I hope Anassa can handle this. I will not turn to look.
Just then, I hear her. ‘My Lo— My Bard, where are youtaking us? Must we proceed amid this dreary mist? Only we’ve been through quite enough already and …’ Her voice breaks.
The Bard doesn’t respond, doesn’t offer comfort, only sighs and keeps going, as if our existence is an inconvenience he must bear. Anassa doesn’t say more.
Damn it all to Tartaros. Without turning to look at her, I extend my left hand backward, stiff as an oar but just as likely to guide her through this storm. A second passes. Two. Then her fingers, cold and trembling, find mine. I squeeze her hand. The mist subsides somewhat; the tiniest of retreats, as if the impact of our touch is now subdued. But we can see each step’s entire breadth, and the endless curvature of stairs below, and I’m not sure if this is an improvement or another burden. Still, I hold Anassa’s hand tight, ignoring the way my heart pulses there, at the place where our fingers meet.
‘See, that’s better. I’ve found that if you keep calm, the mist subsides,’ the Bard says.
If audacity was ocean he would surely drown. I could help him.
‘Now, if I’ve counted correctly, the steps will end soon, and then the really arduous part of our journey begins. We must walk single file, on the thinnest strip of land – a bridge, if you will.’ He half turns his head in our direction, big brown eyes actually looking scared. ‘I beseech you, ladies, do keep your wits about you. Whatever the waters show you, whatever phantoms they beguile you with, do not engage. Do not let them claim you as their own. I would hate to lose my wards to Lethe when we’re so close to reaching Shepherd’s realm.’
I almost drop Anassa’s hand. ‘Lethe … Are you takingus to Hades, then?’ I don’t know why I kept clinging to the notion I’m not dead. What else could I be? What else could all this be, if not some elaborate, gods-ordained ordeal before my final rest? Maybe Agamemnon found a way to exact revenge on me. Maybe his men –
‘Don’t be absurd, figment, this is not the Underworld. How could a living, breathing human such as myself cross it if it were so?’ The Bard has stopped descending and stares at me as if I’m the one who wore a donkey head earlier. ‘Yet if you know about the Underworld, and you’re not one of mine … then lo, I was right!’ A smug smile slashes through his lips. ‘You are indeed one of Kit’s creations! Dido, Queen of Carthage, if I’m not mistaken?’
The incomprehensible man bows. Does he mean to mock me?
Surely it wouldn’t be a great loss to stab him now?
‘My Bard,’ Anassa interjects, sounding somewhat wary of my murderous intent, ‘in your … great wisdom, you were right to address her as a queen, although her name is Kly—’
‘My name is Claret,’ I say, leaving it at that. No need to give possible enemies ammunition. Plus, I’ve grown to tolerate the moniker. ‘Shall we move on?’
Anassa’s grip tightens. I give it a squeeze back, an acknowledgement.
‘Named after your cloak, I suppose? Endearing, if unimaginative. Very well,Claret,’ he concedes, making it clear he’s humouring me. I don’t correct him, don’t bother telling him who came up with that name, and why. Something tells me this man has not been corrected a single day in his life; he wouldn’t recognize the notion if it punched him on the teeth. So I nod.
Let him presume at his own peril.
The presuming idiot stomps his feet, as if testing the terrain. A cloud of something ochre-coloured rises. ‘’Tis as I thought; no more stairs for us to go down. Be ever so vigilant. The sands are shifting.’
He leads us on a surface that feels different from the cold stones of the steps. My toes sink slightly, but I find my balance. ‘It’s sand,’ I tell Anassa.
She sighs. ‘Let’s hope this one won’t go on forever.’
I give her hand another squeeze in lieu of an answer.
The ochre cloud subsides, showing us the truth of where we are. An enormous cave, so high I strain my neck but can see no ceiling, our party’s lonely torch offering fickle light. A thin ribbon of sand stretches underfoot, barely enough to fit one person. No way for me to glean what lies ahead of us; only our guide’s back is visible. His shoulders shake, as if he’s trembling – and detest him as I do, I cannot rightly blame him.
Because on either side of us, flanking us like a beast’s ravenous jaws, rise the tallest waves I have ever seen. Held in place by some sort of sorcery, when by all rights they should be crashing over us, burying us under their depths, grinding our bones with water.
‘What in Poseidon’s trident?’ I whisper. ‘How is this possible?’
‘It’s possible because, ahem, I will it so,’ he utters with a sort of confidence I don’t believe he actually possesses. ‘Now, trust me, please. Walk fast, don’t stare at the waves for too long, and we should all be safe and sound.’ He picks up the pace, leaving us no choice but to follow.
I manage for a while, holding my knife tight in one hand as if it can lock the tide in place, holding Anassa with theother. But I can feel eyes on me. I cast a sideways glance, to confirm.
Shadows move under the waters’ surface, shadows made of blood and foam. They bring to mind the statues from the cave – will the waters part, reveal an agora of gory limbs, eager to grab us? Is the Erinya among them, having followed us all along?
I am both right and wrong.
The waters do part, but no monster materializes. Instead, the liquid spectre of my long-lost daughter, the one Agamemnon butchered, reaches out a bloody dripping hand my way.
17. Anassa
The waves part like a curtain, a crimson horror gliding out of them, reaching for Claret.
