"Acheron" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenyon Sherrilyn)

The Diary of Ryssa, Princess of Didymos

June 23, 9548 BC

My mother, Queen Aara, was lying on her gilded bed, her body covered in sweat, her face ashen as an attendant brushed her damp, blond hair from her pale blue eyes. Even through the pain, I'd never known my mother to appear more joy-filled than she did that day and I wondered if she'd been this happy at my own birth.

The room was crowded with court officials and my father, the king, stood to the side of the bed with his Head of State. The long, glass windows were open, letting the fresh sea air offer relief to the heat of the summer day.

"It is another beautiful boy," the midwife happily proclaimed, wrapping the newborn infant in a blanket.

"By sweet Artemis's hand, Aara, you've done me proud!" my father said as a loud jubilant shout ran through the room's occupants. "Twin boys to rule over our twin isles!"

At only seven years of age, I jumped up and down in glee. At long last, and after my mother's numerous miscarriages and stillbirths, I had not one brother, but two.

Laughing, my mother cuddled the second-born infant to her pale breast while an additional midwife cleaned the firstborn.

I snuck through the crowd to watch the firstborn baby with the midwife. Tiny and beautiful, he squirmed and struggled to breathe through his newborn lungs. He had finally taken a deep, clear breath when I heard the cry of alarm from the woman who held him.

"Zeus have mercy, the eldest is malformed, majesties!"

My mother looked up, her brow creased by worry. "How so?"

The midwife carried him over to her.

I was terrified that something was wrong. The babe looked fine to me.

I waited while the baby reached for the brother who had shared the womb with him for these months past. It was as if he sought comfort from his twin.

Instead, my mother pulled his brother away, out of his sight and reach. "It cannot be," my mother sobbed. "He is blind."

"Not blind, majesty," the eldest wisewoman said as she stepped forward, through the crowd. Her white robes were heavily embroidered with gold threads and she wore an ornate gold crown over her faded gray hair. "He was sent to you by the gods."

My father, the king, narrowed his eyes angrily at my mother. "You were unfaithful?" he accused her.

"Nay, never."

"Then how is it he came from your loins? All of us here witnessed it."

The room as a whole looked to the wisewoman who stared blankly at the tiny, helpless baby who cried out for someone to hold him and offer him solace. Warmth.

But no one did.

"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."