Dazzling Brightness

by Roberta Gellis

  Hades shrugged. “It is too late for that warning.”

  “Do not think me that kind of fool,” Persephone said, looking at Koios with a mingling of amusement and admiration. It took tremendous courage to utter that challenge when Hades had indicated plainly enough that he was too enslaved to struggle. “I have not the smallest desire to wield the king’s power. For one thing, I could not. I have not his Gift. For another, I have power of my own as high priestess of the Goddess.”

  Koios bowed his head as much as was possible in its twisted position. “You are wise beyond your years, my lady.”

  “It does not take many years of serving in a temple to learn what ambition can do.”

  As the words came out of her mouth, Persephone felt like a fool. How many times over the past days had she wondered why Dorkas and Zeus had wanted to be rid of her? Zeus’s reasons were still a mystery, but in Dorkas’s case, Persephone now understood. Dorkas wished to be high priestess, and that would be totally out of her grasp as long as Persephone—no, not Persephone, Kore—was in Olympus.

  Persephone had to put her thoughts aside at that point and pay attention. She needed to do no more than nod to Koios’s further complimentary remark, but then he asked when she wished to meet the other high servants on Hades’s staff, and she decided it would be best to be done with it at once. She found it less a trial than she expected, none of the others having been as harshly used as Koios and none being as dear to Hades. She needed only to be polite.

  * * * *

  The next day cryers were dispatched to tell all the dwellers of the underworld that their king had chosen a queen and that the queen was also a priestess learned in the mysteries of the Corn Goddess. The people were summoned to acknowledge queen and priestess. Audience would be held in the great cave every day for a ten-day period. In particular, every female must present herself to be tested for a place in the temple.

  Persephone worried that she would not be able to find enough women with the urge to serve the Goddess, and in the privacy of their bedchamber asked Hades if his people would obey. He laughed.

  “None can live without bringing the fruit of their toil, be it cut gems, dug ore, smelted or hammered metal, or whatever else they make to me or one of my deputies. Most food and cloth or wool or linen comes from the outer world, where they cannot go. The worth of their labor is exchanged for what they need to live. No one would dare disobey.”

  He saw the trouble in her eyes and laughed again. “Dear love, most will not wish to disobey. Some have enough brains to look forward to a day when the fields will bear enough to make bread plentiful and provide fodder for herds and flocks. Most will be curious and hope for a festival to celebrate my handfasting. A few will grumble that possession of an Olympian woman is making the king arrogant.”

  “The men,” Persephone said. “But some of the women will be terrified. For this reason or that, some will think being chosen for service in the temple a dreadful fate.”

  “Then do not choose them,” Hades said.

  “I will not if there are enough with the touch of the Goddess on them. But what if there are not enough? Only about one in ten in Olympus are fit for temple service. What if many fewer—or none—of the native women can serve?”

  “I do not know,” Hades said. “But many of my people are Gifted. Hatred and fear of their Gifts is what sent them here to Plutos. Why worry before trouble comes?”

  He kissed her lips and then her throat. A gesture extinguished the crystals in the chandeliers. Only a single gem-picture on the wall remained glowing softly, that of a fall of water over a low cliff. It was a waste of power, for Persephone’s eyes closed as Hades’s mouth traveled downward. She did not need to see, only to feel.

  She had a flicker of guilt over how easily he was able to divert her, but it had no chance to grow because he proved to be right over the next ten days. At the time allotted to them, even those who grumbled and feared came to an immense cavern lit not with powered crystals but with common pitch torches. These circled rows of white stone columns, not natural artifacts but worked until smooth so they reflected the light.

  When the people were gathered each day, Hades and Persephone came through the great gates of worked brass that closed off the wide passage out of which the palace had been carved. They stood on the dais while Hades made Persephone known and restated the purpose of the summoning; then they seated themselves, Hades in his immense throne and Persephone in a chair somewhat less massive but as ornately and richly decorated. The people came forward in twos and threes and family groups.

  On the very first day, Persephone knew she would not need to force any woman to serve her—every third showed the golden shimmer that betrayed the touch of the Goddess, and even more of the children were gifted—so she left the choosing until she could summon the women to the temple itself. She asked to see it on the eleventh day of her sojourn in Plutos, the eighteenth since Hades had thrown his cloak around her and carried her off.

  To her surprise, it was no great distance. At the far end of the cavern there was a steep chimney into which a curving stair had been carved. At the top was a passage through which a fierce wind blew from one of those wide, low mouths she had seen before. Beyond the mouth was a lovely valley, and to the right, built into the slope of the mountain so that it overlooked all the open land, was a glistening white temple. A path led from the cave mouth to the building.

  “There is nothing inside except the image of the Goddess,” Hades said. “I did not know what else was necessary. I did not even know whether it was permitted that a man make the image, but I wanted to do it. And since the temple is not yet consecrated, I thought it could be moved or destroyed if it was not suitable.”

  “Did you wish for Her help when you made the image?” Persephone asked.

  “With all my heart and soul,” Hades replied. “Even if the crops in the outworld are better next year, there is a limit to our ability to trade, and the number of my people grows. If the Goddess does not bless us, we will soon face starvation.” He hesitated, staring at the temple ahead. “I do not know what you will think, I had an image in my mind of such delicate beauty, but… It is not what I planned. I swear that the stone formed under my hands of its own will, and I was afraid to try to change it.”

  They said no more until Persephone stood before the image. Then she touched Hades’s hand and whispered, “It is She.” And before her courage could fail—for she suddenly knew her mother could not hand down the place of high priestess as a man handed down his chattels to his child—she lifted her arms and cried, “Mother, bless us.”

  With the words, her power poured out in a flood far beyond what she had passed to Hades in the cave of the golden death. Her vision dimmed and her limbs grew weak. She heard Hades cry out but could not respond, and then as she felt her life drain away with the last of her power, a great golden wave enveloped her, supported her, and what she had poured out was restored with a new, shimmering strength in addition. Then Hades caught her to him.

  “Beloved, what befell you?” Hades voice was trembling, his black eyes wide with foreboding. “I thought you would fall, and tried to catch you but I could not touch you.”

  “I was in the Mother’s hand,” Persephone whispered, clinging to him.

  “I was afraid.” He bent his head and kissed her hair. “That face… I carved it with my own hands, but I cannot read it. One moment I see the loving kindness of a mother and another I see the inexorable judgment of fate. And do I not deserve punishment? Did I not take a virgin from Her temple? Partly it was to bring Her presence here among us, but, Persephone, partly it was because I lusted for you. I wanted you for myself and I took you without asking Her leave.”

  Persephone lifted her face and smiled. “The Mother does not frown on lust. Men may set value on virginity, but the Goddess values the fruit of the union of male and female.” She turned her head to look at the image. “The danger was not that I am a woman instead of a maid, but that I had some f
law of heart or mind that made me unfit to serve Her. But that is passed. I offered Her what I am, and She accepted me.”

  She stepped out of Hades’s embrace, took his hand, and walked to the portico of the temple, where she looked out over the valley. “There is much to be done.”

  “Command me, priestess, and whatever you need will be brought; laborers will be assigned to do your bidding.”

  Persephone’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “The earth must be turned, and then turned again. And I will need seed.” She frowned. “Seed is stored in the temple in Olympus. Where will I find—”

  “I will obtain seed,” Hades said.

  “From the temple? Oh, be careful, Hades. If my mother hears of it, she will guess where I am and demand my return.”

  He touched her face, gently, uncertainly, with none of the assurance he showed when they made love, “Persephone—

  “Yes, Hades?”

  He stared at her a moment longer and then burst out, “I cannot bear that you should think yourself a prisoner, that you should be bound to me against your will. You must be free to choose your own world. If you still want me to take you home—” He swallowed hard. “I will.”

  She laughed and took his hand. “I must choose, indeed. Two women, six maidens, and ten girl-children for the temple. They must be trained, at least partly, by the time the earth is turned and you bring me the seed. The temple must be furnished and formally consecrated. I will be too busy for a long time to talk nonsense.”

  Chapter 10

  In a warm, sunny glade quite near the pool where the garments of the Corn Goddess were washed, Dorkas lifted her head from Zeus’s shoulder and said, “Demeter is quite mad.”

  Zeus sighed. “About the disappearance of Kore, yes. She was back searching my palace again only last week, even though Hera has sworn to her that she would not indulge me in that way and has scryed for Kore more than once.”

  He was beginning to regret having arranged the disappearance of Demeter’s daughter. For one thing, the unremitting grief of the mother distressed him. He expected fury and spite, the emotions she had shown—although she had called them grief—when she accused him of her lover’s death. And she had been angry and spiteful, but beneath that was real fear for Kore. Moreover, he had been sure that Dorkas would be able to convince Demeter that the reason Kore could not be found was that the girl did not want to be found, and that if Demeter ceased searching and made clear that Kore could be free to do as she pleased with her life, the girl would show herself.

  If he had been able to get such a promise from Demeter, he would have asked Hades to bring Kore back or to allow Demeter to visit her. Hades… Zeus had a sudden memory of his brother, who had come about midsummer to assure him that Kore—no, he had named the girl Persephone—was well and happy. There had been something different about Hades, a kind of…contentment. Recalling his brother’s look, Zeus suddenly felt dissatisfied and—although he wished Hades no ill—thoroughly irritated.

  Dorkas was running her fingers around his ear, which he ordinarily found stimulating. Her attentions were so calculated, however, that more and more they left him as unmoved as he was sure they left her. He pulled his head away.

  “She is not fit to serve the Goddess,” Dorkas said, sitting up, her voice now sharp. “You know she is not. The whole city is complaining about the way she invades their houses without warning and accuses everyone of being in complicity with you.”

  Zeus looked away from her bare breasts, eyes half hidden under lowered lids. He was tired of Dorkas; she was like a lute with only one string. His eyes had come to rest unseeingly on the brush and small trees that edged the little glade. When the color of the foliage reached from his eyes to his brain, he was reminded that six moons had waxed and waned since Hades had taken Kore.

  “I suppose I should have put a limit of time on my agreement with Demeter,” Zeus said, his indolent voice a bad match for the hard gleam of his blue eyes under their sheltering lashes. “But, after all, you promised you would be able to convince her that Kore desired her freedom and that she would return when Demeter was willing to agree that she live her own life.”

  “She will not listen. She says Kore loves her and was happy. When I remind her of how often Kore would hide herself on the temple grounds, she slaps my face and calls me a liar and sets me penances. But all the priestesses know that Kore was straining at the leash on which Demeter held her. I tell you, Demeter is mad and is not fit to serve the Goddess.”

  The shrill voice put the cap on Zeus’s irritation; he wondered, not for the first time, whether Dorkas had tried to soothe Demeter or instead tried to intensify her grief and loss. He realized he did not trust Dorkas at all, and that he had made a mistake when he allowed her knowledge of his plot with Hades. She was too selfish and too ambitious to be a suitable high priestess.

  Demeter might hate him, but could do little harm because her prejudice was now a laughing matter in the whole city. And if it was true that he could not use Demeter to apply pressure to those he wished to bend as he had hoped he could use Dorkas, he now saw that that was all to the good. At least when Demeter agreed to withdraw the Goddess’s blessing from a wrongdoer at his bidding, all accepted her decision. Demeter might be considered mad on the subject of Kore’s disappearance, but she was recognized by all to be scrupulous, even Goddess-inspired, in her service. Zeus drew away from Dorkas and also sat up.

  “You know I have nothing to say about Demeter’s fitness to serve. The Goddess is well able to accept or reject her own priestesses. The crops were good—perhaps not so good as they have been in the past, but good enough so it is apparent the Goddess has not rejected her.”

  “You mean the Goddess has not rejected me! Who do you think did all the work of blessing? It is time for Demeter to be removed from the temple.”

  Zeus did not believe Dorkas’s claim that she had performed the blessing. He was quite certain Demeter would never allow anyone to perform the rites in her place as long as she believed Kore would hold that place in the future.

  “Be reasonable, Dorkas,” he said, shaking his head so that the golden curls she had smoothed back fell forward onto his brow. “You know I cannot ‘remove’ the high priestess of the Corn Goddess. If she had continued to refuse to bless the seed and sow it as she threatened in her first madness, the other mages and very likely the Goddess herself would have supported my suggestion that she be supplanted. However, she did not; she did her duty. I do not see that I have any right to complain of her, even if she does search for Kore long after reason says hope of finding the girl should be gone.”

  “You mean I must wait until she dies for the place you promised me?”

  Zeus looked at her in silence for a moment, his eyes clear and steady. “I promised you nothing. That does not mean I am against your succeeding to the role of high priestess when that place is vacant. All it means is that I will not make a promise I cannot be absolutely certain I can fulfill. If I promised you the place, and one of us should die before that promise could be honored, it would be a mark upon my soul.”

  There was nothing threatening in his face or voice, but Dorkas rapidly reconsidered her intention of hinting he would be better off satisfying her demand than having all Olympus know he had contrived Kore’s disappearance. She forced a smile and said, “I trust you to do your best for me, but I am concerned for the reputation of the temple. And it is not easy to live with Demeter these days.”

  “I am sorry for that, but—” Zeus stopped abruptly and let his head swing slowly until it stopped on a direct line with the palace in the city. He jumped up, gathering his kilt, tunic, and cloak. “Hera is scrying, I think,” he whispered, and ran off into the woods.

  Dorkas shivered as she watched him go, but she pulled her gown over her head without haste. If Hera had seen them, it was too late already, but if Hera had only started her spell, it would follow Zeus and never touch her at all. Dorkas felt somewhat comforted, knowing that that would have b
een his purpose in running away, not cowardice. Hera was very strange. She seldom quarreled with Zeus, but wreaked her anger on the women with whom he lay. She shivered again but then sighed gently. Mostly Hera punished those who had born children or gotten with child by her husband. Dorkas knew she had not conceived.

  Then she frowned, lifted her head, and with closed eyes turned it back and forth. Although she was not strongly Gifted, she could usually sense sorcery, and there was no taint of it in the glade, no faint breezeless breeze that might betray the use of power. Suddenly she remembered that Zeus had told her it was safe to stay and enjoy each other, because Hera was attending a childbirth. Dorkas’s teeth ground together. He had not fled to protect her but had only used that excuse to get away quickly.

  What a fool she had been! He had been using Hera’s jealousy as an excuse for weeks, and she had not realized it. He had only lain with her because he had nothing better to do and had come upon her by accident. Dorkas swallowed hard. Zeus never had any intention of helping her to be high priestess. He wanted Demeter to go on acting mad so that the temple would fall into disrepute and Zeus himself would be the only authority in Olympus.

  Dorkas sat there a long time, until the chill of autumn crept into the false summer warmth that the high sun and the sheltering foliage had kept in the glade. Twice she wiped tears from her cheeks, but when she pulled her cloak up and over her shoulders, her mouth was hard. If she wished to be high priestess, Demeter must be driven from the temple soon. Not the next day or the next week, but before the next spring solstice, when two of the younger priestesses would be ripe for elevation to acolyte.

  Once that happened, Dorkas knew her chances of taking Demeter’s place would be lessened. Now she was the only possible choice, Aglaia having already voluntarily yielded the position to Demeter when Dorkas was a novice. She should be the obvious choice even if two new acolytes were chosen, but her new revelation about Zeus made her unwilling to take the chance. The Goddess was supposed to choose, but Dorkas had an ugly suspicion that the “Goddess” would choose the priestess Zeus preferred, likely the youngest and most malleable.