Shimmering Splendor Read online

  “No!” Damianos cried. “Poor Psyche, she—”

  Eros felt like kissing the young man for providing an excuse for a pretense of rage. “Enough!” he roared. “I have not come to chaffer like a merchant. I am Eros, Aphrodite’s voice. My part is to convey her commands. Your part is only to obey those commands with tears of contrition and grateful hearts. Remember that the goddess could have bade me destroy you all with hate and loathing. You have one week to bow down to Aphrodite’s will. If not, you will learn what befalls a realm whose king desires only to swive a sow.”

  On the words, Eros again invoked the spell of invisibility, but as the glittering net dropped over him, he had to catch at the balustrade edging the roof. A wave of weakness had almost brought him to his knees. The spell was too thin; invoking it had drained his power to the dregs. He would not be able to invoke it again. He could only cling to the balustrade and thank the Mother because it seemed he would not need to do so. From the courtyard came cries of fear and amazement as he appeared to vanish, and then shouts arose for Anerios to obey Aphrodite’s commands.

  Relief only made him weaker. Eros slipped down onto his knees. When he tried to stand again and could not, he swallowed hard. A little more draining might have been fatal. He took a deep breath and then another. What he wanted to do was simply lie down until the trembling of weakness left him, but he didn’t dare. He had no idea how long the weakened spell would hold. If he reappeared, prostrate as he was…

  Eros forced himself to crawl on trembling limbs to the rain shield. It took him three tries to lift it and long agonizing minutes to bring the ladder to its lip. A cold sweat burst out on him as he struggled to prevent the ladder from falling with a crash. Summoning his last reserve of energy, he crawled down the rungs and made his way across the courtyard. The sow lifted her head as he passed her, but no one else noticed. They were all still on their knees. Some were staring at the roof where he had stood; others were watching Anerios, who had stopped struggling with Psyche but who could not tear his eyes away from the sow, his face twisted with both horror and longing. Still others had fallen flat and begun to beg Aphrodite to forgive them, promising rich tribute.

  Stretching a hand forward to steady himself against a column, Eros was horrified to see that the glittering net, which should have covered him, had gaps and its light had dimmed from sparkling diamond to barely gleaming silver. Terror lends strength. Eros leapt up the remaining stairs of the porch and into the shadows of the vestibule. There he snatched up someone’s cloak and drew it around him. Pulling a generous fold of the cloth over his head like a man in mourning, he made his way out the side door into the long corridor that ran between the megaron and the storerooms. At the end of the corridor, he found a door, which, to his relief, led outside.

  Had he not been staggering with weakness, it would have been no great feat for him to find his way to the unguarded gate and slip across the road and into the woods. As it was, reeling with exhaustion, he barely made it into the shade of the trees where he was somewhat concealed before he dropped to the ground, sobbing for breath. He was aware of little beyond the aching hollow inside him, much like hunger… After a moment Eros turned on his back and laughed softly. Idiot that he was, it was hunger. Now he recalled that in his hurry to finish Aphrodite’s business, he had not broken his fast.

  When Eros remembered that he would have to make his way to the temple before he could get something to eat, he stopped laughing. But he needed food and he dared not remain so close to Anerios’s palace. It was not likely that anyone would think of hunting for him, but it was barely possible. In their desperation, Anerios’s sons might take the chance of adding blasphemy to sacrilege by proposing that the avenging servant of Aphrodite was only a mortal who could be caught and forced to remove the curse.

  Groaning, Eros levered himself to a sitting position. He had put a hand, which was quite visible now, against a tree to help himself rise to his feet when he realized he had no notion from which direction he had come nor which way he must go to find the temple. He sat still, frightened by this loss of his normally reliable sense of direction, only to find that his head had turned toward what he suddenly knew was a path in the undergrowth. It was barely marked—a broken twig, a few crushed stems among the sparse grass, a little branch bent at an unnatural angle.

  He almost turned away, thinking it was a wood-gatherer’s track and would lead nowhere, but then he frowned. Surely a wood-gatherer’s track would be far better marked. This looked as if care had been taken to leave as little sign as possible of those who passed. And he wanted to walk that path. Slowly, Eros came upright, holding to the nearby tree until he could steady his shaking legs. Then, a trembling step at a time, he followed the faint trail.

  Fortunately he did not have to follow very far. Scarcely two stadia from where he had begun he came to a huge olive tree. Beneath it, a tiny spring filled a wooden bowl above which, on a large, flat stone, stood a roughly carved icon. Eros stopped dead, then dropped to his knees.

  “Mother,” he whispered, “did You call me? Will You chastise me for driving those poor people to worship Aphrodite in your stead?”

  He waited, silent and with bowed head, but oddly he felt comforted rather than more frightened, less exhausted…welcome. An impulse made him lift his eyes and he saw at the foot of the statue oatcakes piled on fresh leaves. A warm joy filled him; She had called him, not to punish, but to sustain. The true Goddess, Eros thought, was not living flesh. She had no need of material offerings and was immune from the petty spite that was proof the great mages of Olympus were not gods. With a humbled heart, Eros gave thanks to the Mother, then went and gathered up the oatcakes. Nestled at the foot of the stone on which the image stood, he ate the offerings, drank the clear water, and curled up to sleep.

  * * *

  Anerios and Psyche had not knelt to cry for mercy with the others. Anerios had not made any sense of Eros’s words because he was locked in a titanic struggle between the sane knowledge that Psyche’s counterspell had given him—that he must turn his back on that sow—and the insane compulsion that drove him forward against his will to caress the beast. Psyche heard but did not care. Since she had no hope of being pardoned, she had nothing for which to pray—and she did not dare let go of her father because she could feel him pull against her weakening hold.

  “Help me!” she cried to her brothers. “Help me bring our father within. And pen that beast!”

  “No!” Anerios gasped, dragging her forward.

  They would both have fallen down the steps had not Damianos caught his father and blocked his path. Gillos rushed forward to help him and Otius grasped the nose of the sow and led her away. The people watched in horror as Anerios fought his sons to follow or bring back the animal, but the two were too strong for him and dragged him back from the porch, through the vestibule, and into his private bedchamber.

  Psyche had gone with them, but she stopped outside the room. Her mother had been within it, no doubt, and perhaps other women, but Anerios dealt with his daughters only in the public chambers or in the women’s quarters with their mother present. She could hear the struggle and her father’s groans as he alternately fought himself and his sons, but she only leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. After a while she slipped down and sat on the floor.

  The weakness that afflicted her was not like that after great physical effort. That also caused a trembling of the limbs and a need to sit or lie down, but that weakness was of the outer body. This was far more terrible. There seemed to be a huge hollow void at her core that was sucking at her, drawing strength from her body into itself. Psyche knew that if too much were drawn, she would collapse in on herself and die.

  Vaguely she heard Damianos protesting and Gillos’s angry reply, which was broken off to shout “Father!” and “Hold him, Damianos.”

  The sharp command caught her attention and she heard clearly her father’s groan followed by several gasps and then his voice, strained, but ratio
nal, “I did not even know I had moved. We cannot give her up. She saved me. Until she whispered that spell in my ear, I had no mind. I knew nothing except—” His voice cut off, then continued thin and breathless. “At least she broke the spell a little. I know now what horror I desire.” Another silence. More creaks of the bed and thuds. Then Anerios’s voice, gasping. “I cannot help myself, but I know. We must find another sacrifice, not Psyche.”

  “Do not be foolish, father,” Gillos said. “Do you still think you can befool the goddess? Eros warned that he would make no bargains. Perhaps Aphrodite is envious of Psyche’s beauty and wishes to remove it from the world. Where will you find a face and body to match hers? You will only get us into more trouble if you try to keep her. If you give her up as well as a few oxen and sweet words, you will not need her. The curse will be lifted from us.”

  “Gillos!” Damianos cried. “She is our sister. Would you see her sacrificed like a lamb or a heifer?”

  “I would go myself, if that was what Aphrodite ordered,” Gillos snarled. “Do you not understand that this curse has besmirched the whole family? Even if Otius were to take papa’s place on the throne, the people would not accept him. You heard them screaming that the goddess must be pacified. Father must humble himself to Hyppodamia and Psyche must be chained to the altar on Mount Pelion or we will all be driven out as scapegoats.”

  “Not chained!” Damianos exclaimed. “Eros said nothing about chains.”

  Slow tears trickled down Psyche’s cheeks. If Damianos would do no more than protest against her being bound by chains to the altar, certainly no one would try to save her. She and Damianos had been particularly fond of each other in happier days. They liked many of the same things, most particularly to discover how wild creatures lived, and they had often shared ventures. Wearily she wiped the tears away. Gillos was right. What good could any protest do? She knew she had to be the sacrifice, since it was she the goddess demanded. Only it was…lonely…that no one cared enough to make more than a token protest.

  “Psyche! What are you doing here?”

  Otius stood looking down at her. But before he could order her away or Psyche could offer an explanation, Anerios howled like a wild animal. “I smell her,” he shrieked. “I smell her. Let me go.”

  Otius leapt into the room to help his brothers control his father. Psyche closed her eyes and prayed for strength, knowing what must be the end of the struggle. She heard Gillos shouting that Otius should go away and wash the scent of the sow off him and Otius yelling back that he had washed, not being a fool. She heard Damianos sobbing and the sound of blows striking flesh and then of cloth tearing and incoherent shrieks of rage. And in the gasping silence that followed the struggle to bind her father, he began to scream like a woman in labor, begging his sons to have mercy and let him go to the sow.

  “Can I live like this?” he wailed. “Let me empty myself and I will be better. I must go. I must.”

  Then came the bellow she had been expecting, “Psyche!”

  Otius burst out of the room and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Do something,” he snarled. “You quieted him when the spell was first cast. Quiet him again.”

  “I will try,” she whispered, “but I spent my little power on the first counterspell. I do not know whether I have strength enough to cast the spell again.”

  She could feel the hollow within her. She knew that light and power should fill that well, but it took weeks to renew herself, and even then her well held only a light mist, not the strong glow she had felt in the wise woman with whom she had studied. She wondered, as Otius snapped that she must try and pushed her into her father’s bedchamber, whether the casting would kill her. And for one resentful moment she thought it would serve her family right if Aphrodite would not lift the curse because her chosen victim was dead and she had been deprived of the pleasure of torturing her.

  Then she saw her father bound, writhing with unsatisfied lust, and she could not bear to see him so bereft of strength and dignity, even humanity. She leaned over him, stroking his face and his body. The words of the counterspell poured out and a soft, blue mist seemed to float gently from her fingers over and then into his body. Her life flowed out with the mist. The room dimmed. For a moment she felt the edge of the bed cutting into her thighs and a painful pressure on her arms, and then…nothing.

  Chapter 6

  Psyche felt herself being lifted and a spoon pressed against her lips. She opened her mouth and her eyes at the same time. For a moment, no one realized she had regained consciousness. Enstiktia had her eyes on the broth she was spooning into Psyche’s mouth, and Horexea, who was supporting her, was watching the process. Psyche swallowed, which kept her silent, while she wondered whether she was dying.

  As the thought came, she knew it was ridiculous. She did not feel ill. Yet tears streaked Enstiktia’s face and her eyes were red and tired looking, as if from much weeping. A movement behind Enstiktia caught Psyche’s eye. Her mother came into view, and she looked far worse than her sister. Her face was drawn, the cheeks hollow, and the eyes, although dry, ringed with dark marks, like bruises. It was she who uttered a cry of surprise—but clearly not of joy—when she saw that Psyche’s eyes were open.

  “My poor child,” she breathed, leaning down and stroking Psyche’s hair.

  Psyche blinked. She could not remember when her mother had last called her “poor child.” And then memory flooded her. She remembered the hateful, haughty, blinding beauty of Eros, the agony of her poor accursed father, the casting of the counterspell, the pronouncement of her own doom. She had apparently survived the second spell-casting but had lost her senses.

  “Papa?” she asked.

  Horexea clutched her tighter and began to sob aloud. Enstiktia dropped the spoon into the bowl and hid her face in her hands.

  “Your father has been granted some remission. Your brothers carried him to the temple of Aphrodite after you fell, but they had to—” Her mother’s mouth and voice began to shake, and she had to pause to steady them. “They had to take the sow with them. He fell into convulsions when they tried to carry him away without her.” She swallowed. “Still, when she walked with them, he had sense enough not to scream of his desire. Your spell held well enough to permit him to speak to Hyppodamia and promise restitution.”

  As she spoke, Beryllia drew a stool to the side of Psyche’s couch and Psyche freed herself from her sister’s arms and sat up. The queen’s mouth trembled again. “Child,” she whispered, lowering her eyes to her tightly clasped hands, “we promised everything. Your father offered his whole herds of cattle, to have a golden statue made to honor the goddess, to abdicate, to pass the rule of the kingdom to the priestess, anything…”

  “Hyppodamia would not listen.” Psyche said flatly.

  “No, no.” Beryllia shook her head and met Psyche’s eyes again. “The priestess demanded no revenge for the hurt done herself. She asked only such temple attendance and sacrifice as would reinforce the king’s acknowledgment of Aphrodite’s power. And she wept for your father and for you. She prayed to Aphrodite to accept some other sacrifice. It was Eros. He came…”

  “He did lighten the curse on our father so that he can resist his desire enough not to disgrace himself and us,” Horexea said quickly.

  Beryllia nodded, but her eyes slid away from Psyche’s. “The mercy was only for your father,” she said faintly. “Eros forbade the priestess to intercede for you again. You must go…” Her voice failed altogether.

  Psyche patted her mother’s clasped hands. “Perhaps it is for the best,” she said, staring into nothing. “What had I to look forward to? No man could see me past this face. I believe it is better to die by the goddess’s hand and restore peace to papa and to our lands and people than to be married to a man who would torment me bitterly out of jealousy and then, perhaps, destroy my home and my family too.”

  “It is not fair!” Enstiktia wailed, “No one valued you when you were a little girl because you were unlov
ely, and now, because you are too lovely, you must suffer a terrible fate.”

  “That is not certain,” Horexea said sharply. “Eros said only that Psyche was to be left at the altar. You know the creatures offered to the goddess are never slain and that she sometimes demands children as sacrifice. A few have even been returned, those who could not be comforted by her kindness. They say the other children are well and happy.”

  “Yes, of course,” Beryllia said, forcing a smile. “Perhaps Aphrodite desires a beautiful handmaid.”

  A handmaid who hates her? Psyche thought. But she did not speak the thought aloud. She did not think either her mother or Horexea believed the comfort they were offering her, but she was warmed by her mother’s and sisters’ grief. She felt less cold, less alone, strong enough to do what she must with dignity.

  Whether that feeling could have sustained her for long she did not know, but at first her relief that she would not dissolve into incessant weeping or mindless shrieks allowed her to realize that she was starving. She finished the broth Enstiktia had been feeding her and then a lavish meal. Her attention was fixed so firmly on filling her empty stomach that she did not question the succession of elegant courses that were brought up until she was nearly full. While she was toying with a tart/sweet concoction of fruits and nuts, it occurred to her to ask how the cooks could have known she would wake just when she did and be so hungry.

  Both her sisters burst into tears and her mother grew so white that Psyche thought she would faint. Then she recalled that the other women had eaten very little and her heart leapt into her throat. A funeral feast! Insane laughter vied with shrieks of terror inside her, but the obstruction in her throat denied any outlet to both. Her funeral feast! She had been devouring her own funeral feast!

  She swallowed, swallowed again, and finally managed to whisper, “How long have I been senseless?”