Hades Daughter (11 page)

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.”

Aerne shrank away from her wandering hand, concerned. “I have heard of this Troy from the traders who come to buy our copper and tin. Troy was attacked and ravaged, as you say. What manner of protection is this Troy Game then, if Troy itself lies destroyed?”

Genvissa sighed. “Have you not been listening to me, old man? Troy was destroyed many generations ago—Brutus’ line has been wandering seeking a home ever since. Long ago there were many Kingmen, men who knew how to manipulate the Game and who knew how to unravel the spell-weaving that protected any given land or city. Troy’s Game was unravelled by a man called Achilles, who knew the means by which to dispel the magical protection that hung about the city. But Achilles is long dead, as is his line. Every other Aegean Kingman and their lines are dead,
save for the Trojan kingline.
This Brutus is the only man left who
can weave the enchantments needed to resurrect the Game. The only one. There is no one who can unravel the Game this Brutus and I will build to protect Llangarlia, Aerne.
No one.
”

No one,
she repeated in her mind, and smiled at the thought of useless, feeble Asterion raging far beyond the peaks of the great Himalayas.

The instant I close the Game with Brutus, Asterion will be trapped. There is no need to worry about Asterion. No need at all.

In his distant alpine valley, deep within the dark heart of his roughly drawn labyrinth, Asterion lowered his head, and smiled.

Power throbbed about him, so virulent it had devastated the entire valley of all life. One day…

“One day!” whispered Asterion.

…he would fling that power at Genvissa and all her hopes and plans and ambitions.

Meanwhile, all he had to do was sit, and observe.

Mesopotama

I
shifted slightly, turning my shoulder just so, knowing that the movement caused my breasts to catch the morning light as it flooded through the windows of the megaron. I had dressed carefully that morning, donning the stiffest and thickest of my flounced ankle-length skirts, knowing that their swaying as I moved drew the eye to my hips. I had begged my nurse, Tavia, to tighten my wide, embroidered girdle an extra notch so that my waist narrowed to the span of a man’s hands. And above my narrow waist and my sweeping flounced skirts I donned the very best of my jackets, its stiffened emerald linen fitting tightly to my form. I had tied only its bottom two laces, leaving the rest of the jacket open to frame my breasts, as I was allowed to do as an unmarried woman. My hair, although not as glorious as that of some women’s, was nonetheless left to curl and drape over my shoulders most becomingly. I looked my absolute best that morning and, from the admiring glances that fell my way, I knew I was not the only one to think so.

Every man in the megaron who saw me lusted for me. Even my own father, I think, for I saw the tip of his tongue moisten his lips as his eyes lingered on my breasts. It was not unknown for a king to take his own daughter to wife, especially when she was his only heir, but if my father had thoughts in that direction, then I
should shortly disabuse him of them. There was only one man I wanted, and that was my cousin Melanthus.

Eight paces away, Melanthus’ mouth lifted in a knowing smile as he beheld me, and he shifted, aroused.

He would be mine within the week. I knew it.

Suddenly happy, I relaxed, slipping away from my provocative pose. My mind slipped into one of my frequent fantasies about my life with Melanthus: the long, hot nights spent in wild abandon in our bed; the children I would bear him (many strong and courageous sons…I would not waste his time nor my strength on mere daughters); the extravagant feasts and celebrations we would preside over when he was my consort; the epic poems Melanthus would compose in my honour; the…

“What is this?”

So startled I could not repress a small jump, I looked to my father, Pandrasus. He stood before his throne on the raised dais of the megaron, one of his legs thrust back as if to retain contact with his golden throne, a piece of somewhat tatty parchment in his hand.

His shoulders were back, and stiff, as if in affront. His belly was thrust forward, as if in challenge, and his face was flushed, his eyes bright with outrage. On the wrist of the hand which held the offending parchment gleamed the thick gold and ruby bracelet of his office, a larger and only slightly richer version of the bracelet that encircled my wrist.

He looked magnificent—all the women in the chamber must have been set a-trembling, and even I felt my tongue circle about my lips in appreciation, but I managed to turn my mind away from my father’s undoubted sexual appeal (besides, what was it when compared to Melanthus’ youthful beauty and prowess?). When I was young, a mere four or five, a prophetess had said I would marry a great king and
bear him many children, but that great king was surely not my father. She must have seen Melanthus…perhaps in our bed, getting one of those many children on my body.

My mind threatened to veer off towards yet another fantasy about my cousin, but then my father shouted again, and I forced my mind back to the matter at hand.

“
What is this?
”

Several servants cowered before my father, falling to their knees, and the soldiers about the walls of the megaron had stiffened, hands to their swords.

My father waved the parchment about, still shouting. I had no idea what it contained, but it was undoubtedly the reason my father had summoned his court early this day. I hoped it would not detain us long, for I would draw Melanthus into a private corner and test just how deep his desire ran.

I glanced again at Melanthus. I saw that he had eyes for no one else but me, and the linen of his waistcloth bulged most promisingly.

Perhaps he would be mine before the morning was out.

“Listen!” my father said, and began to read.

“I, Brutus, leader of all those who survived the fall of Troy, send greetings to Pandrasus, king of the Dorian Greeks in Mesopotama. I am come to demand that you immediately free all Trojans from your slavery, for I find it intolerable that you should treat them in any way other than that which their nobility demands. Be moved to pity them, and bestow upon them their former liberty and grant them permission to live wheresoever they please. Furthermore, as example of your grand benefice, I demand that you shall grant your former slaves the means to remove themselves from Mesopotama…five score of ships, well stocked with food, water, wine and cattle, that they might
begin their new lives far away from here in grand manner. I await your decision in the forests to the east of Mesopotama, knowing that you will do what is best for your people, and your own greatness.”