Hades’ Daughter. Book One of the Troy Game by Sara Douglass

The Llangarlians whispered Genvissa’s name, as Brutus’, almost as that of a god. She and her Kingman had saved the land, and even if the strangeness of a city now covered half of the sacred hills, and if there was no Gormagogto watch over them (or, as was increasingly rumored, no Og), then that was of no matter, for there was Genvissa, and there was Brutus.

Cornelia, if she was remembered at all by the majority of the population (now an easy comingling of Llangarlians and Trojans), was regarded only with contempt. As Brutus’s former whorish wife and, it was said, a traitress who had caused the deaths of tens of thousands in her home city of Mesopotama (and of Coel, for if Coel had died then that was Cornelia’s fault as well), Cornelia’s company was rarely sought out.

Loth likewise. People still regarded him with some affection, even some respect, but his powerlessness— and his foolishness in trying to challenge Genvissa and Brutus, the pair who had led Llangarlia back into the sunlight—as well as his reclusiveness (Loth rarely left the immediate surrounds of Cornelia’s house) made the majority of people forget him.

For Llangarlia, life blossomed, and day by day the labyrinth drew more and more of the evil that had once afflicted the land deeper into its heart.

Its influence extended even beyond the shores of Llangarlia, but Asterion, safe in his mother’s womb, chose to disregard it. This time he would win, and the Game lose.

OFTEN, AT NIGHT, WHEN BRUTUS WAS ASLEEP, GEN vissa would rise from his side, throw a heavy cloak about her naked shoulders, and walk to the balcony which adjoined their sleeping chamber. There she would stand for hours, immune to the frost, staring across the Llan and over the muddied and jumbled Trojan settlement to Llanbank to where Cornelia shared her house with the crippled Loth.

Genvissa would stand, very, very still, one hand resting inside her cloak on her own swelling belly, thinking about Cornelia’s child.

Genvissa was not concerned about Achates. All men desired a son at some point, especially someone like Brutus who had been raised in a society where heirdom was passed down the male line. It wouldn’t happen here, of course, for Genvissa was determined that Brutus’ heir (and Genvissa’s heir, and heir of this entire, powerful city and of the Troy Game, the only Game in existence and therefore the only Game that would ever be) would be their daughter, but Genvissa did not begrudge Brutus his son.

Time enough to do something about him in later years if Brutus’ attachment grew too strong.

But Cornelia. Genvissa could hardly believe that once again Cornelia had escaped Brutus’ deadly wrath. Dear gods, why would he not finally kill her? It made Genvissa doubt what Brutus said about Cornelia—that he did not care for her, that he regarded her only with disdain, that he would never again touch her or caress her or lie with her—because no matter how Genvissa arranged it, when it came to

that killing blow, Brutus always hesitated.

Cornelia was not going to live, and this time Genvissa would do the deed herself. No mistakes. Not this time. Cornelia (and that damned daughter of hers!) would not see the summer.

Whatever the Llangarlians and the Trojans thought, the Game was still vulnerable. It had yet to be closed, and if anything happened to either her or Brutus before it was…

Every time that thought darkened Genvissa’s mind, her face twisted, she looked over the darkened landscape to Llanbank, and she plotted murder.

One night, darker and wetter and colder than most, something else caught Genvissa’s attention.

ACROSS THE NARROW SEAS, IN THE LONG HOUSE THAT was the residence of the king ofPoiteran, King Goffar’s wife struggled in the agony of birth.

She had been in labor now over two full days, and she was growing weak.

King Goffar stood by her side, looking at the great mound of her belly. He raised his eyes and stared at the two midwives standing on the other side of the bed.

They shook their heads slowly.

Goffar looked back to his wife, ignoring her pleading eyes, then his eyes slid to a table that stood to one side.

In its center lay a twisted bone-handled knife that Goffar had come upon by chance in the forest five days ago. Admiring it, he’d taken it for his own.

Now it lay awaiting his will, its blade glinting in the torchlight.

Another movement caught Goffar’s attention. The baby, struggling for life within his wife’s belly.

He reached for the knife.

Two minutes later, amid his wife’s frightful shrieks, Goffar pulled a perfectly formed male child from the ruins of her belly.

“A son!” he cried. “A strong, lusty son!”

The child wailed, the sound announcing the truth of Goffar’s words, and one of its waving hands fell against the hilt of the knife still in Goffar’s hands, and the boy grasped it tight.

IfMembricus, Brutus’ friend and onetime lover, had still been alive and witness to this scene, he would have recognized it for the vision he had wrongly attributed to the birth of Achates and the death of Cornelia.

SHE SAT BOLT UPRIGHT IN BED, HER HANDS ON HER belly, breathing in harsh, heavy breaths.

‘What is it?” Brutus said, rousing to wakefulness at the sound of Genvissa’s distress.

‘Asterion,” she whispered. “He is reborn.”

‘In Poiteran?”

‘Aye. Son to Goffar.”

He lay one of his hands over hers. “We are almost there,” he said. “The walls are almost ready. He cannot touch us.”

Very slowly she relaxed. “Yes. Of course. You are right. He is too late.” She smiled, and leaned over to kiss Brutus. “He’s too late.”

FAR AWAY, GOFFAR LOOKED TO WHERE HE’D LAID THE knife.

It was gone.

* * *

ONE COLD, WET NIGHT, WHEN WINTER HAD GIVEN WAI to an equally cold and brutal spring, Genvissa left Brutus’ sleeping side an< went, completely naked, not even a cloak about her, to stand on the balcony She stared over the Llan and the Trojan settlement (now rapidly emptying a; Trojans moved inside the city walls) to Llanbank, where Cornelia slept in hei house.

Save for the crippled, useless Loth, Cornelia was alone. Genvissa knew thai this night, unusually, Cador and Hoel had gone back to their mother’s house after settling Loth, There would be no one to summon help.

No one, save Loth, to hear Cornelia’s screams.

Genvissa smiled, sure of herself and her power. She rested her hands on her swollen belly (she was five months gone with this daughter, and it was time, finally, to remove any threat to herself, her daughter, and the Game), and began the first of the incantations that would see both Cornelia and her daughter die in agony.

Genvissa could have done it quickly and cleanly, but that was not in her nature.

Genvissa’s hand tightened on her belly, then she tipped back her head, closed her eyes, and pushed down with all her might.

eigbc coRnelia speaks*f i WOKE BARELY ANHOUR OR TWO AFTER I HAD LAIJ down, the horrifying pain ripping through my entire body, grunted, curling about myself, protecting my belly, refusing t< believe what the pain told me.

My daughter was being born.

It was far too early. She needed to grow another two months at least in mj womb!

Panicked, grunting with the pain—the contractions were coming so fast and yet they had barely started—I sat on the bed, gathering my breath and m) strength, and then stood up.

I should have to summon help.

Damn it! That this should happen on one of the few nights that Cador and Hoel were not here! I had gone to bed grateful to have a night spent without their constant rumbling, now I would have given anything to be able to merely reach across the hearth and shake one of them awake, asking him to fetch his mother.

‘What is it?” Loth’s sleepy voice said from across the darkened house.

‘The baby.”

‘But—”

‘I know! I know!” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice, but couldn’t manage it. It was too early…

even with the benefit of a skilled midwife like Erith, it was way too early.

Far too early.

‘Genvissa,” whispered Loth.

‘No!”

‘She will not want your daughter to threaten hers, Cornelia.”

‘No!” But at the same time I remembered what Mag had said to me: I can give you all you want in your daughter, although it will do you no good now. It will be many years, Cornelia, before you hold your daughter in your arms. Many years, many tears …

‘Yes! Ah, curse my legs! Cornelia, you must get help. Fast! If Erith or Tuenna can come, and bring their pouch of remedies, they may be able to stop the contractions. Cornelia, you must get—”

‘I know it!” I struggled to my feet, then screeched as a jolt of pure agony swept through my body.