Hades' Daughter

by Sara Douglass

  Now Brutus sat with Genvissa by the fire, replete with the tasty meal her three daughters had prepared for their mother and Brutus.

  “They are lovely girls, Genvissa,” Brutus said, watching lazily as the three girls sat gossiping and laughing over their spindles at the far end of Genvissa’s house.

  Genvissa smiled, and leaned against Brutus. Apart from her daughters, she and Brutus were alone: Aerne, ill and weak, had elected to stay at one of the houses in Llanbank.

  For the moment, almost dozing with the effects of the meal, Brutus was content to watch the girls. He almost grinned, remembering the performance they’d put on in the serving of the food. The three girls had been all wit and humour and unconsciously (perhaps) provocative movements as they laid dishes before him. In feature they looked much like Genvissa herself, save that they were slightly shorter, slimmer and more girlish.

  The eldest one, Llana, touched Brutus particularly. She had an air of sadness and loss about her eyes, and she was far less a child than the other two. Keeping his voice low, Brutus asked Genvissa about her.

  “She still grieves for the child she lost a year ago,” Genvissa said, very low. “She conceived him when she was thirteen, bore him when she was fourteen, and lost him the same year.”

  “How did he die?”

  “A fever.” Genvissa shrugged. “Poor Llana. Still, she will no doubt bear more children.”

  “I had thought your own daughters would be protected against this blight.”

  Genvissa looked at him strangely. “My family must be seen to suffer, as does every other,” she said.

  Poor Llana indeed, thought Brutus and then, before he could follow that thought through with anything close to a judgement, Genvissa leaned more firmly against him, and he felt the heaviness of her breast against his arm.

  His breath caught in his throat…and then he leaned back a little from her. “And you are sure about Asterion?”

  “There is no need to talk of Asterion,” Genvissa said and, taking one of his hands in hers, put it to her breast.

  He glanced towards Genvissa’s daughters, and, as he saw that they still bent their heads low about their spinning, ran his hand softly over her breast.

  “We can’t do this,” he said. “If we lie together now it will ruin the order of the dances.”

  Genvissa’s mouth twisted ruefully as Brutus dropped his hand from her.

  “When I sailed towards this land,” Brutus continued in a quiet voice, “I dreamed of you all night, thought of you all day. Now you are so close, this close, the waiting is torture.”

  “And yet,” Genvissa breathed, moving close to him again, and putting her mouth to his ear, then to the back of his neck, then to his throat, “the Kingman and the Mistress of the Labyrinth may come together for the first time only on the night of the Dance of the Torches. And that night must wait until the foundations are ready. Months and months.”

  He pulled her face to his, and kissed her. “You don’t need to remind me.” Then he pulled away completely. “Don’t do this to me now, Genvissa. You’re teasing me, for no purpose, for I am yours.”

  “And yet you took a wife.”

  “I did not know of you then. Do not worry about Cornelia. She is nothing to me.”

  “Then put her aside. Renounce her. Give her to…to Corineus, perhaps.”

  Brutus’ face hardened the moment she spoke, and something severe and uncompromising came into his eyes. “I will not give her to Corineus.”

  Genvissa fought down a moment of panic. “Brutus—”

  “If you are denied me for months to come,” said Brutus, “then I have need of a wife.”

  “You cannot truly mean to lie with her.”

  “Why does she upset you so much, Genvissa?”

  “You know why. How many times has she betrayed you? Kept things from you? And Asterion…you have said yourself how she mentioned his name as if she expected him, and you saw her lying with him in vision—”

  “But Asterion is no threat. This you keep saying. Should I think different?”

  “Asterion is no threat.” Inwardly seething, Genvissa forced a pleasant look to her face. “I am jealous, Brutus. That is all. If I sought to alleviate my desire for you in some other man’s bed, would you not also be dismayed?”

  “Aerne…”

  “He is an old man. I have not shared his bed for years.”

  Brutus smiled, and the gesture was so gentle and so beautiful it brought tears to Genvissa’s eyes. “I can wait for you,” he said. “Cornelia does not tempt me.”

  “If you find the waiting hard,” she said, touching his cheek with soft fingers, “and you need relief, then you may take one of my girls—”

  Brutus rose suddenly, leaving Genvissa sitting awkwardly with her hand extended into empty air.

  “You are surely the woman towards whom I have been moving all my life,” Brutus said, his voice flat, “but you must know that I am not a man who enjoys violating children.”

  Before she could respond, Brutus was gone, and Genvissa was left staring incredulously after him.

  Then where were your principles when you bore Cornelia down to bed? Genvissa thought. She was no older than my Llana.

  “Mother?”

  It was Llana, come to see what ailed Genvissa.

  “It is nothing, Llana. Be a good girl, now, and see your sisters to bed.”

  As her daughters moved softly about the house, Genvissa went to stand outside, staring into the blackness towards the distant Llanbank.

  “Who are you, girl?” Genvissa whispered, unconsciously echoing what Coel had once said. “What are you? And what danger are you?”

  Why had she been at Mag’s Dance when Blangan had died?

  Why did she mention Asterion’s name, and feature in visions beneath his body?

  Why, in the name of all that was honest, did Brutus demur about putting her away?

  Why had he not killed her when he learned she had deceived him about Blangan’s death? Or even after Cornelia’s treacherous instigation of the Mesopotaman rebellion?

  Why, why, why?

  “Cornelia?” Genvissa said, narrowing her eyes. Don’t hurt her, Brutus had said.

  Ah! He was bewitched only by her youth. If she died then he would not really miss her…

  But best not to move until she had Brutus completely. The night of the Dance of the Torches.

  Cornelia, she thought, her mouth twisting viciously. Cornelia is as good as dead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Every year as many people as could from the tribes and Houses of Llangarlia travelled to the Veiled Hills for the Slaughter Festival. They brought with them those goods they had made at their hearths over the past year to sell in the markets, they herded before them their spare livestock that they might barter them at the fairs (as well as one fat beast upon which they would feast), and they carried wrapped in cloth their finest bronze pieces—swords, knives, arrowheads, pins or brooches—that they might offer them to their gods in thanks for their lives and for the food and children that had graced their households over the past year.

  If perhaps the food had not been so plentiful this past year, or their children not so hearty, then the family would bring more than they could afford to offer Og and Mag, desperate for a turn in their fortunes.

  The sudden influx of people on Llanbank and the surrounding area created mayhem—but it was a happy, genial mayhem, for the Slaughter Festival was the most eagerly anticipated social occasion, as well as religious rite, of the year. All the homes within Llanbank took in as many people as they could; the overflow encamped in the areas to the south and east of the town, their children running about, laughing and playing, their beasts baying and bleating in confusion at the throngs of people and their own crowded kind packed into pens and runs.

  Of all homes within Llanbank, Cornelia’s house was the only one which was not overflowing with guests, its internal quiet a strange counterpoint to the bustle and noise everywhere el
se.

  On the evening of the Slaughter Festival, Cornelia took herself off to the northern bank of the Llan. Aethylla remained within the house: her own son was slightly ill with a fever—probably caused by his teething—and of necessity she had to remain behind to tend him. That meant Cornelia could safely leave Achates behind, and although she adored her son, she thought that perhaps this was one night when he would be better off left behind in the warmth and security of the house and Aethylla’s care.

  Hicetaon escorted her. Brutus was long gone—off somewhere with Genvissa probably—and Corineus had headed south in the morning, armed with the news that the Assembly of Mothers had agreed to Genvissa’s plan to settle the Trojans in the Veiled Hills. He would bring the Trojans north by ship, and no one expected them for several weeks.

  It would take at least that long to arrange space and accommodation for them, and Hicetaon, who was in charge of arranging such space, knew he would have his work cut out.

  The crowds pressed uncomfortably, and Hicetaon moved close to Cornelia, trying to keep her free of the press. She was dressed very beautifully, in the Llangarlian manner rather than the Trojan, and Hicetaon wondered from where she had found her sleeveless robe. Its full skirt hung to only just below her knees, leaving her strong brown calves and ankles bare above her fine leather shoes. The material was a finely woven wool and patterned about its low, scalloped neck and hem with a twisted design that Hicetaon realised only after several minutes of surreptitious observation was of entwined antlers. Cornelia wore a matching cloak on her back, its weave slightly denser than that of the robe but even then light enough to flow back from her body with every movement she made.

  In counterpoint to her Llangarlian clothes, Cornelia wore her dark hair in full Greek fashion, twisted and arranged to fall in carefully controlled cascades from the crown of her head. It became her, Hicetaon thought, and wryly observed that many others thought so as well, judging by the number of admiring glances sent her way.

  They walked towards the river bank, the crowds drawing ever closer, and Hicetaon had to fight to make room for them. Cornelia was becoming agitated, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, and just as Hicetaon had begun to wonder if it might not be wiser to escort her back to the safety of their house, a voice spoke, and warm hands took hold of both Hicetaon’s and Cornelia’s elbows.

  “I have just the place for us to view,” Coel said, and Hicetaon frowned at the sudden smile on Cornelia’s face.

  “I don’t think—” Hicetaon said, and then stopped, realising that the pressure on his elbow was gone.

  Cornelia and Coel had vanished…they had simply melted back into the crowds pressed about him.

  Hicetaon bellowed Cornelia’s name, furious both with her and with Coel, straining on the tips of his toes to see above the heads surrounding him.

  But to no avail. They were gone, and Hicetaon was left to be carried along with the flow of the crowds towards the Llan.

  Brutus will be furious, Hicetaon thought, and then wondered if he had the nerve to tell him.

  “My sister’s robe looks well on you,” Coel said, holding Cornelia close before him. They were standing on a knoll on the northern bank of the river partway between the White Mount and Mag’s Hill.

  Cornelia smiled, apparently not uncomfortable with his closeness. He had swept her through the crowd with effortless ease, conveying her to the small ferry on the Llan’s southern bank, and persuading the ferryman with charm and a curiously carved seashell to convey them to the northern bank. The crowding was far less as the people here generally consisted only of those taking part in the ceremonies. Coel had led Cornelia to a spot where they would not only be able to have a good view of the rituals about to be enacted, but at the same time not be in anyone’s way.

  “Thank Tuenna again for me,” said Cornelia. “I cannot believe she would gift me such a treasure.”

  “She liked you,” Coel said, very slightly increasing the pressure of his arms where they wound about her body below her breasts. “My entire family liked you.”

  Cornelia coloured very faintly. “You say too many kind things about me,” she said. “Others might not be so generous.”

  Coel resisted the urge to grind his teeth at her reference to Brutus, but let it pass. “You deserve all my kind words, and more,” he said. “I am your friend, and your guide through tonight’s mysteries,” and his voice filled with laughter. “I adore you.” His arms tightened again, but in a manner that was somehow mischievous and teasing, and not in any manner demanding.

  She laughed, and relaxed against him, pleasing Coel. Perhaps one day, perhaps soon, she might overcome her inhibitions and accept him as her lover. He knew she desired him, but he feared that Cornelia was too trapped by Brutus, and by fear, guilt and love, to ever take that step away from her husband.

  Coel repressed a sigh. Whatever happened, if ever Cornelia consented to lie with him, it wouldn’t be tonight. Loth had asked him to bring Cornelia to the Stone Dance atop Pen once the main rituals were done. Please Og, Coel prayed silently, closing his eyes for a moment, let Loth discover the “why” of Cornelia. Let him discover how to use her to restore balance and health and Llangarlia’s true gods to this land.

  He shuddered, and she felt it, half turning against him until he could see the curve of her cheek in the starlight.

  “The cold,” he said. “There will be a heavy frost at dawn, I think.” He lifted his hands and pushed her cloak over her shoulders, wrapping her the more tightly in its warmth.

  “We should be well abed by then,” she said, and he grunted, able to make no other reply to her.

  Then he felt her start, her head moving back to the river again. “What is happening?” she said, and Coel heard the strain in her voice.

  On the banks of the Llan below them, several hundred women had gathered. They were cloaked, but, as Cornelia and Coel watched, they allowed the cloaks to drop to the ground, leaving the women naked.

  “They are Mothers,” Coel said quietly against Cornelia’s hair. “Not all of them, but a representative grouping of them. They are here to offer sacrifice to Og and Mag.” In desperation, thought Coel, for they know very well that Og is dead and Mag too weak to respond.

  Perhaps this was just a formality, done for the comfort it gave rather than in any expectation of actual aid.

  “Sacrifice?” Cornelia said.

  He smiled, and she felt the movement in her hair. “Metal, Cornelia. Not blood. The most precious metal objects we have. Given to the river as thanks and offering.”

  “Why the river…and why such a waste of such precious objects? Hera! Each of those bronze axes might well feed a small community throughout an entire winter.”

  One of his hands lifted away from her, extending towards the wide river. “See the stillness of the waters? The gleam of its surface? Is that not the most mysterious thing you have ever seen? Water is the gateway between this world and the Far World, the mirror that reflects both worlds, and what we offer to the river is taken in thanks by the gods on the other side…in the other world. And why such precious objects? Because they are such precious things to us. See…the Mothers take up their offerings.”

  “They’re breaking them.”

  Indeed, each of the women, no matter what she held, was now ritually breaking the object—bending, twisting, mutilating and shattering, if able.

  “They do that to show the gods the lengths to which they’ll go…these objects are precious, and it is in honour of the gods that we break them before offering them.”

  The beat of a drum began, and then the thin, almost frightening wail of a pipe.

  “There,” Coel said, and pointed towards Mag’s Hill.

  Figures stood on its summit, and Cornelia and Coel were close enough to see.

  Genvissa—there could be no mistaking her statuesque figure nor her wild, dark hair. Brutus was with her, wearing nothing but a white loin wrap and the gleaming bands of kingship about his arms and legs. His hair,
too, was left free for the wind to tug and caress. Three women—no, girls—stood behind Genvissa and Brutus, and as Cornelia watched, Brutus turned and laughed with them about something, touching the cheek of the eldest girl who was, Cornelia saw, about her own age.

  Coel felt Cornelia tense at that simple display of affection. Poor Cornelia, what she would not do to have Brutus touch her cheek just once with that tenderness.

  Coel felt a tightening in his gut, and he knew it was jealousy.

  “They are Genvissa’s daughters,” he said softly, “fathered on her by the Gormagog during rituals such as these.”

  Cornelia said nothing, staring at the tableau above her.

  “Why do you love him so deeply when he treats you so badly?” Coel said, truly wanting to know. “How can you want to please him so much?”

  “He is everything to me,” she said, and Coel’s arms tightened about her in agony.

  “Everything awaits you, Cornelia, and it is not in that man.”

  Above them, Brutus turned to Genvissa, and kissed her; far below in Coel’s arms, Cornelia gave a moan of distress.

  “If you were one of us,” Coel said, his eyes fixed on Brutus and Genvissa, “you would discard any man who so maltreated you. How could you want such a man as the father of your children?”

  “You don’t understand,” Cornelia said. “I have been so foolish, done so many wicked things, hurt so many people.”

  “You? What?”

  “My father…” Cornelia began, then shuddered and said no more.

  Below them, the Mothers had walked far into the waters of the Llan so that the waves of the river lapped at their breasts.

  As one, and to the accompaniment of a surging of the pipes and drums and the ululations of the watchers on the far river bank, the Mothers threw their offerings of precious metal far into the waters.

  “I know some of the circumstances in which Brutus took you to be his wife,” Coel said, his voice low and hard. “By Og and Mag, Cornelia, in our land he would have been slaughtered for what he did to you!”