Bring Down the Sun Read online

  Nikandra had to admit she did it well. “I think Philip will be persistent. He’s a man who loves to conquer women, and our niece is worth conquering. As for her … she’ll give way in the end. It won’t be easy or quick, but she’s no fool, either.”

  “Still,” Arybbas said, dithering as he too often did, “it’s as good a match as this world knows. He’ll treat her well for our alliance’s sake, if nothing else. We’ll gain much from it and lose little.”

  “Unless he comes to set his own man on your throne.”

  “That’s not his way,” said Arybbas.

  “True enough,” she said. “It’s simpler to bind an ally with obligations until he’s no more than a vassal. He’ll do that to you.”

  “Maybe,” Arybbas said, “and maybe I’m stronger than I look.”

  Nikandra hissed at him. “You’re as much a fool as she is.”

  “I’m a king of this world,” he said. “To you and your world I owe service by ancient custom, but at the day’s end, I owe my first service to Epiros. Macedon offers us significant advantages in return for our niece’s hand.”

  “All men have their weaknesses.”

  “As do women,” he said. “Yours, sister, is to see only what will keep your world alive. Tell me the truth: whom does that profit but you?”

  “It profits every woman,” said Nikandra, “and every man who has a kind heart and a gentle hand.”

  “That’s a fine dream until the armies come with fire and sword, and kill all your gentle men and rape your women. These are hard times. Our niece sees that clearly—and she is prepared to turn them to her advantage.”

  “She is not your property. If she belongs to anyone, it is the temple. If you have any wits at all, you will see that she marries within Epiros, and that she stays where she is safe.”

  “Is she really safe here?” Arybbas demanded. “Is she, sister? Won’t she be more thoroughly distracted if she has a strong husband instead of the weakling you’re trying to force on her? I would think you’d want her under a man’s thumb, if all your fears are true and not simply a ruse to keep her in your power.”

  He had never come so close to defiance before. Nikandra had never pressed him so hard, either, or asked him to choose between his kingdom and his duty to the Mother.

  She could press harder, but if she did, she would lose him. However aggravated she was, she did not want that. He was saying no more than she had thought for herself; though she was not about to let him know it.

  She let him go, for the moment. His relief was palpable, but no less so than her own.

  * * *

  Nikandra chose to bury herself in duties rather than seethe in frustration. The deeper her unease, the more assiduously she fled from it, until she had almost convinced herself that there was nothing to fear.

  On the third day after she had gone to the king’s house, after Timarete had gone out to serve the oracle, young Attalos found her at prayer within the temple. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat and did everything possible to draw her attention without speaking a word.

  He was a rather effective distraction. She sighed heavily and rose from the floor where she had been lying on the hard-tamped earth. “Yes?” she said.

  He was a gentle creature, the perfect image of a man from the old time. Just then, his humble diffidence set her teeth on edge. “Lady, if you please, the Lady Promeneia is asking for you.

  Nikandra’s temper did not cool at all, but she no longer cared what Attalos was or was not. Promeneia was bedridden still; the queen had sent women to look after her, and women of the town had come one by one, some to sit with her, others to offer what knowledge they had of herbs and healing.

  That morning the two women who attended her had familiar faces: they were of the old families and kept as much to the old ways as they could. One sat spinning, singing softly to herself. The other knelt by the bed, where Promeneia was sitting up.

  It would not be long now, Nikandra thought dispassionately. As grimly as Promeneia clung to life, the flesh had nearly melted from her bones.

  Her eyes were dark and wide. They were not seeing this world any longer, although as they turned toward Nikandra, they sparked with recognition. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t go after her.”

  Nikandra frowned. “What—”

  “Don’t pursue her. She’ll only be more determined to thwart you.

  There was no need to ask whom Promeneia meant. Everything came back to Polyxena, Myrtale, whoever and whatever she was.

  “Where is she?” Nikandra asked as gently as she could manage. “What has she done?”

  “Let her be,” said Promeneia.

  Nikandra clasped the cold, gaunt hands. “Please, lady. Tell me what you see.”

  “Open your eyes,” Promeneia said, “and see.”

  “Lady, I can’t—”

  “Turn and look ahead,” said Promeneia. “The old days are gone. The Mother gives us these to make of as we will. That child knows. She was born knowing. You have much to learn from her.”

  “Lady—”

  “Open your eyes,” Promeneia said.

  The breath was leaving her. Her hands were deathly cold. Nikandra cried out to her, as if any mortal voice could stop her.

  She had let go, upright as she was. The earth sighed at her leaving. Outside in the grove, the Mother’s tree sang her dirge with a hundred tongues of bronze.

  It was not Myrtale’s fault. There was no reason for the anger that rose in Nikandra, swelling over her and breaking like a wave.

  With great care she lowered the lifeless body to the bed. The two attendants looked on in shock. She who was nearer threw back her head and keened, the long wailing sound that sent a soul on its way to the Mother.

  It emptied Nikandra’s mind of words or thoughts or sense. There was a moment when she could have stopped it, could have brought back all the troubles that had weighed her down.

  The moment passed. She gave herself up to the purity of grief.

  * * *

  In the face of death, time’s passing had no meaning. The sun passed the zenith and set; the stars followed, and the moon on its changeful track. There were duties in the midst of it, inextricably woven with it.

  For a while Nikandra forgot her troublesome niece. With Timarete she saw the rites performed and the body entrusted to the earth within the grove. There was no pyre to turn flesh and bones to ash; they buried Promeneia as she was, wrapped in a linen shroud.

  No stone marked the grave. Those who attended her took care not to remember under which tree she lay. She belonged to the Mother now; her name passed to her who was now the eldest, and that name to the youngest, who had been Nikandra and was now Timarete.

  There was, for now, no new Nikandra. Attalos who had served loyally since spring was male and could not take that place. Somewhere in the city or the kingdom there must be a young woman who could serve the Mother as priestesses had served Her for time out of mind.

  It would not be Polyxena. She was gone, swallowed up in the woman called Myrtale, whose whole hope and ambition was to be a king’s wife; and that, however it galled her aunt, was a better prospect by far than what else she might have aimed for. The new Timarete might dream of winning her back, but in the hard light of day she knew those dreams were false.

  It seemed a part of those dreams, or nightmares if she would see them so, that she made her way to the Mother’s tree the morning after Promeneia was laid in the earth, to find the king’s messenger waiting. “Lady,” the man said, “have you seen the Lady Myrtale?”

  His voice tried to be empty of emotion, but Timarete’s hackles rose. “How long?” she asked. “When did she go?”

  The messenger looked a little startled, but then he settled: remembering what she was, no doubt. “We think six days, lady. Before the games ended, and before the Lady died.”

  The apprehension that Timarete had been denying uncoiled now and raised its head. Surely her vigilance had not failed so signally.
Surely the gods did not mock her so.

  And yet … “No one looked for her? No one noticed she was gone?”

  “Lady,” the messenger said a little desperately, “please come. The king is waiting.”

  Timarete did not trouble the man further. Whatever she had to ask, Arybbas would answer. And by the Mother, that answer would be to her liking, or stars would fall.

  * * *

  After that urgent summons, the king was not waiting when Timarete came to the palace. The queen, however, was. “They’ve gone hunting her,” she said before Timarete could ask.

  “Where do they think she’s gone?”

  “They’re sure she’s run off to Macedon,” said Troas.

  “Are you?”

  Troas’ white shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s likely. My husband has been dragging his feet, and she’s not known for her patience.”

  Timarete nodded. It did seem likely. But something felt odd. It might be a rumble in the earth; or it was the Mother, speaking almost too softly to be heard.

  Her heart had gone still and cold. While she hid behind grief and denial, what was left of her guardianship had crumbled away. Now the girl was gone.

  She had not gone alone. That understanding came too little and too late. Everything Timarete had done to prevent this had proved futile. If anything, it had made matters worse.

  Whoever and whatever had taken the girl, the tides of time and fate were shifting. Whether for good or ill, Timarete could not tell—and that troubled her, too, after all her forebodings.

  Surely she could not have misread the omens so badly. And yet …

  “Will you hunt, too, aunt?” Troas asked. “I’m thinking you’ll find her more easily than a pack of men in full cry.”

  Maybe, thought Timarete, there was nothing to fear. Maybe Myrtale had simply run off as the men believed. The Mother knew, she had done it before when she could not have her way.

  But with the Macedonian envoy in Dodona, she had only to throw herself on his mercy and let him carry her off to his king. It made no sense for her to vanish without a word.

  Whatever she had done, the answer was not here. “The temple needs me,” Timarete said with careful coolness, “and if she wants to be found, the men will find her. Send word to me when she comes back.”

  “You know where she is,” Troas said.

  “No,” said Timarete, “but the Mother does.”

  That was a truth so profound that it needed solitude and careful study. Timarete left too abruptly for courtesy, but Troas of all people would forgive her.

  * * *

  Priestesses of the grove were not forbidden to practice lesser arts than that of the oracle, but it had long been the custom that they did not stoop to such things. It was also the custom that they should learn those arts, even if they never put them to use.

  Timarete had seen to it that Myrtale lived in ignorance of that whole facet of what she was. The less the girl knew, the better for them all—or so Timarete had believed.

  The elder priestesses had not offered their approval, but they had not refused it, either. If they had spoken, Timarete would have schooled herself to obey.

  So she told herself in the quiet of her own cell—still the same room she had lived in when she was Nikandra. The new Promeneia would need her very soon, but she could spare an hour for this.

  As she walked down from the king’s house, the sense of unease had grown. When she turned her mind toward Myrtale, she had found a sense of imminence, of something deep and powerful rising toward the light. What she had felt at Myrtale’s birth had grown stronger—immensely so. She was not ashamed to admit that she was afraid.

  Among her few belongings was a bowl carved out of alabaster, very old and very plain; it had come with the first priestesses of the grove, it was said, all the way from Egypt. The outside was rounded to fit into cupped hands. Inside, it was polished smooth.

  She folded back the linen wrappings, then filled the bowl almost to the brim with water from the Mother’s stream. She lit the lamp and hung it above, where it cast light but no glare on the water.

  She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. All her power was given to the oracle. When she diverted it, she had to quell the surety that if she let it go, it would run wild.

  She could control it. She opened her eyes and looked down into the pale shimmer of the scrying bowl.

  It was slow, but she had expected that. Magic blurred the sight. The stronger the magic, the harder it was to force it into focus.

  Myrtale’s magic was very strong. For a long while there was only a dazzle of light. Then, little by little, a vision took shape.

  It looked like a goat pasture, high and stony, with patches of grass and scrub and thorny bushes. A stream ran through it. Myrtale knelt by the water, washing what must be her only garment: she was naked and her hair was loose.

  Timarete did not recognize the little dark woman who splashed in the stream, but there was no mistaking the aura that radiated from her. It was crimson and black and royal purple, and spoke of a multitude of dark things.

  “Thessaly,” Timarete hissed. She caught herself before she spat in the water and broke the vision.

  That much she had allowed Myrtale to learn: that the witches of Thessaly were dangerous. They followed a dark path, sacred to the deep powers and the gods below. Their worship was of the Mother, that was true, but it lived on Her left hand, in blood and endless night.

  Timarete cursed herself now for a thrice and ten times fool. In all her years of guarding the girl, protecting her against any power that might rouse the dangers Timarete had foreseen, she had detected no sign of this particular threat.

  She had looked for it. She had cast her spells toward Thessaly, as toward many other places of power in this world. She had searched out every cranny, and found only emptiness. The one enemy she had to fear, or so she had thought, was Myrtale herself.

  The witches were great diviners and even greater deceivers. They would know what Myrtale was—and of course they would have come looking for her, now that she had escaped her aunt’s vigilance. She had power they would lust after, and she would know no better than to trust them.

  It was like their wickedness to slither in when Timarete was most direly distracted. For all she knew, they had tempted Myrtale into releasing her power, and so brought about Promeneia’s death.

  Timarete called herself to order. Maybe it had not gone too far yet. The witch with Myrtale was young; she must be the bait to draw the quarry in.

  No doubt she would be teaching Myrtale simple arts to amaze her untaught mind. The other arts, greater and more perilous, would wait until the snare was set.

  Timarete let the vision open before her. The two young women could be anywhere in the mountains, but she did not think they had gone very far—not on foot. Myrtale had been living in the palace; her body had softened into an image of this new world’s womanhood. Even the hardened soles of her feet had been rubbed and scraped and oiled until they were judged fit to walk on polished pavements.

  The shape of the hillside above them struck a chord of familiarity. Timarete peered closer. Just as she began to think she knew the place, Myrtale looked up, full into her eyes, and bared her teeth in a she-wolf’s grin.

  The vision winked out. Timarete stared down into blank and faintly shimmering water.

  Through the anger and frustration she allowed a flicker of respect. It took more than strength to play that game. However she had gained it, Myrtale had a little skill.

  But Timarete was older and wiser, and now she was forewarned. She held in memory the long bare hill with its jagged crown, and the angle of the sun down its slope.

  She could write it and draw it and send the message to the king and his hunters. That would be the wise thing. But it well might send the quarry to ground; then no one would find her.

  Timarete had not gone hunting in time out of mind, but she had not forgotten the way of it. She found the tunic in her chest of bel
ongings, the high-laced sandals and the woolen cloak that could be a blanket at need. She hesitated over the bow and quiver, but in the end she took them, first making sure the string was fresh and the arrows well-fletched and straight.

  With a bag of cheese and bread and a skin of wine, she reckoned herself ready. The new Promeneia was still serving the oracle; Attalos went about his morning duties, which kept him well away from Timarete.

  She paused. This might be madness. She had power, but Myrtale had more than that. If she had awakened, with as little art as she could possibly have, she was deadly dangerous.

  Timarete was strong enough. She had to trust in that.

  Thirteen

  The hunt was up. Both bait and diversion had succeeded; Timarete was running straight toward the trap.

  Myrtale indulged in a moment of guilt and superstitious fear. Timarete was, after all, her aunt; it was ill luck in Thessaly as in Epiros to shed kindred blood.

  Myrtale hardened her heart. Timarete deserved this comeuppance for what she had done to Myrtale in the name of gods knew what. If the Mother took umbrage, then so be it. Because of Timarete, Myrtale was barely creeping toward knowledge; her destiny was perilously far away.

  She had to seize it soon, before it was too late. She had to claim the magic she was born for. Timarete would stop her if she could—and that must not happen.

  The Mother would forgive. Myrtale laid the last snare, surrounding that high and distant goat pasture with a web of subtle spells.

  To the eye it was an oddity of colored and colorless threads, tangled together on a scrap of woven wool. It looked like the remnants of a clumsy child’s embroidery. Each strand alone was a tiny thing, but all together they could trap and hold a god—and that, for all her pretensions, Timarete was not.

  Erynna was already gone, making her way into the high places. There against the sky, Myrtale could claim a fuller power—and if she wished, draw down the moon.

  But first they must be rid of Timarete. She came on with gratifying if slightly alarming speed. Myrtale hastened to weave the last of the spells.