"He will be a destroyer, this child," the wisewoman said, her ancient voice loud and ringing so that all could hear her proclamation. "His touch will bring death to many. Not even the gods themselves will be safe from his wrath."
I gasped, not really understanding the significance of her words.
How could a mere baby hurt anyone? He was tiny. Helpless.
"Then kill him now." My father ordered a guard to draw his sword and slay the infant.
"Nay!" the wisewoman said, halting the guard before he could carry out the king's will. "Kill this infant and your other son dies as well. Their life forces are combined. 'Tis the will of the gods that you should raise him to manhood."
The elder twin sobbed.
I sobbed, too, not understanding their hatred of a simple baby.
"I will not raise a monster," my father snarled.
"You have no choice." The wisewoman took the baby from the midwife and offered it to my mother.
Frowning, I saw a note of satisfaction in the midwife's eyes before the beautiful blond woman made her way through the crowd to vanish from the room.
"He was born of your body, Majesty," the wisewoman said, drawing my attention back toward her and my mother. "He is your son."
The baby squalled even louder, reaching again for my mother. His mother. She cringed away from him, clutching her second-born even tighter than before. "I will not suckle it. I will not touch it. Get it away from my sight."
The wisewoman took the child to my father. "And what of you, Majesty? Will you not acknowledge him?"
"Never. That child is no son of mine."
The wisewoman took a deep breath and presented the infant to the room. Her grip was loose with no love or compassion evident in her touch.
"Then he will be called Acheron for the River of Woe. Like the river of the Underworld, his journey shall be dark, long and enduring. He will be able to give life and to take it. He will walk through his life alone and abandoned-ever seeking kindness and ever finding cruelty."
The wisewoman looked down at the infant in her hands and uttered the simple truth that would haunt the boy for the rest of his existence. "May the gods have mercy on you, little one. No one else ever will."
August 30, 9541 BC
"Why do they hate me so, Ryssa?"
I paused at my loom to look up at Acheron's timid approach. At age seven, he was an incredibly handsome boy. His golden hair gleamed in the room as if it had been touched by the gods who seemed to have abandoned him. "No one hates you, akribos."
But in my heart I knew the truth.
And so did he.
He came closer to me and I saw the red, angry handprint on his face. There were no tears in his swirling silver eyes. He'd grown so used to being hit that it no longer seemed to bother him.
At least nowhere other than in his heart.
"What happened?" I asked.
He looked away.
I left my loom and crossed the short distance to his side. Kneeling in front of him, I gently brushed the blond hair away from his swollen cheek. "Tell me."
"She hugged Styxx."
I knew without asking who she was. He'd been with our mother. I'd never understood how she could be so loving to me and Styxx and yet so cruel to Acheron. "And?"
"I wanted a hug, too."