‘Hylas, not Heracles?’
Her cheeks flushed. When the winged horse approached her atop the Caucasus Mountains, it had felt right to name him after the friend who had saved her life and in return lost his own to the Earthborn on the Doliones’ shore, rather than the lover she had stolen from and abandoned.
‘Give me the wine.’ She avoided the musician’s gaze as she walked over and snatched the amphora from his hand.Pulling the cork with her teeth, she slopped the liquid into the bowl and set it on the ground. Hylas lowered his head and drank greedily, flecking his muzzle with drops the colour of blood.
‘Did everyone know about us?’ she asked quietly.
Orpheus shifted a stone between his feet. ‘It wasn’t spoken about, but the way you looked at each other … it seemed obvious to me.’
The air grew stiflingly thick. She wished she hadn’t asked.
‘Got any food in that bag?’
Orpheus nodded.
‘Good. We should eat, keep our strength up. Gods know what’s waiting for us in that mine.’
The musician delved into his pack and proffered her a hunk of bread. She tore it, giving one half to Orpheus, the other she tore again, dropping one piece into Hylas’ bowl, shoving the other into her mouth. She folded her arms around herself as she chewed. Despite the bright sun, the wind felt like it blew from the depths of winter. She wished she still had Heracles’ lion hide.
On her journey to discover the entrance to the Underworld she had passed through Corinth, where she’d first met Heracles and his crew. She knew it wasn’t safe for her to carry the fur, let alone wear it. Useful as it was to have a hide impenetrable to any blade, Heracles’ famous lion skin was as recognizable as the man himself. So she’d buried it under the stars, leaving nothing but a small mound of earth. She’d sat before it, her hands smothered in dirt, recalling the scent of the oiled wood of theArgoand the chatter of the crew’s voices as they rowed, woven with the rasp of the ever-constant waves. Lastly, she allowed herself to think of Heracles, of his lips on her skin, and the warmth he’d teased from her body. She had sobbed until her tears ran dry,cradled in the exquisite ache of remembering what it felt like not to be alone.
She swallowed her mouthful of bread and turned to Orpheus.
‘We should go before we lose the light.’
The musician nodded.
‘Lead the way.’ As he walked past her, she added, ‘Remember what I am, Orpheus.’ And for good measure she sent a flurry of life-threads into the earth so the stones around her feet danced. ‘If this is a trap, you will not live to regret betraying me.’
Orpheus looked back, his eyes bloodshot and weary. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to earn your mistrust. We were comrades once.’
‘It’s not personal. I don’t trust anyone.’
The sun descended towards the ocean as the three of them trudged towards the western side of Cape Taenarum. Danae drew in deep lungfuls of the salty sea breeze. Soon they would be underground and gods know when she would next smell the waves. If she ever would again.
‘Did you learn anything about the mine from the locals?’ she asked. There were places on her home island of Naxos that no one would tread, superstitions ingrained over the years through whispered fireside tales. Yet there was often a kernel of truth within these stories. Perhaps it was the same here.
‘They say there is a vast bed of green marble beneath the mine, buried deep. Many years ago, when the mine was built, the crest of the rock was discovered by chance. To reach it, the foreman ordered the shaft to be dug deeper than they’d ever gone before. It was dangerous, but the marble was worth so much the miners took the risk. Soon they beganto return to the surface with stories of invisible beings and floating crimson eyes.’
‘Shades,’ breathed Danae.
‘Exactly. Then, three decades ago, the shaft collapsed. Twenty-one miners were killed. People said it was punishment for burrowing too close to a place where the living did not belong, and no one dared reopen the mine for fear of it being cursed.’ Orpheus stopped and pointed across the undulating coast to a mound of stones further along the headland. ‘There.’
They paced along the cliff edge until the mouth of the old mine yawned open before them. The red earth within the exterior shell looked to Danae like the fleshy caverns of a great mouth. The stone walls were strengthened by beams of timber and a litter of ropes and pulley systems lay discarded around it. Above the entrance, carved into a stone above the lintel, was a likeness of the god Hephaestus. He was the smith of the gods and patron deity of all blacksmiths, builders and craftsmen. He was depicted here without the usual armour and regalia of the Twelve, clothed in a simple tunic, wielding a chisel and mallet. Below the image an inscription read:Lord of stone and metal, guide our tools to strike true.
She took a step towards the darkness then turned at the sound of Hylas braying behind her.
‘Shhh.’ She returned to the winged horse, smoothing his coat, but he only grew more agitated, rearing on his hind legs and flexing his wings.
She grabbed at his mane. ‘Hylas, please!’
Her heart rattled in her chest as his hooves left the ground. He was going to fly away, abandon her when she needed him most.
‘Sorrow is the song love sings…’
Danae glanced back at Orpheus in surprise. She had forgotten the power of that voice. It cracked with disuse, but still flowed with the sweetness and purity of a fresh mountain spring.
‘Mournful, she cries to the gloom,
