Hades Daughter (69 page)

That long space of time they’d both been missing when Cornelia was bathing in the rock pool.

And the numerous times that Cornelia and Coel had had opportunity to be together, alone, since their arrival in Llanbank.

No…surely not. She wouldn’t do that to him…would she? Not after everything else she’d done to him, kept from him, said to him.

Would she
dare
?

The answer his mind fed him gave Brutus no relief. He wrapped himself in his cloak, and sat all through the night, staring unseeing into the distance, thinking of Cornelia and Coel, yet not ever considering that one solution which would have occurred to anyone else: Cornelia would be better with Coel than with himself.

That was a concept Brutus’ mind refused to encompass.

I
t was evening, and very cold, but, thankfully, clear. Genvissa stood atop Og’s Hill watching the preparations about her and communing, very gently, very softly, with the shadowy spirits of the five foremothers who had helped her to this point. Now it was her turn, and her time. Her mother had split Og’s power, rendering him useless, as well as casting Asterion into a crippled and weakened life far, far away. Genvissa had managed to contain Mag (well, she would once Cornelia was dead, and that death was now a foregone conclusion) and had brought to this land the magic she needed to resurrect the Game in all its power: Brutus, heir of Troy, Kingman of the Labyrinth, soon-to-be mate of the Mistress of the Labyrinth.

Genvissa stood at the southern edge of the plateau of Og’s Hill. The slopes of the hill were clear, both of people and of the mud that had thickened and dirtied the hill during the construction of the city wall’s foundation. Now the foundations were done, the first course of stonework laid, and the gate opening to the west of Og’s Hill defined.

It was time for the first Dance of the Game.

Everyone intimately concerned with the Dance—Genvissa, Brutus and the two hundred young Trojan men and women of the dancing corps, as well as all the
people needed for the physical preparations—had spent these past ten days in feverish activity. The two hundred dancers had been carefully rehearsed, and their dancing garments sewn. Og’s Hill and its immediate surrounds had been cleared of building debris, and its slopes re-grassed with turf.

Its summit had undergone a transformation.

Genvissa smiled, and turned.

Where once had been a grassy knoll now stretched a carefully levelled plateau. In its centre lay an enormous floor of cream and brown stones, intricately laid so that the brown stones delineated a unicursal labyrinth: the seven-circuit Cretan labyrinth.

The Dancing Floor.

Genvissa took a great breath, closing her eyes, feeling her foremothers swirling around her. They were with her, strong, and Ariadne was the strongest of all. Tonight they would restart the Game, take the biggest, most dangerous step…and once this night was done they need wait only for the completion of the walls when they could conclude and seal the Game for all time with the Dance of the Flowers.

Tonight.

Genvissa opened her eyes. She would have to leave soon. Prepare herself. Spend time in seclusion and prayer, muttering over and over the spells and incantations that she’d need to make this night a success.

She looked over to the palace. The central megaron and living quarters were complete now, their walls rising smooth and creamy in the evening air, their roofs covered with slate. Brutus would be in there, also alone, beginning his preparation.

Concentrating on his task…even more dangerous than Genvissa’s.

“Please, all gods in creation who can hear me,” she prayed softly, “let there be no disruption to the Game. Let it all flow smoothly. Let nothing stand in our way,
nor darken the time between this night and the Day of the Flowers. Let Cornelia and Asterion
both
be confounded and contained.”

The prayer eased her mind, and Genvissa relaxed. All would be well. Brutus would triumph. He was a strong man, unafraid, sure of himself. He would need to be all that tonight…but he
would
be all that tonight. He was the heir of Troy, he wore the bands of kingship, he knew the steps; he was the Kingman, her man, her light and her life.

Genvissa had not thought to love him so deeply. She had lusted for him, and wanted him. She had spent years plotting to get him, and trap him back into the Game.

She had not thought to love him.

Her smile faded, her eyes became distant. Tonight they would lie together for the first time. It was part of the Game, a step in the dance, but it was also something that Genvissa now wanted so badly she trembled whenever she thought on it.

Tonight she would lie with Brutus. She felt weak-kneed, and Genvissa treasured the feeling. Tonight she would lie with Brutus and conceive from him her daughter-heir.

And tonight Cornelia would die.

And
that bitch-goddess who thought to hide within her.

“Tonight,” she said, and looked over the river to where thousands had already journeyed to the shoreline, waiting for that moment when they could cross the Llan and surround the hill. All the Mothers were there, together with their daughter-heirs. This would be a great moment in Llangarlia, and they would need to witness.

“Tonight,” Genvissa whispered again, then she gathered her cloak about her, and walked down the hill into her destiny.

The Mothers gathered on Og’s Hill once night had fallen. They stood at the northern edge of the plateau, distant enough from the central labyrinth so that the dancers could have room but close enough that they could witness.

Most were apprehensive, but gladly so. Tonight the MagaLlan would lead the dancers and this Trojan king, Brutus, in the first of two dances that would celebrate the birth of a new city, the birth of a great king
and
which would lay down the founding enchantment that would protect both city and land and would bring prosperity and health back to the Llangarlians for ever and evermore.

Once this dance was done, and the final Dance of the Flowers completed when the walls were finished, then Llangarlia would be secure. After all the bitterness and blight of this past generation, Llangarlia and her daughters and sons would finally be safe.

Among the Mothers, however, were several who were considerably more apprehensive than the others. Erith, Ecub and Mais again stood together, again welded into a triumvirate of useless opposition to Genvissa. They could do nothing but watch, and fear.

To the side stood Coel and Loth, both men dark-visaged. Loth’s hands were clenched, and his angry, frustrated eyes flickered between the labyrinth and Cornelia, standing a little distance away with Hicetaon and Corineus—who returned Loth’s regard with a dark and forbidding stare—and several other Trojan men that he did not immediately recognise.

Cornelia looked pale, her face drawn, her hands held before her in a loose agony of movement this way and that. Loth knew she had told Brutus of her pregnancy, and that Brutus’ reaction had not been all she had hoped.

In fact, it had been nothing like what she had hoped.

Loth had thought that Brutus’ lack of interest would finally bring Cornelia to her senses. She would never have Brutus’ love, she could never compete with the mystery and seductive power of Genvissa. Her time would be better spent working with Loth against Genvissa and Brutus…but, no, she would not do it. She didn’t want to alienate Brutus, she wanted to be his wife, she wanted his respect, she wanted his love…

Loth could have wept. Indeed, he
had
spent many nights weeping as he walked the forests. Cornelia was a fool, a silly, naive girl who still believed, after all the humiliations Brutus had heaped upon her, that his love was the best thing she could ever hope for and the greatest thing she could ever work towards.

By every god that had ever walked this land, what did Mag see in her? Why choose Cornelia as her champion?

Cornelia was useless, she would always be useless, and Loth would have torn out her throat if he’d thought it would have done the least bit of good.

So there Cornelia stood, looking as if she would snivel at any moment, wringing her hands futilely, helpless and hopeless in the face of Genvissa’s triumph.

Loth finally gave vent to his anger and frustration and
did
snarl, making everyone within ten paces of him jump in fright.

Coel put a hand on Loth’s shoulder. “We can but watch and wait,” he said quietly, “and hope for some glimmer of an opening.”

To Loth’s other side, Ecub took his hand.

“If I kill Genvissa, will it help?” Loth said, very low, his eyes very bright.

“It may tear this land apart,” Ecub said softly, intently. “We do not know the how and the why of her trickery, Loth. If we kill her, do we destroy her trickery…or do we make it the stronger?”

“I want—” Loth began, but both Coel and Ecub tightened their hands upon him.

“We know,” Ecub said. “We know…and we want, too.”

The ceremony began once full night had descended. Tens of thousands, both Trojans and Llangarlians, had crossed the Llan to surround Og’s Hill. They carried no torches, made no sound. They were simply a dark, silent mass of gently shifting bodies, come to witness.

Suddenly, without warning, the heady throb of a drum began, and then, far distant, the sound of voices raised in an eerie, tuneless song.

Atop the hill, people jumped, and heads craned.

“Look!” whispered Erith.

From east and west danced two lines of light: one line came from the White Mount, one from the banks of the Magyl River to the west of Og’s Hill. As the lines drew closer—the crowds surrounding Og’s Hill parting to give them access to the hill—the watchers could clearly see that they were composed of barefoot dancers, each line being constituted of alternating young men and women dressed identically in short, white linen skirts that flared in tiny pleats from their hips. The dancers’ chests were left naked, the men’s torsos strong and muscular, the women’s breasts firm and high. The women held in their right hands a torch, while their left hands held lightly to a thick woven scarlet ribbon; the men held the torches in their left hands, their right holding the ribbon which snaked between the dancers, binding them in a line of mystery, enchantment and seductive movement.

At the head of the western line, which had emerged from the Magyl, danced Genvissa, bare-breasted, garbed similarly to all the other dancers save that her white, pleated linen skirt hung to her ankles.

She held nothing in her hands, clasping them lightly to her waist, so that her every movement, her every step, made her hips and breasts sway in provocative invitation.

The scarlet ribbon was tied lightly to her left wrist, and with it she led her dancers towards Og’s Hill.

Brutus, the Kingman, led the other line which had emerged from his palace atop the White Mount.

In contrast to every other dancer, and to Genvissa, he was completely naked save for his gleaming bands of kingship on his legs and arms and for a circlet of gold about his brow. His hair, newly washed and oiled, was bound in a tight braid and then clubbed under at the back of his neck with a thin scarlet ribbon.

His hair glowed in the torchlight, and with his movements was like a black pool reflecting the glittering light of the stars.

The ribbon which bound his line was tied, as lightly as was Genvissa’s, to his right wrist.

In his left hand he carried something round and as black as his hair. It was a ball of pitch.

The twin lines danced, slowly, sinuously, their dancers singing the ancient hymn of the labyrinth, wending their way to Og’s Hill through the great crowd that surrounded it.

They reached its foot, and, very slowly, as if they hardly dared, began to climb the hill, each line taking an opposite slope and line of ascent.

As they mounted, their voices growing louder and their movements more confident, the two lines of dancers intertwined and twisted, dancers raising and lowering their arms in arches so that the other line might dance under or over them.

It was an intricate dance, a dance of great beauty and mystery, and everyone watching atop the hill found themselves caught up in its enchantment, no matter whether they wished the dancers death or life.

Loth risked a glance at Cornelia.

She stood, her hands tightly clenched and unmoving before her, tears streaming down her face.

Then there was a shout, a cry of victory, and Loth turned his gaze back to the dancers.

The two lines had emerged on top of the hill, Brutus and Genvissa still leading them. Now the lines danced towards each other, moving close enough to the watchers that they could see the sweat trickling down the dancers’ bodies, and see the brightness in their eyes.

Brutus and Genvissa led their lines in opposing circles about the labyrinth, in one, two…seven circuits.

At the completion of the seventh circuit, Brutus and Genvissa unbound the ribbons from about their wrists and tied their two lines together.

The lines began to move about the labyrinth again, but now in a very different pattern.

The dancers still formed two lines, but they did not use the lines to form two complete circles. Instead, the two lines—in reality one line doubled—danced in the shape of an almost closed U about the labyrinth, the opening of the U marking the opening into the labyrinth itself. The outer line danced sunwise, the inner line counter-sunwise, the dancers moving from one direction to another when they moved from outer line to inner line at the open mouth of the U.

They danced, Erith realised with a jolt, in the shape of a woman’s womb.

Mag,
she thought,
what are they going to birth from that womb?

Brutus and Genvissa stood at the mouth of both womb and labyrinth, hand in hand, looking into the labyrinth itself. They remained still for long moments, staring, perhaps praying, then Genvissa stepped back from Brutus, and walked to the edge of the hill.