Gods Concubine by Sara Douglass

girth within the space of a breath.

A stray cloud scudded briefly across its face and, when it moved on, the strange, intense

moonlight flooded the chamber once more.

The chamber was not as it had been before the cloud had so briefly obscured the moon.

Now, in that expanse of bare floorboards between the great bed and that of the

bowerthegn by the door, there appeared a trapdoor. As yet it was little more than a faint outlining

of lines within the boards but, as the moonlight grew ever stronger and the breathing of the

sleepers ever heavier, the lines thickened and deepened until the trapdoor became a new reality

within the chamber.

Everyone slept on.

The trapdoor quivered, then rose, achingly slowly, utterly silently.

An arm lifted with the door, its hand gripping the bolt which raised the door. It was a

very long arm, browned, and roped with muscle. There was a moment of stillness, as if whatever

awaited beneath the trapdoor hesitated, to ensure all was well. Then a Sidlesaghe rose entirely

from the trapdoor, laying it silently back against the floor.

Again the Sidlesaghe hesitated, looking first at the bowerthegn, then at the sleeping king

whose lips rattled wetly as a small snore escaped his throat. Finally, content that all was as it

should be, the Sidlesaghe walked to Caela‘s side of the bed, folded his hands before him, and

waited.

A moment later Caela‘s eyes opened. She saw the Sidlesaghe, and, without comment,

turned back the bedclothes as he beckoned to her.

Once she had risen, the Sidlesaghe handed her a cloak that had mysteriously appeared in

his hands, then he nodded at the trapdoor.

She stared at it, clearly puzzled, for directly beneath this bedchamber lay the dais of the

Great Hall. She looked at the Sidlesaghe, raising her eyebrows.

He merely nodded once more at the blackness revealed in the mouth of the trapdoor.

Caela gave a slight shrug, then walked to the trapdoor and descended through it into the

unknown. The Sidlesaghe stepped down after her, and in the next moment the trapdoor had

closed, and there was nothing in the chamber save for the smooth floor and the heavy shadows of

the beds, coffers and the two sleepers.

There was no Great Hall beneath the trapdoor, nor even the foundations of the hall, nor

the worm-infested earth which lay beneath those. Instead, the Sidlesaghe led Caela on to the

softly shadowed, barely discernible track of a vast forest. Above her reared massive trees—trees

such as the land had last seen many millennia ago—which were tangled with vines and sweetly

scented flowers.

Was this the forest and the land of her youth? Of Mag”s youth?

Caela tipped back her head and visibly stretched, almost cat-like, and drew in a deep

breath. ―This is so wondrous!‖ she said.

―Aye,‖ said the Sidlesaghe, coming to stand beside her. ―Do you recognise it?‖

She frowned, only slightly, just enough to crinkle the skin between her brows. ―This is

the land, as once it was. Yes?‖

He shook his head. ―Not entirely correct. The land is not as once it was.‖

She shivered, and pulled the cloak a little more tightly about her shoulders as if she had

suddenly felt more acutely the fact of her nakedness beneath it. ―Ah,‖ she said. ―We are in the

Game.‖

―Aye. This is where Brutus and Silvius played the Game. This is where Brutus murdered

his father.‖

―Why are we here?‖

―To learn,‖ said the Sidlesaghe. ―To remember.‖

She turned from her regard of the forest and studied the Sidlesaghe. ―Long Tom,‖ she

said, ―when you threw me into the waters, and I came to understand myself as I truly am, I saw

many things. I saw my lover, Og, running through the forests,‖ her eyes flickered about the

majestic trees dwarfing them both, ―wearing the golden bands that once graced the Kingmen of

Troy.‖ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ―That once graced my husband‘s limbs.‖

―What did you learn from that vision, Caela? What did it tell you?‖

―It told me where the Game is going, Long Tom. It told me where the land was going,

and where I must, too, tread.‖

―Aye.‖

―How?‖ she said. ―How did the Game and this land become as one? Can you show me?‖

In answer the Sidlesaghe inclined its head, nodding to the path which had opened up

through the trees before them. ―Will you walk with me?‖

She nodded and, taking his hand, they walked through the forest track.

As they went, the Sidlesaghe continued to speak. ―The Game has grown, as you know.

When you were Cornelia, and you witnessed Brutus and Genvissa dance the Dance of the

Torches, what was the Troy Game then?‖

―A Labyrinth, atop Og‘s Hill. A thing made of stone and gravel.‖

―Aye. And then when you had murdered Genvissa, and halted the Game before its

completion, what became of the Game and its stone and gravel Labyrinth then?‖

Caela licked her lips, remembering. ―Brutus buried it,‖ she said. ―He caused it to sink

into the hill, and atop it he built a temple,‖ she laughed, short and hard, ―which he dedicated to

Artemis.‖

―And his kingship bands? What did he do with those?‖

Caela stopped, and faced the Sidlesaghe. ―I don‘t know. I can‘t even feel them. They

merely vanished. When Brutus pulled me from my three-year confinement—and that was the

first time I had set eyes on him since that day I‘d murdered Genvissa—he was not wearing them

and, to be frank, I was so much in fear of my life at that point, so much in fear of him, that I did not ask what had become of them. Not ever.

―Silvius asked me about those bands a few nights ago,‖ she said, her mouth quirking in

either memory or amusement. “Everyone wants to know about them.‖

―They are vital,‖ said the Sidlesaghe. ―We dream of them as well. But first, I will show

you what happened to this land and to the Game in the two thousand years that have passed, and

then we will need to talk about the bands.‖

―You know where they are, don‘t you?‖ she said, searching his face with her eyes.

The Sidlesaghe smiled. ―Of course! Did Brutus not bury them within this land? They

have been itching at us for centuries.‖

She laughed, delighted at the humour that lurked behind the Sidlesaghe‘s otherwise bleak

face, and allowed him to lead her further down the track.

―The Troy Game that Brutus made has grown,‖ the Sidlesaghe said once more. ―Now that

you understand who you are, and are beginning to understand the extent of yourself, perhaps you

can tell me exactly where we are within the Game.‖

Caela chewed her lower lip, her eyes on the ground, thinking, feeling the ground beneath

her feet.

―We are within the Game, yes,‖ she said eventually, her eyes still on the ground, ―but we

are walking within that part of the Game which twists under the northern shore of the River

Thames. We were walking north, but are now moving more eastward.‖ She paused. ―We are

walking toward the heart of the Labyrinth. Toward St Paul‘s within London, atop what was once

Og‘s Hill. Gods, Long Tom, how far does the Game extend?‖

―As far south as Westminster, and a little under the river on the opposite bank to

Westminster, where once stood Llanbank and where now stands the village of Lambeth.

Eastwards the Game now encompasses all that stands within the walls of London. To the

northwest the Game stretches towards—‖

―Towards the Llandin,‖ Caela said. ―What the people now call the Meeting Hill.‖

―Aye, and north to Pen Hill. The Game has grown to encompass all of the Veiled Hills.

Blessed Lady,‖ the Sidlesaghe stopped, and as he faced Caela he dropped the hand he held and

put both of his on her shoulders. ―The Game wants to grow even further. It needs to, if it is to

overcome what lies ahead. You need to help it do that.‖

She drew in a deep breath, nodding. ―I still need to know—‖

―How it grew? Yes, be patient now. We are almost there.‖

They resumed walking again, and soon the sense of close forest fell back. Light—not

sunlight and yet not quite moonlight either—filled the spaces between the trees, and the borders

to either side of the path broadened.

Caela visibly tensed, as if she knew what they walked towards.

Then suddenly they were there.

An emerald green glade, encircled by trees. In the centre of the glade lay a roughly

circular pond, its waters still.

On the far side of the pond, perhaps some six or seven paces from the water‘s edge, and

halfway between the the forest and the pond, lay the form of a white stag with blood-red antlers.

His heart, half torn from his body, lay on the creamy pelt of his chest.