The Descent

TWENTY-THREE

After the confrontation with his sister, Adair senses that the underworld has been placed on a kind of lockdown. The castle seems to be holding its breath, cast in a groggy half sleep like something out of a fairy tale. When he tries to push back against the frosty stillness, it resists him, and this is how he knows it’s been imposed by someone more powerful than him.

He rattles down an empty hall, thinking about the challenge he threw down and all the possible ways it might go wrong. As for his sister, he’s not sure where she’s gone—off licking her wounds and plotting, most likely. Adair has hidden Lanore away in a secret room, which he has placed under his protection, wrapping it up with his intentions—this space is inviolate—like a spell, concentrating on it continuously, so that she will be safe from the queen, should she try some kind of sneak attack. But to protect Lanore like this takes up most of his energy and Adair can barely think or do anything else. He’s not sure how long he can keep this up.

Everyone has disappeared—the demons, the various servants—and Adair wonders if his sister has taken them away with her or if they’ve made themselves scarce, like animals anticipating a tornado. Even Jonathan has disappeared, though Adair figures he is with the queen. Adair suddenly wishes for Stolas’s company, remembering the old man’s canniness. He is a good tactician. But Adair knows he cannot pull Stolas from the pit without reducing his ability to protect Lanore, who is helpless without him. She waits in her hidden room like Rapunzel in the tower, dependent on her prince to figure a way out of this dilemma. Stolas must remain where he is for now.

Continuing on his solitary watch, Adair turns the corner to see an old man sitting on a marble bench. He’s familiar looking but Adair cannot put his finger on where he saw him last. (Ever since Adair returned to the underworld, he’s found that it’s like this with everything, the name of every sight, sound, and scent dancing just out of his reach.) The old man watches Adair as he approaches, smiling only at the last minute.

He wears toga-like robes as if he were an Olympian god and looks vaguely Greek or Roman. He has a beard and long hair, gray with streaks of white, and he wears it tied back in a loose ponytail, the way Adair often likes to wear his. Watching Adair approach, the old man doesn’t seem unkindly—nor does he seem to be anyone’s fool—he has a no-nonsense aspect about him.

When Adair draws close, the old man stands up and claps his arms around him. “Look who’s back. The prodigal son.”

Adair jerks in the old man’s embrace. The state of familial relationships on this plane has always been murky. The old man has been known to share his favors rather freely, and there has always been reluctance to spell out things like paternity. Adair remembers his long-suffering mother, remembers cherishing his relationship with that woman. The reserve he feels toward the old man probably has something to do with this. If the time has come that the old man wants to treat him as his son, then so be it, Adair decides.

The old man releases him and inclines his head toward Adair. By his weary reserve, Adair can tell that he felt Adair stiffen in his arms. He squints at Adair, sighs, and hooks his arm over Adair’s. As soon as the old man touches his arm, Adair feels an indescribable surge of power radiating through every cell of his being merely at the touch of his hand. “Come—walk with me,” the old man says.

They start down one of the dim, cavernous halls, the old man tut-tutting at the filth accumulated in the corners, the lack of light, the ugliness of it all. Still, he’s not presumptuous enough to change it with a wave of his hand, which he most definitely could. He could make it go away or replace it with trees and fountains, a park, or a ballroom complete with a brilliant white chandelier. “When was the last time you were here?” Adair asks as they walk.

The old man doesn’t need to think about his answer at all. “It was the day you left—or rather, disappeared. Your sister was very upset, you know.” He cocks an eyebrow at Adair, as if measuring his guilt.

Adair knows he should feel more sympathy for his sister. They were close once, confiding in each other, watching each other’s back. It never occurred to him that they might be paired together as mates, though there had been examples all around him, aunts and uncles, cousins who were part of the pack of young gods that ran around together. They did everything together: hunting, wrestling, playing, having fun. Then suddenly individuals would be culled from the herd only to reappear together as a pair and vaulted to the ranks of adults, put in charge of a realm, given attendant responsibilities. It was all very mysterious until the day the old man had come to him, clapped him on the back (not unlike what he was doing at this very moment), and told Adair he was going to become the king of the underworld, and that he’d have to take his sister as his queen.

“But why is it even necessary to have a king and a queen in the underworld? Why can’t I rule it alone?” Adair asks as they stroll slowly down the hall.

The old man turns up his palms, as if to say be reasonable. “Well, it’s a tremendous job, isn’t it? And one of the most important, too. We can’t have any mistakes made on this end, can we? It would lead to chaos. Must keep things moving in their proper order. Must keep the souls moving, sending energy back out to the cosmos. We can’t have someone too tenderhearted, mucking up the system. And because it’s all so important and so complicated, there has to be a backup, a deputy, in case anything happens.” Here, the old man gives Adair a fishy look, as though he suspects the ruler of Hades has stopped listening to him and is, instead, piling up more arguments in his mind.

“Then why can’t it be a deputy, or a lieutenant, just as you said? A second in command, instead of a mate. It could be run more like the military, or a business, rather than a royal kingdom. Why does it have to be a spouse?” Adair argues.

The old man lays his arm across Adair’s shoulders. “Being the king of the underworld is a very lonely position, my son. You’ve experienced that for yourself already. We’ve found that this way is best, having the pair work in tandem, closely. That way there’s almost no chance of something coming between them.”

A dark frown creases Adair’s face, his brow. “Why, then, I tell you, your system is already spoiled. I can never be close to her again, never. We will always be at each other’s throats.”

“Oh, don’t be so unreasonable. You’ve always been so dramatic—but then, I guess it is your nature. That’s the reason you were chosen for this position, you know. You were tailor-made for it, given to impatience. We knew you’d be perfect for it—your sister, too—and that you were made to rule together. Who else could we pair you with, anyway? You were both so troublesome, so argumentative. No one else would have you, either of you.” The old man chortled to himself, amused by his memories. “Anyway, as I was saying, it doesn’t matter if you can’t stand each other. Few of us can, you know. Husbands and wives—it just works out that way. Think of the old fellow, the one who ruled the underworld before you. Hades and his wife, Persephone. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. Eventually, she came around—enough to tolerate him, anyway. And they ruled a good long time. It’ll happen that way for you, too. You’ll see.”

Adair feels despair fill his chest. He’d promised to obey the old man’s decision and yet he knows he won’t be able to bear it. “No, it won’t be all right. I’m telling you, it won’t work out. You see, I’ve fallen in love.”

Now it is the old man’s turn to go dark. His expression is as frightening as a thundercloud. “So I’ve heard. A human? They are sweet diversions, my son, but you know that never works. Not in the long run.”

“She’s extraordinary. She’s changed my nature. I’m not the same soul I once was. I’m not all hellfire and damnation. To be honest, I don’t think I can do it anymore.” Adair gives him an imploring look. “If you’re afraid that someone too tenderhearted will mess things up—well, that’s me. I’ve become empathetic.”

The old man laughs and lifts an eyebrow. “You’re joking, aren’t you? She’s tamed you, you say?” He looks Adair over. “She sounds extraordinary,” the old man says finally.

Adair claps a hand to his shoulder. His mind goes to the room where he’s put Lanore, and he lets the protections unwrap and slide away, like a dust cover falling to the floor, so the hidden room can be seen, so that it becomes real. “She is. I would be honored if you would meet her for yourself.”

The place where Adair has left me is lonely. It looks like an ordinary room. It has four walls, a ceiling, a floor, and furniture. It even has a door. But I know that it’s different. For one thing, it feels like an elevator, like a small, finite space shut up on itself. It feels disembodied, as though it’s floating in space. I can only imagine what his sister might do to me if she was able to catch me—still, I pleaded with Adair to stay. “Don’t leave me,” I said as he was preparing to go. I even grabbed at his shirt, but he pried my fingers gently from the fabric. He explained to me that I would be safe, that he would be able to wrap me in spells and protections so that no one, not even she, would be able to find me. “I have to see the god above us all.” He tried his best not to seem worried in front of me. “I don’t know what sort of mood he’ll be in. I defied him when I chose to leave. He doesn’t usually stand for that sort of thing, and he’s not the forgiving type.” He kissed my hand and then walked out the door.

What he meant to tell me, in so many words, is that the outlook for us is not good. The odds are that this deity will not decide in our favor. I suppose under a relatively benign outcome, Adair would remain here and resume his reign. If things go really badly, I imagine Adair could be punished for disobeying the god in charge, sentenced to something really horrible and long-lived like the fate of Prometheus, who had his liver torn out every day by eagles as punishment for sharing fire with humans. I pass the time pacing in circles, trying not to surrender to worry, but I’m so nervous that my teeth are chattering.

I’m startled when there’s someone at the door. It’s Adair, and he gives me a faintly encouraging smile before stepping aside to hold the door open for a tall old man.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” I say to them, though I’m so unnerved that I’m surprised I can joke.

Instinctively I know who this man is—God. There’s no mistaking him: he’s dressed the part in luxuriant robes the exact color of the moon, but even if he weren’t outfitted like this, even if he didn’t have long hair and the beard, there would be no mistaking him. He projects a certain air, calm and all-knowing, though he has a hint of a darker nature (vengeful, wrathful), too, a side that is reflected in Adair.

“Lanore, come here,” Adair says. He takes my hand when he sees that I’m unable to move, my feet frozen to the floor. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” The only way I can become unstuck is by telling myself that this man isn’t God but Adair’s father, that I’m not meeting the force behind all of creation but a member of Adair’s family—as though that on its own isn’t frightening enough. The air is absolutely electric, like the seconds before the break of a huge, juddering thunderstorm. Imagine a thunderstorm stuffed into a space as small as your drawing room. Yet the three of us go on pretending that nothing’s out of the ordinary.

I don’t know what to say, what to do, if I should take his hand or drop to my knees in worship. Instinct kicks in and I start to ask if he’d like something to drink before I realize I have nothing to offer, and have no idea what kind of refreshment to offer God, anyway. I become completely self-conscious, remembering that he most likely knows all the terrible, stupid things I’ve done, which causes me to flush with embarrassment and regret. I’m literally meeting my maker and it is every bit as awful as you might think it would be.

“He’s told me so much about you,” the old man says as he gestures to Adair, then settles onto the couch, arranging his robes around him.

I want to say something witty back—believe me, when you’re in the presence of God, you want to impress him—but I can think of nothing to say. Nothing. My mind goes blank, as though someone has pulled a plug at the back of my skull and let all of my intelligence drain away. My mouth struggles to form a word: nothing. Adair, patient, takes my hand to steady me.

Finally, I blurt out, “He’s told me nothing about you.” Well, it’s true.

Nonplussed, he just nods his head. I suppose he’s used to people saying stupid things when they first meet him. He pats the spot on the couch next to him, indicating that I should join him.

God works hard to put me at ease. He tells me about the origin of things: how he got the idea for cellular structure and waveforms and black holes, then goes on to explain why the giraffe has its long neck and the dodo went extinct. “It’s all connected, you see. It all comes out of one calculation, like one gigantic formula,” he says of his greatest creation, the universe. “That’s the beauty of it. Once you set it in motion, there’s no stopping it. Each step is inevitable; it all must play itself out,” he finishes, and looks expectantly at me, as though he thinks that I understand his grand plan. As if—just like that—I am able to absorb the secret of creation and life, mysteries that have eluded the greatest minds since the dawn of civilization. God has just told me the thread on which all of life hangs—and I’ve forgotten it. In my panic, I’ve lost it.

Both Adair and God know that this is all beyond me. I’m blowing it, this audience with God, and the truly frightening part is that Adair’s and my future happiness might depend on it. What if God is judging right now whether to grant Adair his freedom based on my reactions? What if God condemns Adair to the underworld for eternity because I am not good enough or smart enough for him, because I don’t know how to behave or what to say?

They are staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and press my palms against my legs. Exhale. Try not to think of him as God, I tell myself. Think of him as Adair’s father. A smile comes naturally to my lips and I turn to him. “Tell me what Adair was like as a little boy,” I say. “If he ever was a little boy. I want to know everything about him.”

There is a hint of delight in God’s smile, as though he has been waiting a long time for someone to ask him this very question.

By the time God rises from the couch to bid us farewell, we have drunk our way through a tray of tea that magically appeared, and I’ve heard a half dozen stories of things Adair did in an earlier time, and it is quite apparent that God is very fond of Adair. As a matter of fact, Adair might be one of God’s favorites. “A pleasure,” God says to me as we part at the door. Adair gestures for me to wait a minute and then slips out the door behind him.

Adair spent the entire audience watching Lanore proudly. She would make a good queen—fair, kind, empathetic—but not, perhaps, of the underworld. He remembers some of the things he was forced to do as the king of the dead, judgments handed down, punishments meted out to obstinate souls who swore on their innocence even as they were sucked into the cold black maw of the cosmos or consigned to roast in eternal fire, or were sent to another, equally heartless fate. As one who is guilty of bending or breaking rules in order to survive on earth, Lanore is too forgiving to be queen. As one who has committed thousands of heartless acts during his time on earth, Adair flinches at the thought of returning to his throne and passing judgments on others. He’s not hypocritical enough to think he has any right to condemn his fellow sinners. Perhaps there’s a good reason why only a god sits on the throne here. You can’t have been mortal and do this job.

In fact, Adair cannot even see Lanore choosing to remain in the underworld, let alone be queen. He remembers Persephone, the last queen: she may have reconciled herself to living in the underworld, but she was never happy. A strange deal had been worked out with the old man, where Persephone was allowed to leave her husband and return to the world for six months of every year. If she didn’t have those months to look forward to, she probably would’ve willed herself to die, Adair thinks. It just goes to show that the old man isn’t heartless. There might still be a way. He wouldn’t want Adair, his favorite, to die of unhappiness.

Which happens. Even gods don’t live forever, and they know it. The most determined ones will last a long time, for as long as a giant red sun, even longer. But the sad ones and the unhappy ones, they find a way to short-circuit their lives. Or disappear from the ranks suddenly, no explanations given, a replacement dug up from somewhere, a hasty appointment made.

Out in the hall, once the visit is over, the old man throws his arm around Adair’s shoulders affectionately. “You’re right—she’s a lovely woman. I can see why you want to keep her.”

Adair tugs on his thin beard. “I want more than to keep her,” he says shyly. “I want to have children with her. . . . I will die without her.”

“How human you have become,” the old man says—and he doesn’t mean it in a good way. The gods think themselves above men. To be human is to be weak and concerned only about one’s self.

“I served you well in this position for a time, and you know it,” Adair reminds him. He has to be careful; he can’t risk making the old man mad at him. He needs the power above them all to release both him and Lanore from the underworld, as he’s the only one who can. Adair knows they would not make the journey through the abyss.

He needs the old man, but at the same time, his famously short temper is burning up like a lit fuse. “You’ve always said that this is the hardest job in all the heavens. I’ve done my share: now is your chance to prove your generosity by granting my release.”

“And what about your sister?” the old man counters wearily. “One could argue that she’s served me more faithfully than you. She never ran away. She held down the fort while you shirked your responsibilities. Why shouldn’t she be the one to get what she wants?”

“You’re right; I left my post, but I did so out of principle. I could not wed my sister. And now I have fallen in love. Haven’t you always said that love is your most perfect creation? That of all the things you made for man, love was your crowning gift? Why should only men be allowed to fall in love? Why should your greatest gift be reserved for men and not shared with the gods? You cannot fault me for falling in love. My sister is good and acting out of duty, but she isn’t in love with me. Give her the chance to fall in love, too.”

Exasperated, the old man throws up his hands. “I should have made you the god of oratory and not the underworld. Tell me, what would you have me do?”

“Let us go,” Adair implores. “Send us back. We’ll live out our lives quietly among the mortals. You’ll never hear from us again.”

“And your sister?” he asks gruffly. “What about her? Is that really fair to her?”

Adair hangs his head. For that, he has no answer except that unfairness comes to all of us. For a god, she is young and her story isn’t finished being told.

Changing his tactics, Adair asks, “Do you know what the difference is between man and god?” The old man shakes his head. Adair continues, “If it is within their power, most men will make the most humane choice every time. Not the ideal choice, perhaps, but the one that results in the greatest kindness. Whereas a god will not be swayed by humanity. An entire village will be wiped out by a tsunami, an entire race eradicated by disease or pestilence, if that is what fate demands. The gods are bound to uphold fate. We are slaves to fate.” He knows the old man has made plenty of decisions like these, and even though he is a god, such inhumanity takes its toll. “For once in your life,” he begs, “make the humane choice. Show compassion.”

The old man shakes his head at Adair, dismayed. “You never would’ve shown compassion, in the past. You were the epitome of a god, my boy. Unswayable.”

“And I was wrong.”

The old man scratches the back of his head, shoulders rounded in a shrug. “You’re putting me in a very bad spot.”

Adair embraces him one last time, their whiskery cheeks brushing. “I put our fate in your hands. I trust you will do the right thing.” After all, what are gods for if not miracles?

“Is that it?” I ask Adair when he returns to the magically suspended room a few minutes later. “How will we know what he’s decided? When will we know that he’s made his decision?”

He is much calmer than I imagine possible and I want to interpret this as good news. Adair wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me tight to him. “I have to believe that he’s already made his decision, or otherwise—take it from me—things would’ve gone much more badly.”