Hades Daughter (57 page)

He walked slowly back to me, using his teeth to strip the root of its hard outer skin, then he bit it in two, and handed me the smaller portion as he sat down beside me. “Give it to your son to suck. It will satisfy him for the time being, although he will be wanting the breast again before mid-afternoon.”

I took the root from him, and tentatively held it to Achates’ lips.

The baby suckled at it, whimpered one more time, then fell to the root with a vengeance, suckling madly as if it were better than any breast milk.

Coel laughed at the expression on my face. “We call it the milk root,” he said, “for obvious reasons. Many mothers use it to soothe their babies.”

“And you
know
this?”

He looked surprised. “Why not?”

I gave a small shake of my head, trying to imagine Brutus or Corineus or Hicetaon possessing such female knowledge, then gave up.

“Thank you,” I said.

In answer he only smiled once more, his beautiful face close to mine, and then he leaned that remaining distance between us and kissed me.

I had known he would do it, and I should have stopped him, but I did not. Brutus had sent my soul plunging into the depths of Hades’ Underworld this morning, and to have this man, this stunning
combination of care and sexuality, put his mouth to mine was what I desperately needed to somehow manage the rise back into the warmth and sunshine.

I kissed him back, hard, and leaned even further into him as he put his hand to my breast.

Oh, Hera, this man was sweet! Every part of me throbbed, my belly felt as though it had exploded in fire, and—

Achates moved against me, and I came to my senses.

“No,” I said, pulling my head back and jerking my breast out of his hand.

“Oh gods, Cornelia!” he groaned.

“No,” I said, hating myself.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Are all Dorian princesses taught how to torment a man to that point where he can hardly draw back, and then say, ‘No!’?”

I began to cry all over again at the censure in his voice, and the guilt in my own heart, and he was instantly contrite.

“It is all right, Cornelia,” he said. “Forget your guilt. Remember, my would-be-lover, that all women in Llangarlia can choose as they will.” He smiled, genuinely now. “And they always have that right to say no. I just wish you’d said it a few minutes earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, knowing that if this had been Brutus he would never have heard that “No”. He would not even have let my lips frame the word…

“Have you had many lovers?” I blurted, trying to change the subject and, as always, only making it worse.

“Yes. Many women have asked me to their beds.”

“And do you have children?”

“Two daughters, both with the same woman, and a son.”

“And your lovers, the women who have had your children, would not be jealous that you are here now? With me?”

“No.” He touched my face again, but it was merely the lightest of caresses, and not demanding. “They would be pleased for me,
and
for you. They would hope that you bore a child.”

I was suddenly very, very glad I’d brought the proceedings to a halt. Brutus would kill me if he thought my belly was full of another man’s child.

“Who are you, Cornelia? How can you make me yearn for you so deeply?” Coel said softly, and to that I had no answer.

We sat there for a little while longer, hardly speaking, enjoying the sunshine and the insects as they buzzed about the late flowers. Then, as even the milk root failed to please Achates, Coel led me back to the house (
my
house, he called it, Cornelia’s house) and back to the less than tender care of Aethylla who by now, having searched for me all morning, had yet one more reason to chide me.

Brutus, Hicetaon and Corineus came back to the house after several hours, sitting about the hearth with Aethylla and myself and eating a simple meal.

Brutus ignored me, and, although I expected it, I could hardly bear his pointed dismissal. I rebuked myself yet again for being so stupid in destroying that fragile harmony which had grown between us since Achates’ birth…right to the point where Brutus’ dream woman had become a living, breathing reality.

Hera! I doubted
she
would be so stupid as to alienate Brutus with ill-considered stupidities.

Later, when we’d retired to our beds, Brutus turned to me as we settled down, and I tensed, hardly believing he could be this kind, after all.

But he just stared at me—I could see the flat, irritated gleam of his eyes in the light of the oil lamp left burning by the door—and then turned away, rolling over to sleep with an uninterested grunt.

Unsurprised, but hurt beyond knowing, I eventually managed to slide into sleep myself.

I woke very late in the night, suddenly realising there was someone standing by our bed.

“Shush,” said a woman’s voice, and I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dim light cast by the glowing coals in the hearth.

A woman stood by our bed, black-haired and beautiful, and I gasped, suddenly knowing who she must be.

Genvissa, the MagaLlan, she who wanted me gone from Brutus’ side and of whom Brutus dreamed.

But I also
recognised
her. This was the “goddess” who had come to me and pushed me into precipitating the Mesopotaman rebellion.

That was no goddess appearing to you, but the greatest of Darkwitches,
Blangan had said.

“Go back to sleep, girl,” the Darkwitch said, and her voice was an icefield. “I have come only for your husband.”

Brutus was awake now, and he sat up in our bed.

“Genvissa,” he said, and his voice was a seething, vast hunger.

G
envissa drew back from the bed, allowing Brutus space to stand and dress himself. She drew her cloak tighter about her, the cold of the autumn night biting deep, and saw that Brutus’ child-wife stared at her with wide, apprehensive eyes.

Her distress pleased Genvissa. Gods, she could not understand what Brutus saw in her. She was so young, and unbelievably irritating in that youth. She was cringing back in the bed like a baby who didn’t know whether to sulk or weep in fright, and Genvissa could not for an instant imagine how Brutus had roused himself enough to get a child off her.

Well, son or not, Cornelia would never hold Brutus.

Genvissa lowered her lids and sent ill will coursing Cornelia’s way, wishing that Brutus had knocked the life out of her when he had discovered she kept secrets about Blangan’s death.

And what was the girl doing there in the first instance?

Cornelia was still regarding Genvissa with those huge childlike eyes, and Genvissa felt a moment of doubt, almost of trepidation. She shivered.
Damn this girl.

“Why are you here so early?” Brutus said, finally slipping on his shoes and reaching for his cloak.

Genvissa gave Cornelia one final, baleful glare, then searched out Brutus’ eyes in the gloom. “We have a long way to go before dawn,” she said, then brushed past him and left the house.

Brutus saw Hicetaon sitting up in his bed, Aethylla looking over his shoulder with nervous eyes.

He nodded at Hicetaon, then he, too, left the house.

There was a silence, then Hicetaon sighed and snuggled down, pulling Aethylla down with him.

Across the chamber, in the sleeping bay Brutus had left, Cornelia curled into a ball and wept silently.

When Brutus emerged from the house he saw that Genvissa sat on a horse several paces away.

She reached behind her, and patted the horse’s rump. “Come.”

He looked at Genvissa’s face, then smiled and vaulted on to its back behind her.

The horse shifted, not liking the double weight, and Brutus needed no more excuse than that to grab at Genvissa’s waist to steady himself.

Her flesh was firm underneath the layers of material, and the shifting of her body with the movement of the horse made the breath catch in his throat.

He dropped his hands to his thighs, re-balancing himself, and thought he saw her smile as her face turned slightly towards him.

“Steady?” she said.

“Yes,” he replied roughly.

She took the halter rope of the horse in her right hand, gripping its shaggy mane in her left, and touched her heels to its flanks, guiding it towards the ford over the Llan at Thorney Island.

“We go to the Veiled Hills?” Brutus said.

Again she shifted slightly so that her face was half turned to him. “Indeed. I want to show you where we shall rebuild Troy.”

She turned even more, and Brutus’ body tightened as her body moved against his. “I want to show you,” she said, “where we will play the Game.”

He wanted to kiss her then, very hard, and he thought he would have done so save that she turned back to the front, and he was left with nothing but the flowing blackness of her hair, and the scent of her warm flesh rising through her cloak.

He lifted his hands, hesitated, then rested them lightly on her hips.

She did not react, but neither did she object.

Thus they rode, swaying in harmony with the horse’s movements, their bodies lightly touching with every jolt, both thinking of the Game, and of the power and the dance they would make together.

Genvissa guided the horse across the ford, then stopped at the base of Tot Hill on Thorney Isle.

“Within the circle of a day’s ride,” she said softly, “there are many holy hills and mounds. But there is a gathering of six of them, the most sacred of all, and it is these six which form the Veiled Hills. This,” she nodded at Tot Hill looming dark above them, “is the first of them. It guards this ford, and the roads that converge at this point from all corners of Llangarlia. It forms one point in the circle of light we make during our most important yearly rituals, and it is also the Assembly hill, where the Mothers of all Houses meet once every year at the time of the Slaughter Festival to settle disputes and discuss those issues needed to keep our society living in harmony. This year, this Assembly, I will talk to the Mothers of you, and of the Game.”

“
Will
they agree?” said Brutus softly into her hair. “And when? How long must we wait for this approval?”

He felt rather than saw her smile. “The Slaughter Festival is in a week’s time, Brutus. I will talk with the Mothers then. And yes, I will give them no choice.”

“How can you be sure, Genvissa?”

“Aerne is dying, Brutus. You saw this, surely.”

“Yes.”

“And his god Og is dead. The Mothers will have no alternative but to accept you. They
need
you, and me, and the Game, if this land is to survive.”

“Og is
dead
?”

“Aye.” She shrugged. “He had been dying a long time. Now shush,” she said, and he felt her body move under his hands, “and still your worries. They can wait until we reach our destination. It won’t be long. Wait.”

She urged the horse forward, and Brutus leaned in against her back, feeling her warmth, and put his concerns away as he enjoyed the swaying of her body.

They skirted the shoreline of Thorney Island, moving about its southern aspect, then turned north to cross another and much shallower ford, through the northern arm of the Ty River.

North of the Ty stretched extensive marshlands, but there was a raised road that wound through them, its perimeters clearly marked with pale stone. Genvissa pushed the horse into a trot.

“This is one of the roads that lead into the central heartlands of this island,” she said. “Within three days’ ride it leaves Llangarlia, entering the wild tribal areas of the central and western regions of Albion.”

“It is a well constructed road,” Brutus said, meaning the compliment. He’d rarely seen a road so smoothly graded, gravelled and clearly marked. “And it leads straight into wild tribal lands?” He chuckled softly. “No wonder you think Llangarlia needs the protection of the Game.”

“In our defence,” Genvissa said, “the central and western regions of Albion were not always as wild as they are now. Once they were stable, gentle farming communities, as we are, and the road was needed to trade with them. But over the past two generations
dark tribes from the wild island to the west have overrun much of Albion, and now threaten us.”

They rode a further distance in silence, Genvissa eventually turning the horse north-east off the main road as it left the marshes. The ground very gradually began to rise.

Once they were on the trackway leading north-east, Genvissa dropped the halter rope of the horse, allowing it to continue forward unguided. “She knows her way now,” she said, and pointed ahead.

Brutus peered through the faint moonlight—it was close to the full moon, but the sky was heavily clouded—and saw a hill rising in the distance. It was a good size, girded about its base by several stands of trees, its slopes steep but smooth, its summit flattened.

He suddenly realised that, for the first time since he’d arrived, this area north of the Llan was completely free of mist or fog.

“The Llandin,” she said softly, and Brutus could hear the awe in her voice. “It is a place of immense power and holiness,” Genvissa continued. “It is the greatest of the Veiled Hills.

“See…” Again she pointed, this time to a vast tree standing at the base of the southern slope of the Llandin. “The Holy Oak, and beside it a spring-fed rock pool with water so clear and still that when you pour it into a bowl, and say the right words, you can see into the Far World.”

“And do you do that often, Genvissa?”

“Yes. Whenever I need to consult with my foremothers,” she said.

They’d reached the oak tree now, and Genvissa indicated they should dismount.

Brutus jumped to the ground, then reached up to help Genvissa down.

She rested her hands on his shoulders as she slid down, and smiled her thanks, then took his hand in
hers, and led him to the foot of the tree, deep beneath its gnarled, twisting branches.

There was a faint, strange light here, and Brutus shivered.