“Our respect and our loyalty were to the office of MagaLlan,” Ecub said, her voice low to disguise its bitterness, “before that Darkwitch from Crete corrupted that once remarkable line.” She was dressed in a robe of very deep red wool, and for an instant the red of her robe reflected in her eyes, and Erith shuddered.
“We cannot speak publicly against her,” she said. “Not yet. This Assembly’s loyalty will still hold with Genvissa, even if what she presents us with today will tear out the heart of Llangarlia.”
“You would have us smile, and nod, and agree with her?” Ecub hissed.
Erith fought the urge to grind her teeth, smiling and nodding at another of the Mothers who momentarily passed close by.
“I am saying that there may be better ways to deal with her and her wicked witchery, than making victims of ourselves by speaking out in this Assembly.”
“Yes?” said Ecub. “How might that be then?”
Erith, who’d had her hands folded before her in a Mother’s traditional posture of calm authority, now dropped them to her side, taking a hand of each of the women beside her. “I think Genvissa has an enemy she may not recognise until it is too late,” Erith said, so very, very softly Mais and Ecub had to lean close to her to hear.
There was a silence, a great stillness.
“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 an 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 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 centre 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.
Genvissa looked about her, ensuring she had all their attention.
She was dressed in a pure white linen robe that left her rounded, strong arms bare, and which was sashed tightly about her waist with a scarlet band, highlighting the curve of breast and sweep of hip. Her raven hair was, as usual, left to tumble carelessly about her shoulders and back, its russet lock marking her as god-favoured. Her hands were 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, thick matting. The younger among them moved swiftly to aid the elder to the few available cushions, and soon all were seated, their eyes centred on Genvissa who had remained standing.
“Our Assembly this year comes at a most opportune time,” Genvissa said, turning slowly within the circle of Mothers, her eyes making contact with each one in turn. “I come today on an important and urgent matter. 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 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 of you have watched 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, mouldy, 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 unique 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 and Mais’ relief she did not raise her voice, and Erith released the pressure of her fingers.
“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 another had deflected 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 u
nder 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 staff. He walked with considerable stiffness and shortness of breath to Genvissa’s side, and glared implacably at the Assembly 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,” Aerne 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.
Every one of them knew of Mag’s horrifying and deepening weakness. Every one of them had felt it.
If she is weak, Ecub thought, her face creased in a savage frown, it is only through witchery.
“If we make 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 trade over their shoulders, singing songs, or swapping jests.
The Mothers were silent. They had never seen anything like it, nor had they ever thought to see anything like it. How did this pile of stone—this artifice—protect and nurture the land?
“This city itself will be the magic,” Genvissa said, seeing the expressions in the women’s eyes. “It will be as a talisman to us, protecting us for an eternity against all evil and ill-favour, and using an ancient magic called the Game.”
“Tell us of this ‘Game’,” Erith said.
Genvissa cast a glance Erith’s way, but was satisfied by the curiosity she saw there. “The Game is used at the foundation of new cities, played first when the initial course of the city walls is laid down, then again when the walls have risen to their full height and are gated. It is a powerful spell-weaving that binds the city to the land, as its protector, but,” she stressed, as a few Mothers murmured again, “its most potent benefit is that it attracts and then traps all evil besieging a country. Who can deny that evil and blight spread over this land and through our families?”
Genvissa paused, and when she resumed her voice was low, but powerful. “The Game will absorb that evil, trap it, and the blight that has plagued us will vanish as if it had never been. Llangarlia will be strong again, stronger than previously.”
“How does it work?” asked a Mother called Lilleth.
Genvissa smiled. She knew she would have them with this next. “It is danced,” she said, watching delighted surprise light up many faces. “A labyrinthine dance, very much like Mother Mag’s Nuptial Dance, that uses the power of the male and the female to bind and empower the spell-weaving. There are two dances. The first is performed when the foundations of the city walls are laid, and this is called the Dance of the Torches. This first dance raises the evil and blight from the land and traps it in the labyrinthine enchantment of the Game. Then, when the walls are completed, comes the second and last dance, the Dance of the Flowers, and this will trap the evil forever by erecting a gate of great beauty and sorcery at the entrance to the labyrinth.”
“And who will dance?” cried one of the Mothers.
“Myself, and Brutus,” said Genvissa. “I need a strong partner,” she looked sadly to Aerne, who, humiliated, turned his face aside, “who can withstand the forces of evil the Game shall attract.
“Brutus, the Kingman of the Game, and I will be the male and female forces that weave the Game and tie it to this land. Mothers, I know you distrust strangers, but within a few generations we will all merge into the one people. Look how easily my foremothers assimilated into your society.”
Ecub opened her mouth to say something, but Erith clamped a hand on the woman’s arm and sent her a warning glance.
“The Trojans are our only hope,” Aerne said. “They are the only thing that stands between us and total annihilation. If we refuse them entry, if we turn them away, then we risk two fates. One, the Trojans will not accept our denial, and will attack us as enemies, seizing our land. Second, even worse, is that they will sail away, taking their magic with them, and our grandchildren or great-grandchildren will suffer and die under the swords of the blue-faced invaders. Without them, Llangarlia is doomed. With them, it will survive into glory.”
Aerne and Genvissa continued to speak, arguing persuasively that the Mothers needed to take this step for the future of their peoples. It was a difficult decision, it was a decision that went against everything they’d ever thought right and proper, but it was the decision they must make, and it was a decision that they, the Gormagog and the MagaLlan, knew the Mothers were courageous enough to make.
“Do you think that this has been easy for me?” Aerne said. “First watching as the Darkwitch Blangan stripped me of my power, and then as Og failed into death. Watching this land succumb to blight and pain and knowing there was nothing I could do about it. You cannot imagine what a bitter blow it has been to me that my long struggle to ease Llangarlia’s plight has been in vain; what a bitter blow it is that now I say to you that I and Og are useless. Accept this Trojan magic, accept their Game and their Kingman, or die.”
It was enough.
When Genvissa asked if there were any dissenting voices, the Mothers gave her only silence.
“They capitulated?” Loth said, his eyes blazing.
“Aye,” said Mais.
“And you added your voices to theirs?” Loth said, looking at Mais, Ecub and Erith individually.
“We had little choice, Loth,” said Erith. Then, at his frown, she continued, “If we had spoken out we would have been dead by dawn. As it is, Genvissa will undoubtedly suspect us.”
They were standing on the northern bank of the Llan, slightly to the east of the White Mount. It was deep night, long after the Mothers had agreed in Assembly to the MagaLlan and the Gormagog’s plan: allow the Trojans to not only settle within Llangarlia, but allow them to build over three of their sacred hills. Ecub, Erith and Mais had been circumspect in meeting Loth, leaving it until late at night when most others were well in bed and gathering in sleep the strength they would need for tomorrow’s Slaughter Festival.
“She may not be confronted directly, Loth,” Erith continued. “You must know that.”
He snarled, more in frustration than anger, and turned away.
“What is this Trojan magic Genvissa speaks of?” Loth eventually said over his shoulder. “What is this ‘Game’?”
They told him what they knew, and at the end of it Loth was even unhappier.
“Evil? This Game will attract and then trap evil? What if it goes awry? What if it attracts…but doesn’t trap? I do not like this.”
Erith shrugged. “The Game will take the evil from this land, Loth. No Mother was going to arg
ue against any means of doing that.”
“Not even you,” Loth said bitterly.
“What do you want, Loth?” Erith said, her nerves strung so taut that she was prepared to confront a man to whom she normally only showed total deference. “For Mag’s and Og’s dear sakes, what do you want?”
“I want this land to shake off the Darkwitch’s power. I want this land to lie blessed under the benefice of Og and Mag, our Father and Mother, not some stone monstrosity that sits atop trapped evil. Is that so wrong, Erith? Is that so damned, cursed wrong?”
She hung her head, and it was Ecub who spoke next.
“She has taunted you with having no weapon, Loth. There is nothing left with which to fight her; not you, not your dying father, not even Mag, whom none of us can touch any more. The Mothers have agreed, the Game will be played. There is no weapon we can use against Genvissa.”
Loth was silent, then he looked up, his green eyes alight. “Yes, there is!”
“Cornelia,” said Erith.
“Yes,” said Loth. “Cornelia is the weapon. I don’t know how, or why, but even Genvissa is as instinctively afraid of her as I am instinctively drawn to her. Cornelia is the weapon. All we need to do is learn how to wield her.”
“What can we do?” Erith said.
He grinned. “Tomorrow is the Slaughter Festival,” he said. “There will be power about, weak as it might be. I will ask Coel to bring Cornelia to the summit of the Pen, but I will need you there as well.”
“We will be there,” Erith said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“They agreed,” Genvissa had told Brutus as soon as she met him at her house that evening, and he had visibly relaxed.
“Good,” he said. “Tomorrow I can send Corineus south to arrange the passage of the rest of my people.” He’d chuckled at that. “I hope they have not settled in too happily while waiting for word from me.”
Genvissa had smiled, content at the light in his eyes, and, taking him by the hand, led him into her house.