The prayer eased her mind, and Genvissa relaxed. All would be well. Brutus would triumph. He was a strong man, unafraid, sure of himself. He would need to be all that tonight…but he would be all that tonight. He was the heir of Troy, he wore the bands of kingship, he knew the steps; he was the Kingman, her man, her light and her life.
Genvissa had not thought to love him so deeply. She had lusted for him, and wanted him. She had spent years plotting to get him, and trap him back into the Game.
She had not thought to love him.
Her smile faded, her eyes became distant. Tonight they would lie together for the first time. It was part of the Game, a step in the dance, but it was also something that Genvissa now wanted so badly she trembled whenever she thought on it.
Tonight she would lie with Brutus. She felt weak-kneed, and Genvissa treasured the feeling. Tonight she would lie with Brutus and conceive from him her daughter-heir.
And tonight Cornelia would die.
And that bitch-goddess who thought to hide within her.
“Tonight,” she said, and looked over the river to where thousands had already journeyed to the shoreline, waiting for that moment when they could cross the Llan and surround the hill. All the Mothers were there, together with their daughter-heirs. This would be a great moment in Llangarlia, and they would need to witness.
“Tonight,” Genvissa whispered again, then she gathered her cloak about her, and walked down the hill into her destiny.
The Mothers gathered on Og’s Hill once night had fallen. They stood at the northern edge of the plateau, distant enough from the central labyrinth so that the dancers could have room but close enough that they could witness.
Most were apprehensive, but gladly so. Tonight the MagaLlan would lead the dancers and this Trojan king, Brutus, in the first of two dances that would celebrate the birth of a new city, the birth of a great king and which would lay down the founding enchantment that would protect both city and land and would bring prosperity and health back to the Llangarlians for ever and evermore.
Once this dance was done, and the final Dance of the Flowers completed when the walls were finished, then Llangarlia would be secure. After all the bitterness and blight of this past generation, Llangarlia and her daughters and sons would finally be safe.
Among the Mothers, however, were several who were considerably more apprehensive than the others. Erith, Ecub and Mais again stood together, again welded into a triumvirate of useless opposition to Genvissa. They could do nothing but watch, and fear.
To the side stood Coel and Loth, both men dark-visaged. Loth’s hands were clenched, and his angry, frustrated eyes flickered between the labyrinth and Cornelia, standing a little distance away with Hicetaon and Corineus—who returned Loth’s regard with a dark and forbidding stare—and several other Trojan men that he did not immediately recognise.
Cornelia looked pale, her face drawn, her hands held before her in a loose agony of movement this way and that. Loth knew she had told Brutus of her pregnancy, and that Brutus’ reaction had not been all she had hoped.
In fact, it had been nothing like what she had hoped.
Loth had thought that Brutus’ lack of interest would finally bring Cornelia to her senses. She would never have Brutus’ love, she could never compete with the mystery and seductive power of Genvissa. Her time would be better spent working with Loth against Genvissa and Brutus…but, no, she would not do it. She didn’t want to alienate Brutus, she wanted to be his wife, she wanted his respect, she wanted his love…
Loth could have wept. Indeed, he had spent many nights weeping as he walked the forests. Cornelia was a fool, a silly, naive girl who still believed, after all the humiliations Brutus had heaped upon her, that his love was the best thing she could ever hope for and the greatest thing she could ever work towards.
By every god that had ever walked this land, what did Mag see in her? Why choose Cornelia as her champion?
Cornelia was useless, she would always be useless, and Loth would have torn out her throat if he’d thought it would have done the least bit of good.
So there Cornelia stood, looking as if she would snivel at any moment, wringing her hands futilely, helpless and hopeless in the face of Genvissa’s triumph.
Loth finally gave vent to his anger and frustration and did snarl, making everyone within ten paces of him jump in fright.
Coel put a hand on Loth’s shoulder. “We can but watch and wait,” he said quietly, “and hope for some glimmer of an opening.”
To Loth’s other side, Ecub took his hand.
“If I kill Genvissa, will it help?” Loth said, very low, his eyes very bright.
“It may tear this land apart,” Ecub said softly, intently. “We do not know the how and the why of her trickery, Loth. If we kill her, do we destroy her trickery…or do we make it the stronger?”
“I want—” Loth began, but both Coel and Ecub tightened their hands upon him.
“We know,” Ecub said. “We know…and we want, too.”
The ceremony began once full night had descended. Tens of thousands, both Trojans and Llangarlians, had crossed the Llan to surround Og’s Hill. They carried no torches, made no sound. They were simply a dark, silent mass of gently shifting bodies, come to witness.
Suddenly, without warning, the heady throb of a drum began, and then, far distant, the sound of voices raised in an eerie, tuneless song.
Atop the hill, people jumped, and heads craned.
“Look!” whispered Erith.
From east and west danced two lines of light: one line came from the White Mount, one from the banks of the Magyl River to the west of Og’s Hill. As the lines drew closer—the crowds surrounding Og’s Hill parting to give them access to the hill—the watchers could clearly see that they were composed of barefoot dancers, each line being constituted of alternating young men and women dressed identically in short, white linen skirts that flared in tiny pleats from their hips. The dancers’ chests were left naked, the men’s torsos strong and muscular, the women’s breasts firm and high. The women held in their right hands a torch, while their left hands held lightly to a thick woven scarlet ribbon; the men held the torches in their left hands, their right holding the ribbon which snaked between the dancers, binding them in a line of mystery, enchantment and seductive movement.
At the head of the western line, which had emerged from the Magyl, danced Genvissa, bare-breasted, garbed similarly to all the other dancers save that her white, pleated linen skirt hung to her ankles.
She held nothing in her hands, clasping them lightly to her waist, so that her every movement, her every step, made her hips and breasts sway in provocative invitation.
The scarlet ribbon was tied lightly to her left wrist, and with it she led her dancers towards Og’s Hill.
Brutus, the Kingman, led the other line which had emerged from his palace atop the White Mount.
In contrast to every other dancer, and to Genvissa, he was completely naked save for his gleaming bands of kingship on his legs and arms and for a circlet of gold about his brow. His hair, newly washed and oiled, was bound in a tight braid and then clubbed under at the back of his neck with a thin scarlet ribbon.
His hair glowed in the torchlight, and with his movements was like a black pool reflecting the glittering light of the stars.
The ribbon which bound his line was tied, as lightly as was Genvissa’s, to his right wrist.
In his left hand he carried something round and as black as his hair. It was a ball of pitch.
The twin lines danced, slowly, sinuously, their dancers singing the ancient hymn of the labyrinth, wending their way to Og’s Hill through the great crowd that surrounded it.
They reached its foot, and, very slowly, as if they hardly dared, began to climb the hill, each line taking an opposite slope and line of ascent.
As they mounted, their voices growing louder and their movements more confident, the two lines of dancers intertwined and twisted, dancers rai
sing and lowering their arms in arches so that the other line might dance under or over them.
It was an intricate dance, a dance of great beauty and mystery, and everyone watching atop the hill found themselves caught up in its enchantment, no matter whether they wished the dancers death or life.
Loth risked a glance at Cornelia.
She stood, her hands tightly clenched and unmoving before her, tears streaming down her face.
Then there was a shout, a cry of victory, and Loth turned his gaze back to the dancers.
The two lines had emerged on top of the hill, Brutus and Genvissa still leading them. Now the lines danced towards each other, moving close enough to the watchers that they could see the sweat trickling down the dancers’ bodies, and see the brightness in their eyes.
Brutus and Genvissa led their lines in opposing circles about the labyrinth, in one, two…seven circuits.
At the completion of the seventh circuit, Brutus and Genvissa unbound the ribbons from about their wrists and tied their two lines together.
The lines began to move about the labyrinth again, but now in a very different pattern.
The dancers still formed two lines, but they did not use the lines to form two complete circles. Instead, the two lines—in reality one line doubled—danced in the shape of an almost closed U about the labyrinth, the opening of the U marking the opening into the labyrinth itself. The outer line danced sunwise, the inner line counter-sunwise, the dancers moving from one direction to another when they moved from outer line to inner line at the open mouth of the U.
They danced, Erith realised with a jolt, in the shape of a woman’s womb.
Mag, she thought, what are they going to birth from that womb?
Brutus and Genvissa stood at the mouth of both womb and labyrinth, hand in hand, looking into the labyrinth itself. They remained still for long moments, staring, perhaps praying, then Genvissa stepped back from Brutus, and walked to the edge of the hill.
She raised her arms above her head, her breasts lifting high, and spoke in a ritualised, chanting voice that carried over the watching crowd.
“Behold,” she cried. “The Kingman stands before the Labyrinth. Here, tonight, in this land of magic and mystery and power, he will risk his life to guarantee yours. Here, tonight, in this land of magic and mystery and power, he will lift from this land the evil which has beset it, and best it and trap it, so that you will live your lives long and happy. Here, tonight, we will witness the birth of a new city, a new age, and we will consecrate the talisman which will protect us from all evil and harm for ever more.”
She lowered her arms, and turned to face Brutus.
As she did so, the dancers lowered their torches, holding them down and away from their bodies, and turned their faces away from the labyrinth. They kept moving, but their movements were very slow now, very deliberate, as if they danced the measure of Death itself.
“Behold,” whispered Genvissa in a voice that, while very low, nevertheless travelled to every ear, “the Kingman!”
And Brutus began to dance, moving into the paths of the labyrinth.
He lifted his left hand so that he held the ball of pitch high above his head, and his right he held out before him, his arm slightly curved, as if he held a woman within its bounds.
His body moved sensuously, very slowly, displaying its beauty. With each dance step one of his legs lifted, its foot turned slightly outwards, held, then lowered, moving the dance forward with measured deliberation.
With each dance step, his left hand, high above his head, moved a little, twisting the ball of pitch this way and that, his head moving slowly, deliberately, counterwise below his hand.
Each step took him further into the labyrinth, each step marking a seductive, measured invitation to follow.
Everyone felt his pull, felt the urge to follow him into the labyrinth, but no one moved.
As seductive and compelling as Brutus’ dance was, and as much as all the watchers felt that urge to dance after him, all also realised that this was a dance and an invitation meant for one person only.
Or for one thing only.
Genvissa, standing at the mouth to the labyrinth, lowered her head, and stepped to one side.
Brutus moved deeper into the labyrinth, twisting and turning within its coils, the ball of pitch slowly turning this way and that over his head.
A beacon of, and to, darkness.
Loth gasped, the next instant feeling all about him stiffen in shock and horror.
Something had slithered up to the mouth of the labyrinth, coming to rest only a pace away from Genvissa who was carefully keeping her gaze on her feet.
It was a mass of darkness, a writhing malaise of evil and ill-feeling and bad-doing.
Everything, Loth realised, his heart thudding, that had afflicted Llangarlia this past generation.
Across the grey waters of the Narrow Seas, the nascent infant Asterion stirred in his mother’s womb. Protected by its walls, the magic of Brutus’ dance did not affect him, nor did the ball of pitch tempt him.
For the moment he was safe.
Genvissa stood as still as death, giving the writhing mass so close to her no recognition at all.
Brutus, although he must also have seen it, continued with his deliberate, sensual dance through the labyrinth.
The mass of evil quivered uncertainly at the mouth of the labyrinth, then it sent forth a tentative sliver of darkness.
Finding no pain, no concern, the mass slithered to catch up with its leading tentacle, then humped even further into the labyrinth.
Brutus danced on, and, by slow degrees, the corrupt mass humped after him, stopping occasionally as if to sniff out any potential trap, then gathering its energy and following the ball of pitch ever deeper into the labyrinth.
Loth’s mouth had gone completely dry.
This was to lie buried at the heart of the new city? At the heart of Llangarlia? This obscenity?
Loth looked at Brutus, now approaching the heart of the labyrinth. His movements were strained, more restricted, as the coils grew ever tighter as they led him to the centre.
Gods, what would Brutus do when the horror caught up with him at the centre of the labyrinth?
Loth looked back to Genvissa, expecting to see her still standing, face lowered, at one side of the labyrinth’s entrance.
But she had moved. Now she stood just inside the entrance, her face up, her eyes shining, a gentle smile curving her mouth.
Brutus reached the centre of the labyrinth, and stood, as Genvissa had been, his head down.
But he still held the ball of pitch aloft.
The darkness writhed closer and closer, picking up speed as it approached its goal. It was muttering now, a horrid hum of angry whisperings, as if it couldn’t wait to feed.
One more turn, one more slither forward, and it, too, had reached the heart of the labyrinth.
The outer lines of dancers stopped, heads down, torches pointing to the earth, as still as death.
Brutus turned, and faced the evil.
Faced the evil within himself.
Brutus fitted an arrow to the bow, and lifted it to his shoulder. He could hear crashing in the shrubs just to his left, could see the flash of the stag’s antlers above the greenery, could hear the beast’s terrified breath.
Excitement flared in his chest, and he let fly the arrow.
There was a silence, then a shout of horror from beyond the path.
“Our king! Our king! He has been struck!”
And the excitement in Brutus’ chest collapsed into dread, and he knew what he had done.
He darted behind the greenery, fighting his way through, and came to a small glade.
In its centre sat his father Silvius.
He was contorted in agony, both his hands wrapped about the shaft of the arrow that had pierced his eye.
Brutus moaned, and walked over to stand a pace before his father.
Silvius, blood streaming in a thick,
rich river down his cheek and neck, gradually became aware of him. He dropped his hands from the shaft of the arrow, and held them out in appeal to Brutus.
“What have you done?” he said, his voice a groan. “What have you done?”
Brutus looked at his father for a long moment. There had been pity on his face, but now it had metamorphosed into something else…speculation, perhaps.
“I am taking my heritage,” he said, and he leaned down and took the arrow in one hand and a handful of his father’s hair in the other.
Steadying himself, and firming his grip on his father’s head, Brutus said, “It is time your kingship bands adorned my limbs.”
“No, no,” said Silvius. “How can you base your reign on the corruption of your own father’s murder? Everything you do, everything you touch from this time on, will be corrupt. Brutus, I beg you, do not murder me. Take this arrow from my eye, do not thrust it further.”
“I can accept your murder,” Brutus said, and Silvius felt his son’s hand firm on the arrow, the head of the weapon slice infinitesimally further through his flesh.
“I have raised you, and loved you, how can you do this to me?”
“Easily,” and the arrow slid further.
Silvius shrieked in agony. “You would found your city on this? On my murder? On the destruction of everything that has loved you?”
“I feel no guilt,” said Brutus. “Not you, nor anyone else, can use it to hurt or bind me. This act has made me the stronger man, and it has marked me a king.”
The agony was unbearable now, but still Silvius found the courage to scream one last warning. “This is not how the Game should be played. It is not what I taught you. If you found the Game on corruption, then—”
“I was ever sick of your words as a child, Silvius, and I find them even more tiresome now. I shall play the Game as I wish.”
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