And then, as Silvius shrieked and writhed, Brutus thrust the arrow brutally deep into his father’s brain.
“I shall play the Game as I wish,” said Brutus to the evil before him and, lifting the ball of pitch, tossed it forward and high into the air.
The gathered darkness shrieked, and surged upwards as if to catch the ball, but it had gone too high and sailed too far forward, and the mass fell back upon itself, howling in frustration.
The ball of pitch burst into flames, disintegrating mid-air.
Genvissa muttered a spell, weaving the pattern with her hands, and as the flaming pieces of pitch fell to the labyrinth they marked out the path Brutus must follow to escape.
Brutus stepped around the mass of darkness as it writhed about looking for the ball of pitch.
It did not see him, so horrified was it at losing the pitch.
Slowly, yet with far more eagerness in his movements than before, Brutus began to dance his way out of the labyrinth. He kept his hands clasped before him, and his eyes on Genvissa, who had her own hands held out to him.
He danced the path marked by the burning pitch, and, as he passed, so the pitch fell into ashes, and the path went dark.
Behind him the darkness twisted, and howled, seeking a way out of the labyrinth, always missing the path, confused by the twists and turns of the circuits of the labyrinth. It hunched about and about in the central chamber of the labyrinth, becoming ever more frantic, its cries ever more desperate.
“He’s trapped it,” Coel said in an undertone. “He’s trapped evil at the heart of the labyrinth.”
“And that is good?” muttered Loth. “How can it be good to found a city on a bed of evil?”
Brutus was now very close to the outer entrance of the labyrinth. The dancers around the outer wall of the labyrinth had now lifted their torches again, and were singing joyously, and Genvissa stood, her arms outstretched, her brilliant eyes locked into Brutus’, willing him ever forward away from the trapped evil.
Finally he stepped forth, and a great shout went up as, in the centre of the labyrinth, the mass of darkness fell to the ground and, in the blink of an eye, vanished.
As Brutus stepped forth, so Genvissa stepped to meet him, and they fell into each other’s arms, Brutus picking her up and spinning her joyously about.
Then, suddenly, extraordinarily, they disappeared, and Og’s Hill was left bathed in light and joy and the celebrations of the thousands about it.
Asterion was growing with every beat of his mother’s heart, and his body mass was large enough by this stage that when he twisted and kicked she would put her hands on her belly, and pale.
He twisted and kicked now, partaking in the celebrations atop Og’s Hill. The Game had begun.
Once Asterion would have been enraged by this knowledge, for the Game’s completion would mean his re-imprisonment within its black heart, unable to find his way out into freedom.
Now? Now he was overjoyed. He was certain that he could seize control of the Game—rather than it seize him—and use it for his own ends. Not just yet, but soon…soon enough.
He knew also that Brutus and Genvissa were together now, indulging their success in the pleasures of the flesh. They thought they had begun a triumph; instead they had embarked upon an agony so vast it would take them aeons to comprehend it.
Many years and many tears, Mag had said to Cornelia. Many years indeed. And more tears than anyone could possibly imagine.
Best enjoy your celebration while you may, the Minotaur thought, and wriggled some more for the sheer joy in bringing his mother discomfort.
Part Six
London, March 1939
The cathedral stood open, waiting, and Jack Skelton entered through the west doors. He walked along the empty nave until he stood under the massive dome, its heights lost in shadows, staring at the marble flooring, remembering that terrible night long ago when vision had become reality.
Although he could not visibly see it, he could feel the word “Resurgam” burning up through the marble.
There was a sound of footsteps behind him, and the soft scrape of crutches, but Skelton did not move.
“You’re back, then.”
“Aye.” Skelton finally turned about, looking at the man leaning on crutches before him. He wore dark vestments, the collar of a cleric, and the thin, lined face of a man who lived with constant pain.
“I am scarcely prettier than you remember,” the man said, then held out his hand, “but at least this time I have no horns to my head. I am Walter Herne, an apt enough name, don’t you think?”
Skelton shook Herne’s hand, introducing himself. “I have seen Genvissa, and Asterion. But not Cornelia. Do you know where she is?”
“You think that Cornelia would make any haste to meet you? Never.”
“We are Gathered, Herne. Asterion has called us all back for his final play. She must be about, surely. She has to be.”
“Is that desperation I hear in your voice, Skelton?” Herne said.
Jack Skelton narrowed his eyes, studying Herne, thinking. “Is Coel here?” he asked suddenly.
“If he is,” Herne said, “do you think Cornelia will be with him?”
Skelton’s face sagged, and for a moment Herne thought the man might actually weep.
“I am afraid that Asterion has her,” Skelton said. “After what happened last time we were Gathered…I am afraid…” He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and when his hand dropped away Herne saw that Skelton’s eyes were indeed wet. “By God, Herne, I would prefer it that she were with Coel than still trapped by that monster.”
“You have changed,” Herne said. “It is a shame you could not have spoken those words three thousand years ago: ‘It is better she be with Coel than still trapped with that monster’.”
“I? The monster? Aye, I suppose I was.”
There was a silence, Herne studying Skelton, Skelton staring at the floor.
“Is the way open?” Skelton finally said, raising his head.
Herne nodded. “It will be difficult, but there is a way down.”
Skelton sighed, and looked about the cathedral. “Does no one know what lies beneath, Herne? Do they come in here every day, and worship, and not know?”
“They are not part of the Game, Skelton.”
Skelton’s mouth twisted. “No, they are merely its victims.” He paused. “Asterion is going to take us out this time, my friend, and I do not think there is anything any of us can do to stop him.”
CHAPTER ONE
CORNELIA SPEAKS
“Thus is born Troia Nova,” screamed a voice, “and the greatest Kingman among the living.”
Stunned even beyond what had shocked me during the Dance, I cried out, and jumped to one side.
It was Hicetaon, only half a pace from me, his voice thunderous.
He strode forward, his arms held high above his head, his fists punching into the night sky.
“Thus is born Troia Nova!” he screamed again, circling atop the hill, dancers scattering about him, laughing and jumping, their torches thrust as high as his fists. “Thus is born Troia Nova and the greatest Kingman among the living!”
I was still shocked, too shocked to move, even as the celebrations erupted about me. The people who had been watching from the ground below now swarmed up the hill; fires roared into life from hitherto cold pyres; voices lifted in song and triumph; people danced, bodies pressing each against the other; flasks of frenzy wine—by the strange glazed eyes and the slack wet mouths of those who drank of it—were handed about; clothes were stripped off and flesh left to glint naked in the flickering light of fire and torch.
I stood there, unmoving, hardly seeing.
All I could remember was the stunning sight of Brutus and Genvissa dancing at the head of the lines of dancers, the power of their movement, the way they had danced together, wove enchantment together.
Wedded together in such power that I had become
nothing more than an irritating insignificance.
And where were they now?
I spun about, half moving of my own volition, half being pushed by a group of dancers who had staggered against me.
Where were they now?
What were they doing?
Ah, but I knew what they were doing, didn’t I? They were consummating their marriage of power, this Kingman and Mistress of the Labyrinth. And with each thrust, with each moan, with each grasping clutch, I was becoming an ever greater triviality in Brutus’ life.
A nothing.
An insignificance.
Not even a body with legs to be parted. Not now.
I sobbed, consumed with panic.
Where were they? Where were they?
If I could stop them somehow, if I could take this one, final chance to tear Brutus away from Genvissa…if…if…if…
I turned about again, knowing where they would be, seeking a way down from this damned hill. But just as I took a step forwards, Loth grabbed at my arm and spun me about.
His face was twisted, furious, his green eyes dark and glassy, reflecting the writhing light of the fires and the dancing bodies about us.
“What have they done?” he hissed.
“They have destroyed my life,” I cried, trying to twist my arm free. “Let me go! Let me go!”
“Damn your precious life and your little-girl dreams. They are as nothing in the enormity of what they have visited on this land. They have crippled Og, and devastated Mag. Doomed us with that creeping evil they have invited into our midst.”
His free hand waved at the labyrinth, now lost under the sea of undulating bodies and wild, drunken laughter.
“They have saved you,” said Hicetaon, emerging out of the chaos about us. “Trapped evil forever so that this city will grow in peace and prosperity. Could you do that for your land and your people, useless lumphead?”
My mouth dropped open, then my eyes flew back to Loth. Useless lumphead?
He was staring at Hicetaon himself, shaken not so much by what Hicetaon had said, but by the utter contempt in which it had been mouthed.
His hand loosened about my arm, and I tore it free, and without even waiting to see what transpired between the two men, I turned and fled.
I ran as quickly as I dared down the hill, pushing my way through the throngs of celebrating people. There were Trojans and Llangarlians both, intermixed with happiness and relief—
Genvissa and Brutus had saved them, and woven for them safety and prosperity with the power of their combined magic.
— dancing and singing, sharing from mouth to straining mouth the flasks of frenzy wine—
Gods, what would happen this night? What darkness would transpire?
— bodies pressed undulating with dance and want against their neighbours.
Everywhere happiness. Everywhere lust. Everywhere the release that came with the sudden realisation that darkness had been vanquished and only days of light and good harvest lay ahead.
Sudden nausea gripped me, and I bent over and retched.
Someone grabbed me, and for a heartbeat I thought it was to help, but then hands snatched at my breasts, and wine-thick breath washed over my face.
Another hand burrowed under my cloak, and dug in between my legs.
I threw my arms out, catching one man with my elbow in a sickening crunch, another in the corner of an eye with the nail of my thumb.
They let me go, and I fled, now not even trying to measure my progress, desperate to get out of the crowds and to find…
Them.
I reached the bottom of the hill, and moved eastwards, the crowds thankfully thinning the further I moved away from the revelry atop Og’s Hill.
By the time I’d splashed across the Wal and passed Mag’s Hill, barren save for five people dancing in a ring at its base, there were few people about, and I could lift my skirts and run as fast as my breath would allow me.
The White Mount. Brutus’ palace (not my palace).
They would be there. Genvissa would ensure they were there, because that would make my humiliation complete.
I reached the mount, paused, then stared upwards to the black bulk of the unlit palace, felt my stomach turn over in my belly, then, very slowly, infinitely slowly, began to climb.
The mount was still a building site—only the central portion of the palace had been completed—and once near the top I had to pick my way carefully about stacks of timber, empty mortar pails, and jumbled, careless stone blocks awaiting the attention of masons.
Every step was a nightmare.
Every step was a step too late.
Every step was another thrust against me.
And with every step I reviewed in my mind, in that peculiar clarity that comes with either death or the death of hope, every step in the path I’d taken to losing Brutus. Every whine, every moan, every treachery, whether small or immense, every death that littered my obsessive self-absorption.
When I reached the doorway of the megaron, standing open, I stopped, closed my eyes briefly in an attempt to gather my courage, then walked through.
The megaron was empty, but there was a flicker of light at its far end, in the archway that led to Brutus’ private apartments.
I walked slowly through the megaron, remembering that other megaron where Brutus had made me his wife, and wondered if I now walked through this one to the death of that marriage.
I paused again at the archway, then walked through.
They were lying in a pool of torchlight in a tangle of furs on the floor.
Genvissa, naked, on her back, her body sprawled beneath Brutus.
He, lifting himself first up on his hands, then away from her body, kneeling upright between her bent legs, his still rigid member glistening with the fluids of their lovemaking, smiling at her.
She, her hands splaying across her belly, saying: We have made a daughter between us, Brutus. A daughter-heir.
He, leaning down to kiss her, saying: You have blessed me.
Her daughter was a blessing, when all he could summon for the daughter we had made together was irritation?
I wanted to kill them then, the both of them, but I did not know how. I had no weapon to hand, no knife, not even a rock with which to beat them.
Genvissa saw me, and she whispered something to Brutus. He looked at her, then laughed.
He laughed.
I threw myself at him, screaming, terrified, knowing I had lost him, tearing at his face with my nails, trying to kick him with my heels, succeeding only in further humiliating myself as he caught my arms easily and threw me away.
“Cornelia,” he said. “Go away. This does not concern you, and this is not your place.”
“No,” I screamed, stabbing a finger at Genvissa. “That is my place! There, beneath you!”
Genvissa laughed, tilting her head back, the sound rich and husky in her throat. She was not in the least perturbed having me find her naked under my husband’s body.
My husband? Or hers now?
“Go away, Cornelia,” Brutus said, more gently now, and there was in his eyes something even more humiliating than his anger.
Pity. He pitied me.
Poor Cornelia, too young, too girlish to understand.
I stepped forward, leaned down, and hit him as hard as I could.
Then, sobbing and wretched, I turned and fled.
Genvissa sighed, as if in pity. She lifted a hand, and touched Brutus’ cheek where Cornelia’s hand had slapped him.
“Poor girl,” she said.
“I should go to her,” he said.
“Yes, but wait a moment, wait a while…wait a while.”
She pulled him back to her body, and kissed him, and roused him to lust once more, and pulled him back into the deep warmth of her body.
She needed to give Cornelia just the right amount of time to damn herself, then she would send Brutus after her.
To kill her, the silly, irritating, useless, dangerou
s girl.
Whom Brutus thought of too often…
Brutus thrust inside her, and Genvissa tilted back her lovely head and laughed once more for the joy and success she had already made here this night, and all that was yet to come.
I knew what I would find. I knew Brutus would take Genvissa as a lover.
I knew that after all I had done, every mistake I had made, Brutus had little respect for me.
And none of it made any difference to how I felt. The knowing never takes away the pain.
I stumbled away from that palace, my eyes blinded by grief and pain, and I somehow made my way to the ferry crossing and from there through the Trojan settlement and Llanbank towards my house.
At least I could have Achates to comfort me. I didn’t care if he was asleep, or if Aethylla growled at me, I just needed my son in my arms. I just needed to know that someone loved me.
Thus it was that when I entered the house, wiping the tears from my face lest they scare my son, and found it completely empty, my world collapsed entirely.
I stopped by the central hearth: there was a single lamp left burning, enough light for me to see that all Aethylla’s and Hicetaon’s belongings were gone.
Achates, and all his baby paraphernalia, were gone.
All Brutus’ clothes and gear were gone.
Everything of mine remained.
I started to tremble, my mind accepting what my eyes told it, yet not accepting the actuality of it.
Everyone had moved out, leaving me behind.
I sank to my haunches, my hands trembling so badly I had difficulty in lifting them to my face.
There could be only one reason for this: they had moved to the palace.
There could be only one person behind this: Genvissa.
My shoulders began to shake in sympathy with my hands, but my throat was so tight I could not manage a sound. I hunched by the fire, my hands to my face, my entire body shaking, staring at Aethylla’s empty sleeping niche, unable to accept how splendidly, how bitterly splendidly, Genvissa had outmanoeuvred me.
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