“... Nazarian writes clean and true prose ...”
—Publishers Weekly
COPYRIGHT PAGE
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
COBWEB FOREST
(Cobweb Bride Trilogy: Book Three)
Vera Nazarian
Copyright © 2013 by Vera Nazarian
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Art Details:
“Sunrise on the Adriatic” by Saxum, 2009; “Swinton Park Tree by Night” by Andy Beecroft (geograph.org.uk), January 14, 2007; “Tree silhouetted in radiation fog” by Andy Waddington (geograph.org.uk), November 22, 2005; “Star-Forming Region LH 95 in the Large Magellanic Cloud,” Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)-ESA/Hubble Collaboration, Acknowledgment: D. Gouliermis (Max Planck Institute for Astronomy, Heidelberg).
Interior Illustration:
“Map of the Realm and the Domain,” Copyright © 2013 by Vera Nazarian.
Cover Design Copyright © 2013 by Vera Nazarian
Ebook Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-60762-127-0
ISBN-10: 1-60762-127-4
December 31, 2013
A Publication of
Norilana Books
P. O. Box 209
Highgate Center, VT 05459-0209
www.norilana.com
Printed in the United States of America
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Table of Contents
Map of the Realm and the Domain
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Author’s Note: Imaginary History, Mythology and Cosmology
List of Characters
Other Books by Vera Nazarian
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Map of the Realm and the Domain
Dedication
For all those who have gone before . . .
There is only Love—and Stories.
All else is but a shadow dream.
COBWEB FOREST
Cobweb Bride Trilogy
Book Three
Vera Nazarian
Chapter 1
“Lord Death,” said Demeter, the Goddess of Tradition, as she filled the sterile Hall of bones with her golden light. “Before another word is spoken, you need to drink the water from the River Lethe.”
The goddess had cast aside her dark winter cloak that had been worn by her as the maiden Melinoë, and underneath she was still attired in her dress of pristine whiteness, the one in which she had lain in state as the Cobweb Bride.
And now, as everyone observed her transfiguration, her dress became a fine antique Grecian chiton of gossamer fabric, so delicate that it appeared to be wrought of pure radiance. At the same time, her body grew taller, more statuesque, attaining matronly curves, and her golden hair was now artfully gathered in a headdress, shaped like a braided crown of wheat and harvest sunshine.
The Hall itself—having been eternal monochrome and dull grey for time untold—was suddenly awake. It had been swept clean with a sweet divine breath, and given an aura of life. And now, everything glowed. It was like being within the heart of a great cocoon of infinite layers, dreamlike, warm, and fragile . . . like looking out at the world from the inside of an eggshell. For indeed, every bone in the Hall was now translucent, illuminated and backlit, so that one could see nearly through it and observe cream and honey radiance streaming from beyond.
Meanwhile, the obedient sentinel death-shadow belonging to the Cobweb Bride, moved away from the immortal goddess, for it was no longer bound to her. And yet, the death-shadow remained nearby, for it was now an orphan, impossibly separated from its mysterious true owner. It billowed sorrowfully, for it had nowhere else to go. . . .
At the same time, the mortals standing in the Hall—Percy Ayren, Lord Beltain Chidair, the girls, Lord Nathan, and Lady Amaryllis—were all bathed by the glow of the goddess.
The only one still untouched, still remaining in permanent shadow, was a grim man-figure, bearded in the angular manner of a Spaniard, clad in a gentleman’s black velvet doublet and hose, and wearing a wide starched collar of lace.
He was Death, his antiquated demeanor hailing from centuries before, out of the depth of the Middle Ages. And his face was a vacant spot, never to be observed directly . . . as though it was not there.
Death stood before the immortal goddess, still holding in his beautiful, sharp-clawed hand the small flask containing the shadowy waters of Lethe. He was motionless, possibly stricken with disbelief, fixed with the impossibility that was taking place all around.
And then Death moved. He lifted the flask—shielding it with one ivory hand from the golden radiance of the Hall, so that the liquid inside was given the amount of twilight necessary for it to physically materialize—and he brought it up to the dark obscured place where, it was assumed, were his lips.
No one saw Death take the swallow, for no one could look upon his face. And yet, it was somehow made clear to all that he drank.
And then. . . .
The Hall illuminated in golden radiance started to grow dark again.
Swiftly the darkness approached, but this time its nature was different—it was the menacing overcast before a thunderstorm, the gathering of clouds that were not silver but true thick night. It brought with it sudden heightened contrast, a new quality—so that shadows turned from indifferent grey to profound black. And the honey light itself faded by several degrees, approaching monochrome, its warmth reduced into a slightly anemic cream hue. However the warmth could not be effaced completely, due to the presence of the goddess, and thus it still lingered in all things, flavoring them with a hint of life. But the shadows had fundamentally changed, for a new rich black emerged, populating the dim places.
A black of the Underworld. . . .
And with the advent of deepened contrast, Death transformed before their eyes.
The figure of the Spaniard darkened, coalesced, gaining in physical presence and tangibility. He was now ebony, a tall living statue cast of antique polished metal the color of midnight. His trappings of a stern gentleman faded into non-existence, revealing bare, coal-dark skin. Instead, he was now clad in a classical tunic that came to flow over his one shoulder, leaving his muscular beautiful torso exposed. The tunic, belted at the waist, was made of a strange unearthly fabric that appeared black one moment, silver the next, glistening like mother-of-pearl and constantly shifting and moving in the light. His powerful arms were now bare of sleeves, and there were wide braces of black iron at his wrists and around the biceps of his upper arms. Laced metal-studded sandals defined his powerful calves.
His hair, coming down to his shoulders in waves of a frozen night waterfall, was such an intense shade of black that it shone with a blue and indigo light.
And his face—at last it was fu
lly visible, with its fine, hard, angled lines of exquisite masculine symmetry not found in mortal nature. His eyes underneath stern perfect brows were fathomless openings into a place without definition or end. A high Grecian forehead, a chiseled nose, austere lips and a clean-shaven chin, all balanced into a striking visage of terrible and mesmerizing intensity.
The god stood before them, feet planted wide, and he glanced about him in incredulity that turned into confident disdain and then just as quickly, sorrow.
“I remember myself . . . and everything else up to the moment of my oblivion, when I confined myself to this halfway place between worlds,” he said. His voice—oh, the profundity of its rich timbre, the rumbling echoes that filled the Hall in its wake. . . . “And then I remember only this dreary Hall and the occasional mortals who came here to find me. Since then, what has come to pass?”
“Welcome, Lord Hades,” replied the Goddess Demeter. “It has been many days. The world is broken. And your love—she is broken also.”
And saying this, Demeter lowered her face, and the aura of light softly surrounding her waned, while tears glistened down her cheeks.
The black God, who was indeed Hades, Lord of the Underworld—for Death was merely one of his aspects—observed Demeter with an expression of severe intensity. Once he had gathered himself under control after his initial moment of re-awakening, his face did not betray any emotion. Only his eyes, glittering and fathomless, reflected a moment of pain.
“Tell me, Mother of Bright Harvest,” he said. “What has gone wrong? Have we not drunk the water of Lethe as agreed, all three of us, in our designated places?”
Meanwhile, as this dialogue was taking place, the mortals in the Hall stared in fearful wonder at the gods in their midst—gods conversing as if they were not present.
“Yes,” Demeter replied, wiping tears from her cheeks with the back of one impossibly lovely hand. “We have all drunk once, as agreed. You were the last to drink. And while you stayed here and were eventually diminished, I took my daughter’s hand and together we flew to the distant Palace of the Sun. There, she drank her portion—only one sip—and I left her seated on the Sapphire Throne that brings her from the world below and conducts her back there every season. I left her there, for once she was without memory I had wanted her to recognize and learn anew that intimate, sacred place before all else—to remember her divine function. Finally I went to lie down in my chambers, hidden in the heart of Ulpheo—which is my own city, sworn to me ages ago, even though they do not remember me properly now and worship the One God. There I flew to rest and drink my own portion of Lethe.”
“And then?”
“And then,” concluded the Goddess, “I remember only dreams.”
Hades watched her with a stone gaze. “What you say is impossible. Why did you not remain cognizant? Lethe’s oblivion does not rob you of awareness and reason, only the past. . . .”
“I realize that, but now I know that something else must have occurred that took away my time and consciousness. For I was awakened elsewhere—not in Ulpheo but in the Sapphire Court, in a secret chamber underneath the throne—by this mortal who serves you—” and Demeter pointed at Percy—“and she was the one who broke the bonds of power that held my mind in a web of dreams and my body immobilized and enslaved.”
Percy found herself unable to blink from the overwhelming awe that filled her when Hades, the beautiful dark God, turned around and trained his gaze upon her. . . .
At her side, Beltain instinctively placed his strong steady hand at her waist, to support her.
“My Champion . . .” said the God softly, regarding her.
Percy felt herself drowning. Flashes of memory came to her, the incandescent overwhelming white from Death’s mindscape, where she had first met Death as the White Bridegroom, fair and glorious . . . and he had given her a fragment of his heart in a kiss.
“Yes,” Hades said, reading her thoughts. “It is my aspect also, the one that every mortal is gifted with, in their last moment before oblivion.”
“My—My Lord!” uttered Percy. “I am—that is, I know not what to say or think! Which is the real you?”
And surprisingly, Hades smiled. It was a light smile that barely moved his perfect lips and never touched his eyes—for they were utter pitch-black otherplaces. “You have now seen my real self in my three primary aspects. There are others—but not to be revealed. I am Death, the grey shadow that lingers in the mortal realm. . . . I am the White Bridegroom who conducts you all to the Wedding. . . . And I am the Black Husband—but only for one. . . . In this last and deepest form, none but a few know me. And yet, because the world has been turned upside down and inside out, my true self is revealed before you as it had never been revealed to any mortal soul outside my true kingdom that lies Below. As the Lord of the Dark Harvest, I rule the Underworld. And as the Black Husband I love her who is my Consort, my Dark Lover, Persephone whose name you bear, and who is Resurrection.”
Percy tore her gaze away from his endless abyss and attempted to incline her head in a bow. “My . . . Lord.” She stood, rendered numb, and then became aware that she was trembling. And again she felt Beltain’s strong hand upon her back, and now he was also holding her chilled hand with his own warm one, and squeezing her fingers. . . .
“Persephone,” said Hades. “Percy, Death’s Champion. You have tried to do my will and bring to me my Cobweb Bride. You have done well—as well as possible under the circumstances. But now—the task is still unfinished. The world was never meant to be deprived of my Dark Harvest.”
And Hades glanced at the orphan death shadow that was a sorrowful pillar of grey smoke, standing a few paces away.
“But—what can I do?” Percy asked, glancing at the Goddess Demeter. “I thought she was the one! The death shadow of the Cobweb Bride was attached to her!”
“That bond was only an illusion. While I was merely Death, a pale specter of myself, my full knowledge and power were also diminished. Thus, I could not tell the difference, nor recognize the immortality before me.” And Hades looked at Demeter with steady regard.
“Then whose death-shadow is it? Where is this infernal Cobweb Bride?”
It was Lord Beltain Chidair, the black knight, who spoke thus, addressing the dark God with a fearless countenance. When the god turned the full force of his gaze upon him, the knight did not even blink.
“You ask me, fearless mortal?” Hades said with a surprisingly sardonic shadow-smile. “I may be eternal, but I am not all-knowing like Zeus, my Brother who rules the Skies. I was confined in this place and have no knowledge of events outside this Hall. However, all of you who have been in your mortal world—all of you have borne witness to the events unfolding—you yourselves contain the answer. Thus, I need to look within your memories to see.” And the god motioned to Percy, raising his sculpted ebony hand and offering it to her. “Come, my Champion, let me look inside you and search for her who is so elusive now.”
While Beltain frowned in worry, Percy approached Hades. She took one step, then another. The closer she neared the more she could sense the invisible weight, the darkness thickening, the ghostly oppression around him. . . .
The God of the Underworld took her numb hand into his large, pitch-black own, and she felt a piercing charge of energy pass through her as her skin made contact with his—surprisingly not cold but warm and electric, and indeed impossible to describe.
In the moment of contact, she shuddered, and was instantly submerged into a dream.
Events of the last days raced through her mind with a rapid flickering displacement of twilight and fleeting clouds, sunsets replacing dawns, cities and human figures, and falling snow, in a multidimensional carousel of time. . . . She saw everything, lived through everything again, including her terrifying interactions with the dead and her glorious moments with Beltain. And then she was once again in that secret room underneath the Sapphire Throne, bathed in anemic lavender glow, and she was forcing the veil of ener
gy, and shattering the infinity of cobwebs, releasing the maidens from their stasis—
“There she is, the Cobweb Bride!” said Hades, his voice breaking through the mesmerizing flood of rushing memories. And Percy came to, finding herself upright and back in the Hall of shadows.
The dark God had released her hand and was regarding her.
“You know who she is now, do you not?” he said softly.
Percy inhaled deeply and the image from her own memory stood out clear as day in her mind.
Leonora.
How did she not see it before? Lady Leonora D’Arvu was the only maiden among them all to “survive” being freed from the bonds of power. And yet—even then she had appeared to Percy to be pale and sickly, as though there was something slightly wrong with her, something off. . . . If it hadn’t been for the fact that she had no death shadow at her side, Percy would have eventually recognized her as someone dead.
She realized now that Leonora’s death shadow had been taken from her and attached to Melinoë instead.
But how? And for what purpose?
“Yes,” Percy replied audibly, to answer Hades. And then she added: “We had her, and we let her go. . . .”
She then explained to Beltain and the others what she now knew.
Beltain exhaled in frustration. “The Count D’Arvu and his family have gone away at the same time as we did. They are gone into hiding to escape the Sovereign’s wrath—where to, it is unknown,” he mused. “They could be anywhere!”
“Well, this is all very entertaining,” Lady Amaryllis spoke up suddenly. “But surely there must be a reliable way to catch this annoyingly elusive female Bride creature, once and for all? Why not send out one of those infamous Hell Hounds? Cerberus, is it?”