Destroyer of Light (27 page)

The cries stopped.

“You will always have your love for him. He will always be with you.” The ash trees above them rustled in as if in a gust. “And before you know it you will see him again. But please Melia, it’s time to go home.”

The leaves murmured gently again and the air grew frigid for a moment. Dimitris wrapped his hands around his shoulders and gooseflesh prickled Persephone’s arms. Wisps of exhaled breath drifted in front of them. A voice whispered through the trees…
Dimitris… my Dimitris…
and was gone.

A warm summer breeze chased the chill air, and the farmer stood, sighing heavily, letting the burden ease from his shoulders. “Soteira…”

Persephone smiled. “She went home.”

Dimitris stared at the dirt, then dropped to one knee in front of her. “Forgive me, please. Forgive how I spoke to you earlier.”

“I already have.”

Dimitris swallowed. “Would you and your companions do me the honor of sharing a meal with me?”

“I’d love to,” she said. “Will you tell me more about yourself and Melia?”

Dimitris smiled and nodded, realizing as he did that he’d grown accustomed to answering such questions with a resentful ‘no.’ He missed Melia, but visions of her slumped against their meager belongings had been supplanted by thoughts of her smiling as she fed him honeyed cake at their wedding. “I’d love to.”

The farmer broke open a heavy loaf of barley bread. Dimitris had traded for it with his neighbor, he’d said, in exchange for a pheasant he’d shot down last week. Persephone, Minthe, and Eumolpus sat with him around his table and broke bread. Minthe ate her share quickly, despite trying to pace herself. Persephone noticed that her ribs were still prominent under her chiton.

Dimitris dug through his stores for a small cask of wine and poured it into a kylix in the center of the table. Eumolpus was unable to hide his glee, having been denied this indulgence while in service to Demeter. He soaked his bread through and savored each dripping morsel. Persephone politely declined when the wine came to her.

“There is no sun on the Other Side, yet there is light?” Dimitris asked as he took away the empty bowl.

“It’s quite beautiful,” Persephone said. A slightly tipsy Eumolpus smiled and gazed longingly at Minthe, who demurred and shifted in her seat. The pretty nymph nervously listened to the spring goddess continue. “I cannot describe how awe-inspiring the dawn really is. You’ll see one day.”

Dimitris leaned his head in his hand. “And when I eventually do, I will be reunited with my Melia?”

“Yes,” Persephone answered, then thinned her lips. “And no.”

Dimitris looked at her in horror. “But you said… she’s not sent to Tartarus, is she?”

“Of course not, I promise. From what you’ve told me of her, the judges would
never
send her there.” She was interrupted by loud cawing outside.

“Then what do you mean?”

“Well…” Persephone paused to consider how best to explain the effects of the Lethe when a crow landed on the fence just outside the door. It flapped its wings loudly as it steadied itself then started its cries again. The bird picked at a burlap sack slung over the piled stones.

“Damnation, not again…” Dimitris swore under his breath. He grabbed a short bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver hung next to the door.

“What’s wrong?” Minthe spoke, following Dimitris.

“I didn’t spend all day toiling in the field just have that creature steal my seeds!”

“Surely you don’t have to kill the poor thing?” Minthe said. “He’s only trying to eat.”

“Trust me,” he muttered, nocking an arrow. “The crows had more than enough to eat this winter.”

Before Minthe could nudge his arm and force the arrow from its course, it sailed through the air, puncturing its target with a dull, wet sound. The crow fell off its perch with a shriek and lay on the ground, flapping its wings in futility. The arrow stuck straight up, impaling the creature, pinning it to the dirt.

Persephone frowned at Dimitris and picked up her skirts, grumbling as she walked to where the crow lay. “So unnecessary…”

“Soteira,” he said, “You don’t understand. That same crow has come here three times now—”

“Well, you finally shot him. Are you pleased?”

“No,” Dimitris said, growing pale. “You misunderstand me, milady. My arrow
struck true
the last three days. He won’t die.”

Persephone looked at him with a mix of confusion and shock, then stood above the bird. Two holes from Dimitris’s arrows gaped on its chest, each crusted with blood. The arrow pinning him to the ground stuck out from its heart. The crow stared up at her, flapping its wings intermittently. She pulled the arrow out of the ground, then freed the bird, cradling it in her hand as its breathing steadied.

Persephone could always feel the raw power of all that lay beneath the earth within her, could feel Aidon’s presence at the entrance to the Underworld— the cave where she emerged and created Spring. But as she held the injured bird in her hand, she didn’t feel death. The last time she had seen Thanatos was when an Eleusinian elder had belatedly succumbed to the hardships of winter and famine. She’d seen and felt death even when Thanatos was not around— after all, beings died every minute, just as flowers bloomed every minute. The gods couldn’t be in all places at once. But the essence of Death was missing, as though it didn’t exist at all…

“Milady?” Dimitris said. They all startled as the crow righted itself in Persephone’s hand, then flew away into the highest branches of the ash tree. They heard it call out at them reproachfully.

“It’s a demon!” Eumolpus said quietly, his voice shaking. “One of Echidna’s brood…”

“No,” Persephone finally said. “It’s much worse than that.” She looked at the sprig of pennyroyal tucked behind Minthe’s ear. The summer heat should have wilted it by now. Instead it was as green and vibrant as when Minthe had plucked it from the roadside.

She reached her hand out to Minthe, who flinched back. Persephone curled her fingers and produced new leaves and a bright purple bud from the pennyroyal. This wasn’t natural, even
with
divine intervention.

A frightful question settled heavily on her mind. Where was Death?

Thera was as beautiful as he remembered it.
But much had changed in the intervening years. The cliffs were far sheerer than when he’d last seen them. The dropped all the way to the ocean, and part of the island looked like it had collapsed into the sea.

Less than a millennium ago, he’d heard stories of villages obliterated by great waves and molten earth. There had been a glut of new shades that day. In the following year Aidoneus and his court had heard fanciful yarns about a kingdom sinking to its new home below the waves. He’d later learned that the old, fierce empire on Crete, ruled for generations by priestess queens and consort kings, had choked on noxious fumes and been washed away. Minos had wept.

Today, the sky was sapphire blue fading into gold in the west. The setting sun was reflected perfectly in the shallow seas below. There was no special way to get to Thera— it was simply a matter of knowing which road led out where. Every island, every mountain, every valley, and every spring— every place in the sunlit world had a door to the Other Side. All roads led to Chthonia.

It was fortunate that they had chosen this island, he thought. If the journey to the world above caused too many ripples in the ether, their quarry might be alerted to their arrival. They couldn’t afford the month-long chase Sisyphus had given them last time. No one could.

The hosts of Hades had been forced to take the long way in order not to disturb any of the boundaries between worlds, turning a journey of minutes into a full day of walking. Thera was far enough away from Ephyra, but close enough to Hellas that it would allow a short journey.

Aidoneus squinted, and the wind pulled a few more curls of his hair out of place. “I’ve never understood why the sun is always so bright on this island.”

“It is the longest day of the year, my lord. Daylight is different above, especially by the sea. She was a sweet girl, but Hemera was always a bit… theatrical,” Nyx mused with a smile. The shadow of Erebus curled about her, undisturbed by the light or the breeze.

He looked to the west, the last of Hemera’s daylight fading on the horizon. Soon the Tribe of the Oneiroi would be able to rise from beneath the surface and help claim their missing kinsman. Their campaign to rescue him and punish his captor should have been foremost in his mind, but an entirely different matter preoccupied Aidoneus. “I doubt it seems so bright to her.”

“Persephone blossomed fully in the light,” Hecate said, her crimson himation wrapped around her and blowing back in the wind. Tomorrow she would change her robes to black as her final days as the Crone approached. Stringy wisps of her white hair wafted out from inside the hood.

“And then she returned to the light.”

“Your bargain with the Olympians will hold,” Nyx said. “They wouldn’t risk losing us. My son’s capture proves what dire consequences await them when our world is thrown out of balance. And Chthonia will have its Queen.”

“The Pomegranate Agreement isn’t what I’m concerned about,” he said, thinning his lips. “It’s been three months. Nothing from Hermes— not a
word
from her.”

“You saw the ruin of the world when you came above,” Hecate admonished him. “You know what a precarious state it was in— what she was tasked with repairing.”

“Yes, I know. But she has been back in the world above for longer than she was ever with me. All the aeons of her life were lived up here, but for those two months.” He looked at the sun again, watching it split in half behind a thin cloud and turn vermillion before flashing green against the water and disappearing. “I was here for only ten years. And I know how seductive the world above truly is.”

“Its nectar is not so sweet to her as you think. Her heart is in Hades. The king and his realm. She would not have acted as she did if it were not.” Hecate placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “You underestimate how much she loves you.”

“I only hope you’re right,” he said grimly. He would have to be cautious. Aidon had told his wife that he would come above at his first opportunity. He’d delayed because the winter had made a mess of his kingdom, and now that he was finally going to see her it was with business, not necessarily for
her
. How angered would she be at him? He’d
promised
her…

“She dreams of you, my lord,” Morpheus turned to him, his sightless eyes veiled. Hypnos stood beside him, a hand on his brother’s shoulder to guide him across the uneven ground. “I often wondered why you didn’t ask me to send you to her, as you did the first time you saw her.”

“For the same reason I didn’t venture up here myself. Because, my friend,” Aidon said, “if I had gone to her in dreams, I couldn’t have stopped at just one night. And you have your own responsibilities to your world. As do I.”

“I also imagine, my lord,” Morpheus said with the rarest of smiles ticking up the corner of his mouth, “that you might not want me there to guide you together in the dream world? That your
activities
wouldn’t be as… tame… as the first time I sent you?”

“No, I assure you, they would not.” Five months ago, Morpheus’s implication would have angered or embarrassed Aidoneus. Instead, the Lord of the Underworld gave the assembled hosts a half smile. He felt no shame now for desiring his queen.

“The Erinyes and the judges guard our home and we are in the world above now, Aidoneus,” Nyx said. “If you wonder whether or not she still wants you, answer your own question. Reach out to her.”

He nodded and looked about, trying to get his bearings, to speak to her thoughts directly. Aidoneus closed his eyes, and felt his wife’s warm presence leagues away.

***

“They’re bringing in the wheat as we speak,” Triptolemus said, pointing out the villagers to Demeter. “ It is unfortunate that the barley was not ready earlier. We could have had time to ferment it before tonight, my lady.”

“That might disappoint a few, to be sure.”

He shrugged. “There will be plenty to brew after today. Besides— the people need bread before beer.”

Persephone stooped every so often to pick up loose grains of barley. Each kernel grew full in her hand. She frowned. They were severed from the earth. Growth should have stopped the moment they were cut.

Her mother and Triptolemus discussed the decorations for that evening, how the early crocus flowers and their precious saffron had yielded beautiful golden dyes, their hue woven into bolts of wool and linen, that Eleusis would be clad in gold tonight and wreathed in olive branches.

Demeter had presented Persephone with a floral crown she’d made that morning, twined with wheat and larkspur. To Persephone’s great delight and surprise, Demeter had placed a single asphodel into the center of the crown. It sat next to her bed, ready for the coming evening.

Demeter asked Triptolemus about Metaneira’s embroidery, whether or not she needed help, and told him how she would love to help decorate a fresh blanket for baby Demophon, to celebrate him taking his first steps the day before. Triptolemus kissed Demeter on the cheek.

She sighed, wistfully rather than with exasperation. She had grown accustomed to their affection. Perhaps in time, she thought, her mother would understand what she felt for Aidoneus. Demeter had a good example walking by her side that all men were not cruel and domineering, or flighty with their affections like her father, Zeus. Persephone’s shoulders slumped. Her mother had a love like that long ago with Iasion, and had kept it from her.

“And what are your plans for the festival, Lady Kore?”

“What?” She looked up at her mother’s lover and tried to remember what he’d just said. She didn’t mind Triptolemus calling her ‘Lady Kore’. It was how his people had always known her. And considering the fate of his sisters during the winter, calling her by her true name would be too painful. “Oh, I’m looking forward to it.”

“What worries you, my dear? You’ve been so distracted the last few days,” her mother said, petting Persephone’s back. She leaned into Demeter’s side.

“Something’s not right, Mother. The plants shouldn’t stay alive like this after they’ve been harvested,” she said, showing her the filled-out grains. “And the things people have been saying about the fish they’ve caught…”

“Have you considered that the balance is just swaying the other way?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” she muttered to herself. She turned to Triptolemus. “Can the mortals even eat what they’ve caught or harvested if it cannot die?”

“The soil is more alive than it’s ever been,” Triptolemus said cautiously as they walked back toward the Telesterion. He scooped up a handful of soil to examine it. “And the people are stronger than ever. No one in Eleusis has passed away for nearly a week. Why should we wish for Death to visit us again?”

The sky turned gold with the last rays of sunlight. Persephone looked at the moist clump of dirt in his hand and pulled a wriggling earthworm from it. “Because
this
little one still needs to eat. The living need the dead…”

“Honestly, Kore, must you be so morbid?” Demeter huffed. At times like this she felt that her daughter was here only in body. Demeter couldn’t help but think that even though her daughter was promised to be with her for six months, she would never again see Kore as she was. The changes in her daughter were irrevocable. Persephone, somber, analytical, and forever tainted by her ravisher, walked beside her now. “This isn’t anything you should be worrying about.”

“But it is serious, Mother.”

“Maybe your mother is right. Perhaps the balance is just restoring itself,” Triptolemus timidly interjected. “An absence of life followed by an abundance of it.”

“But this isn’t
abundance
. Nor is it about life. We have been working to restore it, but—”

“My dear, this is a
good
thing,” Demeter interrupted. “The crops are growing faster and faster.”

“But that in itself is a problem! It’s built on artifice. Plants must die so that others may live. Fertile soil is created that way. Triptolemus,
you
teach that at Mother’s behest,” she argued. The young man cleared his throat.

Demeter waved off her daughter’s concerns. “There was enough suffering in the winter. This must be Gaia’s doing.”

“The earth doesn’t just
right
itself.”

“Gaia has enough sense to preserve
herself
, dear.”

“But not in a way that always favors the mortals. That was why everything froze— because all fertility was leached out of the earth.”

“And now it’s back.”

“Mother…” Persephone bit her cheek in frustration. “There’s something fundamentally wrong with all this and I need to find out what it is.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I…”

“Thanatos is your captor’s right hand— his agent in the world above. What if this is some base trick to make you go back to the Land of the Dead earlier than you ought?”

Triptolemus swallowed and stayed silent, knowing better than to get involved. Persephone scared him almost as much as she terrified poor Diocles, always speaking about the Other Side with impunity, and filling his own mother’s head with fanciful ideas about reborn souls.

Persephone rolled her eyes, dreading where this conversation was turning. “My husband has better things to do than twist the balance of life and death in order to have me seek him out. And he wouldn’t care for the words I’d have for him if that turned out to be true.”

Demeter grumbled to herself. “It would be just like Aidoneus to do something like this. To be this selfish.” Triptolemus deliberately quickened his pace and walked ahead.

“You don’t know him,” she said, trying to stay calm, trying not to precipitate another fight that she would ultimately lose. Her mother craved the last word. Persephone had learned early to not engage in these arguments. She focused on the sky to calm herself. The clouds were lit with flames of orange and pink. It was beautiful, but dusk here was nothing so brilliant as what she had known in the Underworld…

Demeter likewise didn’t want a fight.
Don’t fan the flames
, Zeus had wisely advised. She’d put up with Persephone’s talk about the Underworld, had overlooked her speaking with Metaneira and even taking Eumolpus under her wing. They’d had a happy peace these last two months, and she could almost see the old innocent light of Kore returning. It shone in the way she hugged an older woman in the village or hitched up her skirts and ran barefoot down the paths between the fields. It was in the fragrant lavender and roses that she wove into her hair. The recent anxious days had marred that, her daughter consumed with the idea that something dreadful had happened to Thanatos. She’d even referred to that baneful creature as her friend.

Persephone scooped up a few more stalks of broken wheat, rolling the fat grains between her fingers. Triptolemus doubled back and joined her when Persephone motioned him over. “Here, you see these?”

Triptolemus looked at them askance. “What about them?”

“These should be dried or rotting into mulch by now… not lying here useless. If their husks cannot feed the wheat that is still alive and growing, then—”

Persephone.