Hades Daughter (60 page)

There was a silence, and I knew a line had been crossed.

I also realised, if I hadn’t previously, that I had been accepted completely into this community of Erith’s house. This talk was not meant for untrustworthy ears.

“Genvissa?” I said softly.
You are not the only one she terrifies,
Coel had said.

“Who else could have harmed Mag,
and
Og, so easily?” said Erith. “And who else would it benefit so much as Genvissa? Yes, Genvissa. Our MagaLlan. The woman who is supposed to protect our gods and our land before all else.”

“She is a Darkwitch,” I said, remembering what Blangan had said. Then, from nowhere, came more words. “Her foremother Ariadne destroyed an entire civilisation. Genvissa will do the same here.”

There was a silence, and I knew everyone was watching me.

“I wish…” I said, and did not know how to finish the sentence; I felt as though something was tearing apart deep inside me.

“I know,” Coel said very softly, and gathered me into his arms.

T
he rectangular stone building on the slopes of Tot Hill was filled with women. They milled about its internal space, their quiet talk a low hum, their movements deliberate, tempered, courteous, their faces gentle, whatever may have been on their minds.

They were the Mothers of Llangarlia, the women who headed each household, who spoke for each family, who gathered here today as they did once a year to discuss how what they had learned from the past would lead them into the future. The oldest of them was a wizened ancient, her back so curved she had to deliberately lift her face upwards to avoid continuously studying her feet, her facial features so drooped both her nose and her mouth had collapsed to rest on her chin. The youngest was a woman barely into her twenties, her belly rounded in pregnancy, her eyes and demeanour respectful of all the experience and wisdom that walked about her.

Every one of them felt the weight of not only her own responsibility in leading and advising her own House, but of her part in their collective responsibility.

Every one of them had heard of the arrival of the Trojans—of their
numbers,
by Mag!—and of their wish to settle in Llangarlia.

Every one of them had lost sleep in worry over the situation, and yet every one of them here today
presented a calm and ordered face to the world, for there was no benefit in panic, and no possible need to push their troubled peoples even further into worry.

Three women had grouped into a corner, their faces as calm as everyone else’s, their eyes as watchful as they studied the other women milling about them.

Ecub, only very recently arrived from her home next to Mag’s Dance, looked particularly weary. Her face was pale, her eyes dulled with lack of sleep. Nevertheless, her hair was carefully dressed, her wool robe neatly arranged, her shoulders straight, and she held herself tall, her hands folded before her.

Beside her Erith looked even tinier than usual, although in no way diminished.

Their companion was Mais, Mother of one of the Houses closely associated with the forests above the Veiled Hills, one of Loth’s strongest allies, and mother of a daughter who had only recently conceived a daughter by Loth.

“What can we do?” Mais said. “She will destroy us.” Coel had earlier spoken with them, telling them of what he and Loth now knew.

“She will most certainly destroy us if we speak publicly against her,” Erith said. “Our respect and our loyalty should be to the MagaLlan.”

“Our respect and our loyalty
were
to the office of MagaLlan,” Ecub said, her voice low to disguise its bitterness, “before that Darkwitch from Crete corrupted that once remarkable line.” She was dressed in a robe of very deep red wool, and for an instant the red of her robe reflected in her eyes, and Erith shuddered.

“We cannot speak publicly against her,” she said. “Not yet. This Assembly’s loyalty will still hold with Genvissa, even if what she presents us with today will tear out the heart of Llangarlia.”

“You would have us smile, and nod, and
agree
with her?” Ecub hissed.

Erith fought the urge to grind her teeth, smiling and nodding at another of the Mothers who momentarily passed close by.

“I am saying that there may be better ways to deal with her and her wicked witchery, than making victims of ourselves by speaking out in this Assembly.”

“Yes?” said Ecub. “How might that be then?”

Erith, who’d had her hands folded before her in a Mother’s traditional posture of calm authority, now dropped them to her side, taking a hand of each of the women beside her. “I think Genvissa has an enemy she may not recognise until it is too late,” Erith said, so very, very softly Mais and Ecub had to lean close to her to hear.

There was a silence, a great stillness.

“Cornelia?” Ecub whispered. “I had wondered about her too, but…”

“Yes,” Erith said, “Cornelia. Whatever happened at Mag’s Dance, I think Mag’s power is still with Cornelia. I felt it a bare few days ago.”

“Who is this Cornelia?” Mais said. “I have not heard of her.”

“She is the wife,” Erith said, and all three women’s faces assumed pained expressions at that most horrid and foreign of offices, “of the leader of the Trojans, Brutus. She is young, naive, foolish, ignorant…and yet—”

“Yet she came to Mag’s Dance unannounced,” said Ecub, “and she danced Mag’s Nuptial Dance.”

Mais exclaimed softly, while Erith, who had known this from Coel, merely nodded consideringly.

“She is a natural mother,” Erith continued, “and when I laid a hand to her womb I swear that I felt Mag…in a
Greek
woman! My son Coel tells me he sees magic in her, and felt it on an occasion when Cornelia permitted him brief penetration. He thought to loathe these Trojans, these invaders, and yet for Cornelia he feels only respect. Warmth. An urge to protect. Love.”

“He wants to sleep with her,” Mais said, and laughed.

Erith giggled, making her seem momentarily girlish. “Oh, yes, that too. But Cornelia
is
intriguing. The fact that she came unannounced to Mag’s Dance, and
then
took part in the Nuptial Dance as though she had been born to it…well, that’s astounding. And hopeful.”

“When Loth came to her there,” Ecub went on, “he did not roar at her, but handled her gently, and spoke well to her.”

There was another silence, the three women’s eyes on the Mothers moving about the room, not looking at each other.

“We need to speak to Loth,” Mais said. “Tonight. Before tomorrow’s ceremony.”

“Aye,” said the other two, “we will speak with Loth.”

“Mothers!” Genvissa called, and stepped forth into the centre of the room.

As one, all the Mothers present turned to her with bodies and eyes, their movement as choreographed as the most careful dance.

Genvissa looked about her, ensuring she had all their attention.

She was dressed in a pure white linen robe that left her rounded, strong arms bare, and which was sashed tightly about her waist with a scarlet band, highlighting the curve of breast and sweep of hip. Her raven hair was, as usual, left to tumble carelessly about her shoulders and back, its russet lock marking her as god-favoured. Her hands were folded before her in the traditional gesture of humility, but above them her eyes flashed, negating any of the humility she may have wished to convey.

She lifted one of her hands, and smiled, warm and gracious. “Please, seat yourselves.”

The women lowered themselves to the floor, today covered with soft, thick matting. The younger among them moved swiftly to aid the elder to the few available cushions, and soon all were seated, their eyes centred on Genvissa who had remained standing.

“Our Assembly this year comes at a most opportune time,” Genvissa said, turning slowly within the circle of Mothers, her eyes making contact with each one in turn. “I come today on an important and urgent matter. I come to seek your counsel and guidance.”

Ecub grunted, and Erith shot her a warning glance.

“You know of the Trojans,” Genvissa continued, “of their arrival, of their numbers, of their wish to settle within Llangarlia. I see no reason to deny them their wish.”

The Mothers were too gentle, too restrained to break into an uproar, but they did nevertheless stir, and a murmuring rose among them.

Genvissa held up her hands. “Mothers, please, hear me out. I speak plainly and swiftly, for events demand no less. You
know
of the troubles which have beset us over the past generation—”

“Ever since your witch mother Herron worked her darkcraft,” Ecub muttered, very, very low.

Erith laid a restraining hand on the woman’s arm.

“How many of your Houses have lost children to unexplained fevers?” Genvissa cried, her arms now outstretched in supplication. “How many of you have watched daughters writhe to their deaths in childbirth where before they dropped their children with the same ease that apple trees drop their fruit in autumn? Our livestock increasingly succumb to malignant diseases, our crops wither in the fields, the ice and the rain and the snow sleet down from the north and turn the thatch of our houses into sodden, mouldy, useless caps and the flesh between our toes to mildewed horror.”

Her voice dropped, and she lowered her arms and her eyes, as if grieving. “And our beloved Gormagog is dying. You know of this. You know,” her voice broke on an almost sob, “you know that Og has finally deserted us.”

“And in answer to this you threaten us with an invasion of Trojans?” Ecub could keep her peace no longer, and Erith’s fingers dug into the flesh of the woman’s forearm.

Ecub ignored the pain. “Who needs these Trojans, MagaLlan?
Us?
Why? Why?”

A murmuring again arose among the Mothers, and Genvissa held up a hand to silence them.

“Mother Ecub speaks only what many of you must think,” Genvissa said mildly, although her jaw and shoulders had noticeably tensed, “but I say to you, these Trojans will not harm us; rather, they can protect us. Furthermore, their leader, Brutus, controls a unique magic that can restore to us our prosperity and health.”

Erith’s fingers by now had dug so deep into Ecub’s arm that the woman’s flesh had turned a deep crimson.

“We
need
his magic, sisters, to fill that void that Og’s failure has created. Without him Llangarlia will fail. With him, it will regain its strength.”

Ecub muttered something uncomplimentary, but to Erith and Mais’ relief she did not raise her voice, and Erith released the pressure of her fingers.

“I have spoken to this Brutus,” Genvissa said, her voice once more quiet, compelling. “He will settle among us, become one with us, and in return he will build a great city, powerful with magic, that will guide our return into abundance and happiness.”

“Where will he build this ‘great city’?” asked a Mother on the far side of the room, and Erith sighed in relief that another had deflected Genvissa’s attention from herself and her two companions.

Genvissa took a deep breath before answering. “In the Veiled Hills,” she said quietly, “atop the White Mount, Og’s Hill and Mag’s Hill.”

There was instant uproar, and Genvissa allowed it to continue for several minutes before she again held up her hands for silence.

“Og is dead,” she said, “he will not suffer at the loss of Og’s Hill. His replacement magic, the Trojan magic, will need to combine with what is left of Mag’s power and those strange spirits who live under the White Mount in order to be most effective.”

Then, as the muttering continued, she turned to the door, left standing open, and held out her hand.

Aerne, dressed in nothing more than a scarlet hip cloth, entered the chamber, leaning on a staff. He walked with considerable stiffness and shortness of breath to Genvissa’s side, and glared implacably at the Assembly of Mothers.

“It is necessary,” he said.

“Or else?” Ecub shouted, and Erith groaned.

“Or else we will perish,” said the Gormagog and, taking Genvissa’s hand in his, waved the staff in the space before him.

A vision appeared, and it was one of dread. Naked warriors, daubed in blue clay, swarmed over their land, raping and slaughtering and burning, and howling with laughter all the while.

“They mass to the east,” Aerne whispered through the horror, “and undoubtedly one day they will launch themselves at us. We have not the strength to defend ourselves. We will vanish, as surely as the autumn leaves are swept into oblivion by the winter winds.”

“Mag?” someone cried out helplessly.

“You know she cannot help against such as this,” Aerne said, waving his staff so that the vision folded in upon itself and then disappeared. “Not only is her power weak, but the art of protecting us against
swords and fury is alien to her. She is the fertile mother goddess, not the stag god.”

Again silence as the Mothers contemplated this.

Every one of them knew of Mag’s horrifying and deepening weakness. Every one of them had felt it.

If she is weak,
Ecub thought, her face creased in a savage frown,
it is only through witchery.

“If we make an alliance with the Trojans,” continued the Gormagog, “merge their magic with ours, then
this
is what awaits us.”

Again his staff waved, and again vision filled the air.

Now a mighty city rose on the banks of the Llan, covering the three sacred mounds, encircled by a high white wall. Its gates stood open, and people were free to move in and out of the city as they willed. In the meadows surrounding the city children played, watched by strong healthy women with big, swollen bellies. Men walked the roads, driving heavily laden grain carts into the city, or hefting the tools of their trade over their shoulders, singing songs, or swapping jests.

The Mothers were silent. They had never seen anything like it, nor had they ever
thought
to see anything like it. How did this pile of stone—this artifice—protect and nurture the
land
?