He stared at her, then nodded. ‘All right.’ He cleared his throat.
His voice rasped on the first few notes, then the rust fell away, and a pure, unwavering melody spilled from his lips. It was the same song the roots had been humming, and in response to his tune their lights raced faster and faster until every tendril seemed lit up from within.
‘Keep going,’ Danae urged.
Was it her imagination or was there a quiver of movement from the doors? Her hopes lifted further at the unmistakable screech of metal on stone, and sure enough the great bronze doors began to creak open.
‘Yes!’ Danae’s heart soared.
Then Orpheus’ voice cracked. He stopped singing.
The gates froze, then began to close.
‘No, no, no, Orpheus, keep going!’
The musician struck up his tune once more, the doors stilled, then he faltered.
‘I … I can’t remember the words.’
With a groan, the bronze gates continued to close.
‘Shit.’ Danae grabbed hold of Orpheus’ hand. ‘Run!’
They sprinted forwards, hurtling towards the ever-narrowing gap, and threw themselves through the crack a heartbeat before the doors crashed shut.
They remained sprawled on the ground while they caught their breath. Danae looked at Orpheus and smiled with relief. They were lying on sand, black as a midnight sky, that rolledaway from the bronze gates in undulating dunes towards the bank of a wide river, the water beyond inky as the obsidian shore.
The River Styx.
Hope swelled in Danae’s chest. She hadn’t wanted to admit to herself how terrified she had been of what she would find when she reached the Underworld, that the river of death and the three realms – Elysium, the Asphodel Meadows and Tartarus – might not exist at all. That Prometheus would be proven right.
‘Where are the souls of the unburied?’ asked Orpheus as they rose to their feet and dusted off the black sand.
Like all mortals, they had been brought up to believe that when a person died their body must be buried and the proper funeral rites performed, or their ghost would be doomed to wander the banks of the Styx for all eternity. But there was no one here, nothing but the sand, water and the darkness beyond.
There is no afterlife in the Underworld, repeated the voice.
Danae ignored the sudden sinking sensation in her stomach. ‘Perhaps they don’t wander this part of the river.’
Her sandals melted into the sand as she walked towards the water, the itch between her toes a familiar comfort. She glanced back at Orpheus. ‘Do you think it’s strange that we’ve not seen any more shades since that ambush in the tunnel?’
Orpheus looked about, his face grey under the sickly light of the strange Underworld stars. ‘I suppose … Perhaps they found what they were seeking.’
Danae’s gut twisted as she thought of Hylas, and what those creatures might be doing to him. She must find him, as well as Alea.
‘Daeira, look!’
Orpheus pointed to where the river curved away into the distance. A sleek barge fashioned from dark wood was being punted against the current by a charcoal-cloaked figure, a light similar to the ones in the sky glowing at the end of its staff.
‘The ferryman,’ breathed Danae.
Orpheus hastily drew his purse from his bag and pressed two obols into her hand.
A heartbeat later, the coins slipped from her fingers to be swallowed by the midnight sand. The ferryman had almost reached the bank, his barge floating through the dark current like an autumn leaf on a slick of tar. He was close enough now for her to see what lay beneath the charcoal cloak.
A pair of crimson eyes.
She was transported through time, her feet no longer held by sand but melded to the stage in the Athenian theatre, bound in chains, the air ripe with fear and piss. She could feel a sea of eyes bearing down at her, but only saw one pair shining scarlet beneath a charcoal hood.
