I wanted to tell him to stop, that I did not want to know, but somehow the words would not come out.
‘They thought that if they released the evil spirits from my head then I would be well again,” he said.
“And so one day they caused me to drink great quantities of honeyed mead—I retched most of it up again, but enough stayed down to blot out much of my consciousness—and held me down. And this old man took to my head the tools of his trade.”
I gaped at him, appalled.
‘He had a drill made of hardened bone, and this he drilled into my skull.”
Without thinking I took his hand, feeling the shudder that shivered his flesh.
‘They say”—his voice had dropped—”that when he drilled into my skull, great black matter bubbled its way free…” He took a deep breath. “They bound up my head, and waited. For some days it seemed as if the hole had indeed let escape the vile spirits that had plagued me… but then one day the headache struck again, infinitely worse than usual, and in a different part of my head.”
‘Oh, Loth…”
‘And so the old man came back, and he drilled again. And then again the next week when still the pain did not abate. And each week for seven weeks after that until I swear my skull was nothing but searing holes that leaked black vileness. Eventually the pain in my head did abate … and the old man packed up his bone drills and let me be… but as my skull regrew about the holes he’d drilled into its bone, so it grew in strange humps and lumps, and thus…”
His free hand waved vaguely at his head. “Thus I am marked. But… but in a strange way I did not mind all that pain and despair… for amid the worst of it Og came to me, and held me and comforted me.
He said I had shown strength and endurance, and that this strength and endurance, bolstered with his love, would see me throughout my life.”
He looked at me, a peculiar light in his eyes. “I thought to have lost his love and support, Cornelia. I thought Og was dead. But tonight I find I have hope again.”
I was still holding his hand, and now I let it go and backed away again, fearing Loth would try once more to persuade me to plot against Genvissa.
But Loth’s face suddenly clouded over, and all the hope and light in his eyes dimmed.
‘My father,” he said in a hoarse voice. “My father. He is dying.”
CbAPGGRI ,’/**% ENVISSA LOWERED HER HEAD OVER AERNE’S STRUG-
gling chest, her eyes dutifully moist. Behind her stood her three daughters, Brutus, and some fifteen or sixteen Mothers all crowded into the house.
Witnesses.
This was a terrifying moment for most of the Mothers. With Aerne’s death, they were launched totally into the unknown. Always there had been a Gor-magog and a MagaLlan, guiding and directing them in the love and care of Og and Mag. Now Og was dead, and his final representative, Aerne, was dying also.
Aerne’s final breath would herald a new age, frightening for its unknow-ability.
For Genvissa and Brutus, contrariwise, it was merely another step toward their ultimate goal.
Nevertheless, Genvissa appeared truly saddened at Aerne’s dying. She wiped his brow, and brushed back his hair with a soft hand. She leaned and kissed his cheek, and smiled so that his final sight would be pleasing.
‘I have let you down,” Aerne whispered. “Everyone. If only I hadn’t lain with Blangan—”
‘Hush,” said Genvissa, “you were not to know she was such a Darkwitch.”
‘I tried so hard to make matters well again,” Aerne continued. “You cannot know what a bitter blow this has been to me that I have failed.”
‘There was nothing any more or any different that you could have done,” Genvissa whispered, stroking Aerne’s brow. “May all the gods in the Far World bless you and defend you.”
‘If only Loth… if only Loth…” Arne said, weeping.
G ‘Loth is here,” said a gentle, loving voice, “and Loth shall do all he can to take your regrets and rectify them.”
Brutus turned about, very slowly, and looked at the man—the deformed monster—who was now walking calmly through the throng of Mothers to Aerne’s bedside.
Gods, no wonder Cornelia was so terrified of him!
‘What do you here?” Genvissa’s voice was flat, and very cold.
‘I come to farewell my father,” Loth said. “He may have regretted my mother, but I have never regretted him.”
‘Go away, Loth,” Genvissa said, but Loth ignored her, and sat down on Aerne’s bed, taking his father’s hand.
‘There is no hope, save for Genvissa,” Aerne said.
‘There is always hope, and in the strangest places,” Loth said.
‘Promise me you will aid her,” Aerne said. His eyes were watering, his lip trembling with the effort of speaking.
‘I will do everything I can for this land,” Loth said, wiping away one of his father’s tears. “And if the only way to do that is aiding Genvissa, then that is what I will do.”
Genvissa gave a hard, triumphant smile, and Loth looked at her.
‘I will do everything I must in order to protect this land,” he said softly, and Genvissa’s smile slipped.
For some time no one spoke, all eyes back on Aerne. The old man’s eyes were now closed, although tears still trickled from under their lids, his skin was gray, his breathing was becoming ever more erratic.
Genvissa laid her hand on his brow, and Loth’s hold on his father’s hand tightened.
Softly, regretfully, weeping, Aerne died, and one among the Mothers wailed.
Loth raised his face, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I am my father’s heir,” he said, looking between Genvissa and Brutus. “Never, never forget that!”
Then he rose, and was gone.
Genvissa’s eyes locked in to Brutus’, and they knew they had a bitter enemy.
NOT SO FAR DISTANT, A MATTER OF SEVERAL DAYS’JOUR-
neying only, King Goffar ofPoiteran stood and stared unbelievingly at his wife.
She stood before him, trembling, her head bowed, her hands splayed over her stomach.
She had just told him that after so many years of barrenness, she was now some five or six weeks gone with child.
Goffar burst into laughter. “I shall have a son!” he roared. “A son!”
ENVISSA BENT HER HEAD BACK AND LET THE LATEautumn sunshine wash over her face. Winter was rushing upon them—the nights were heavily frosted now and the days bitter with northerly winds and miserable flurries of icy rain. This hour or two of sunshine was to be treasured, a gift perhaps from her foremothers watching over her from the Far World, wishing her love and wellness in these days leading to the final accomplishment of their dream.
To reconstruct the Game, to build a citadel of power, to ensure that they could never ever again be thwarted: to cement their power in the walls of this city and the labyrinthine enchantments of the Game.
It had taken so long… but Ariadne’s dream would shortly be realized.
Genvissa tipped her head forward again and looked about her. She stood on Og’s Hill, the Llan and Llanbank spread before her, Pen and Llandin at her back. Brutus, her partner in her dream, was conferring with Hicetaon a few paces away, talking of walls and foundations and water levels. Their faces were animated, their voices excited—now raised in frustration at the complications of an errant stream across the proposed line of the city wall, now energized with purpose as they discussed the local rock, a gray sandstone, and whether it would be strong enough to carry not only the weight of the proposed walls, but the weight of the years and expectations it would of necessity have to bear.
Genvissa smiled, content. Whatever Loth had rambled about at his father’s deathbed, Og and Mag were gone, or so enfeebled as to be of no threat whatsoever.
Asterion… well… not even he could darken Genvissa’s happiness. She knew he had been conceived by Goffar… but it was too late, far too late, to stop her.
There was just her and Brutus now, and this land.
Soon no one would remember Og’s and Mag’s names; all would celebrate hers and Brutus’.
As if her thoughts had communicated themselves to him, Brutus looked up, and smiled at her.
Ah, but how she adored him! He was everything to her; so strong and virile (and how she looked forward to their first bedding, that magical moment when she would bind him to her entirely, and when he would sire her daughter-heir), he was the one who would turn her dreams, and all the dreams and hopes of her foremothers, into a reality.
The great reality: Troia Nova, citadel of dreams, keeper of the Game, their road to immortality.
His smile deepened, and she wondered if he, too, were thinking of that moment when they could allow their lust free rein. If they had just been man and woman, then they would undoubtedly have already consummated their passion.