Chapter 1
The full moon cast its silver rods down in Iphigenia’s room. The night was still and warm, yet the light reflected off an empty bed. She sat in front of her mirror, hurriedly weaving her copper curls into a tight braid. Her pale hands trembled as they made their way through and over her messy streaks of hair, and her blood ran cold with fright at the thought that her father might catch her awake at this hour.
Two green eyes glowed in the otherwise dark waters of the mirror. She could not see what she was doing, but it didn’t matter. She drew a deep breath. Her boiled leather doublet and bracers held her tight in a most familiar embrace. Iphigenia was part of a proud clan of dyads, and her father was Artemis’ most prized hunter and keeper of her Sacred Grove of gilded stags. She had been getting ready for the hunt ever since her little hands could grasp the polished whitewood of the bow. And now she was to hunt alone for the first time – to feel the forest cloak her as it did to the lone wolf that roams in winter and is never hungry.
Outside her room, she felt a thief – a furtive field mouse aware of the bird of prey high up in the branches, watching. She had hidden herself underneath her great green cloak, yet she had never felt so naked. Her soft boots trod on the wooden floors as on thin ice, and a wave of relief washed over her once she was under the midnight sky.
The yard felt empty in the night, but she knew better than to make it towards the gate carelessly. Her father’s hounds would pick her scent and alert the entire household, and she would be lost – caught dressed and with quiver and bow in hand. She carefully sneaked over the fence, with the deftness of a stray cat. Once she was on the other side, she could run freely and made her way towards the forest.
Iphigenia smiled. It was the first time in all her life that she had gone anywhere without her father.
“Aphrodite blessed you with the gift of beauty, my daughter,” he used to say, “but although this gift is precious and you should always cherish it, it is also dangerous. Many dryads have been stolen by the gods, made wives against their will. They weep and weep in their gilded cages, but no one can set them free and risk the anger of the Immortals to be cast upon them. Never leave my side, Iphigenia. It is all that I ask of you.”
But she had the fire of Artemis burning through her veins. She had prayed to her, asking to run free and do as she pleases, but the incense would not catch the spark and burn, for Artemis knew very well why her father kept her close.
“I will prove to father that I am as strong as Artemis herself, to which none of the gods even glance for fear of her bow. I will hunt the mightiest boar and sacrifice it to Artemis, and then he shall grant me the freedom to come and go as I choose.”
She had planned her escape as the moon turned, gathering the wilting poppy on the fields to deepen the slumber of her father’s hounds, fletching arrows and tending to her bow so that the wood would bend swiftly and strike true.
Once deep into the forest, Iphigenia listened for any light steps that might follow her. She was not afraid of the boar – she only feared her father waking up before the rooster and finding her cold bed and missing bow.
The woods looked oddly different at night, and the usual hunting paths she had used with her father were now harder to find. In the midnight roar of the crickets, startled by the sudden rustles and crackles, Iphigenia felt more and more the frightful deer rather than the lone wolf stalking the prey. The forest seemed to reject her, and the wind that blew to catch her cloak and tangle it into the undergrowth carried her scent forward, scaring any animals away. But she did not relent, she did not falter, and she kept advancing with light steps, deeper and deeper into the surrounding darkness.
She reached a thicket that seemed strangely familiar. The trees grew taller around her, and the moon rays pierced their foliage, spotting the ground with white. Scented night flowers bloomed at their roots, thickening the air with their heavy perfume. Her trained ears could pick up hooves treading carefully in the distance, and she notched an arrow and advanced, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creatures grazing ahead. Blood rushed cold with fear and excitement, and she silently drew a deep breath to steady her hands.
Suddenly, a large silhouette began racing towards her. She knew she had only a few moments to react before it would be upon her. The sound of the hooves had gotten louder – she felt them beat to the drumming of her heart. She could already feel the tusks of the great beast in her belly – and without attempting to glance at her assailant, she loosed the arrow and hit the beast in its heart. The body tumbled to the ground in front of her, with the heavy thump of defeated vitality. It twitched as the dark blood began to glisten through its golden coat.
Iphigenia took a few steps back, throwing off the veil of her shadow from the animal’s corpse. As the moon now caressed the beast, she was struck with the reality of her crime – she had shot one of the Gilded Stags of Artemis.
Hot tears rushed in her eyes, distorting the forest into patches of silver and black. She fell to her knees and embraced the defeated stag, desperately trying to pull her arrow out and save it from its fate. But it was too late – the animal lay still, twitching only to the violent sobs that came from her chest. The smell of blood overpowered all the other scents around them. It soaked through the ground, in her clothes, in her hair, and her skin. Yet, no animals came to it, for they all knew better than to touch the flesh of a creature of Artemis.
They found her in the morning, still clutching the cold body of the stag. She had cried herself into exhaustion, and could not fathom returning to the village and facing her father. Once the party was upon her, they stood around her motionless, aware of the horrible fate the girl had cast herself into. Her father was the last one to lay his eyes upon the bloody scene.
“My child… what have you done?” he managed to say in a whispered voice, filled with horror and incredulity.
Her red and swollen eyes rose to meet his. She looked like a savage, with a wild glare and ruffled hair. Blood had congealed on her face as she lay on the stag, as if she had been feeding on the carcass of her prey.
Clouds gathered over them, casting the entire scene into a dark and gloomy shadow. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the hunters shivered as the winds howled angrily at them through the trees of the forest. They drew their cloaks tighter around their mighty frames and awaited their goddess to show herself to them.
The undergrowth of the forest parted, and a bright, tall silhouette emerged from the Grove. All the hunters fell to the ground in reverence as Artemis looked upon the horrific scene of her slaughtered stag. Her voice was low and came rushing like a torrent over moss-covered stones.
“Rise, Agamemnon, Keeper of the Sacred Grove, and meet my eyes.”
Iphigenia’s father stood proud, with the stature of a man awaiting execution for his crime. He beheld the illuminated figure of his goddess, but did not falter when he met her fiery eyes.
“One of my gilded stags lays slain at your feet. You have failed in your duties. How do you plead for this crime?”
Iphigenia’s eyes glistened with new tears. They felt like blood welling and streaking down trails of fire as they ran down her cheeks. She could not let her father pay for what she had done. She would rather be slaughtered on the spot by Artemis than endure any punishment on her father.
“I am guilty, and I accept my punishment, my Goddess,” Agamemnon said proudly.
“No!” Iphigenia found herself yelling. Her voice creaked and seemed strange and foreign to her ears.
Artemis turned her head towards her as if acknowledging her existence for the first time.
“How dare you open your filth
y mouth, bloody beast? I should have you turned into a wolf, to live the rest of your days as the merciless predator you are!”
“Please, please, oh great Huntress, please do not punish my father for a crime he is not guilty of. I deserve any punishment, even death,” she cried.
“Death? You do not deserve such peaceful respite. No, Agamemnon has no daughter from this day, and you have no father. I shall not give you the claws and fangs of the wolf, for you have caused enough suffering in your form. I shall have your bloodstained bow.” Artemis took her bow and arrows in her soft white hands. The wood, over which Iphigenia had labored so many times, oiling and caring for it, now bent and cracked violently until they were a pile of splinters lying on the forest floor. She felt her heart break with every painful crack until it was just a pile of ashes.
“You, wretched soul, will roam the earth and never find a moment of peace or safety. You will be forever hunted, like the deer you so ruthlessly slaughtered. Go now, take your unworthy form away from my sight.”
Iphigenia felt too weak to walk. She slowly stood up, trembling like a newborn fawn and painfully stumbled through the thicket. She tripped, and fell, and rose again sobbing, but the men did nothing to help her and looked on until she was out of their sight. She was not the proud daughter of the dryad hunter, but an injured aberration that was now not worth the fletching on the arrow that would shoot her down and end her agony.
Her mind was wandering as she made her way through the rough roots and brambles that caught her feet. She no longer felt the hurt of her scrapes, her hair being pulled out of her braid as it tangled in the low hanging branches. Her entire body burned with exhaustion, and she finally collapsed at the edge of a small river. Fallen on her arms and knees, she thirstily drank from the clear water like a scared animal, waiting to be set upon. Once she had quenched her thirst, she began to look around her in search of a shelter, as she knew she would not survive in the open, with no weapon to defend herself from the predator that she knew roamed the deep regions of the woods. She followed the river and reached a secluded, small lake, its clear surface rippling with the water cascading over a dark stone wall.
As night came with the terror of unknown dangers stalking in the shadows, she discovered a small cave hidden on the other side of the waterfall and sought refuge in the humid mouth. It felt like a refuge, an unknown dark corner that opened to a world devoid of the glaring eyes of the creatures of Artemis. Echoes of water dripping in unseen puddles disturbed her sleep, and she shivered at the faint howls that serrated the stillness of the night – yet hope lingered in her as she lay on the mossy stones, a faint candle light fighting against the winds of fate.
Chapter 2
The light of a new dawn lined the white polis of Epidaurus. The first rose wine rays of light washed over the marble of its twin temples, casting off resplendent reflections onto the streets below. Atop their stairs, the proud statues of Artemis and Apollo overlooked the great plaza between them. Their subjects, the fair and proud Phoebians, creatures of light and harmony, passed under their majestic shadows in reverence.
As Helios guided his fiery stallions higher on the azure field of the sky, the god Orpheus awoke in the cool shade of his chamber. The fragrant smell of scented wine brought forth from the cellar by his servants emanated from the glass table at the side of his bed. He slowly cast off the fine silken sheets that had covered him in his slumber and donned his white toga to walk over to the balcony. The city unfurled from his palace on top of the hill to the high walls that protected his small haven. A finely ornamented lyre lay on the purple cushions beside him. It had been a gift from his father Apollo, as a symbol of his reign over Epidaurus. He tuned it with deft hands and began caressing the divine chords, made from the white silver strands of the Pegasus. The melody rang clear in the morning air, pouring over the city and his subjects. Many bowed to him as they passed by the palace balcony.
“He is truly the God of Music,” one Vestal priestess said to another, as they carried wood for the temple’s pyre.
“The light of Apollo graces us every day through our king, his son,” the other replied, clutching the wood to her bosom.
Steps echoed behind Orpheus as he played his lyre. The song dwindled and stopped.
“Up so soon, brother? Is something amiss?” he asked, as he turned to see that Troilus was clad in armor and with a bow in hand.
The young man sighed and looked away.
“Nothing is ever amiss, brother. You have named me captain of your army, and I have taken this as a token of your love and trust for me. But now I see it is an empty title, for no rival city would dare to challenge you. My men grow weary of slashing at haystacks with wooden swords, and have polished their blades so many times that they are half the weight they were when forged.”
Orpheus smiled. “The blood of your warrior mother Hecuba flows through your veins. We must not anger our father and wish for war and suffering, but rejoice in the pleasant days he has laid before us. I am not foolish enough to think peace everlasting, but I advise you to not wish the illness of war upon us just to whisk away your boredom.”
A faint frown lined the dark features on Troilus’ face. He did not like when Orpheus mentioned of his foreign mother, as he felt his half-brother liked to remind him of his illegitimacy and lack of claim to the throne. He was the eldest of the two, and stronger. His mind had all the rigorous discipline and rationality a great leader required. Apollo had blessed him with many gifts, such as beauty, the art of poetry, and even prophetic dreams – but had refused him the throne. In his father’s eyes, it was Orpheus who deserved all the gifts in the world. His was the lyre, and the city, and the world itself – all belonged to the golden-haired boy who would sit all day in the sun, composing sweet tunes on his lyre and gently smiling over from his balcony. But Troilus did not mistake his lack of action for kindness and considered him to be a weak leader and one who would most likely still sit on his purple cushions playing even as the city burned. If Apollo had entrusted him, Troilus, with the golden lyre and the throne, he would have made Epidaurus the crowned jewel of the Greek world. All cities far and wide would know him as king – they would fear him more than the gods themselves.
“Far from me to wish war upon us,” he replied in a low voice and turned to leave. “I shall go hunting, and sacrifice a white deer on the altar of Apollo, to give thanks for the good fortune he has cast upon this city.”
“Good,” Orpheus said, “I think I shall probably follow you shortly. I am of the mind to take a walk through the forest myself today. To seat by the river and play to the beasts of the woods.”
“Then I shall hope that enamored with your beautiful tune, they shall lay still in hearing so that I strike true,” Troilus replied, an unsubdued smile lining his face. “Farewell,” he said and took his leave.
“Farewell, good luck,” Orpheus replied long after his brother had gone because he had drifted away into thought. His eyes had wandered over the walls, towards the lush forest from which he could feel the breeze curling in his hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent of the wild and took the lyre again to begin composing a new song.
It was long past noon when Orpheus came out of his sunbathed palace, riding his pale gold mare into the streets of Epidaurus. His subjects cheered and bowed as he passed down the long causeway to the main gate. He played sweetly from his lyre, and children followed him joyfully until he passed in the shade of the thick walls of the city. He was not carrying a bow and quiver for hunting, nor did he leave with a retinue of guards. The God of Music was never attacked in his lands, and the forest was his garden. He seldom went on hunts with his brother, for he preferred to pass the warm sunny days of summer by the small river that ran through the forest and down across his city, melding its liquid whispers with his song.
He left his golden mare in a clearing, to graze and bask in the delightful sun and set on to find a place to sit and caress the strings of the lyr
e. On this summer day, filled with the fragrance of the flowers in bloom, he trod even further up the river, towards the high stones from which it sprouted forth out of the deep caverns of the earth. The vibrant sounds of the waterfall grew closer as he made his way through the luscious leaves, and by the time he had found a suitable place to lay down, the night birds were already beginning their chant for the dusk.
Iphigenia lay in her cave, half asleep and caught in a fever dream. When she woke up, she did not remember where she was, and hot tears came to her again when she remembered. She wished she could go back, lay down and drift off into the realm of unconsciousness and dream, so as not to face her dire situation. She felt the pangs of hunger in her stomach and feared she did not have the power in her to forage for food. The congealed blood on her arms and legs clung to her skin and clotted in her long hair. Everything hurt. Coiled on the ground, she embraced her bruised knees and closed her eyes.
Out of the muffled sounds of the forest that lay beyond the waterfall, she heard a rumor, like a golden thread undulating in a sea of noise and confusion. She clung to it, and concentrated on the sound, until it grew into song, clearer and clearer, until the water tumbling into the pool near her was left in the background, almost unnoticeable. She could not make out the song, but as she listened on, she felt light envelop her. Like the voice of a mother singing her child to sleep, the gentle lyre chords lulled and comforted her. At length, she felt safe enough to venture outside her cave and into the fading light of twilight.
With the cautious motions of a deer treading through the woods, Iphigenia slowly made her way down the mossy stones; her ears perked to pick up the origin of the lovely song that was emanating from the thick of the forest. Without a sound, she gracefully lay on the bank of the clear pool, motionless, still partially frozen with the fear that she might be discovered. But she found it hard to hold on to her anxiety as the song went on, ever evolving, ever melding with the sounds around her, weaving an unseen embrace that made her feel at home. Before long, she felt the need to cast off her armor for more comfort, and bathe herself in the pool of water.
Daylights Affliction (Faded light Book 1) Page 1
