was among the crowds exiting the temple. But she only saw women. They were the sole keepers of the food in Eleusis, and in a world where gold could no longer buy grain, these women were the apportioners of all that mattered anymore.
A pity
, Hecate thought.
You are greater than you ever realized. You could have righted the course for untold generations to come.
As the worshippers filed out one by one, each took a sip from the golden cup held by dark-robed Metaneira, the queen turned priestess, a woman ever grateful to Demeter for saving her sons. Hecate moved to walk past her.
“My child,” the mourning woman said, stopping Hecate in her tracks. “I have not seen you before. Are you just arrived today?”
Hecate turned to her. Child. If she were indeed mortal as her appearance suggested, she likely would have a couple small children in tow. In three days, it would be the full moon. Though she was aeons older than even this woman’s mistress, today Hecate looked as though she were only twenty. “Yes, my lady. My path has wound through here… many times. But I cannot linger long.”
“Please stay. You have come to the right place. All are welcome in the sight of the Queen of the Earth.”
“Queen of the Earth.” Hecate smirked at the title. “I would see your queen.”
“The evening’s bread is already broken. The other children of the earth will gladly share theirs with you. You can come back tomorrow for our morning devotional,” she said, starting to close the great oak door.
“I do not require bread, priestess. Only a word with your mistress.”
Metaneira wrinkled her brow. “That is rather presumptuous of you, girl. To think that the Lady of the Harvest would speak to—”
Hecate let her torches flare hot. For the briefest moment, Metaneira saw in triple: two other faint forms of the one before her held the torches on either side of the woman and faced away— one very young, the other very old. The hood of Hecate’s indigo cloak fell back, revealing her otherworldly countenance. Long waves of red hair interwoven with selenite beads gleamed in the torchlight, and a silver moon sat on her forehead. Her expression was calm, but resolute. Hecate watched the mortal woman blink incredulously, thinking that her mind was playing tricks on her. Hecate smiled reassuringly. “Peace, Metaneira, daughter of Polymnia, your eyes do not deceive you,” she said in three voices, that of the Maiden, the Woman and the Crone. “I would have you either stand aside, or show me to your queen.”
Metaneira swallowed and bowed her head to the unknown goddess. “O-others have come f-from Olympus and our lady has turned them away…”
“I am not from Zeus’s court,” Hecate said with a single voice, and walked past the frightened mortal. She stopped in the center of the room. The braziers warmed her skin, and she looked around. A great oak throne taller than Thanatos was raised up on a stepped dais at the back of the hall, sheaves of barley and wheat lay all around it. Empty. She waited.
Her awareness spread further than the stone walls of the Telesterion’s great hall, and Hecate could sense Demeter. Her former student was happily mating with Triptolemus this very minute. She could sense it just as intuitively as when Aidoneus was with Demeter’s daughter. These days, that passing understanding was as common a sensation as breathing. She smiled. They had found joy in each other.
Hecate was also glad that Demeter had found happiness. She sighed, knowing innately that their current activities, though not intentionally, were being practiced in the old way— the goddess and her consort ensuring the fertility of the earth. It was natural for Demeter. Perhaps her newfound love would make this easier. She could only hope that it would soften Demeter’s heart enough to hear her words. So few elements were on her side in this…
Finally, a door creaked open behind the throne and out walked the Lady of the Harvest, her face flushed with health and youth. Demeter tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She hid a serene smile and picked up her long indigo skirts, walking toward the center of the room. Suddenly, her face fell and she stood stock still, her eyes wide. She could barely draw in a breath.
“Too many seasons have passed, acolyte.”
Demeter clenched her teeth together and rasped. “Get out.”
“I think I will remain.”
“Of all the beings in this cosmos,” Demeter said, her voice shaking as she advanced on Hecate, “there is only
one
I wish to see less than you!”
“Indeed? Enlighten me.”
“You…” she shook her head. “Do you think me an idiot? You are in league with him! Get out, Hecate. Do not think to show your face here again!”
“Walk with me,” she said, holding a torch out for Demeter.
“Are you hard of hearing? I just told you—”
“You certainly did,” she said, looking at the vast room and the indigo cloth draped from the rafters. “You’ve dyed your crimson darkly, I see. No. Abandoned it, I should say.”
“
You
abandoned
me
! You told me to make
my
choice and—”
“And I ask that of you again. To make a choice.”
“To acquiesce,” she spat out. “To acquiesce to my daughter’s rape!”
Hecate shook her head patiently. “She is Kore no more, but Persephone would not color it thus, nor do I.”
“Get out!”
Hecate ignored Demeter and slowly strolled around the room, pausing at the tapestries of the House of Celeus, as though she were admiring their handiwork. “Your roots have taken a firm hold here. The Queen of the Earth, they call you. It would be a shame, Demeter Anesidora,” Hecate said, raising her voice almost imperceptibly, “if you were to find the pathway to the rest of the earth choked with thorny brambles. How sad and limited is the existence of the local, rustic god. How long, do you think, before the Eleusinians realize that?”
“You wouldn’t dare…”
Hecate stood still, staring placidly at Demeter. Both knew that it could be done. The white witch held dominion over the ether, and could bar Demeter from traveling that path if she willed it. She smiled at her former student and offered the torch again. “Walk with me.”
It was more command than request. Demeter roughly grabbed the torch from Hecate’s hand. The goddesses made their way to the back of the palace and stepped through the doorway onto the portico. The small garden below was alive, the last place outdoors that grew any food, mercifully shielded from the wind by the amphitheatre of the hills above and shielded from Demeter’s wrath by her protection of this village. But the fertile rows of wheat, barley and millet were not Hecate’s destination.
“Do you feel it? The cold?”
Demeter didn’t answer.
“I thought not. Propitiations come to you now like ants to spilled honey. I would be surprised if any sensation could touch you.”
“Why have you come here, Hecate? Why pull me out into the snow?”
“To show you your daughter.”
“Kore…” She stiffened. “Did you bring—”
Hecate’s silent glare stopped her. She motioned for Demeter to follow her. The hillside was steep, the northern wind growing stronger the higher they climbed. The torches smoldered orange, the barest blue flame flickering at Hecate’s bidding.
Demeter recalled the last time Hecate had led her uphill by the light of a long torch, both of them stumbling up a rocky path at twilight to the heights of Olympus. She remembered the low fire Hestia had created with pine, cypress, and oak, shielding any light that might alert their enemies on Mount Othrys of their presence. Hera had nervously looked about and braided a peacock feather into her rich brown tresses. Poseidon had argued tactics with Zeus by the fire. Aidoneus had sat apart from the rest, looking out over Thessaly, blood dried onto the sword he always wore strapped to his back. Some of the rebelling Titans came as well— Tethys, with the split nautilus she would always wear around her neck, and Metis, who had dutifully recorded all with her stylus on the clay tablet that never left her arms. The clever trickster Prometheus and his hot-tempered brother Epimetheus were there that night.
The night she conceived Kore.
Demeter followed Hecate up the hill, the waxing moon lighting the wide bay and mountains. She heard a groan coming from the south, and for the first time saw blocks of ice scattered across the water, cracking and grinding against each other, the sea rolling beneath them. She pursed her lips. It served Poseidon right for how cruelly he’d mocked her.
“What do you see?”
“Eleusis and the sea,” Demeter said, frustrated, the wind biting through her clothes.
“Look again. Northward.”
“Hills. You said you would show me my daughter! Where is she?”
“You glance with you eyes. Look. As I taught you how to look.”
Demeter scowled, then acceded, closing her eyes and facing north, the wind whipping the veil back from her diadem. North, across the hills and beyond. And further still, until the north abruptly stopped, replaced by a great blanket of ice, fathoms higher than mountaintops, crushing all in its path.
“Now do you see? How it crawls closer? The wall of ice descends from Hyperborea. It’s not far; it has advanced even further from its icy den than when your father wore his crown.”
“What has this to do with me?”
“Everything.”
“None of this is my—”
“Everything,” Hecate repeated. “The world dies beneath the ice, and the mortals will die before then, and the gods themselves
end
if you don’t stop this, Demeter. The frozen maw that swallows mountains will not spare your worshippers. More ice rises from below the Heliades, a southern beast no less ravenous. And when they meet, it will end us all. But we will not see that day, for before it dawns, the chains of the new order that bind the Titans to Tartarus will be broken, and all we have made will be undone.
Worse
than undone. Every tree we grew from a seed will be uprooted, shattered, burned, the ashes scattered and the ground salted. What they will do to your daughter, the Queen—”