Underwater lights limned the large, round pool of the headwaters that in
earlier centuries had been caught in a basin of brick and colored tiles,
ringed by stone steps where sufferers could lower themselves into the soothing
embrace of the goddess. Pillars, plaques, broken statues haunted the shadows,
wandering downstream as far as they dared. Seeking the upper world and light,
the Calluna would ultimately find the swift, broad waters of the Severen as
well. The river god would sweep the slower, shallower waters of the goddess
into his bed, dissipating hers as god and goddess became one. Now the goddess
’s waters were trapped in enormous underground pipes beneath the city
streets. They never saw the light before they joined the Severen in its
chilly, muscular flow to the sea.
Daimon stood at the edge of the pool, where Calluna’s first visitors had
painted their gifts to her on the raw stones: animals, birds, flowers. The
earliest image of the goddess’s face floated among them, inspired by the
moon, archaeologists thought, reflected through a hole in the upper ground
onto the dark water below. She had enormous, staring eyes; a wreath of hair or
light rippled around her face. She watched. Daimon, meeting her dark, urgent
gaze, found as much pain as power in it. She understood the sufferers who
sought her. She understood her fate.
Moved by the glimpse of ancient glory and sorrow, Daimon bent, dipped his
fingers into the pool, watched the ripples form and slowly spread.
Perdita called his name, needing him back; he heard the clamor of other voices
in the antechamber. As he turned, a pair of bewitching eyes opened across
time, space, memory, and smiled, blurring the face of the goddess in his
thoughts.
In the dark privacy of the cave, he smiled back. But, he remembered, he had a
lunch to get through first with his father, whose unexpected summons earlier
that day took precedence.
When his shift behind the goddess’s water bar ended, he ascended to the upper
realms, unlocked his electric bike from the parking rack, and made his way
through the busy, labyrinthine streets of Severluna to the calmer, tree-lined
avenues that ended at the vast grounds and high towers of the palace of the
Wyvernhold kings on the cliff above the sea.
“The queen asked me to talk to you,” King Arden said.
They sat in the king’s private chambers, eating a seafood stew, a salad of
strawberries, hazelnuts, and a dozen kinds of baby greens, and chewy, sour
rolls flavored with rosemary. The servers had withdrawn; they were completely
alone, which Daimon found disquieting. As the youngest of Arden’s five
children, and illegitimate to boot, he enjoyed a certain amount of lax
attention, an absence of scrutiny from his father as long as he did what the
king asked when he remembered that Daimon was around.
“About what?” Daimon asked bewilderedly, and caught the flash of the wyvern
’s attention. But the king hesitated. He trawled for a bite, then lost
interest in it, and let go of his spoon. He sat back, gazing at Daimon, an
odd, quizzical expression on his face. He was a handsome, energetic man who
commanded respect, explained succinctly when he had to, and held his secrets
as close as any gambler; Daimon was unused to seeing him uncertain about
anything.
“She said it’s time. High time, her exact words. That I talk to you about
your mother.”
Daimon, stunned, felt the blood flush into his face.
“Now? Why?”
“I have no idea. Genevra is an acolyte of the goddess. She pulls things out
of the air sometimes. Ties up a loose thread before anyone else sees it. She
herself never wanted to know anything more about your mother. And I never
meant to not tell you. The time just never seemed—easy. But she said you have
a right to know, and now is better than not.” He was still again, frowning at
the past. “I wish,” he breathed finally, “that I understood it better
myself.” He raised his salad fork, aimed it toward Daimon’s plate. “Eat.
While I find the place to begin.”
Daimon took a few tasteless bites, listening to his father’s silence. “I
always thought,” he said slowly, trying to help, “that she must have been
independent, maybe poor, considering where I was born, but someone who didn’t
expect—who wanted to take care of herself.” He looked at the king, so lost
in the past, it seemed he had all but forgotten his son. “She must have had a
name. You could start there.”
The king stirred, rearranged a few leaves in his salad. “Her name was Ana.
That’s all I knew of it. I met her at a party. I don’t remember whose. I was
much younger, then; life and details blur. Her face never did. It is as clear
in my memory as yesterday.” He paused, seeing her again, Daimon guessed, the
face that had never changed with time because she had so little left of it. “
She had come to Severluna at the invitation of your great-aunt Morrig. They
were related in some far-flung way; they shared ancestors in a family whose
name is in annals older than Wyvernhold. Are you in love?”
Daimon coughed on a hazelnut. “I don’t think so,” he said vaguely, and was
held in the wyvern’s intent, powerful gaze.
“You know that what you feel is not love? Or you don’t know, yet, what love
is?”