Gods Concubine (19 page)

“I was a Kingman too, remember? Yes, I can use parts of the Game’s power. But, believe me, Saeweald, I want what you want. To stop my son, at any cost, from completing the Game with his Darkwitch. I do
not
want him finding those bands and completing his horror.”

Silvius visibly shuddered, and Saeweald relaxed slightly. “You look so much like him,” Saeweald said. “I am sorry if I remain on guard.”

“I tried to help you before, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, you did,” Saeweald said, remembering how Silvius had tried to aid Loth when he’d challenged Brutus to battle within the heart of the Labyrinth. “I am sorry, Silvius.”

Silvius nodded, accepting Saeweald’s apology, and led the way on to the bridge, which was largely built over with houses and shops leaving only a narrow, barely lit tunnel for travellers on foot and horse to walk. The horses’ hooves echoed loudly in the enclosed space, and Saeweald glanced back at the guardhouse.

There was no movement.

“They remain unaware,” said Silvius.

From the bridge they turned right along Thames Street (Saeweald looking curiously at the stones of Gog and Magog sitting inscrutable at the London-side entrance to the bridge), pushing their horses into a trot and then a canter.

“We have little time,” said Silvius. “It will be dawn in a few hours.”

“Where do we go?” Saeweald said, having to raise his voice above the clattering of hooves.

Silvius nodded ahead. There, rising out of the gloom, was the White Mount which occupied the eastern corner of London. At its top rose a dilapidated stone and timber structure: a lighthouse, constructed by the Romans almost a thousand years earlier. As they neared it, Silvius pulled his horse back to a walk, and waited for Saeweald to do the same.

“Aha,” said Saeweald, in answer to his own question, knowing now where it was that Silvius led him.

“The Romans built this,” Silvius said. “You know that?”

Saeweald nodded.

“The Romans were a people from the same world as the Trojans, although from a later time when the mysteries of the Game had been forgotten. They were drawn to this land and to this place by the siren song of the Game, although they did not recognise it. On this mound, one of your sacred hills, they built a great lighthouse, a beacon tower.”

“But the tower is of no importance.”

“It is not. You are right.”

“It is what lies beneath it.”

“Aye.”

“The well,” Saeweald said. The Romans had built their lighthouse atop the White Mount which, in Saeweald’s other lifetime, held a sacred well. Brutus had caused the opening of the well to be covered over when he built his palace there, but Saeweald supposed the well was still sunk into the White Mount, guarding its mysteries.

But what was the bracelet doing down the well?

“Cornelia was buried there,” Silvius said softly. “Did you not know? Ah, of course not, for you were dead many years prior to her death. When Brutus died and Cornelia took her own life, their sons carried them to the well, and buried them within it.”

“And the bracelet was buried with her,” said Saeweald.

“Indeed.”

The horses ascended the grassy slopes of the mount, towards the derelict tower, Saeweald clinging to Maggie’s saddle and studying the tower as she climbed. The Romans had built the tower of white ragstone, well-buttressed and -founded. It had once soared over thirty paces into the air, but during the past nine hundred years the top courses of stonework had tumbled down to lie in untidy heaps by the foundations, and the highest rooms were open to the night air. The Romans had used this tower to watch the river approaches to the city, and to set at the top of the structure a beacon to warn both London and surrounding areas of any danger that approached. Now it was used for little more than as a place for boys to hide from their mothers, and for those who still followed the old ways to light fires during the solstices.

At the tower’s base Silvius and Saeweald dismounted from their horses, leaving the reins untied so they could nibble the grass. Once inside, Silvius led Saeweald to the tower’s lowest rooms. The approaches to the basements were half obscured with tumbled beams and stones, and Saeweald reluctantly had to allow Silvius to aid him over the obstructions.

Eventually they came to the very lowest level of the tower where stood an uneven floor of large stone slabs.

Here Silvius dropped his cloak to one side.

“Cornelia’s and Brutus’ corpses are beneath those slabs?” Saeweald asked.

“Aye.”

“And you want
me
to lift those slabs?”

“No. Your power I shall need later.” With one hand Silvius made a gesture over the stone flagging. “This is but a slight alteration to the magic which would have raised the flower gate,” he said. “Never forget that once I, too, was—”

“A Kingman. Yes, Silvius. I remember.”

Then Saeweald gasped, for as he spoke several of the flagstones wavered and then vanished, revealing a great chasm.

Silvius stepped close, his feet careful at the edge of the chasm, and peered down.

“Gods,” he murmured. “I had not expected this to be so beautiful.”

Saeweald looked away from Silvius and back to the well, slowly drawing closer to it. The way opened into a rough circular shape that spiralled downwards in great twists of rough rock. Far, far beneath rippled an emerald pool of water, and Saeweald knew that the depths of this pool were unknowable, even to such as himself. As he watched the waters surged, their waves lapping higher and higher up the wild walls of the well, as if trying to reach him. A dull roar echoed in his ears.

Shaken by the power of the raging waters, Saeweald studied the rock walls of the well. They did not consist of the finished masonry of human hands, but instead twisted and spiralled down in wild, sharp ledges. This was a savage and untamed cleft, a formidable place of magic and power.

Saeweald’s face sagged in astonishment. “I can’t believe the well still retains this much power. Gods, Silvius, did Brutus and Cornelia’s sons see
this
when they buried their parents?”

“No,” said Silvius. “They saw only ordinariness, and a convenient place to rest their parents.”

“How in all that’s good and merciful,” Saeweald said, “did Brutus and Cornelia’s sons manage their way down?”

“The well made it easy for them,” said Silvius. “All they and the mourners saw were smooth, even courses of stones for the walls, a dribble of a puddle far below, and an easy flight of steps that wound its way around the side of the well. To them this place was nothing more than a source of water for Brutus’ palace, and not a very reliable one at that.”

“I have never seen the well so vibrant,” Saeweald said.

“You know it as a vital part of this land,” said Silvius. “But did you know that there are others in the world?”

Saeweald finally dragged his eyes from the well to Silvius. “No.”

“There was one like this in my world—we called it a god-well. It was the heart of the city of Atlantis, which was itself the heart of Thera. When the Darkwitch Ariadne destroyed Thera, she also destroyed its god-well. ”

“Thank the gods Genvissa didn’t manage to destroy
this
one,” said Saeweald.

“And to why I need you here,” said Silvius. “The well is open now, and who knows who can feel it beside you and I? Saeweald—”

“I cannot go down,” Saeweald said, looking again at the rough walls. It was not the magic which deterred him, but the simple fact that his twisted body would not allow him to even try. “You need me to stay here, and guard the entrance to the well with whatever power I can summon while you retrieve the bracelet. In case—”

“Aye,” said Silvius. “I will be as fast as I can, but still…” He stepped close to Saeweald, and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “One day, my friend, you
will
be whole again. Then you may go down.”

“Be careful,” said Saeweald.

Silvius nodded, then dropped to the edge of the well, carefully lowering himself down to the first of the twisting ledges. Above him, Saeweald stripped off his robe and, naked, the light from the well playing over the antler tattoo on his chest and shoulders, began to hum a strange melody.

Within moments the entrance to the well had clouded over, and then vanished, as if all that Saeweald stared at was a rough, uneven flooring of gravel.

Silvius glanced above to make sure that Saeweald had concealed the entrance, grinned, then concentrated on the climb. The way down was difficult, but not impossible, and Silvius’ pace quickened once he became more confident in finding his hand and footholds.

After some time had passed Silvius spied what he was looking for: an opening in the rock wall, partway around the well from where he clung to a ledge. The roaring from the waters—still far below—had now increased greatly in volume, and the rocks had grown ever more slippery with condensation, and Silvius was more than glad he had found the entrance to the burial chamber. Even more careful now that his destination was in sight, Silvius concentrated on climbing along the rock walls to the opening.

In a few short minutes he breathed a sigh of relief and leaped lightly down to the floor of the passageway. He made a gesture with his hand, and immediately the passageway was filled with a soft, golden light.

Unlike the rock walls of the well, the passageway had smooth walls and an even, dustless rock floor, and Silvius wasted no time in striding down its length.

It was only some thirty or thirty-five paces long, leading directly into a rounded chamber that looked as though it had been water-carved from the living rock.

In the centre of the chamber were two waist-high rock plinths, some three feet wide and seven long, and on each of these plinths rested cloth-wrapped figures.

The corpses of Brutus and Cornelia.

Silvius halted the instant he stepped inside the chamber, staring at the plinths.

A sardonic smile creased his face as he walked to the plinth that bore the larger and taller of the cloth-wrapped corpses. He lifted his hands and rested them gently, almost hesitantly, on the wrappings that covered the corpse’s head. “So much power that you have wasted, Brutus.”

Silvius drew in a deep breath, then raised both his head and his hands from the corpse of his son.

“Cornelia,” he said, as he stared at the corpse which lay on the other plinth.

“Poor Cornelia,” he said very slowly. “Poor, dead Cornelia. Used and abused by all about you.” He walked over. “Cornelia,” Silvius said again, “is it time to wake?”

He grinned to himself. “Why, I do believe so.” Then he reached down with both hands to the cloths that wove about her breasts and, sliding his fingers between them, tore them apart. “Cornelia!”

Something fell from amid the bandages, then toppled from the plinth and clattered to the floor where it lay glinting.

Silvius drew in a deep breath, then leaned down and picked it up.

“Gods,” he whispered, “the Greeks always knew how to make a fine piece of jewellery.”

In his palm nestled an exquisitely worked gold and ruby bracelet.

Then, suddenly, Silvius’ head jerked upwards.

Saeweald felt it before he actually heard or saw anything.

A coldness seeping from the cracks of the lighthouse basement’s stone walls. The night was cold, yes, but this was different.

Malevolent.

Seeing.

Saeweald glanced at the well, made sure the conjuration hiding the well’s opening remained in place, then he turned, trying to see in every direction at once, tottering and almost falling as he looked for a place to hide. Curse his power which enabled him to hide (however insubstantially) other objects, but not himself.

You poor fool. What brought you back to this calamity?

Saeweald felt the voice, rather than heard it. He twisted around, trying to locate it.

There was a movement in the air. Something large, shifting. Behind him? No! To his left.

Do you look for me?

Saeweald cried out, terrified. The Minotaur had materialised directly in front of him, no more than two paces distant. He was massive, taller than any man Saeweald had ever seen, tightly muscled, overpowering in presence.

His ebony bull’s head, almost majestic, swayed slowly from side to side, and bright, savage eyes pinned Saeweald where he stood.

Tell me
—
what do you here?

Saeweald found himself compelled to speak. It was as if a ghostly hand had seized his throat, squeezing the words from him. “I am tied to the land! I am
for
the land!”

That’s pathetic.
I
am for power. Did you know that?

The word was crushed from Saeweald’s chest. “Yes.”

And what is this then, that you try so pathetically to hide?
Suddenly the gravel dissolved, and the god-well lay exposed. The Minotaur’s gaze jerked back to Saeweald, and the man cried out as invisible claws ripped agonisingly into his body.

“It is…ah! It is a god-well!” Saeweald’s body shook, jerking up and down as the Minotaur’s power began to crush him.

Asterion began to laugh, a belly-shaking amusement that filled the basement with his merriment.
A god-well! How sweet. Shall I destroy it?

Saeweald had begun to cry. He was no longer capable of speech.

Shall I destroy
you,
friend?

Then, just as Saeweald was sure he was about to be torn to shreds, the Minotaur’s eyes widened, and the creature snarled.
Who is here with you? Who?

Saeweald somewhere found breath enough to speak a single word. “Silvius.”

A Kingman?
The Minotaur was still staring at the god-well. The next moment he’d taken a step back, then another, and then he was fading from view.
A Kingman?

And then he was gone, and Saeweald collapsed unknowing to the ground.

He woke to find Silvius crouched over him.

“What happened?” Silvius said.

“Asterion…”

“Asterion was
here?
”