The Eastern Silver Mine, Atmanta The mine door flaps closed behind her.
Tetia walks a short way and then enters another door on her right. The room seems as big as a village and smells worse than a sulphur pit. Men of all ages are busily ferrying white-hot iron crucibles of molten metal from one workplace to another. They look like thieves stealing pieces of the sun.
The air is filled with the deafening thud of hammer on anvil. Huge fires roar in stone kilns that stretch all the way through the ceiling of rock. The heat is overwhelming.
Tetia feels perspiration trickle down her back and breasts.
She walks carefully, fearful of bumping into one of the passing men and being burned by their incandescent treasure.
A sudden loud hissing sound makes her jump. A man is dipping a crucible of molten metal into a vast water trough. Tetia catches her breath and moves on.
She sees a string of almost naked children, sitting like a row of dirty pearls with their backs to an undulating black wall of rock. They are scrabbling in huge bowls jammed between their knees, picking specks of silver from ground ore, their calloused and bleeding fingers rooting out non-precious metals, salts and debris.
Another door leads to a second cavernous chamber.
This one is guarded by two large shaven-headed men with thick leather belts dangling with chains and knives. The guards are identical, except one has a scar on his left cheek and right forearm, the unmistakable aftermath of a blow from a broadsword.
'I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, the netsvis. Larth, the servant of Magistrate Pesna, brought me here to see Mamarce.'
Tetia waits for an answer but the men give none. They look her over, then the one with the raw red scar steps aside and swings the door open.
This room is cooler. The light more even.
A boy, somewhat older than the others, sits cross-legged in the far corner and cautiously observes the new visitor.
Mamarce doesn't look up from his work. He seems to be about the same age as Teucer's father, but very different in every other respect. He is a mere wisp of a man, thin and small with no muscles, a fuzz of white hair and a bushy grey beard. He is bent double over a wide bench that Tetia has never seen the like of. It is part wood, part iron. A series of big and small metal jaws protrude over its edges like the mouths of hungry dogs yapping for scraps.
When Mamarce speaks, his voice is slow and soft, as if muffled by his facial shrubbery. 'Sit down. I cannot stop. The metal is almost hard and I am not yet done.'
Tetia perches on a wobbly wooden seat across from him and drinks in her surroundings. The bench between them is strewn with knives, files and hammers not unlike her own, but smaller and even more delicate. A strange long stone catches her eye; it seems to have been smeared with different shades of something shiny. She guesses it's a touchstone, an instrument used to compare samples from the highest-known quality of silver to those of new and undetermined qualities.
'I am finished!' Mamarce announces triumphantly, looking up at last. 'So, you are the mystery sculptress. My, my!' He steps down from the high wooden chair and is now so small that he all but disappears behind the bench.
Tetia stands and walks round to meet him. He barely reaches her shoulders. 'I am Tetia, wife of Teucer, daughter of-'
He flicks a hand dismissively at her. 'I know who you are, and I am not the least interested in who your husband or father is. Let me look at you. Show me your hands.'
She extends them, palms down.
'No, no, not like that, child. That tells me nothing.' Mamarce twists them palms up and holds her by the wrists. 'Aaah. Artist's hands. Good, good. You have a gift from Menrva herself.'
He smiles kindly at her and Tetia can't help but warm to him. 'Thank you.'
Mamarce traces a thin bony finger horizontally across her left palm. 'The Greeks believe all these lines are prophecies of your life. Your fingers here are your first world – the world of what goes on in your mind. This middle part of your hand is your second world – it governs the material things that you own and do in this life on earth.' He runs his nails from the tip of her thumb to the inside of her wrist, 'And here is the third world – your hidden, elemental world.'
Tetia is fascinated. 'You understand such things? You are a seer?'
Mamarce smiles enigmatically. 'All artists are seers. We view more than only earthly things. I note your work, too, has visionary elements. You must explain them to me.'
Tetia drops her head, anxious not to be pressed.
Mamarce picks up on it. 'Well, perhaps later, when we know each other better. First, come with me and I will show you what has been done with your sculpture.' He pulls up a second high chair and ushers her to sit alongside him. 'I took your creation and Vulca' – he points a bony finger at the boy – 'impressed them into moulds of fresh clay. I then poured our purest silver into the moulds and we sealed them against blocks of cuttlefish before binding them tightly.' Mamarce reaches to his right and drags a fold of sacking in front of him. 'Here they are. They need cleaning, but are already quite extraordinary. Are you ready to see?'
Tetia sucks in a nervous breath. 'I am.'
The silversmith unfolds the sackcloth and a wide smile illuminates his wrinkled face.
Three solid silver tiles gleam. Tetia's pulse races. Half of her is amazed at their beauty and the other half horrified at how wilfully she disobeyed Teucer and effectively immortalised the very thing he wanted destroyed.
Mamarce slides the slabs across so she can see more closely. 'There is burring on some edges. They all need to be gently filed away and then properly polished. I thought perhaps you'd like to re-cut some of the lines, give them greater definition.'
Tetia's fingers slide over the silver. Cool and shiny, almost like ice that will never melt. 'They're so smooth. So rich. They feel like slices of heaven.'
Mamarce smiles and remembers the first time his master let him touch the precious metal.
Tetia is mesmerised. Pesna was indeed wise. Her work had been far from finished when she'd shown it to him. The addition of silver seems to have breathed life into every figure in every scene. She peers closely. The face of the netsvis shows even more doubt than she'd remembered. The unknown demon is larger and more menacing. There is so much desperation and finality in the embrace of the lovers that it makes her shiver.
There seems only one flaw.
The burring from the mould has left three tiny marks on the face of the baby at the lovers' feet – one that looks like a teardrop and two that look like horns. Tetia puts a hand to her stomach to quieten a rumble.
Mamarce's wise old eyes watch her every move.
He scratches his beard and wonders if she will trade the secret of the Gates of Destiny in return for what he has seen in her palm, but has not told her.
Her own destiny. A bloody but momentous one.