Gods' Concubine

by Sara Douglass

  Instead, I stood within a chamber so vast I could barely comprehend it. It reminded me of my visions of the stone hall that I’d had both as Cornelia and in this lifetime, but only in its dimensions. There was no peace here, but madly scurrying bodies of people dressed in alien clothes. There was no joy here, but the irritation of bustling people, and I could feel from them a cacophony of words and emotions: Late, late, late, hurry, hurry, hurry, delay, delay, delay, what is the time? Where is the platform? Where is my ticket? Have you a timetable?

  And then, more ominously: Hurry! Flee! Down! Down! The sirens have sounded!

  A woman, dressed in a close-cut coat and skirt of a weave and material I could barely imagine, stepped up to me and stared me in the face. Her face was garishly painted, her shoulder-length hair elaborately curled and stiffened by some unseen agent. She held a small boy, dressed in close-cut clothes similar to hers, save that he wore trousers rather than a skirt and with a striped cap pulled low over his eyes.

  “Do you know the way?” she asked me, her eyes wild—with fear, I thought, and perhaps even some desperation. “Which platform do I need?”

  “I…” What could I say? Everything around me was so strange, so foreign, more terrifying even than Troy’s destruction.

  “You cannot just stand here!” the woman said. “Save yourself!” Then, thankfully, she turned her back and scurried off, pulling the boy behind her.

  He sent me a single, pleading look over his shoulder, and then they vanished into the hurrying crowd.

  “My dear,” said a voice, and it was so soft and familiar I grabbed on to it.

  “My dear…”

  I turned to my left, and saw, some ten or fifteen paces away, a collection of tables and chairs. At one of the tables sat a man who, even though he was sitting, was of noticeable height. He was also very thin, and he had on a tightly-belted, calf-length brown coat, and a curiously-shaped soft hat pulled low over his long, thin, pale face.

  Even so strangely disguised, I could recognise what he was.

  A Sidlesaghe. Not Long Tom, but one of his kind.

  His soft voice reached me again. “Is that my cup of tea? I will have it, if you please.”

  I looked down at my hands, and noticed several things all at once. I was no longer dressed in my robe and cloak, but a tightly-belted dress of starched white material that seemed like linen and yet was not. My legs were encased in fine, woollen-like stockings, and on my feet were brown leather shoes of sturdy construction.

  I no longer held the golden band of Troy, but a small round platter on which stood a cup. Both were made of a fine white pottery. The cup held a steaming, milky brown substance.

  “My cup of tea, old thing, if you don’t mind.”

  Again the Sidlesaghe’s voice cut into my thoughts, and I walked over to him.

  His eyes locked into mine.

  “On the table, there’s a dear.”

  I hesitated, then placed the cup before him.

  The instant I set it down he reached out a hand and grabbed my wrist.

  “The band is safe for the moment, but you must be careful, darling. He’s coming up the stairs.”

  I knew immediately who he meant, if not quite what he meant.

  Asterion.

  “Flee,” the Sidlesaghe said.

  FOUR

  The Game stretched, and grew. Not in power so much as in potential.

  One band had been moved and the Game’s boundaries had been physically expanded.

  Five more to go.

  Asterion had assumed his natural appearance the instant it was safe for him to do so unobserved.

  Power was so much easier to manipulate when he walked in his man-bull form.

  London was quiet and dark, save for that glow in the northern section where a building appeared to be afire. Asterion knew well what that was—a distraction, something to keep the watch occupied while the real crime of the night took place.

  Asterion was close to glow-in-the-dark furious. She—she!—was moving a band.

  Not only was she shifting the band, but she accomplished it under a cloak of such enchantment that he had difficulty sensing any information about it at all.

  To know that a band was so close, so tantalisingly exposed, and yet still so out of reach…

  And how? How? The unknowingness in that how only fed Asterion’s rage.

  Asterion roamed the streets of London, seeking something, anything, that could provide him with a clue.

  Nothing.

  How could he have so misjudged her?

  His pace became ever more frantic, his fury edging ever closer to the out-of-control, but still…nothing.

  Quiet, dark streets.

  Here! Ah! Nothing but a dog, a cur of a beast that was hiding behind the wheel of a cart.

  Asterion slaughtered it.

  He moved on, dashing in short bursts along the streets, pausing to sniff the air, to peer closely into shadows, then lay a hand to a wall and feel, feel for anything, anything at all…

  And, just before dawn, he did feel it. Just a suggestion, nothing more.

  A memory that tugged insistently in his mind…Troy. Troy.

  Troy!

  Asterion had been there for the final destruction of Troy as he had participated in the majority of the destructions Ariadne had worked with her Catastrophe. He had walked through the ruins, through the raging fires, through the piles of bodies—adding to fire and ruin and death whenever he had the chance. During that wonderful day Asterion had known of the escape of Aeneas, the Kingman who had then worn the kingship bands of Troy.

  Then, of course, Asterion had not known what role these bands would play in a later life, but even so Asterion had tried to snatch Aeneas. It had been for fun, for joy, for amusement, for the pleasure of the hunt. Aeneas was the son of Aphrodite, he was wearing the golden bands that allowed him to play the Game, and Asterion had thought it would be more than entertaining to tear the man apart limb by limb. One more Kingman dead, one more set of bands destroyed, one more nail in the coffin of the Game.

  But Asterion had never caught Aeneas. He’d tracked him through the ruins and through the rivulets of blood. He had heard and seen and smelled him, but Asterion had never managed to catch the man. Aphrodite had aided Aeneas, of course—how else could he have escaped?—but even so Asterion had felt the trickery of the man and his damnable bands…

  And he was feeling something similar here this night in London.

  Asterion was close to the western wall of London when these memories flooded back to haunt him, and he stopped, and paused.

  He sniffed the air, his magnificent bull’s head held high.

  He sniffed again…and then he hunched over, arms held out as if he were ready to attack. And then…he vanished.

  He rushed through the bloodied, tumbled remains of Troy, their smell and sight as vivid as the day he’d participated in the city’s destruction.

  She was somehow using this landscape to do it.

  And why not? Asterion could understand. The bands were of Troy, they had breathed the same air, and she was using that ancient escape route to effect this one.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Asterion jogged through the ruins. He followed the path of the band, he could smell it, and any moment, any moment…

  Any moment he would be upon her…and the band would be his.

  Asterion could have howled with joy, but he didn’t; not when he was hunting. He ran lightly, effortlessly, down the path, his feet splashing through puddles of water and blood, his eyes fixed ahead.

  His right foot splashed down into a puddle of water, and before he could lift it again a white, thin hand reached out of the water, and grasped Asterion’s ankle tightly.

  The Minotaur tumbled over, hitting the ground with a hard jolt. Within the instant, he had half-risen, his own hands reaching for the hand that had his ankle. Before his hands could reach it, the strange hand vanished amid a tinkle of feminine laughter.

  Asterion scram
bled to his feet. A trap left by Aphrodite, he had no doubt. Even dead that goddess was proving more than trying, but that was of no concern to Asterion at this moment. What he needed to do was catch that person who trod the path just a twist or two ahead in the ruins.

  But he was too late. Just as he rounded a corner, sure to find there the person he sought, the landscape of Troy fell away, and Asterion found himself standing in the midst of a trackway that wound between several low farm buildings.

  There was no one there.

  FIVE

  The instant Caela materialised on the trackway before him, the Sidlesaghe, Long Tom, reached out and grabbed her.

  She gave a cry of terror. “Asterion!”

  “I know,” the Sidlesaghe said. “He will be here at any moment. The band…it is safe?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “There is no time for ‘buts’ now. Quick, quick, if the band is safe, if it is here, then we can escape.”

  He dragged Caela towards one of the farm buildings, pushing aside the unlatched, rough door with a shoulder and all but threw Caela inside.

  Inside there were no cattle, or sheep, or pigs, nor even piles of new-mown hay. Instead there stretched one of the Game’s strange tunnels.

  “New built,” said the Sidlesaghe, the relief evident in his voice as he hurried Caela forward. “The instant you laid that band in its new resting place.”

  “Asterion?”

  “He cannot follow us down here. The Labyrinth, the Game, is still protected by those enchantments Brutus wove over it. More protected, now that one of the bands is moved and the Game has expanded. Now, hurry, hurry, hurry. Dawn is close, and Edward’s eyes will shortly open. Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

  Asterion stood in the centre of the trackway, feeling the escape of the damnable band-shifter, but not able to do anything about it.

  Then he caught at his thoughts, and he flushed hot at the realisation that he didn’t have to do anything about it, did he?

  She could move the bands all she liked, but so long as he managed that one small task that lay ahead then it was of no matter. That one, single, pleasurable task, then she could move them to the very sun and it wouldn’t matter, would it?

  “My dear,” he murmured. “You think you know which way the attack will come. But you have no idea, do you?”

  The Sidlesaghe led Caela to the place in the Game’s magical tunnel that lay beneath her solar.

  “Asterion smelt you,” he said. “When you walked the path to Chenesitun, what path did the game construct for you?”

  “The ruins of Troy,” Caela said, glancing above her. She could feel Judith pacing back and forth, back and forth.

  The Sidlesaghe sighed softly. “Then no wonder he discovered it. Doubtless Asterion aided in Troy’s ruin as he must have aided in the ruin of so many wondrous cities. Caela, we must be careful. We must wait a while before you try to move another band. He knows the path you will take…we cannot risk him waiting for you the next time, or any other time. Now, go. Go! The world wakes!”

  She leaned forward, laid a quick kiss on his mouth, then vanished.

  Swanne huddled in her lonely bed, consumed with the knowledge of what had happened this night. It must be Asterion who had moved the band. Who else? Who else?

  And if it was he, then all was lost, surely.

  “William,” she whispered. “William…”

  William sat before the newly-stoked fire in his slowly lightening bedchamber. He stared at the flames, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  A band had been moved, and yet the Game had not been harmed. Indeed, its strength had increased. William could feel that, even from this distance. The Game had grown.

  It was not Asterion who had moved the band. If it had been William would have felt a diminution, or an alteration, in the Game’s power that Asterion’s touch would have caused. But nothing like that had occurred. In fact, William could feel a faint echo of Asterion’s anger.

  Asterion had been caught as much unawares as William.

  So who then had moved the armband?

  Caela? Caela in league with Asterion? William fretted and mulled it over. Caela had betrayed him with Asterion once before to bring the Game to a wrenching halt. William knew he could not afford to ignore the possibility that she may have betrayed him (and the Game) once more.

  But if it was Caela who had moved the band, Caela in concert or alliance with Asterion, then would not William have felt that? Felt Asterion’s presence within the endeavour? If Caela had moved the band using Asterion’s power and or knowledge, then William would have known it.

  Yet the only presence of Asterion’s he had felt was that of anger and frustration. So not Caela under Asterion’s direction?

  Caela by herself? No, no, it could not be. Caela had no power, and certainly no knowledge of where the bands lay. She simply could not have moved it. She was just a woman, a woman of no power or enchantment…and, besides, the band would not have allowed her to touch it, let alone find it.

  It must have been Swanne. Swanne was the only other person alive who could have touched the band and successfully moved it. She was the Mistress of the Labyrinth, and co-founder of this Game. She could have managed it.

  But Swanne didn’t know where the band was. Could she have discovered it? William wasn’t sure. If she had found the band, then she had more power than William had previously thought.

  It had to be Swanne. It had to be. There was no one else. And if it was her, then she was risking everything. If Asterion caught her, or if he found one of those bands…gods, the thought was not bearable.

  William shifted in his chair, uncomfortable and restless. If only he could invade now! If only he could take those bands now.

  But invasion was not an option. Not during the winter, when storms were likely to wreck any invasion fleet within a half day’s sail from port. Certainly not while Edward was still alive. To take England, William needed the support (and private armies) of several score noblemen and counts from Gascony to Flanders to Burgundy and all the duchies and kingdoms in between. If they thought he had a legal claim to the English throne, and a viable chance of winning it, then they’d not hesitate to join him for a share of the spoils. If they thought that his claim was not legal (as would be the case if he tried to wrest England from Edward rather than Harold), then they’d hesitate. Half the European princes, dukes and kings would denounce the invasion. The pope, like as not, would place William and Normandy under interdict. William’s support base would melt away, and Edward’s army (which would be led by Harold, damn it, rather than the dying king!) would likely defeat William’s much reduced invading force.

  William’s only chance, and it was a good one, was to invade after Edward had died, when he could legitimately claim the throne.

  Not before.

  Not before, even if an unknown someone was moving the kingship bands.

  It must be Swanne! It must!

  William sat, and stared into the flames.

  On the bed, Matilda sat and stared at William.

  For hours, not until well after the sun had risen, neither moved, nor said a word.

  Then, as Matilda dressed and made for the door, William raised his head. “Matilda?”

  She turned, and looked at him.

  “Can you ask your agent, whosoever he or she may be, to watch both Swanne and Caela?”

  “That is most certainly possible.”

  William considered, wording his request carefully. “Then can you ask if…if either ever manages to escape the court unnoticed, or keeps strange company? If they…” Oh gods, how to phrase this? “If they have within their possession finely wrought golden bands with a spinning crown over a Labyrinth worked into them.”

  Matilda’s eyes widened very slightly, but she understood that her husband was in no mood for explanations. “I can do that for you.”

  “For us,” William said softly. “For us.”

  SIX

  William grunted, t
hen sighed. He still sat before the fire in his bedchamber, but now Matilda was gone and in her place—if in a chair opposite William rather than sitting on the bed—was Harold.

  Between Harold and William sat a chessboard on a low table.

  The men had been shifting pieces back and forth for almost an hour. The time spent at the one game did not reflect their skill, nor their determination to keep the other at bay, but instead was an indication of both men’s almost total lack of interest in the game. Both had squandered chances to trap the other, both had exposed their own men to the ravages of the other’s, both still had most of their pieces on the board.

  “I am returning to England,” Harold eventually said. It was the first time either of them had spoken since they’d sat down.

  William grunted again. He did not raise his eyes from the chessboard.

  “You will not hold me?” Harold said.

  William shot him a glance, but just as quickly returned his gaze to the board. “It would do me no favour,” he said. “I would alienate half of Europe, let alone most of England.” He paused, his long fingers hovering over his king. “Besides, Edward would as like as not disinherit me for the act.”

  “Edward would like as not spend an entire week capering about Westminster in joy if he thought there was the faintest possibility you might put a sword through my throat.”

  William’s hand froze over the chess piece, then he slowly sat back from the board and looked Harold full in the face.

  “Why did you come, Harold?” Oh, William knew why Harold had come. It was the unacknowledged Coel within him, driving him forward to meet face to face with his doom. It is what Coel would have done. Still, William wanted to know what Harold believed had driven him here.

  “We will meet one day on the battlefield,” Harold said. “I wanted to know you beforehand.” He relaxed a little in his chair, his attention now as removed from the chessboard as was William’s. “And, of course, I had hoped to gain your total support for my own succession to England’s throne.”