Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,41
the dress worn by the flute player.
Honorius sat on his throne and waited. Dipsas took the bundle and shook it out to full length. She could tell the silk gown had once been beautiful, but it was now torn and covered with brown stains.
Excited, Dipsas put it to her nose and breathed. Blood stains. The essence of the flute player was here, a part of the fabric. She smelled cedar wood, too, and guessed it came from a storage chest. With the cloth still pressed against her nose, she closed her eyes. Her thoughts crystallized and she saw whirling colors rising like smoke, along with twinkling lights, the precursors of great magic.
Come to me, she thought. You who are veiled in mystery. Come and let me see you.
She smiled as the shimmering form of a woman took shape, a beautiful lady holding a golden flute. Dipsas held herself still, not even daring to breathe, as a melody drifted into her thoughts, the tune light and soft, like a bird twittering in the far distance. The music faded, yet she waited until she was convinced it would not come again. She exhaled, then resumed breathing deeply of the fabric, until she conjured another vision, tantalizing, pure and white, someone else, another woman.
No, a statue. Venus.
She turned and looked into Honorius’s eyes, and saw that he discerned her excitement.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Is there a statue of Venus somewhere nearby, O Great One?”
Honorius frowned.
Africanus stepped forward and bowed. “My lord, shall I inquire as to the location of the nearest statue of Venus?”
Honorius opened his mouth to speak, but Dipsas raised her hand. “No need!” she called out, suddenly certain. “I can see her. She is here on the grounds of the palace. In a small garden.”
• • •
As Dipsas neared the garden, the hair on her arms rose. She ignored the others and entered, leaving them to wait on the path. This place, this moment, went well beyond the courtiers’ jaded curiosity and Honorius’s greedy wishes. The garden held secrets, vague and spent, whisperings of the ancient past. Although it was in sore disuse, overgrown and littered with twigs and leaves, this was a sacred spot.
And then Dipsas saw her. Venus. She stood in a pond surrounded by columns. Behind her, a tiny cascade of spring water splashed over green stones. Dipsas plunged her hand into the emerald depths and let her fingers trail through it, enjoying its cool purity. Venus stared down at her, her marble features retaining traces of paint, much faded and stained, yet still quite beautiful. Dipsas knew the goddess originally worshiped here was far older than Venus, perhaps a foreign deity like Isis, or one of the truly ancient ones, like the fat Earth Mother of the skin wearers, whose name had been lost to history.
A breeze picked up, and as the leaves whirled, Dipsas spotted a niche behind the falling water. She bent down to examine it. But for some wet leaves, the niche was empty, and she touched the damp interior, seeking information.
The world suddenly grew distant and cold. Her mind pulled her away from the here and now, to see that which had been.
Moments passed. Long moments, until the stone spoke to her. A man had been here. His things had been hidden in the niche, and then retrieved. A man, but who … ?
She tried to conjure a vision of him, but nothing more came. This did not surprise her; in order for her magic to work, she needed to touch tangible objects, things held by the owner, worn and cherished.
Dipsas struggled to straighten her back and looked into Venus’s painted eyes, her mind shifting to her own needs. “O Divine Lady, I am called Dipsas,” she whispered. “But you know it is not my true name. I am your humble servant Amalaswintha. You are no mere love goddess, as I am no mere witch. No, we are each so much more! Help me, Great One! I seek those who caused the death of my blood kin, my sister, the only one I ever loved, the only one who ever loved me.”
The goddess gazed down at her, serene and unmoving. She would deign to answer all questions in her own time. Patience had its rewards, but Dipsas decided to hasten the path to retribution. She would loose the spell on him, her nephew, the mother-killer.
The blood moon was coming very soon. The time was ripe.
She twisted and looked at the sky, recalling