Page 55 of Katabasis
“We aren’t allowed, dear boy. And in any case, he would not know me. He’s washed all memory of me out of his mind.”
“Oh,” said Peter. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re so sweet.” The Weaver Girl reached out and tweaked his nose. Peter’s entire face turned red.
Alice was not sure how she was supposed to react to all this. The Weaver Girl was talking quite a lot. But this at least offered her some respite—it gave her time to assess whether this deity wanted to play with them or kill them.
“But still I am a romantic!” The Weaver Girl spread her sleeves. A magnificent display of color. “It was never wise for a deity to wed a mortal, I see that now. One needs a shared perspective on time. Deities do not love so fleetingly, so hopelessly, with every ounce of their soul. But humans—you live for a breath, you die, and you spend your whole lives wondering how you might stay together in the afterlife, when you don’t even know if that’s what you truly want.”
She drifted closer—uncomfortably close—and her long fingers stretched out to dance over their shoulders. Alice had the absurd fear she might knock their heads together and make them start kissing like dolls.
“I see so many of you. Murder-suicides, that’s common. Or accidents. Sometimes both parties die natural deaths, and one party waits years in the Fields of Asphodel until the other dies of old age.” The Weaver Girl sighed. “Everyone thinks their love is eternal. I like to let them keep believing.”
“So let us through,” said Peter. “Love isn’t a crime.”
“Indeed it isn’t,” said the Weaver Girl. “I do not inflict punishment, dear boy. I offer a solution.” She clasped her hands together. “I offer you a test. No arduous quest; only the answer to a question. I test your loyalty. If you pass, I build a bridge.” She brought her hands together. Her fingers moved quick, and threads spilled out between them, conjuring just for a moment a fabric that rippled and glittered; twinkling gold and silver against velvety black. A carpet made of stars. “My bridge will lead to any place you wish. Any boundary, any court. The Rebel Citadel, if you wish. Or straight to Lord Yama’s throne. Pass, and I will let you walk this bridge just once, to any place you wish to go.”
“What if we fail?” asked Peter.
“Then, into the Lethe you go.”
“But we’re not dead,” said Alice. “We aren’t Shades.”
“Oh, you’resojourners!” The Weaver Girl’s hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes shone huge. “But even better. Then you mustreallyneed safe passage.” Her fingers danced; the bridge rippled over the abyss. “These rocks are tricky, my loves. Prove your faith, and I’ll send you safely through.”
Alice did not like this. The Weaver Girl in her simpering giggles reminded her of the heroines from Chinese dramas her mother liked to play when she was a child—scheming, nefarious creatures who were always trying to shove their rivals down wells. And though she could not fit the Weaver Girl into her schema of Hell, she knew of every tale about bargains and wagers with the divine. Orpheus failed Hades’s challenge. Sisyphus tried to cheat Hades as well, and failed. There had to be a catch, there was always a catch.
“Can we consult?” she asked. “In private?”
The Weaver Girl flicked her sleeve. “Be quick.”
Alice tugged Peter by the arm until they were out of earshot. “I don’t trust her.”
“We don’t need to trust her,” he said. “We just need to play. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Well, amnesia, weren’t you listening?” Alice was not certain about the extent of her tattoo’s protection, but she did not want to test it against submersion.
“Then we’ll just win, it can’t be hard—”
“And that’s supposing she’s telling the truth,” said Alice. “Deities above don’t wander often in Hell, you know—she could be in disguise—”
“What else would she be?”
“I don’t know. Could be the sorcerer—”
“If she’s the sorcerer, we’re screwed anyways! Look, Law.” Peter spread his hands. “This is a godsend. We’re struggling enough as is, and she’s promising safe passage—”
“I don’t want to get dropped into the river,” said Alice. “Which is, by the way, exactly what will happen, since we are not in love.”
“But can’t you pretend?”
She stared into his face. Open, beguiling—how long had it taken him to master that hangdog look? How could he possibly look at her like this, intending what he did?
But maybe she could pretend too. Maybe she could beat him at his own game. She had one great advantage, after all, which was that Peter didn’t know that she knew the truth. “You want me to pretend that I love you.”
“It’s easy,” he said. “Just assume our wills are united.”
“What doesthatmean?”
