Loth sat in his forest, chilled and numbed and angry and heartsore, mourning his friend and pledging revenge.
But how? Loth was not trained as a warrior; Brutus would slaughter him in a moment.
Loth had no power, or very little of it. There was no Og magic to throw at Brutus, and slow his sword arm.
And Brutus had Genvissa. Genvissa would give him everything she had, and Loth had to admit that was a great deal.
He’d thrown out the challenge to Brutus in that first, terrible moment of anger and grief and frustration, without thinking about it, without thinking through the implications.
Now Coel was dead (and, oh, by Og, Loth had not even gone to Erith to comfort her!) and Loth soon would be, and then there would be no one left to counter Genvissa and her damned, evil-lodestone of a Game.
Not Cornelia. Never Cornelia.
“What can I do?” he whispered. “What can I do?”
He had not expected an answer, but he was shocked to receive one.
There was a step in the forest, a slight sound, but nevertheless a step, and Loth sprang to his feet.
For the first time in his life, he felt afraid of the forest.
“It is only I,” said a soft, sad voice, and a man stepped out from behind a tree.
Yet not a man at all, but a shade, for both shadows and a stray moth passed straight through him.
Loth did not recognise him. The stranger was a tall man, strong and muscular, and dressed in the clothes and armour of a Trojan. He was of middle age, handsome enough if you liked the Trojan bluntness of feature, and with long, curly black hair tied with a thong at the base of his neck.
At his hip hung a sword, and in his hand he held a bloodied arrow.
His left eye was a mass of congealed blood.
“Who are you?” said Loth.
“My name is Silvius,” said the shade, “and I am the fool that fathered Brutus.” He started to moan, as if in agony, saying, “Oh, I was seer-warned when I had barely planted Brutus in his mother’s body, but I did not listen. I should have pummelled my son from his mother’s womb before she gave him birth. Then she would be alive, and I also.”
The shade of Silvius wept—horrible, thick blood tears from his ruined eye—and handed the arrow to Loth. “Take this into the labyrinth tomorrow, Loth, and it will be your guide. Draw Brutus in, and I will take up the fight for you.”
A vision appeared before Loth, passing quickly in flickering images before his eyes.
The hunt.
The forest.
Brutus aiming his arrow into the bushes.
Silvius, crippled on the ground.
Brutus, seizing the opportunity and taking his father’s hair in one hand and the arrow in the other, and driving it deep into Silvius’ brain.
“I should never have fathered him,” Silvius said. “Brutus is my responsibility. What happens to the Game he has started is my responsibility. Thus, I will deal him death.”
And then, suddenly, horrifically, all hesitation and sadness was gone from Silvius, and he drew out his sword and roared, stabbing the sword towards the sky. “Brutus!” he screamed…
…and then was gone.
Loth stared at the place where he had been, then slowly lifted his hand and looked at the arrow. It was fouled with old, crusted blood, and Loth swallowed, momentarily sickened.
Then Loth jerked in shock with another and vastly more frightening surprise.
Coel’s voice, whispering through the forest. Think not that Brutus will allow Silvius to best him, my friend.
“Coel! Coel!” Loth spun about, but could not see his friend.
Brutus has never allowed Silvius to best him, and I doubt he will on the morrow. Loth, be silent and listen to me: whatever happens, Loth, let no harm come to Cornelia. Let no one harm Cornelia. She is far more than she appears, and she, only she, holds the key. Only she knows the steps to the Dance, only she can close the gate. Let no harm come to Cornelia!
And then Coel too was gone, and Loth was left alone, weeping for all that had been lost to Brutus’ vile sword.
“Tell me,” said Genvissa, stroking Brutus’ hair as they lay side by side on the furs in his palace, “in what form did the evil challenge you in the heart of the labyrinth?”
Brutus hesitated, then told her—all of it—the manner of his father’s death, and his own part in it.
“Then that is what Loth will use against you tomorrow,” said Genvissa. “He will use what is there already.”
“Shush,” she said, kissing him. “We will kill two birds with one sword tomorrow.” She grinned. “This is what you will do.”
Genvissa whispered to him, long and sweetly, and eventually Brutus laughed, and placed his hands on her breasts.
“I am blessed with your care,” he said, kneading at her flesh, but thinking only of Cornelia, and the terrible sight of Coel atop her.
“Aye,” she said. “You are. I will allow nothing to threaten the Game. Not Loth. Not Cornelia. Nothing.”