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- Herausgeber: Dragonfire Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Fated & Cursed
- Sprache: Englisch
A mortal fated to die and the god who’ll do anything to save her.
Adored for her unparalleled beauty, Psyche unwittingly incurs the wrath of the gods. Ensnared by prophecy, she finds herself entwined in a cosmic vendetta. To avert her family's impending ruin, she is betrothed to a fearsome winged creature. Transported to an otherworldly palace crafted especially for her, Psyche soon uncovers a startling truth—her monstrous husband harbors a heart more benevolent than his frightful visage suggests.
A friendship blossoms, and though veiled in anonymity, love blooms within her for the god who has defied her expectations. But when she disobeys his one rule, the bond between them is shattered.
Having experienced genuine love in the arms of Eros, and desperate to be reunited, she embarks on an odyssey fraught with peril, navigating impossible challenges ordained by a goddess who harbors the deepest disdain.
Escape into a tale woven in the threads of destiny, where the heart of a mortal beats with the resilience to defy even the divine. Mistaken identity, secrets, and a journey into the Underworld to prove that heart and soul belong together.
The Head and the Heart is a reimagining that turns the spellbinding myth of Eros and Psyche into living color on the page.
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Seitenzahl: 164
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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The Head and the Heart
Fated: Eros and Psyche
Kerri Keberly
Copyright © 2021 by Kerri Keberly
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Keith Robinson
Contents
Psyche was cursed, so it was only fitting the veil of her headdress be as black as the River Styx on her wedding day. Her husband was to be a winged beast. The Oracle of Delphi had foretold it. Most convenient, then, she was appropriately dressed for what would surely also be her funeral.
The wind moaned low and mournful, and she clutched the edges of her cloak, wrapping herself tighter within its folds. Her mother had dyed it to match her veil, and the wedding dress she wore, pinned with onyx set in gold, was the same shade of despair.
She wondered how much longer she would have to wait for her groom to arrive. Exactly how many hours she had been shivering on the mountaintop she didn’t know. Long enough for the Earth to swallow down the sun and cast up the moon in its place.
Would the beast’s wings be immense and leathery or small and scaly? The prophecy hadn’t revealed what they would look like, only that it would have them. Truth be told she no longer cared. As long as her family remained safe, she would make the sacrifice—be the sacrifice. That it had come to this was her fault, after all.
“Gods above, please let death take me quickly,” she murmured yet another prayer aloud. “Grant me that much at least.”
Cold from the large stone beneath her seeped through cloak and skin, then finally, into her bones. Another round of shivering pitched her forward, her back aching in protest. The weight of her headdress made her head throb. She longed to take it off, but if there was one thing she’d learned from her twenty summers on Earth, it was that her parents would march back up the mountain to choke the life out of her themselves if she didn’t make a good impression. Being handed over to a beast or not, she was a princess. Therefore, the headdress would stay on, at least until after the ceremony... If there even was a ceremony.
She adjusted into a more comfortable position and continued to wait. Not how she imagined her wedding night—sore and trembling in the arms of a cold and indifferent night—but she had been given no other choice.
An owl questioned soft and low from within the spiky shadows of a pine tree: Who? Who? Who?
She pulled in a breath, and when her eyes began to sting along with the burning in her lungs, she realized air wasn’t the only thing she was refusing to let go. Her throat ached from the fight to keep the tears lurking behind her eyes at bay.
Me, me, me. I’m the one betrothed to a monster.
The moonlight illuminated the ground until it fell away to nothing, and her watery eyes followed the length of the rocky ledge just a few feet away. How fitting she sat so close to the edge of a dark and terrifying abyss. Metaphorical, even. Perhaps she should give herself over to the jagged rocks below and be done with it.
No. The prophecy must come to pass.
How had it come to this? Waiting on the summit of a mountain in the dead of night for a beast to claim her as its wife. She’d had plenty of suitors, and only months ago. They’d come to her father’s kingdom in droves, bringing gifts of gold and silver, sparkling jewels to detract from their ogling eyes, lolling tongues, and lustful intentions. Her renowned beauty had drawn them from far and wide to worship at her feet. Until eight full moons ago, when they had suddenly stopped coming.
They gave up because you were too irreverent, her sisters had said. But none of their hearts felt true, she’d replied. If only she knew then what she knew now. She would have accepted an offer while she’d had the chance.
Both her parents had been determined to arrange a marriage, even if it would have been a loveless one, into a family as wealthy and high in status, as royalty is wont to do. In the early days, her prospects had seemed endless. But she hadn’t cared for the attention and refused them all. Now she wished her father had forced her to choose. He’d been biding his time for different reasons, counting on the beauty and grace that preceded her to attract a more extravagant suitor than the next.
Her father was a clever man; waiting for the right opportunity to present itself had always done him well when it came to both his riches and his rise to power. When it had come to the marriage of his youngest, most beautiful daughter, however, he had played a fool’s hand.
No one, not even a king, could have known how much the unadulterated worship and adoration would upset Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty. Not until it was too late.
Your beauty has angered the gods, daughter, her father had proclaimed. We’ve been cursed! Who will marry you now?
Not long after, he’d dragged her to see the Pythia, the high priestess of the Temple of Apollo, to confirm his suspicions. He had been right. She had been born too fair of skin and pure of heart for her own good—he too concerned with an advantageous alliance for his—and it would cost them all.
Let Psyche’s body be clad in mourning wed, the blind old seer had spat out over her divining stones, the flames from the brazier reflecting in her milky eyes as her trance rocked her back and forth. Her husband is no being of human seed, but serpent dire and fierce as might be thought.Who flies with wings above in starry skies, and doth subdue each thing with fiery flight...
Serpent. Wings. Fire. The words echoed in Psyche’s head as she pulled her knees to her chest and rested her sandaled heels on the edge of the stone. Improper for a king’s daughter, but there was no one there to stop her. How ironic she should gain the freedom to break the rules of propriety by having her hands so cruelly tied.
Her parents had brought her up here, wailing and sobbing, knowing they would never see her again. The procession had been long and included some of the city’s most prominent members. They had dressed her in black as instructed by the oracle, and then escorted her to the top of the mountain only to abandon her.
She knew they hadn’t had a choice, but resentment still set her jaw and ground her teeth. She hadn’t asked for alluring eyes, silken hair, or such a pleasing form. It could be helped no more than a songbird could help singing. Yet, as unfair as it was, there was nothing they could do but see the goddess whom Psyche had angered appeased. To knowingly and willingly change the course of foreseen events was utter lunacy. Meddling with prophecy meant certain doom. The gods would seek revenge, seeing to it that ruin befell the entire family.
So, she sat, hunched on a rock freezing under the silvery moon and passing the time pondering the beast’s wings and her fate while counting stars. What did it matter how her life ended now anyway, on the rocks below or in the razor-sharp talons of a ferocious winged serpent? It would be over soon enough, and she’d be glad for it.
A breeze lifted the wisps that had escaped the confines of her elaborately plaited hair. It washed over her, carrying with it the faint scent of wild roses. The hem of her cloak flapped as the wind gathered strength. Sand hissed around her jeweled feet, now firmly planted on the ground where she stood with her fists clenched tight, ready to face the beast head on.
“Psyche.”
The voice drew a startle out of her. It sounded like a gentle-natured man, soothing, not snarling as one might expect. Most curiously, it hadn’t come from in front of her or behind, but all around.
She peered into the darkness surrounding her. Surely it was some kind of sorcery performed by her beastly husband-to-be to trick her into a false sense of calm. To lure her to it, where it waited deep within the jutting layers of rock.
“I am here.” Her own voice wavered, its pitch pulled high and tight as she forced herself to answer.
“Do not be afraid.”
She swayed on her feet, both fear and annoyance making her heart pound and her palms sweat. Was this command supposed to put her mind at ease? Such things were not so simple.
“Easier said than done. It is not you alone on a mountaintop in the middle of the night waiting to be dragged away by a monster!”
A whistling gust of laughter ruffled the surrounding mountain brush’s papery leaves. “I am not a beast, dear girl, I am Zephyrus, called upon to carry you to your betrothed.”
Zephyrus was the god of the west wind, the warm and gentle breeze that ushered in spring. Her insolence fell away, replaced by awe as she dropped to her knees and bowed her head.
“Forgive me.”
Hope filled her. If the beast was favored enough by Zephyrus that the god would agree to do its bidding, how terrible could it be? Did this mean it was capable of mercy? Could she convince it to let her return to her family?
Perhaps... if only it doesn’t devour me first.
The wind god’s warmth settled around her like reassuring arms upon her shoulders, giving her just enough courage to lift her head. “Whatever has called upon you, benevolent Zephyrus, would it treat me as kindly as you?”
The breeze picked up, quickly spiraling into a whirlwind that billowed the fabric of her cloak and dress, her question forgotten when a powerful rush of air lifted her off her feet.
The wind grew in strength until her arms flailed and her hands grasped for purchase, groping desperately though there was none to be had. As if pulled by invisible strings, her chest raised first, then her legs, until she was lying on her back, floating on air. A small gasp escaped as she marveled at her wingless flight, her cloak and hair rippling lazily around her as if submerged in a pool of dark water. Cradled in weightless warmth, her eyelids began to close, the heaviness of her tears unbearable as she finally let them fall.
“Shhh.” The west wind blew, lulling her into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Thin blades of grass caressed Psyche’s cheek, rousing her from slumber. She blinked the sky into view; it was a breathtaking blue, cloudless and painted in a shade she could not find the words to describe.
After propping herself up on her elbows, she surveyed her surroundings—a small meadow, dotted with wildflowers and enclosed on three sides with trees. The babbling from a nearby brook conversed with a neighboring songbird, both informing her it was a good morning.
Psyche rolled onto all fours before sitting on her heels. The black fabric of her wedding dress looked a dull and dirty brown in the dazzling light, but a warm breeze made up for the sad sight by rippling the tall grass like waves on the sea.
She clasped her hands together. “Oh, mighty Zephyrus… Take me home, I beg of you!” She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, waiting to be carried back to the mountaintop.
When the wind god did not answer her prayer, she opened her eyes and watched the grass sway in silence. Moments later, when the breeze faded and the grass stilled, there came a whisper, “I cannot. This is your fate, dear girl. Go to him. He will not deny you… but dare not break his trust, for it will cost you much.”
Psyche’s throat swelled, the confirmation she had not yet fulfilled the prophecy bearing down on her already heavy heart. She removed the pins of her headdress and threw them to the ground, her brow grooving deeply as she did so. She was to go to the beast, that much was clear, but had Zephyrus revealed there might be a chance she could persuade the beast to let her live, or perhaps even let her go? She sighed, suddenly exhausted. Why did the gods speak in such riddles and rhymes?
A rustling from the edge of the trees startled her, and she tossed her headdress aside to crouch low in the grass. She tried to keep her breath steady, but the heart racing in her chest had other ideas. Something moved from within the shadows and, barely breathing, she clamped her teeth down on the inside of her bottom lip to keep from bleating out in fear.
A snow-white doe emerged from the forest and stepped into the clearing. She trained her red eyes in Psyche’s direction and sniffed the air, stretching her neck up and outward. Relieved it wasn’t the beast, impatient and come to claim his due in a fury of fangs and claws, Psyche eased the air out of her lungs, managing not to move a muscle though her limbs quaked uncontrollably.
The doe swiveled her head toward the end of the meadow that wasn’t lined with trees. Ears pricked forward, she stared off into the distance. Turning her head toward Psyche again, their eyes met. The doe’s unsettling from the absence of color, yet hauntingly beautiful. Psyche inhaled a deep, stuttering breath, her own eyes filling with tears.
She’d kept her end of the bargain. She’d sat and waited, resisting the urge to jump off the mountain, and the gods had decided to repay her sacrifice by delaying her agony. Adding insult to injury, she must go to it, the beast, to end this misery. The least the gods could have done was get it over with, not show her one last bit of beauty in the world before taking it all away.
The doe stamped her foot, scattering Psyche’s thoughts. The ethereal animal turned her head toward the open end of the meadow again, and this time, Psyche followed her gaze. In the distance was the very tip of an immense cornice and pediment. The doe began to move with deliberate steps, one after another, delicately picking her way through small blue flowers.
Follow her.
The voice inside her head sent Psyche clambering to her feet. She rose to her full height, which was a palm higher than both of her sisters, who were taller than most. When she spied a magnificent palace, even grander than her father’s, towering in the distance, she gulped down the sick feeling rising from her belly. Unless the goddess whom she’d offended took pity on her, she would die at the hands of a winged serpent before nightfall.
Psyche lifted her tattered and somber skirts above her ankles and followed after the doe. A butterfly bounced alongside her, and with each step she took, more of them gathered; a cloud of fluttering wings following her every move. She lifted her arm and dozens settled on her wrist, in the crook of her bare arm, and in her hair. Their soft wings tickled her skin, and she silently thanked the tiny souls for the comfort they offered.
When she finally reached the palace, an expansive courtyard of white granite, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight, stretched out before her. She made her way up a set of wide stairs, passing between two of the many columns that surrounded the palace and proceeding under the porch that covered the entrance. The massive and intricately carved arched doors swung open before she could raise a fist to knock.
Terror lashed through her, knocking her knees. No matter how grand this palace was, or how peaceful the meadow seemed, she knew she was about to come face-to-face with a nightmare.
She felt herself fading, on the verge of falling, when a voice pulled her up from the dark.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” It was the same voice that had spoken earlier, urging her to follow the doe. It was warm and honeyed like the west wind, but deeper. Smooth and calming, not treacherous. “Come in.”
But sounds could be deceiving, and she reminded herself the voice belonged to a monster. A winged beast hidden somewhere within the shadowy recesses of this beautiful palace—and the only chance she had at ever seeing her family again.
She closed her eyes and stepped over the threshold.
The seconds ticked by like endless days. When she heard no snapping teeth or raking claws, only the sound of her own ragged breathing, she opened one lid. No beast. She opened the other and discovered a wonder of luxury and riches unimaginable.
More columns held up carved arches, and in the center of the enormous entryway, a fountain, featuring crystal clear water dribbling from a small urn held by a winged cherub. Between some of the columns, marble statues looked on from atop stone pedestals. She gasped in wonder at the enormous golden chandeliers hanging from the coffered ceiling and the tiled floor inlaid with precious gems that lay beneath her feet.
“You approve.”
Panic clawed its way up her spine, and the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end. She had surveyed her surroundings thoroughly and was quite sure she had seen no one else in the room.
“Don’t be frightened.”
Despite the request, her legs began to buckle, and her throat tightened as she fought against the blackness once again closing in on all sides.
He must desire slashing through a beating heart. This was the only reason she could think of as to why he’d made himself invisible. If her heart stopped from laying eyes upon his terrifying nature, he would not enjoy the thrill of killing her as much. At least she wouldn’t have to endure the sight of his hideous face, only the pain of his sharp claws as he tore her apart.
She swayed as she spoke the only words that mattered to her now, quickly before it was too late. “I have kept my end of the…” Her hands groped for something—anything—to keep her from falling.
“You have. Your family is safe.”
