‘Not your father, most apparently,” Assaracus murmured, but Brutus no notice.
‘And because of my fifteen years spent ‘wandering.’ Do you think 1 years were spent in vain? I have three shiploads of seasoned warriors 2 back and these fifteen years have made me a seasoned leader of men! Ar further, because my people, my fellow Trojans, are kept here in slave cannot believe they wish to remain so! And, finally, do either of you fo that Mesopotama will escape the fate of so many other cities of our once-] region? Sooner or later Ariadne’s revenge will envelop this city as well time to leave now.”
‘How?” Deimas said. “This talk of freedom is all very well, but how shall it be accomplished? Will you ask Pandrasus for our freedom?” “Aye,” Brutus said. “That is what I will do.”
‘Bah!” Assaracus said. “I know Pandrasus, and a prouder man I have never met. He will not let his enslaved work force just ‘leave.’ And leave bow? Would you have your fellow Trojans walk to wherever you decide to build a new Troy? The land about here is mountainous and treacherous… and you have only three ships. Deimas, how many Trojans are there?” “Seven thousand.”
‘Seven thousand. I ask you, Brutus, how will you shift seven thousand, including women and children, ancients and infants, and all their worldly goods, to a ‘new Troy’ in some far distant land?”
‘I intend to ask Pandrasus for the ships,” Brutus said, and grinned at the expressions on the faces of his companions. “Listen to me, if I can get Pandrasus to not only agree to allow the Trojans their freedom, but also to provide the ships and provisions for our journey far distant, will you then agree to sail with me? Will you agree that if I accomplish that much then I have the right to claim my heritage?”
Assaracus and Deimas looked at each other, and Brutus could see the misgivings in their faces.
‘I am sorry,” Deimas said. “But none of this has convinced us you are the heir of anything but hopes and words. You cannot seriously mean us to believe that you can somehow manage to persuade Pandrasus to grant freedom to his slave force, then manage to get him to donate several score ships so that we may sail to’somewhere’—a somewhere that the gods will reveal to you in their own sweet time—so that you can build a ‘new Troy.’ Brutus, I can’t possibly—” “I am the man,” Brutus said, his tone very low, “and I have the means to accomplish this. The way will be hard, yes, but I can lead the Trojans back into their pride and their heritage.”
‘Then prove it!” Deimas snapped. “And with something other than words!” Brutus stared at him, then abruptly he again reached for the water and linen cloth and rubbed away at the other kingship bands, revealing their golden splendor.
Then he briefly closed his eyes, praying to Artemis for strength. He thought he heard a soft laugh, and knew that she was with him. Let me tell you a secret , she whispered into his mind. Ariadne left the Game alive, weak and insignificant, in one place only. This is it. If you wish to impress these two fools, then draw on the power of the Game as you were trained .
Brutus almost stopped breathing. Draw on the power of the Game? Here and now?
I believe in you , she whispered. Do it .
Brutus opened his eyes, then made a strange gesture with his right hand that had Deimas suddenly leaning forward in his chair, his eyes sharp with puzzlement.
‘See,” Brutus whispered, and with his right hand still open from the gesture it had made, he pointed to the eastern wall of the andron where spread the scene of Troy’s fall.
Save that now the scene had shifted, and the mural did not depict Troy’s death at all. Instead, it showed a city rising on the far bank of a mighty river. As yet the city contained little in the way of buildings, save for a magnificent palace atop a mound in one corner, but the walls had been completed in pale dressed stone. They were thick, and high, with well-fortified semicircular bastions every twenty score of paces.
At one end of the city there sat the main gateway, and before this gateway danced two long lines of maidens and warriors, holding in their hands flowers and torches.
A beautiful, black-haired woman led one line, while at the head of the other danced Brutus.
‘I am heir to all that Troy implies,” Brutus said softly. ” All of it!”
He dropped his hand, and the mural reverted to the old aspect of Troy destroyed.
Assaracus and Deimas stared a moment longer at the wall, then, very slowly, turned back to face Brutus.
It was Deimas who finally spoke. “I will speak to my people,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “but already I know that they will say: we are with you.”
‘Good,” said Brutus. He looked at Assaracus. “And you?”
‘I am yours, too,” Assaracus said.
Brutus nodded, and smiled. “Now, these’swords’ that you mentioned, Assaracus. Of what exactly do they comprise?”
TWO NIGHTS LATER—AS THE GUARDS AT THE GATES lay insensible, well drugged with the wine Assaracus had sent down earlier—a group of some three hundred men, well armed and armored, slipped out of the city.
Assaracus was at their head, and Deimas, leader of the enslaved Trojans as well as several score of Trojan men, their hair cropped close to their skull to lose their hated mark of slavery, ran among Assaracus’ mercenaries. The; exited the city, then turned onto the road that led east to the steep, forestei Acheron gorges.
There, silently and patiently, awaited the bulk of Brutus’ warriors. Behind him, Assaracus left a Trojan population holding their collective breath in hope, and a small but courageous boy on his way to Pandrasus’ palace to dehver a modest roll of parchment wrapped in pristine linen CbAPCGR JsUJsie LLANGARLIA OTH SAT CLOSE BY HIS FATHER, HIS HEAD bowed in respect.
They were alone in the strange stone house that Gen-vissa’s third foremother had caused to be built.
Unlike most Llangarlian houses, which were round with conical thatched roofs, this was a rectangular structure with a heavy (but admittedly completely weatherproof) slate roof. It made Loth uncomfortable, as if the strangeness of the structure kept him a prisoner from the land he loved so much, and he rarely came in here. He couldn’t understand why his father wanted to live here with Genvissa… but then, Aerne was all too clearly approaching his ancient addleness; Genvissa had him where she wanted, in her house, in her bed, and, like any defenseless infant, dependent on her breast for comfort, nurture, and safety.
Tonight, however, Loth had ventured into the hated structure because he wanted to speak with his father alone, and he knew Genvissa was meeting with Mother Mais at her house some way distant.
Loth almost grinned at the thought. Mother Mais was one of his, and he doubted she’d be giving Genvissa much more than the merest courtesies demanded of any host.
Aerne patted his son’s knee, happy to have him near for a change.
‘I am pleased you came, my son.”
Loth successfully fought the urge to roll his eyes, and merely nodded, as if this domestic harmony was what he, too, had craved all this time.
‘I needed to speak with you, Father. Genvissa—”
‘I know what you want to say, Loth. No reason to speak it aloud.”
‘But I need to. Father, I have strange doubts regarding Genvissa. I distrust her, and yet cannot form that distrust into words. What she proposes, to bring a strange magic into Llangarlia to counter Og’s weakness, is… is…”
‘Is necessary , Loth. You know that. What can you and I do, weak as we are?”
‘We still have some power left, some of Og’s benefice! Surely—”
‘What we have is a mere shadow of what once existed, Loth. I should know. I once commanded all of Og’s power. Tell me, how long has it been since anyone has seen the stag run wild through the forests?”
‘Only last week Coel brought down a magnificent red stag.”
Aerne smiled sadly. “You know that is not what I meant. How long has it been since anyone has seen the stag? The white stag with the bloodred antlers? Og himself, running free?”
Aerne gave Loth a long moment of silence, then spoke again, infinitely gently. “The last time was the night of your conception, Loth. Running as if panicked through the forests in which I lay with the witch, Blangan. And he had good enough reason to fear… didn’t he?”
Loth hung his head, hating himself for his own conception, hating his mother for what she had done.
‘You have been the best of sons,” Aerne said. “I wish I was able to hand over to you Og’s full power on my deathbed.”