Then light blazed across the plain.
The gorgons let go of Danae and shrank back, throwing up their hands to shield their eyes. Their snakes too cringed away, flattening themselves down their mistresses’ necks.
Danae turned to see Charon striding through the mist. He held his staff aloft, the crystal atop it a miniature sun, blazing away the creatures of darkness.
When she looked back, the sisters had disappeared, once more swallowed by the mist.
The ferryman’s vermillion eyes were bright with rage. Hereached out a gloved hand and prodded her sternum. Then pointed to his own.
‘I understand,’ Danae said, still breathless. ‘I won’t wander off again.’
Charon nodded once, then led her back to their makeshift camp.
After a few more fitful hours of sleep, Danae woke again, this time to the drumming of hooves. The ground trembled as she pushed herself upright. Charon stood a few feet away, his staff clutched in his gloved hand as he gazed at the horizon.
A cloud of dust lingered between the misted earth and night-dark sky. Shapes moved within the haze. They appeared to be men on horseback, charging towards them like an invading army.
She was tempted to cry out and beg their aid. As though sensing her thoughts, Charon grabbed the back of her dress and yanked her into the shadow of the rock. She struggled against him, but he held her against the stone, clamping a gloved hand over her mouth.
The pounding of hooves grew loud as thunder as the horses neared them. Then, like a storm-whipped wave, the riders crashed past the rock.
Danae’s eyes widened despite the stinging dust as she saw that it was no army, but a herd of centaurs.
She had once seen their likeness on an amphora, the torso of a man mounted on the body of a stallion. The mighty creature had been in the throes of death, poisoned by an arrow shot by Heracles. Centaurs were said to dwell in the mountains of Thessaly and Arcadia and feast on raw flesh.
She stopped struggling as their powerful bodies raced past. Their long hair streamed behind them, blending with thefur that traced the length of their spines all the way to their gleaming tails. They were all the colours of an autumn forest: auburn, mahogany, bright russet and darkest ebony. Not one turned back to look at Danae or Charon; they cantered on, as though chased by an invisible swarm of gadflies.
Once the dust began to settle, the ferryman released his grip. She swiftly moved away from him, staring after the centaurs. When she looked back, Charon had already begun to trudge onwards.
Danae followed him. After what felt like several hours, her foot caught on something hidden in the mist, and she fell to the ground. Roots had bubbled up to the surface, pulsing with the same ethereal light as the ones surrounding the bronze gates. She clenched her jaw as she scrambled to her feet and was forced to hop over the glowing coils to keep up with Charon.
The air too had changed. It felt closer somehow, the moisture rattling in her lungs. Sure enough, when she looked up, she could make out the crags of the rock ceiling above and the crystals of the glowing stones set into its crevices to mimic the stars. The world was growing smaller.
She flinched as something drifted past her face. A butterfly. For a moment she was held in memory as its large cherry-red wings transported her back to a similar insect on Lemnos. But, like so many things she’d encountered in the Underworld, the butterfly was not as it seemed. The creature before her may have the same vibrant wings, but its body was squat and hairy like a spider, its eight legs dangling like claws ready to curl around its prey.
She continued on and soon the roots became so thick, she and Charon were forced to clamber over them hand to foot. A flock of birds flew overhead, their feathers shimmering like spilled oil, their necks longer than their bodies. A littlewhile later, Danae could have sworn she saw a crow with no head at all. Flowers too began to appear between the roots. She recognized none of them, their jagged petals splashed with echoes of colour as if an artist had spilled all their dyes at random. A creature that resembled a bee, with the horns of a beetle, landed in the centre of one of these plants. She watched it rub its engorged abdomen on the pale-yellow pistil until the petals suddenly snapped together. A moment later, something dark trickled between them.
She wondered if she still slept on the misty plane, trapped in a fever dream.
She was drawn from staring at the carnivorous flower by the sound of running water. She hurried after Charon and found the shade standing at the edge of a large lagoon, the glowing roots trailing into its depths. It seemed they had finally reached the end of the vast cave that contained the Underworld kingdom of Erebus. On the far side, a waterfall tumbled from the rock face, masking the current that flowed beneath it out through a cave. On the surface of the dark water floated plants that were round and as milky pale as fallen moons. Between them, tiny silver fish darted through the lagoon, glowing antennae protruding from their heads. Danae’s gaze darted between their little shimmering bodies, then her eyes were drawn to movement by the waterfall.
Someone was swimming in the lagoon.
It was a girl. Her back was to Danae, so at first all she could see was the girl’s auburn curls trailing in the water. Time seemed to catch in the ripples left in the swimmer’s wake as she reached the far bank and leant her white arms on the root-twined rock. From what was visible of her torso, she seemed to be naked. She was so very pale, but then most creatures in the Underworld seemed to be leached of colour.
The girl turned her head, the edge of her mouth andoutline of her nose emerging from behind her swathe of wet hair. Strange as she was, there was something achingly familiar about her features.
Danae’s heart tightened, then soared through her chest. She could barely form words, her body calcifying with hope, as the girl extended a slender hand to twist a lazy finger around a protruding root at the edge of the lagoon.
Finally, with colossal effort, Danae regained control of her voice and rasped, ‘Alea?’
11. Child of Love
Hermes trod the woodland path, battling the tempest of his thoughts. He wore only his winged golden boots and a simple blue tunic. The rest of his armour was stowed away in a bag slung across his shoulder. In his other hand he carried a basket of fresh bread, figs and a pot of honey.
He’d spent the past week visiting his temples in the Argolid region and the surrounding territories, hoping one of his priestesses might have heard whispers of a strange girl with god-like powers. But his search had proved fruitless. In his desperation, he had flown across the Aegean Sea to the outskirts of a small town in the kingdom of Lydia called Hypaepa.
The trees rustled as he stepped into the familiar clearing. As he approached the little hut nestled in the centre, his brow darkened. The vegetable patches he’d planted were overgrown, and many of them had gone to seed. He would have to pay a visit to the local boys he’d instructed to tend it and remind them what happened to those who disobeyed the Messenger of the Gods. But his heart lifted as he heard a warbling voice from within the ramshackle dwelling. The singer was not skilled, but she sang with the unbridled joy of one who does so purely for their own entertainment.
