Hades Daughter (52 page)

Her left breast had been ripped almost from her body, its flesh mangled as if it had been chewed.

Her heart lay exposed, half out of her chest…and in the clotted blood that covered it Brutus could clearly see the fingermarks of her murderer.

Corineus was keening, thin and high, one hand now patting at the air above Blangan’s corpse as if he wanted to touch her, but did not dare.

Hicetaon—glancing at Brutus who stood staring at Blangan with anger so deep it seemed quite possible that he’d take his sword to the stone as revenge for Blangan’s murder—squatted down by Corineus, and put his arms about him. He hugged Corineus tight, murmuring words of comfort.

Brutus took a very deep breath, then looked at Coel who had stopped a little distance away.

His face had not altered from its carefully composed blandness. “Who did this to her?
Who,
Coel? No one hated Blangan, save for your people.”

“Take your hand from your sword,” Coel said. “
No one
from among my men or this village did this to her. If Blangan died here, and in this manner, then it was the work of gods, not of man.”

“Do gods have murdering fingers?” Brutus shouted, jabbing his hand at the marks about Blangan’s heart. “Damn you and your dark gods, Coel. Blangan was a woman innocent of
any
wrongdoing. Do not blame
her
for the split in your Og’s power, for she was a victim as much as this blighted land of yours.”

Coel’s face had lost some of its composure, but the fact that Brutus could still see no sympathy or understanding there drove him even deeper into anger. “Do you know
what she told me, Coel? Do you? She said that as a terrified thirteen-year-old girl she was raped by her father, and she had no more ability to weave darkcraft than she could command the tide to retreat.
Someone
had cast that darkcraft, Coel, but it was not
her.
” Brutus flung his hand at Blangan’s corpse again.

Something shifted in Coel’s eyes, an uncertainty perhaps, but it did not reflect in his voice. “She had no right talking to you of matters that did not—”

“She had every right, Coel.
Every
right. She was terrified…she knew she had come home to die. All she wanted, Coel,” Brutus’ voice dropped, now soft in its disgust, “was for someone to believe in her.”

He turned away, and dropped down by Corineus, leaving Coel staring at him in sudden horror.

They carried Blangan’s corpse back to the village, a silent line of men wrapped either in thought or in grief, and into Ecub’s house.

Ecub hurried to meet them, exchanging a quick, knowing look with Coel, then taking charge.

“Cornelia, Aethylla and my daughters and I will tend her,” Ecub said, “while you men build a funerary pyre. Go now, and leave women to tend to women.”

Brutus nodded, grateful to hand the horrible corpse over to Ecub. Then he saw Cornelia’s pale and frightened face. “Cornelia? Are you well?”

“How can I be well, Brutus, when I loved Blangan so dearly? Go now, please, leave us alone.”

As Brutus turned away, Coel caught Cornelia’s eyes, and saw the fright within them.

Frenzy wine or not, Cornelia remembered.

The women took the entire morning to wash Blangan clean, stitch her wounds, and wind her in her shroud. Their work was done in silence, save for the odd query regarding their hideous handiwork.

Ecub shot Cornelia many a reflective look, but Cornelia refused to catch her eye, and Ecub could not talk to the woman with Aethylla or her daughters present.

At noon, Blangan’s body tended, they called in two of the men to carry her out to the funerary pyre.

The flames caught, snapping and twisting at the base of the huge pile of wood and brush on which Blangan lay. Corineus knelt in the dirt a few paces distant, his face twisted into tearless grief, his hands held out, keening softly and desolately. Everyone else—Ecub and her family, the villagers, the Trojans, and Coel, Bladud and Jago—stood about in a circle. After a word with Coel, Ecub had seen to it that Cornelia stood distant from Brutus or any other Trojan, and that Coel stood next to her.

“Cornelia,” Coel said softly, his eyes remaining steady on the now flaming pyre.

She did not answer.

“Cornelia,” he said again, “I am sorry that you are fearful.”

“You stopped me from aiding her.” Her voice was flat, toneless, yet carried many layers of accusation within it.

“If you had gone to her then you, too, would have died.”

“I wish I had, Coel. I loved Blangan. I cannot believe that you could have abetted such a cruel death.” Her voice became harsh, horrible. “I cannot believe that I let you touch me and hold me in that—”

“Cornelia,” Coel hissed, “keep your voice down! Do you think that Brutus will thank you
now
if he finds out you witnessed Blangan’s death? What will he think if he knows you kept a silent tongue in your head for all this long morning?”

Cornelia said nothing, but from the corner of his eye Coel saw that she gave an uncertain glance Brutus’ way.

“Blangan knew she came home to her death,” he continued, his own voice calmer now. “She knew it, and I think that you knew it, too, even if she had not put her knowledge into words for you. There is…there is treachery going on about us, Cornelia. Blangan’s death was part of that treachery.”

“And yet you allowed it to happen!”

“Then, I did not know what I do now. Cornelia, there are things you need to see, and words you need to hear, but I am not the one to—”

“Not that Loth, surely.”

She had turned to face him now, her wide eyes furious and frightened all in one, and Coel cursed silently, knowing that her movement had made Brutus turn his eyes their way.

“You need to know why Blangan died,” he said, staring fixedly at the fire and talking through lips that barely moved. “You need to know who killed her.”

“Loth killed her!”

“No,” Coel said. “Loth did not kill her at all.”

Cornelia looked at him, then looked at Brutus, still watching them, then she lowered her eyes, and said no more.

When the pyre had burned completely, and Corineus, weeping, gathered the ashes into an urn, Coel moved to speak with Ecub.

“I do not think Cornelia will talk, not to Brutus. She is too frightened.”

“Watch her. I do not know what to make of her. I still do not truly know why she came to Mag’s Dance in the first instance, nor how she knew how to dance with Blangan Mag’s Nuptial Dance. She is a mystery, and in these dark, blighted days I find that mysteries unnerve me.”

Coel could see that Brutus, at Corineus’ side, was
still
watching him, and he knew he could not afford to spend too long whispering with Ecub.

“Mother Ecub, there is something I think you should know.”

“Yes?”

“Brutus said something to me that made me think. Ecub, I cannot explain it, nor justify what I am about to say, but I think that Genvissa, or, more probably her mother, was the one to cast that darkcraft over Og. Blangan was blameless, a victim, just as Og himself has been.”

“Coel—”

“I have stood here all through this afternoon, watching Blangan’s body burn, and thought about it. Ecub, we have no time to talk of this now, but think on this: you said last night that Loth’s manipulation and Og’s death was Genvissa’s doing. I think you’re right. Moreover, I think that all the darkcraft which binds us is of her, and her line’s, working. MagaLlan? Nay, I think not. Darkwitches indeed, all of them.”

Ecub’s face had gone white, but Coel was striding away before she could speak, and despite all her efforts, there was no opportunity to talk privately with him again before his party left the next morning.

“
Y
ou knew that killing Blangan would draw Og to his final death.”

Genvissa raised her eyebrows, not looking at Loth, as if uninterested. They were walking—rather, Genvissa was walking with smooth, graceful strides, and a haggard-faced and furious Loth was progressing in a jerky gait at her side—through the meadowland that divided two of the Veiled Hills…Pen Hill and the Llandin. Loth had only just arrived from Mag’s Dance, his body and his hip wrap stinking of travel-sweat, and had accosted Genvissa on her daily walk among the sacred hills.

“You told me that in murdering my mother Og’s power would be restored.”

“Did I?”

“You said—”

She stopped, and rounded on him, irritated with his naive stupidity. “And you listened, you fool. The only thought you had was for power and the only tool you used to think with was
this.
”

She grabbed at Loth’s genitals through the soft material of his wrap, and he jerked back before she could bruise him too badly.

“You knew what would happen?” He had accused her, but had not thought she would admit to it.

“Yes.” Genvissa resumed walking.

He stared after her, then ran to catch up. “By Og, Genvissa, why?
Why?
”

“Because Og was useless. He needed to be replaced.”

“With
Brutus
?”

“With what Brutus can offer, yes.”

“How long have you planned this? What
else
have you done?”

“Enough, Loth. Now stop whining. I can ensure you a good enough place in—”

“No! No! I will go before the Assembly of the Mothers, Genvissa, and tell them what you have done.”

She turned on her heel and grabbed his chin in one strong hand. “You will not do so, Loth. If you open your whining mouth to anyone else I will personally tell not only your father, but the entire Assembly and through them, all Llangarlia, that
you
were the one who killed Og.” Her upper lip curled. “Like mother, like son. They will believe me, Loth. Not you.”

“I was only the weapon,” he said, wrenching his chin free, “not the hand of the murderer.”

Genvissa laughed softly. “How sweet, Loth. Who gave you those words, then? Ecub, I assume, as I can’t imagine you coming up with that concept by yourself.”

He flushed, humiliated. “Then why not kill me, too?”

“Because, my dear boy,” she patted him on the cheek, “I may yet have a use for you.”

“Darkwitch!”

Genvissa finally lost her temper. “And what of it? What I do, I do for this land. Mag and Og were old, useless, and this land was failing by degrees anyway. If I replace them, then I replace them with
strength
so that this land may flower in the sun again.”

She paused, her breasts heaving with emotion. “I love this land and its people as much as you do, Loth. Believe that. What I do, I do for Llangarlia.”

“What you do,” Loth hissed, “you do for your own gain only.”

He backed away a step, then another, his mouth—his entire face—snarling. “I will destroy you!”

“You are too late,” she said. “There is no weapon left.”

“
I
saw that satchel you gripped so closely when you left Waterloo, Major Skelton,” said the voice, whispering out of the darkness. “Were the remaining kingship bands in it, then? Are they back at Frank Bentley’s cheerful establishment, unguarded, waiting for me?”

“Asterion,” Skelton said, stopping and looking into the dark doorway from whence had issued the voice. “Are you so afraid to reveal yourself that you must speak from the shadows?”

Asterion stepped forth into the dim street lighting. He had taken his true form, his naked, muscular man’s body topped with the blue-black head of the bull.

Skelton glanced up and down New Bridge Street, but it was deserted. As always, Asterion had chosen the moment well.

“You were right,” Asterion said, “when you told my pretty Stella that this would be the last time, the last Gathering. I’ve grown tired, impatient. It is more than time that the Game was finalised.”

He walked further forward yet, close enough that he could reach up a hand and grasp Skelton’s chin. “This stupidity has gone on long enough. Give me the remaining kingship bands.”

Skelton wrenched his face free. “I’ll see you in hell first.”

Asterion laughed, low and sweet. “How, Brutus? The Game is all but over. There is no point in trying to fight on. No point in trying to deny me. Hand over the bands and—”

“And…what? You will treat me ‘mercifully’?” Skelton turned his back to Asterion, and began to walk away.

“You cannot finish the Game, Skelton. You know that. You cannot finish what you and Genvissa started.”

Skelton halted, and spoke to Asterion over his shoulder. “Then I will safeguard what I may. I will not let you destroy the Game, Asterion. I will not let you destroy this.” His chin tilted, and with its movement took in all the sprawling vastness of London.

“Walk away then, fool,” Asterion said. “Walk away. There is nothing you can do to stop me now. Nothing. You lost a long, long time ago. Walk away.”

Skelton whipped about, stung into fury, but Asterion had gone, vanished into the drifting London fog.

O
n the morning of the sixth day after they’d left Ecub’s village Coel led his party into a wide valley that seemed rich and fertile.

Here, unlike the relatively sparse lands they passed through from the Dart River, villages and farming communities were dotted at regular intervals. Here, fields and droveways stretched in every direction, their boundaries marked with ditches and well-tended hedges. Even now, in the early autumn, it was easy to see that this was a fruitful land: there were numerous flocks of sheep, cattle, pigs and goats, as well as gaggles of geese and poultry feeding along the stream and river meadows. In some fields there were still men and women harvesting late grain crops, and while blight had left some coarse and thin patches within the crops, in most the stalks crowded thick and tall, their grain heads heavy and generous. There were orchards and well-tended herb gardens, as also carefully managed coppices and lightly wooded areas where wild boar and deer roamed.