“I am Varian Hamer,” he said, lowering his weapon, yet not putting it away. “What are you doing here? . . . I mean, I thought I was alone here. . . .”
“That is no matter,” said Hera. “We are here only to ask you a small favor.” Hera indicated her two companions, who now stepped forward and demurely bowed their heads, dropping their gaze for a moment. “This is Athena, and this is Aphrodite.”
Varian bowed to the ladies, studying them quickly. Athena had hair as dark as a raven, and moody features: almond eyes of brown, well-tanned complexion, full, sensuous mouth, and an aquiline nose. Her cheekbones were high and prominent. She wore a diaphanous gown similar to Hera’s, through which her flowing hips and large-nippled breasts were very evident. Aphrodite, though no less stunning in appearance, was quite different: golden-blond hair, sky-blue eyes and long lashes, pert and tiny nose, a small, delicate mouth, gently curved like an archer’s bow. She too wore the revealing gown of the first two women and was no less physically endowed. In fact, Varian could not recall ever seeing three women together who were such perfect, but different, examples of feminine beauty.
“We have a problem,” said the one called Athena.
“Yes,” said Aphrodite. “We were at a banquet for a few friends of ours. . . .”
Varian wanted to interrupt them, to ask from where they came, whose banquet, by what means had they come here. . . ? But he could say nothing. It was as though they were exerting some influence over him.
“And there was a special delivery,” said Hera, reaching into the folds of her gown, producing an exquisite piece of sculpture—a golden apple. Varian, being the perceptive observer that he was, was as much entranced by the perfection of the golden sculpture as he was by Hera’s seeming magic: she had been carrying that apple somewhere in her gown, but it was so sheer, and filmy, and clinging . . . where had she hidden it?
“Special delivery?” he finally said.
“Yes,” said Athena, her dark hair falling sensuously across her face. “It was left with a small message attached which instructed the piece to be given to the most beautiful woman at the banquet.”
“Actually,” said Aphrodite, “it read for the Fairest, and everyone vied for its possession, until the choice was narrowed down to us three.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand all this,” said Varian, still clutching his sidearm. He was reluctant to put it away, since he quite frankly did not trust the women’s story, and suspected them of being several of the Guardian’s homologs. “Could you please tell me what banquet this was, and where you have come from? I was not expecting anyone else to be here, you see. . . .”
Hera smiled. “It is the banquet of King Peleus and Thetis. It was held on Olympus, of course. Now, please, we have not much time and we wish your help.”
“Yes, we do,” said Athena and Aphrodite together. Varian was confused and somehow intimidated by the women. He had never heard of the King, his companion, nor Olympus, but his mind was not focusing on these things. He found himself hanging on Hera’s last words, that they needed his help. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t?” asked Athena. “We want you to be the judge. We want you to choose which one of us is the most beautiful. . . .”
“That’s correct,” said the other two.
Something reeled in his mind. The thought of choosing between the three women was almost inconceivable, and he wondered if he was at all capable of it. Each one, in her own way, was so singularly exotic, mysteriously attractive . . . it was not a choice any man would anticipate.
“I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Oh, you can do it,” said Athena.
“But you will probably need some time to think about it,” said Aphrodite. “We understand that.”
“And so,” said Athena, “we shall leave you for a while, then return for your decision.”
Before Varian could object, all three women turned and glided quickly through a break in the grove of trees. He jumped to follow, to catch up with them, and found that they had vanished completely. There was no sound, no evidence of their ever having been there. He was a man who had fought duels, ambushes, taken part in sea raids and other military actions, but he had never felt the cold bolt of fear that now shot through him.
There was a sound behind him.
Whirling quickly, he turned to face the enigmatic Hera, standing alone before him. She smiled at him coyly, her auburn hair falling naturally about her shoulders.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she said. “I’ve come to offer you a bargain.”
“What?” Varian was very confused now.
“It’s quite simple, really. If you choose me, I am prepared to give you political control of the entire World. Don’t ask how I can do it, just believe me when I say that I can. Simple, see? Pick me, and you are the Emperor of the World.”
“It’s not possible. . . . You—”
“I am serious,” said Hera, and her voice cut through him like a blade. She carried the authority and haughty bearing of someone who was accustomed to power and its many uses. For some reason, unexplainable at the time, Varian believed her.
“I will have to consider it,” said Varian.
“Of course.” Hera smiled knowingly and walked into the forest.
Before he could follow her, to see how she effected her mysterious exit, there was another sound behind him. Someone was calling his name.
He turned and was only half surprised to see Athena, dark, sultry Athena, standing close to him, one bare leg extended through a slit in her gown and her hips canted at a provocative angle.
“I also have a bargain,” she said.
“I’m somehow not surprised.”
Athena laughed. It was like a series of musical notes, hypnotic and extremely pleasing. “No, Varian. Not what you may think it is.”
“Go on then. If I choose you, I get what?”
“It’s very simple. You will get what you came here for. The secret of the Citadel. The knowledge of the Guardian and a true history of the First Age.”
His heart jumped, a physical reaction which characterized the impact the words made upon his mind. How could she know what he wanted? How could she give it to him?
“There is no questioning my ability to give you what you want,” she said, as though she knew his thoughts. “I’ve heard that somewhere else, I think.”
“Nevertheless, you must choose.”
“I’ll have to think about this if you don’t mind.” Athena smiled and stepped backward, blending into the lush colors of the forest. In an instant she was gone. He was still staring at the place where she had disappeared when he heard his name once more.
Turning slowly this time, Varian was not at all surprised to see the lovely Aphrodite standing several paces away from him.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, smiling sardonically.
“Have you?”
“Let’s keep things short and simple. If I choose you, what do I get?”
Aphrodite giggled. “You are quite pragmatic, aren’t you?”
“When the situation warrants. I feel like I am playing some kind of vast game, so I figured I should get into the spirit of the thing.”
Aphrodite continued to smile as she studied him. “What have the others offered? The usual? Wealth? Power?”
“A slight variation,” said Varian. “One gave a combination of the first two; the other, knowledge.”
“Knowledge! A formidable adversary, that one,” said Aphrodite.
Varian watched her. “When compared to what?” he asked.
Aphrodite touched a clasp at the neck of her gown.
“To this,” she said as the gown fell away in a whispering rush. She stood naked before him and she was truly the most perfect woman he had ever seen. Her skin was ivory and flawless, smooth and supple. Her legs were long, firm; her breasts high and pointed; her stomach flat above a golden triangle equal in brilliance to the blond tresses of her head.
His blood pounded in his temples, and in other places. He struggled to retain his composure, but never had he ever beheld such a vision. Forcing the words between his teeth, he told her that he would have to consider her offer, as well as the others.
Gracefully, she stooped to gather up her gown, and grasping it to her breasts, she backed away into the foliage—a now familiar exit.
Time became an insubstantial thing. It stretched and eddied and dripped like wax about him; he was not conscious of it. He felt lost in a swirl of memories and impressions which could-have-been, but on the other hand. . . .
He marveled at the utter unreality of the experience. The meaning of it. The incomprehensibility. The absurdity. Again the sensation of being in a game came over him, and he attempted to reconcile that, but could not. Curiously, he gave little attention to which of the three offers he would choose.
Until all three appeared once again, each one seeming to be on the verge of giving him a conspiratorial wink.
“We await your choice,” said Hera.
Varian laughed. “Believe it or not, so do I.”
None of them smiled, nor did they reply. It sobered him and he regarded them as dispassionately as possible under the circumstances.
“All right, let me preface my choice with a few words, which concerns the reality of this whole thing. I am a skeptic if you must know. Therefore, I doubt whether or not any of this is really happening. Under actual circumstances, I would opt for the offer of knowledge—I assume you are all aware of each other’s little bargains?—especially since I find all three of you equally ‘fair,’ as the inscription read.”
At this point, Athena’s expression brightened, the hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her full mouth.
“However,” continued Varian, “I cannot make myself believe that this is more than fantasy. Although I do not like the idea of sacrificing one aspect of life for another, I realize that life is indeed a parade of choices, of denials, and sacrifices.”
“Get to the point,” said Hera, who seemed to realize that her offer of power was not going to be the chosen one.
Varian laughed. “The point is simply this. Under these peculiar circumstances, I would have to say that Aphrodite is ‘the fairest’ of all of you.”
There was, for an instant, a total pause—in sound, in breath, in motion. Varian felt a moment of vertigo, which quickly passed, then time seemed to start up again. Aphrodite smiled and stepped forward, and for a moment he thought that it was all real, that she was going to—
He blinked his eyes, and it was finished.
The three women, mysteriously and stunningly beautiful, had disappeared. Vanished more quickly than smoke in a strong breeze. They were simply gone.
Although Raim never spoke, could never speak, he was still a man of great wit and understanding. Many evenings during their journey, he had entertained the others with his talent for mime and impersonation, and with the music he played upon the small flutelike instrument called the arthis. Its playing required the musician to have an elegant dexterity in his fingers, but also a firm control of breath and lips. The tongue must remain depressed in order to achieve proper tone; since Raim’s tongue had been cut out, he was especially adept on the arthis.
It was late evening, after dinner, and the others had said their good nights, having gone to their quarters. The robot had passed through, arrogant and yet accommodating as usual, but had said nothing to Raim. The small, muscular man was feeling restless, and since he could not sleep, he attempted a walk through the levels of the Citadel.
Coming to the lowest levels in the place, he found himself surrounded by the thrumming of great machines—the purposes of which were far beyond his understanding and so he ignored them. Pausing for a rest on the edge of a catwalk spanning two large generators, Raim pulled out his arthis and began to play. The music rose above the hum of the machinery, sounding as if amplified, and echoed throughout the vast chamber. It was a pleasant acoustical effect, prompting him to play louder.
Music was very special to Raim. It was the only kind of sound he was able to create, and he treasured his ability on the arthis. He used his music to communicate his thoughts and his feelings. He poured his soul into the tiny instrument and warmed to its compassionate sounds.
It was while he played that the dark vision came to him.
Out of the shadows of the great machines a large indistinct figure drew up. It was darker than black, yet insubstantial like swirling smoke. Its face was not visible because of the full hood and cloak which covered its form and seemed to flow like a liquid.
The soft notes of a waltzlike tune died in his throat as Raim looked up to see the thing-out-of-nightmare looming over him. In an instant he jumped to his feet and flicked out his shortsword, but was paralyzed as the thing spoke to him.
“Your weapon is useless upon me. . . . Be still and listen.”
Who are you? Raim’s mind screamed out the question.
And the thing seemed to hear him. “I am Pluto,” it said. A voice of infinite resonance, depth, power.
What do you want with me?
“You play well, Raim.”
What do you want? Raim refused to drop his sword, still poised ready for a strike, a defensive maneuver.
“Your music is sweet, as once was Marise.”
The mention of his long-dead wife pierced him like a sword’s point. His arms fell to his side as he was swept up in a rush of memories: a petite, dark-eyed woman; a voice like a nightingale’s; the quick fluttering gestures and movements of a fragile bird; the mirror-image of Raim’s coarse ways; the perfect complement to him. He had loved her so fiercely that no woman had ever touched his heart since her terrible death so many years ago.
But how could this thing know of Marise?
He thought of his young bride and the attack upon the Maaradin; of how the secondary keep had been temporarily overrun and she had been trapped in the sweep of the invaders; of the moment when he found her broken, lifeless body in the dusty ruins of the battle; and of how he had then thrown himself at her killers, hoping only to join her in death.
“I know of Marise, musician. I am her keeper. . . .”
Raim shuddered as he stared into the folds of the figure’s hood, straining to see the hint of features hidden in the shadows. This could not be Death he encountered. There was no such thing, no such animation, except in the minds of men.
“I am quite real. And I offer you your Marise.”
Marise! Marise! The thought of seeing her again filled him with a raw, irrational flood of feelings. It was a blend of panic and unrestrainable joy. All judgment, reason, fleeing under this storm of emotion.
“You may have her. You may lead her from this Underworld of death and eternal darkness. . . .”
How? Tell me what I must do! Where is she!
“You will follow the St. Elmo’s fire,” said the thing, and an iridescent ball of swampfire danced in front of the figure. “And you will play your instrument as you have never played it.”
What?
“To enter the world of the dead, you must charm the guardians and dwellers there, or you yourself shall not return. You shall follow the swampfire until you find her, playing all the time.”
I will do it! I will do anything you say! His heart pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer, almost bursting in his chest. In his mindless desire, he felt like a stag in a burning forest, compelled to rush: onward.
“There is more. You must continue playing. You cannot speak to her until you have returned here, until you are out of my world. One more thing: you must not look back to her, once you have begun your journey from the Underworld. You must not look back until you have returned here. Understood?”
Raim nodded, watching the swampfire as it glided off down a dark, steel corridor which now appeared as a glazed-wall cavern in ancient rock. His hands were slippery as he brought the arthis to his lips.
The passage led into utter darkness. The cowled fig
ure had vanished like the smoke he appeared to be. The corridors of the Citadel transformed into a bleak, downward-sloping tunnel which looked in the faint glow of the swampfire like the infinite maw of some great beast. Raim’s music, a beautiful intruder, echoed through the place, assaulting the silence.
He came upon a raging creature, which appeared to be a wolf, its thickly sinewed body held to a rock by a massive chain. From its neck stretched three heads, all facing him; three pairs of eyes burning into him; the three-fanged mouths drooling in anticipation of tearing him to ribbons. But remembering the words of the one called Pluto, Raim continued to play, and the three-headed beast then ceased its savagings of the air, fell to its knees, and composed itself as if drugged by the lyrical music.
Raim was barely aware of the music, so amazed was he by the effects of its playing. He passed by the watchdog, for that was what it must have been, and entered a vast chamber, where he saw a man pushing a giant boulder up an impossible grade. The man paused to listen to Raim’s music, as did likewise a man tied to a great wheel, and a hoard of others, all of whom were suffering torturous indignities of horrible devise. Raim continued to follow the swampfire, coming finally to a black river where throngs of people stood transfixed by his music on the far shore. He stood playing until he saw a boatman, a gondolier, approaching him in a flat-bottomed skiff.
Seated in the rear of the boat sat a small, dark-haired woman. Marise!
So shocked to see her, Raim almost paused in his playing, but fearfully remembered the words of the hooded one. With the greatest effort, he piped on as the boatman, a reed-thin, scrofulous fellow, assisted Raim’s beloved wife from the boat. She moved with the familiar grace and facility which he had remembered, and his heart soared in his chest, giving rise to even more poignant, more beautiful music.
Looking quickly away, following the swampfire, Raim walked hesitantly back along the first path. He strained to hear Marise’s footsteps behind him and could hear them in the odd moments when there was a natural pause in his melody, or in that breath of time when his own steps were not echoing off the cold walls of the cavern.
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