Bring Down the Sun Read online

  Myrtale stood before the image of the Mother. Her swelling belly felt heavy; her back ached. And yet that ache was a wonderful thing, because there was life inside, and it was drumming insistently on the walls of its world.

  For him she prayed, putting all her heart in it, with her soul and everything else she had. She left it to the Mother to choose what protections She would raise, but Myrtale left no doubt that they would be there and they would be strong.

  It was monstrously presumptuous. Myrtale did not care. This was her child. He needed his father; he needed his kin. Yes, even his stepmothers, who were part of the kingdom that his father would pass to him when he was grown.

  “Protect them,” Myrtale beseeched the Mother. “Guard them. Preserve them from harm.”

  Twenty-two

  “Pity you left that prayer so late.”

  Myrtale whipped about. The voice was so unexpected and the speaker so completely unlooked for that for a moment she did not recognize the woman at all.

  Then the world sharpened into focus. Her aunt stood in the center of the hall, mantled in black as always, looking not a day older or a fraction less forbidding than she had when last Myrtale saw her.

  It was startling to realize that her aunt was young—or at least not old. She had been so terrible a presence for so long, but here in this alien place, she had shrunk to mortal stature and rather less than august age. She was not so very much older than Philip.

  Myrtale was in no way minded to underestimate her. She stood calmly in the light of the lamps, showing no sign of either rage or longing for revenge. She must not have been caught in Myrtale’s spell for long, then.

  That was a relief of sorts, though it was also a warning. If Myrtale ever hoped to do such a thing again, she would have to fight for every step of it.

  She let none of that show on her face. “Aunt,” she said. “Welcome. What brings you to Macedon?”

  “The wind,” her aunt answered, “and the Mother’s will.”

  “You flew?” That escaped before Myrtale could stop it. She bit her tongue.

  Her aunt did not answer directly. She said, “Witchcraft is a shallow mockery of true magic.”

  “I had come to that conclusion myself,” Myrtale said.

  “Had you?” Her aunt turned slowly, taking in the broad circle of the shrine. “So. They remember Her here, even yet.”

  “This is still Her country,” Myrtale said.

  “So it seems.” Her aunt approached the Mother’s image, bowed and murmured a prayer.

  Myrtale resisted the urge to retreat. Whatever her aunt meant to do here, Myrtale would be safe. She had bound the Mother to that.

  Her aunt straightened and turned. “Well, child. Will you make me welcome?”

  Myrtale would rather not. But hospitality was sacred; she would do herself more harm by refusing it than by offering it, even to this of all people.

  Strangely, she felt no danger in this woman. Her aunt seemed somehow to belong here, as if she had been meant to come to this place. If she had come to take revenge, there was no reek of it about her.

  That gave Myrtale pause. She pondered it while she called servants and arranged lodging and saw her unexpected guest fed and given the best wine to drink. Her aunt conducted herself properly, with respect and thanks, which only made Myrtale the more wary.

  She of all women was not here out of the goodness of her heart. If she had any concern for her niece, it was more likely fear of what havoc Myrtale might wreak upon this country she had chosen.

  Not so long ago, that concern would have been well founded. But that was before Myrtale woke to herself—before life woke in her and changed the way she saw the world.

  She was still dangerous; more so than ever. She was stronger and surer and more skilled. And she had her child to protect. Nothing mattered more than that.

  * * *

  Myrtale had more than half expected her aunt to appear in her bedchamber before morning, but neither the priestess nor her husband came to trouble her rest. Her aunt’s absence was a relief. Philip’s needed thinking on—tomorrow.

  Tonight there were dreams. These were not heedless ivory dreams, wishes and hopes and airy fancies. They came through the gate of horn, deceptively plain and unadorned, as the truth should be.

  Even in the midst of each dream, Myrtale felt the power that dwelt in all of them. They rose out of the earth beneath her and the magic in her.

  She stood on the shore of the sea. The white strand stretched away before her. Black cliffs rose above her. The air was sharp and clean; the sky was fiercely, bitterly blue.

  Some little distance from the shore, a rock thrust out of the waves. A woman sat there, trailing long white fingers in the water. Her hair streamed down her back, as white as foam, with a faint but distinct green tinge.

  Her chiton seemed woven of sea-wrack and spume, held together with glimmering shells. But that barely caught Myrtale’s eye. Of much more interest was the shape of her beneath the odd garment.

  She was swollen with child as Myrtale was, and there was such a light on her as Myrtale knew well. There was splendor growing inside her.

  Even in dream, Myrtale felt the prickle of small hairs on her nape. She knew who this had to be—and if it was, then this was a world long ago, a thousand years gone.

  The sea-nymph raised her head. She was as beautiful as a goddess should be, even a minor goddess. The Mother was in her, much clearer and closer than She ever could be in mortal flesh.

  Her eyes were as changeable as the sea. They stared straight into Myrtale’s own. “They make the choice,” she said, “but we bear the brunt.”

  Myrtale frowned. Gods could be elliptical, and their minds did not run on simple tracks as mortals’ did, but this was more oblique than most.

  Before she could ask what the goddess meant, the sea rose and overwhelmed the world. When it subsided, the strand and the headland were gone. Myrtale looked out across a windy plain to a city of innumerable towers.

  The sea was calmer here, the strand longer—much longer. Ships were drawn up on it, and a city of tents rose between the city of stone and the sea. Light glinted on helmet and spearpoint.

  The goddess spoke beside Myrtale. “Give a man a choice, and war is what he chooses. Forbid him choice, and he goes to war to win it.”

  “Can a man be a hero without war?” Myrtale inquired.

  “In the old time he could,” said the goddess. “Someday maybe again. But now…”

  “I don’t want to change the world,” Myrtale said. “I want to rule it. I want my son to rule it.”

  “Sons will do what they will do,” the goddess said.

  “Mine will rule,” said Myrtale. Her hand had come to rest over her belly, where he danced his war-dance beneath the arch of her ribs.

  “I kept my son too close,” the goddess said, “and yet not close enough. Be wary of that. The balance is delicate and the dangers great; one false step and he is lost forever.”

  “I won’t lose him,” Myrtale said fiercely through the shiver of fear in her gut, “and I won’t lose my husband, either.”

  “Can you help it? They want complaisant women, soft and helpless. Strength is no virtue in these days.”

  Myrtale looked directly into those shimmering eyes. It struck her with a shock: she was no weaker than this goddess, though her flesh was mortal. As for what she carried in her …

  They were the same. This child of glory who had grown into the great Achilles was the same heart and spirit that rode in Myrtale now. He had come back.

  The goddess inclined her head. “May you and yours fare better than we.”

  There was something terrifying about that simple and stately courtesy. Achilles had had a choice, which the gods had given him through his mother: a long and unsung life and a quiet death, or one brief flash of brilliance and then, for him, oblivion—but for his name, life everlasting.

  In Egypt the name was everything. As long as it lived in memory, so did the
soul. If it was erased or forgotten, the soul was gone, vanished into nothingness.

  “I’ll make the choice,” Myrtale said. “I won’t subject him to it. If I can choose—”

  “You may not,” the goddess said.

  “Why? I’m his mother. That gives me the right—”

  “Not for this one,” said the goddess.

  She swept her hand over the plain, which had shrunk to the size of Myrtale’s coverlet. Mist rose, then cleared.

  The tents were not so different. There was a sea and a shore, and in the distance a city. But the spears were the long spears of Macedon, and the faces were Macedonian faces.

  There was one in a golden helmet, a flame that leaped up to heaven. Myrtale peered closer. Her back was taut with eagerness.

  The mist thickened. The coverlet rippled. The vision melted away before the grey light of dawn and the cold smell of grief.

  Myrtale lay still, half in dream and half awake. Strange, she thought, that she had not dreamed of Philinna’s child or the witch who had poisoned him.

  That was true and present and incontestable. The rest was dream and promise.

  She turned her head and saw without surprise that Erynna sat in the corner, watching her. It was so very simple to find the fire inside and arm it and gather herself to smite.

  Then Erynna said, “I did it for you.”

  The flare of magic collapsed upon itself. Myrtale lay cold and empty and—not afraid, no. But not in comfort, either.

  She had anger enough to keep her warm, if she could reach it. “You did nothing for me. I would never countenance—”

  “That,” said Erynna, “was your son’s most bitter rival.”

  “He was no threat to my child,” Myrtale said.

  “Nor shall he be.” Erynna tucked up her feet. She was floating in air, shimmering faintly.

  Myrtale’s nose twitched. Was that the pungent scent of the witches’ ointment? Or was she imagining it? “Get out,” Myrtale said.

  The witch tilted her head. Her eyes were glittering, but the smile lingered on her lips. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Myrtale sat up. She was both remarkably calm and remarkably angry. “Leave now,” she said, “or I’ll have you carried out.”

  “You may do that,” said Erynna, “but you may regret it.”

  She had no fear at all. Nor did Myrtale, but her estimation of this witch had shifted upward. There was little enough power there—that had not been a deception—but the bait did not need more. Those who wielded her, however …

  If Myrtale gave way to her, that would only be the beginning. Or had it all begun long ago? Was she bound to the witches in some way she could not understand?

  When she opened her mouth to speak, the words came freely enough. No bolt of divine wrath struck her, nor did a poisonous spell close her throat. “Out,” she said. “Go.”

  Erynna shrugged. “As you will,” she said.

  Twenty-three

  The witch had surrendered too easily, but Myrtale took such advantage from it as she could. As soon as Erynna was gone, Myrtale sought out her maids on their pallets by the wall and tried to shake them awake. They did not stir: they were drugged, and not subtly, either.

  Myrtale had to bow to Erynna’s cleverness. If magic had cast them into sleep, Myrtale would have sensed it. A plain and ordinary sleeping draught had eluded her notice.

  After a long while and a dash of cold water to the face, Baukis roused to a mumbling half-stupor. Phryne was breathing, but there was no waking her.

  Myrtale gave up any hope of rousing them before morning. She left them where they lay, snatched up her warmest mantle and ventured out into the corridor.

  All the lamps had burned down, but she knew her way in the dark. The one she looked for was such a light of magic as was seldom seen in this place.

  * * *

  Her aunt was awake, sitting upright by lamplight, waiting. Myrtale resisted the urge to duck her head and mime submission. Old habit was strong, but she was stronger.

  She straightened her back and met that level stare. “I think,” she said, “it’s time you told me all the things you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “Why should I do that?” her aunt asked. “You’ve done well enough without them.”

  “That was luck and the Mother’s hand,” said Myrtale. “If you won’t talk, I’ll send to Epiros and drag back the other priestesses. Snow in the mountain passes didn’t stop you. It won’t stop them, either.”

  “The Promeneia you knew is dead. There is only one priestess still in Dodona.”

  That brought Myrtale up short. She rallied her wits as quickly as she could. “Then you are—”

  “Timarete,” her aunt said.

  Myrtale spared an instant’s grief for the eldest priestess, who had always been kind to her. But there was no time to indulge in it. “You’re here because of the witch, aren’t you? What took you so long?”

  “A certain spell,” Timarete answered dryly, “and a much increased burden on the temple, now that one of our priestesses is gone.”

  “Train Attalos,” Myrtale said. “He’s got the mind for it, and he has enough magic to manage. He can do as much as you need until you find a woman fit to be Nikandra.”

  Timarete arched a brow. “You care what we do?”

  “No,” Myrtale said, snapping off the word. “If you’ve come to drag me back there, you can disabuse yourself of the notion. I won’t be forced into it by guilt or grief. This is where I belong. I was never meant for Dodona.”

  “You were not,” said Timarete. Strange to see that name attached to that face, so unlike the gentle woman who had held it before. “Maybe I had hopes. I am human, as difficult as that may be to comprehend. But I haven’t come for that.”

  Myrtale refused to be taken aback. Always expect the unexpected—that was Philip’s maxim. “Then why have you come?”

  “May I not visit my kinswoman?”

  “In the dead of winter? With all that’s happened in your temple?” Myrtale clenched her fists at her sides to keep from clamping them around that smooth white throat. “We can dance around the truth until the earth rises and swallows us. Isn’t that what you’ve done since the day I was born?”

  Timarete’s face had gone still. “Can you say for certain that I was wrong to have done it?”

  “Yes!” said Myrtale with sudden heat. “You left me open to that.”

  “Did I?”

  “If I had known what I was,” she said—barely able to get the words out; her throat kept trying to close—“I would never have fallen into the witches’ trap. I would never have—”

  “You don’t know that,” Timarete said.

  Myrtale had done her utmost to face her aunt with a steady heart and a calm mind. But that blank face and those useless words tore to shreds all her noble ambitions. “You blinded and deafened me and made me live with a fraction of the senses I was born with. You taught me nothing, showed me nothing, did nothing. I was ripe for the first hunting beast that came upon me.”

  If Timarete had asked another of her damnable questions, Myrtale would have killed her. But she was silent, sitting up in the borrowed bed, offering no more with face or glance than she ever had.

  Then she said, “The omens of your birth were so black there were those who argued in favor of giving you to the wolves. I fought for you, because you are my own blood and because we needed you in the temple. Did we truly teach you nothing? Did we raise you so badly?”

  Myrtale shook off all but the part that mattered. “What were the omens? What did you foresee?”

  She held her breath against another prevarication. Timarete startled her with as straight an answer as she could have asked for. “We saw the sun come down and the world end in fire.”

  “Ah,” said Myrtale as the words sank in. “Is that all? You saw my foolishness with the oracle, then. Now it’s over. There was somewhat to fear, and a good woman died. But the world is still here; the rest of us a
re still alive.”

  “Maybe so,” Timarete said, “but I think not. There’s worse to come.”

  “Only if you will it into being.”

  “You’ve grown,” said her aunt, “and grown almost wise, but you’re no less a fool than I ever was. Do you think the Fates will let you be simply because you’ve decided you’ll not play their game?”

  “No,” Myrtale said, “but I do think a strong enough will and a wise enough heart can persuade them to alter one’s destiny.”

  “Even the gods aren’t as wise or as strong as that.”

  “Maybe,” said Myrtale. “Maybe I’ll dare to hope.”

  “After what you’ve seen, you can say that?”

  “Would you rather I flung myself down, wailing in despair?” Myrtale stood over the bed. She knew she was looming; she hoped it gave Timarete at least a moment’s pause. “If I don’t hold to hope, I’ll have no courage left. Will you help me? I know I have no right to ask it. I do not want my fate to unwind as you’ve foreseen it.”

  “No one does,” Timarete said.

  “Except Erynna,” said Myrtale.

  Timarete arched a brow. “The witch? She threatened you?”

  “In her way,” said Myrtale, “she challenged me.”

  That caught her aunt’s attention. “Did she threaten you?”

  Myrtale shrugged, but after a moment she judged it wise to answer. “She did imply it.”

  “Of course she did,” Timarete said. “Did she name any names? Speak of anyone else who might be conspiring with her?”

  “No,” Myrtale said.

  “Pity,” said Timarete. She rose briskly. “You’ll sleep here tonight. And you will sleep. You’ve a child to think of.”

  “That’s what they want,” Myrtale said, and shuddered. “They want him. Not to kill him but to rule him—to make him their creature.”

  “That may be,” her aunt said, “but you’re no lesser prize, either.”

  “They only want me for what I can give them. Him they can shape as they please. Since,” said Myrtale, “they failed with me.”