Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr Page B

linked hand to hand. Polyxena’s demure sister had let her hair fall out of its tight braids; it streamed behind her. Polyxena had not known she had such wildness in her.
    A line of men danced and stamped beyond the queen and her maids. They were big men, liberally ornamented with scars; their hands looked oddly empty, as if they should be carrying weapons or shields.
    Polyxena’s eyes found the man in their center, stopped and stayed. He was not the tallest of them, but he was one of the broadest. His hair was thick and black; his beard was cut close. It was vigorous, though not quite as black as his hair: in the fitful sunlight it had a reddish cast.
    His face behind the beard was blunt but well-cut, solid and strong. It matched the shape of him, his wide shoulders and muscled thighs. She would not have called him handsome, but he was all of a piece, with a compact, powerful grace.
    Now that, she thought, was a man. Her first thought was of a bull, but lion fit him better. A young one, a little short of his prime, with his black mane still growing in and his body showing the last faint hint of youngling awkwardness.
    He paused in his dance. His eyes lifted to hers. She had expected them to be dark; it was a shock to see that they were blue—as blue as the sky overhead, bright with a fierce intelligence.
    They widened as he took in the sight of her. She had heard from the queen’s women that a man’s regard could make a woman feel beautiful. Under that hot blue stare, she understood how deeply true it was.
    She was too wise to smile and too proud to look away. She held her head high under its crown of myrtle and deliberately, slowly, danced for him.

Eight
    Even in her dance, Polyxena held to awareness of the world around her. It was a useful skill. Priestesses cultivated it.
    She saw how the priests left the altar with the dance still whirling, and how a company of white-robed acolytes moved among the dancers. Those nearest the far side of the circle were led or herded one by one into a low stone temple.
    She, near the midpoint of the crowd, had a while to wait, but her feet were light and her body tireless. The Mother was in her, filling her with strength.
    The dark man had stopped his own dance to watch her. When the crowd moved, emptying toward the temple, he stayed level with her.
    She let the dance slip into stillness, but kept the memory of it as she followed the flow of pilgrims. That was enough to keep his eyes on her. She was careful not to stare at him, though she was aware in her skin of his every move.
    So intent was she on the dark man that the door of the Mystery took her by surprise. Troas and her maids had already vanished inside. The narrowing of the stream of pilgrims had shifted the dark man some distance behind her, but she could feel his eyes on her back.
    She drew a steadying breath and stepped forward into darkness.
    *   *   *
    Slowly her sight came back. The space she stood in was old—as old as Dodona, and as holy. The walls around her had not stood so long, but they were built on ancient foundations.
    Hands reached out of the dimness. She could just see the bodies beyond, dressed in white. They tugged at her clothes. She willed herself to stand at ease.
    They stripped her with deft dispatch, poured gaspingly cold water over her and sealed her brow with blood from a much-stained bowl. While she stood with chattering teeth, the unseen servants covered her with a thin white robe that clung to her damp skin.
    Polyxena was glad then that she had yielded to impulse and left the hatchling in the pilgrims’ lodging, safe and warm in its pouch. When it was grown it would be a sacred snake, the Mother’s beloved, but it was too young and fragile for this.
    The hands led her across the ill-lit space. Shapes loomed in it, standing in ranks along the wall. They were carved of stone, squat and overwhelmingly old.
    Half of them were female, each with pendulous