‘Cornelia?” Ecub whispered. “I had wondered about her, too, but…”
‘Yes,” Erith said. “Cornelia. Whatever happened at Mag’s Dance, I think Mag’s power is still with Cornelia. I felt it a bare few days ago.”
‘Who is this Cornelia?” Mais said. “I have not heard of her.”
‘She is the wife,” Erith said, and all three women’s faces assumed pained expressions at that most horrid and foreign of offices, “of the leader of the Trojans, Brutus. She is young, naive, foolish, ignorant…
and yet…”
‘Yet she came to Mag’s Dance unannounced,” said Ecub. “And she danced Mag’s Nuptial Dance!”
Mais exclaimed softly, while Erith, who had known this from Coel, merely nodded consideringly.
‘She is a natural mother,” Erith continued, “and when I laid a hand to her womb I swear that I felt Mag… in a Greek woman! My son Coel tells me he sees magic in her, and felt it on a brief occasion
when Cornelia permitted him brief penetration. He thought to loathe these Trojans, these invaders, and yet for Cornelia he feels only respect. Warmth. An urge to protect. Love.”
‘He wants to sleep with her,” Mais said, and laughed.
Erith giggled, making her seem momentarily girlish. “Oh, yes, that too. But Cornelia is intriguing. The fact that she came unannounced to Mag’s Dance, and then took a part in the Nuptial Dance as though she had been born to it… well, that’s astounding. And hopeful.”
‘When Loth came to her there,” Ecub went on, “he did not roar at her, but handled her gently, and spoke well to her.”
There was another silence, the three women’s eyes on the Mothers moving about the room, not looking at each other.
‘We need to speak to Loth,” Mais said. “Tonight. Before tomorrow’s ceremony.”
‘Aye,” said the other two. “We will speak with Loth.”
‘MOTHERS!” GENVISSA CALLED, AND STEPPED FORTH into the center of the room.
As one, all the Mothers present turned to her with bodies and eyes, their movement as choreographed as the most careful dance.
‘Our Assembly this year comes at the most opportune time.” Genvissa looked about her, ensuring she was the center of attention.
She was dressed in a very white linen robe that left her rounded, strong arms bare, and which was sashed tightly about her waist with a scarlet band, highlighting the sweep of hip and breast. Her raven hair was, as usual, left to tumble carelessly about her shoulders and back, its russet lock marking her as god-favored. Her hands folded before her in the traditional gesture of humility, but above them her eyes flashed, negating any of the humility she may have wished to convey.
She lifted one of her hands, and smiled, warm and gracious. “Please, seat yourselves.”
The women lowered themselves to the floor, today covered with soft, warm matting. The younger among them moved swiftly to aid the elder to the few available cushions, and soon all were seated, their eyes centered on Genvissa who had remained standing.
‘I come today on a most important and urgent matter,” Genvissa said, turning slowly within the circle of Mothers, her eyes making contact with each one in turn. “I come to seek your counsel and guidance.”
Ecub grunted, and Erith shot her a warning glance.
‘You know of the Trojans,” Genvissa continued, “of their arrival, of their numbers, of their wish to settle within Llangarlia. I see no reason to deny them their wish.”
The Mothers were too gentle, too restrained to break into an uproar, but they did nevertheless stir, and a great murmuring rose among them.
Genvissa held up her hands. “Mothers, please, hear me out! I speak plainly and swiftly, for events
demand no less. You know of the troubles which have beset us over the past generation—”
‘Ever since your witch mother Herron worked her darkcraft,” Ecub muttered, very, very low.
Erith laid a restraining hand on the woman’s arm.
‘How many of your Houses have lost children to unexplained fevers?” Genvissa cried, her arms now outstretched in supplication. “How many have watched your daughters writhe to their deaths in childbirth where before they dropped their children with the same ease that apple trees drop their fruit in autumn?
Our livestock increasingly succumb to malignant diseases, our crops wither in the fields, the ice and the rain and the snow sleet down from the north and turn the thatch of our houses into sodden, moldy useless caps and the flesh between our toes to mildewed horror.”
Her voice dropped, and she lowered her arms and her eyes, as if grieving. “And our beloved Gormagog is dying. You know of this. You know”—her voice broke on an almost sob—”you know that Og has finally deserted us.”
‘And in answer to this you threaten us with an invasion of Trojans?” Ecub could keep her peace no longer, and Erith’s fingers dug into the flesh of the woman’s forearm.
Ecub ignored the pain. “Who needs these Trojans, MagaLlan. Us ? Why? Why?”
A murmuring again arose among the Mothers, and Genvissa held up a hand to silence them.
‘Mother Ecub speaks only what many of you must think,” Genvissa said mildly, although her jaw and shoulders had noticeably tensed. “But I say to you, these Trojans will not harm us; rather, they can protect us. Furthermore, their leader, Brutus, controls a great magic that can restore to us our prosperity and health.”
Erith’s fingers by now had dug so deep into Ecub’s arm that the woman’s flesh had turned a deep crimson.
‘We need his magic, sisters, to fill that void that Og’s failure has created. Without him Llangarlia will fail. With him it will regain its strength.”
Ecub muttered something uncomplimentary, but to Erith’s and Mais’ relief she did not raise her voice.
‘I have spoken to this Brutus,” Genvissa said, her voice once more quiet, compelling. “He will settle among us, become one with us, and in return he will build a great city, powerful with magic, that will guide our return into abundance and happiness.”
‘Where will he build this ‘great city’?” asked a Mother on the far side of the room, and Erith sighed in relief that someone else had managed to deflect Genvissa’s attention from herself and her two companions.
Genvissa took a deep breath before answering. “In the Veiled Hills,” she said quietly. “Atop the White Mount, Og’s Hill, and Mag’s Hill.”
There was instant uproar, and Genvissa allowed it to continue for several minutes before she again held up her hands for silence.
‘Og is dead,” she said, “he will not suffer at the loss of Og’s Hill. His replacement magic, the Trojan magic, will need to combine with what is left of Mag’s power and those strange spirits who live under the White Mount in order to be most effective.”
Then, as the muttering continued, she turned to the door, left standing open, and held out her hand.
Aerne, dressed in nothing more than a scarlet hip cloth, entered the chamber, leaning on a great staff.
He walked with considerable stiffness and shortness of breath to Genvissa’s side, and glared implacably about at the Gathering of Mothers.
‘It is necessary,” he said.
‘Or else?” Ecub shouted, and Erith groaned.
‘Or else we will perish,” said the Gormagog and, taking Genvissa’s hand in his, waved the staff in the space before him.
A vision appeared, and it was one of dread. Naked warriors, daubed in blue clay, swarmed over their land, raping and slaughtering and burning, and howling with laughter all the while.
‘They mass to the east,” the Gormagog whispered through the horror, “and undoubtedly one day they will launch themselves at us. We have not the strength to defend ourselves. We will vanish, as surely as the autumn leaves are swept into oblivion by the winter winds.”
‘Mag?” someone cried out, helplessly.
‘You know she cannot help against such as this,” Aerne said, waving his staff so that the vision folded in upon itself and then disappeared. “Not only is her power weak, but the art of protecting us against swords and fury is alien to her. She is the fertile mother goddess, not the stag-god.”
Again, silence, as the Mothers contemplated this.
Everyone knew of Mag’s horrifying and deepening weakness. Everyone had felt it.
If she is weak, Ecub thought, her face creased in a savage frown, it is only through witchery !
‘If we conduct an alliance with the Trojans,” continued the Gormagog, “merge their magic with ours, then this is what awaits us.”
Again his staff waved, and again vision filled the air.
Now a mighty city rose on the banks of the Llan, covering the three sacred mounds, encircled by a high white wall. Its gates stood open, and people were free to move in and out of the city as they willed.
In the meadows surrounding the city children played, watched by strong healthy women with big, swollen bellies. Men walked the roads, driving heavily laden grain carts into the city, or hefting the tools of their trades over their shoulders, singing songs, or swapping jests.