Free Goddess by Laura Powell Page B

carried the taper through the door behind the altar, down the dark stairs to the crypt below. I was bringing the light of the goddess into the underworld. As the door closed behind us, I heard the handmaidens raise their voices in the final song.
    In the crypt, I stood in front of the rough slab of stone that was King Brutus’s altar. The narrow opening to the Chamber of the Oracle was in the wall opposite, concealed by a curtain. What was waiting for me there? Above ground was a sprawling modern city of concrete and neon and exhaust fumes. Below, I could be standing in the temple at Troy. The shrine at Delphi. The gateway to Hades.
    I carried the only source of light; the darkness around me was filled with the rustlings of robed women: Opis, Leto, Aphaea, Cynthia, Amarysia, Atalanta, Aeginaea, Aetole, Agrotera, Callisto . . . Familiar faces made strange by the shadows.
    Leto, as the oldest priestess, fastened my new mantle to my shoulders, with her usual scowl. It won’t do you any good , she’d told me. She’d been right, and I still didn’t understand why. One by one, the others stepped forward to kiss me on the cheek. When it was Cally’s turn, I felt her fingers close briefly and tightly round my wrist. I couldn’t tell if this was a blessing or warning. Cynthia was blinking and shivering. I felt a shudder of my own run down my back.
    Finally the others withdrew. I was alone with the High Priestess and the Lord Herne. In spite of myself, the hand holding the taper shook.
    One of the priestesses had brought down a gold chalice and set it on the altar. Opis lifted its lid and steam rose into the air. There was a smell of wine and honey. With the point of the gold arrow, she made a cut in her wrist, and let a couple of drops of blood fall into the cup.
    ‘The gods’ veins run with ichor,’ she intoned. ‘And mortal veins run with blood. They drink nectar, and we drink wine. Blood to ichor, wine to nectar, human to divine. Tonight, you will face the miracle of metamorphosis.’
    ‘What . . . what is my task?’
    ‘To guard the goddess’s light and tend her flame. The rest is for Artemis to reveal.’
    Then she reached out and stroked my cheek. ‘Dear Aura,’ she said, ‘you are so nearly one of us. I hope you have been thinking about what we discussed. I am sure you have prayed for guidance.’
    ‘I have, Honoured Lady.’
    ‘So do you renounce your false prophecy?’
    She spoke so tenderly that in spite of myself, tears sprang to my eyes.
    ‘I – I can’t, Honoured Lady.’ I licked my cracked lips. ‘I don’t want to make you angry. But I have to speak the truth. My prophecy was real.’
    The High Priestess sighed, soft and low.
    ‘It is your choice,’ she murmured. ‘Remember that.’
    The Lord Herne lifted the cup to my lips. I saw his cufflinks glint from under the green cloak. The reflected flame danced in his eyes. I hesitated, just for a moment, and then I drank.

Chapter 9
     
    I’d gone more than forty-eight hours with hardly anything to eat and very little sleep. I’d been feeling faint all day. But this weakness was different. My limbs had suddenly become slow. The taper I was holding had become almost unbearably heavy. Everything seemed very small and far away.
    I don’t even remember going through the curtain and into a second stone room. The Chamber of the Oracle. Through bleary eyes I saw an alcove that had been carved out of a wall of sheer rock. The alcove contained a small statue. It was Artemis Selene, Lady of the Moon, veiled, with a crescent moon as her crown. But it was nothing like the elaborately carved sculpture in the temple. It was worn and crude, smoke-blackened. This was the goddess that had been carried out of the ruins of Troy.
    I walked unsteadily towards the statue. There was a bronze tripod seat in front of it next to an unlit brazier on a stand. A dish was set above the coals, containing dried leaves or herbs of some kind. In the wall on my right was a small