But what he’d always considered solid, imperishable, was dissolving. Dirt and sand erupted in fountains on every side. A nearby grove of black oak and junipers thrashed as though a titan stamped through them, yanking them out as he came.
Blood dripped off the ends of his fingers. He tucked his arm behind his back so Aridela wouldn’t see, and tried to ignore the burn of the wound being torn open.
Distant susurration echoed like the faraway roar of lions, and built until the air hummed.
Aridela reached out to him. Chrysaleon took her hand and pulled her, first one direction then another, as gashes split the earth and barred their way.
Above them, the heavens fractured.
Neither could do anything but press their hands to their ears and wait for death to end the terror. The detonation of the sky ripped through Chrysaleon’s head with such force he feared his skull would shatter.
The ground heaved.
“Goddess, forgive me!” Aridela shrieked as she stumbled on land turned to maelstrom. “Forgive us!”
She thought Lady Athene was punishing them for what they’d done. Shivers arced through Chrysaleon’s spine as he peered into the sky, convinced she was right. A dirty-red glow, sparked by eerie rapid-fire flashes of lightning, marred the northern horizon.
Aridela fell to her knees, whispering, “Velchanos.” She stared into the sky, at the lightning. “He comes for us….”
Another rift opened, so close that she teetered and started to fall, but Chrysaleon grabbed her and jerked her back.
Something else, a boiling blackness, ringed with molten haze like clouds of fire, obliterated the heavens in the same direction as the lightning. He stared, stiff with horror, seeing Great Poseidon rise from the sea. “Come,” he cried, knowing this blood-soaked shadow brought their deaths. “Run!” He half-dragged Aridela past freshly uprooted trees.
“There’s a place—” Aridela took the lead. She pulled Chrysaleon to the west, into a wood untouched by damage. Soon she found an indentation at the base of a tree-covered slope, where erosion, root-growth, and the digging of animals had created a shallow cave. They knelt and wormed past the roots into the hole, only to discover it was too small to cover them completely.
“Fill it in,” Chrysaleon shouted.
They scooped everything they could, earth, rocks and leaves into the opening of their refuge as the world around them transformed into a white rage of heat and fire.
Murderous wind snapped tree trunks like twigs in the angry clasp of a god. The air grew hot and stank of sulfur. Branches burst into flames. Chrysaleon made sure Aridela pressed her face to her knees and he did the same. He covered his head and hers with his arms, but there was no escape, no choice between breathing and not. His lungs and mouth seared like meat on a spit. Aridela whimpered.
The wind died, leaving a crackle of burning wood, branches collapsing, the tortured shriek of animals. They saw nothing through the gaps but a smoky-red haze.
“Are you hurt?” The words scraped against Chrysaleon’s scorched, swollen throat.
She whispered, “I am burned.”
He scrambled from the cave, holding out his hand to help her. She crawled out more slowly.
The gloom was thick, unbroken but for the fire-glow. The nearest reflected in her eyes. At least they weren’t incinerated, but he was shocked to see that her glorious cascades of black hair had melted away, leaving only singed tufts no longer than his fingers.
She shuddered. Her teeth chattered. Chrysaleon felt his own flesh prickle in angry, offended waves. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but knew it would only add to her pain.
“Are you thirsty?” He tried to sound calm and reasonable even as he felt the ground scald his feet through the soles of his sandals. He’d never experienced such thirst, even during campaigns, and fought a childish urge to beg the gods for a drink. “Let’s find water.”
“The palace,” she muttered, her voice small and hoarse as she struggled to speak through desperate coughing. “We must go back.”
They stumbled through a ruinous tangle of wood and debris. Trees lay on the ground, all bark burned away. Sharp, jagged remnants of tree trunks stood everywhere. Heavy smoke chafed their throats without mercy.
Blood seeped between the stitches on Chrysaleon’s thigh. Putting weight on the leg sent keen-edged misery streaking clear into his jaw and temple. His limp grew more pronounced as they forged through the damage.
The earth groaned. Bouts of thunder reverberated. Aridela startled again and again at the abrupt echoing shatter of collapsing limbs, but she didn’t speak and hardly lifted her gaze from the ground.
Chrysaleon watched her as they struggled along. He suspected by her stiffened, precise movements and by the set of her jaw that she was suffering, and he longed to hold her. He, too, felt an involuntary shiver run deep through his skin, giving warning. The pain would soon become unbearable. But for now, his burned flesh remained like his mind, shocked into numbness.
They topped the last rise on the road above Phaistos and looked down.
There was no music. No light. No graceful terraces, pristine fountains, flagged courtyards or stately pillars. If anything remained, it was hidden beneath a noxious cloud, impenetrably black but for branches of fire that shot upward in twisting columns. The stench made Chrysaleon gag.
Faint ghastly screams emanated from the depths.
“Selene. Halia,” Aridela cried, her voice choked. She started toward the city at a run, but Chrysaleon grabbed her hand and held firm.
Menoetius, he thought, startled by fleeting amazement, a sense that he had far less control over matters than he had arrogantly believed.
“No.” He seized her other hand and pulled her back. “We don’t dare go down there.”
“Goddess,” Aridela whispered, sobbing. She dropped to her knees, clutching at handfuls of dirt. “We meant no harm.”
She peered up at Chrysaleon, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks. “I’ve dreamed of this. Athene showed it to me.”
Chrysaleon knelt, keeping a tight grip on her hand.
The air grew blacker. Thicker. Intermittent bolts of lightning traced like blood vessels across the sky. A mutter ran through the heavens as though, somewhere far away, the gods were battling.
The screams died away, leaving a terrible silence.
Chrysaleon could tell by the pungent sulfuric scent that a fire was burning, a conflagration greater than any he could imagine. The only place on Crete that could generate such combustion was surely Knossos, which lay in the direction from which the cloud had come. He glanced at Aridela, hoping she hadn’t worked this through.
“Please,” she whispered. “I cannot wait any longer. We must see if anyone is alive. They need us.”
“Patience,” he said. “Soon.”
They sat without speaking. Every now and then he caught the softest release of a sob, though for the most part his lover remained silent, slumped, and still.
In an effort to distract her, he said, “Tell me your dream.”
“What you see around us.” She didn’t lift her head. “The world destroyed. The earth heaving. The lightning of Velchanos cleaving the sky. Our oracle ordered me to remain untouched. I thought I knew the Lady’s mind better than she did.” She drew in a ragged breath. “You and I lay together, that first time. Nothing happened. There was no sign of anger. I grew even more defiant. Now see where my insolence has brought Kaphtor. What of the babies? Their mothers? Our brave men?” She gestured toward the ruined city. “What do they suffer because of us?”
He opened his mouth, but found no words. What could he say? He, too, believed they were to blame.
If Athene was punishing Aridela, what would she do to him? It was he who enticed Helice’s daughter to her defiance. He hadn’t known the restrictions placed on her the first time, but the second? Knowledge had not stopped him.
He pushed tangles of damp hair off his face and realized for the first time that it hadn�
�t burned. Though Aridela’s was singed almost to her scalp and he had squatted against her side in the shallow earth cave, the tawny mane for which he was famous remained, incomprehensibly, as it was before the searing heat.
At last he relented. The crimson tendrils of fire gorging on Phaistos seemed to have drifted to the south. Holding Aridela’s hand, Chrysaleon led the way down the hill to discover what was left.
Come with me, said the woman wearing a crown of silver and ivory. It is time for you to learn Our Lady’s plan. She held out her hand. Themiste took it, shivering at the surge of wellbeing that flowed from the woman’s touch.
She followed Athene’s servant down a slope to the edge of the sea. There they sat on damp sand, observed by a lone crab and a snowy-white crane wading in the shallow water.
The sun, the moon, and the star Iakchos were all shining in the heavens at the same time, suggesting a dream. Yet the murmur of water, the call of a mourning dove and the hint of a breeze against Themiste’s cheek made her wonder.
The holy triad is joined, the handmaid said. It begins here, but its finish is farther than you can conceive, and many shadows must be pierced before the end.
The holy triad. Themiste shivered again. These words had weighed heavily upon her ever since one of her priestesses, Sidero, had succumbed to a puzzling, incurable ailment that left her unaware of her surroundings. The woman muttered the phrase constantly, sleeping and awake.
The handmaid again spoke. You will see it as mere mortal passion, but that is no more than its outward shape. These three are formed from one thread. They are connected, now and forever. Athene has unraveled their bond so they may follow separate purposes, which will, in the end, return them to each other and either make whole or destroy your world.
Themiste ventured a question. “Who is the holy triad, lady?”
The daughter of Queen Helice… the gold lion of Mycenae… and the bull marked by his fate.
Themiste instantly surmised the child she named was Aridela rather than Iphiboë; the prophecies had long ago convinced her of the younger princess’s divine purpose. The gold lion was, of course, Chrysaleon. But why would Potnia Athene unite Aridela to a barbarian, a crude foreigner with vastly different obligations and beliefs? How could such a union influence the world? She caught herself resisting the idea, her mind searching for ways to thwart it, but the handmaid interrupted her thoughts.
The eyes of Kaphtor’s child will be darkened, her mind filled with clamor. She must forget the way of your world and follow the call of the lion, for she is the wounded woman, and will carry within her the suffering of all my Lady’s children.
“But why?” Themiste asked, startled and dismayed.
In order to gain the trust of the lost, she must be one with them. She will struggle without deliverance, as they do. Her eyes will be put out. She must find her way through seven labyrinths to learn what she must learn.
Themiste pictured Aridela stumbling without sight through black tunnels, her arms outstretched, alone and frightened. Horror constricted her throat. But she was familiar with the serpentine language of prophecy, and hoped this prediction was like the dream itself—not to be taken literally. Seven labyrinths. Why seven? What could it mean?
The way of the Lady was incomprehensible to mortals, even to oracles.
“You speak of Aridela and of Chrysaleon, the lion of Mycenae. But this marked bull. Who is that?”
If I told you, you would try to change his fate. Remember this when the time comes, Minos of Kaphtor—what seems the end is only the beginning.
The handmaid held out her palm close to the sand; the crab crawled onto it and she stroked its shell.
After some time of bewildered silence while Themiste fought with her own conviction of failure and stupidity, she asked, “Can you tell me Chrysaleon’s purpose?”
The lion’s purpose is to fulfill his obligation.
“What is it? Will he know? Will I know?”
You yourself did conceive it.
Filled with an oppressive sense of defeat, Themiste pondered everything she knew about the prince of Mycenae, but couldn’t produce any insight. Raw frustration expanded; she bit her lip to keep from shouting in anger. How could she have formed the duty of a man she didn’t know? She put the question aside until she could think more calmly. “Aridela has always understood that she would live a profound fate. She claimed it many times. I always dismissed her….”
A loom weight, suspended upon thread, will swing to one side then the other before settling into the middle.
Themiste peered into the sky, at the hazy sun, the creamy moon, and the glittering star, wishing for a way to relive the past with present wisdom. Guilt and sadness weighted her down. She wanted to weep, but fought against it.
Behold. The handmaid swept out her hand. Through some divine power, a stage of sorts formed in the air above the water, and a scene upon it. Themiste watched women scurrying about their chores, carrying baskets, catches of fish, and armfuls of cloth. In the shade beneath leafy trees, men lounged, holding cups, and odd devices from which they drew smoke into their mouths and blew it out again. One of the men called to a passing woman. Head bowed in a servile attitude, she crossed to them. Her clothing was ripped. The men amused themselves upon her, inflicting many abuses and lacerations. They ignored her stifled cries and when they were done, sent her creeping away with a slap to the rump.
This is the future as it now stands, the handmaid said. Will you remember? Will you do what is necessary to help these three fulfill their design? For it can be changed. You can change it.
Faint screams woke her. Her bed quaked as though it rode an angry sea. Crockery fell from the shelves. She staggered to the door and into the corridor.
“Lady!” One of her serving women ran toward her, covering her head as chunks of rock fell. “The earth is shaking!” She grabbed Themiste’s hand and dragged her toward the steps.
They emerged from the underground as the ornate latticework built around the cave entrance collapsed. Stones crumbled. Blinding dust rose. The earth groaned. People ran in every direction, shrieking.
“Look, look, my lady!” Her maid pointed at the sky to the north.
Deeper than the deepest black, shot through with bloodstained lightning, came the cloud.
A few still lived. Some sat listlessly. Some lay, twitching. Some crawled. Most had lost their hair, leaving naked, blistered skulls. Clothing was seared into skin that hung off bone in gruesome sheets.
Chrysaleon stepped in front of Aridela when a hideously charred object rose from the ground, only to realize it was all that heat and fire had left of a living man. Flames engulfed a woman next to him, feeding eagerly on her skirts.
“Can we help them?” Aridela whispered.
Chrysaleon could only shake his head. Most expired as they approached.
Swallowing the urge to be sick, Chrysaleon bent and picked up a torch from the ground. He lit it in one of the numerous fires that consumed the once-gracious, elegant palace.
Heavy snow began to fall, slowly at first then furiously thick, yet it wasn’t cold or wet. Chrysaleon scooped up a handful from the ground. “It’s gritty,” he said, rubbing it between his fingertips. “Like… sand.” He peered up, blinking against the onslaught. “It smudges like ash.” It piled on the ground, covered their heads and shoulders, caked at their noses and mouths, and burned their eyes. It seemed to suck moisture from the air, making it hurt to breathe. Chrysaleon had been thirsty since they’d crawled from their makeshift shelter, but now it was almost impossible to think of anything but water.
Pale stones began falling through the ash. Some were tiny, some as big as a pomegranate. They were covered with holes, nearly weightless, and bounced as they struck the earth. Chrysaleon and Aridela ran from one dangerous overhang to another to avoid them.
The sandy, ashy substance stuck to his raw burns. Both succumbed to helpless coughing as they breathed it in. Every time Chrysaleon coughed, his seared lun
gs stabbed him with hot spear-points of agony.
Before long, they were coughing up blood.
“I’m so thirsty,” Aridela whispered. Her eyes were red, streaming. Chrysaleon felt the ash grate against his own eyes, and had to willfully stop himself from scouring at them.
The ruins offered one atrocity after another. Motionless carnage. Thick pools of congealing blood. Limbs protruding from beneath splintered wood and stone, or lying piecemeal, burned to charcoal. One corner revealed piles of burning flesh, while in another, a dog quivered in its final torment.
The hair on Chrysaleon’s neck rose as he stared at something more monstrous than any nightmare could conjure.
It was a human body—that much was evident. Hair and clothing gone. Features burned away. As he stared, the torso swelled like a blowfish. The stomach ripped open; scarlet entrails squirmed like a mass of living serpents then blackened and stilled. He stumbled away from Aridela, helplessly retching.
All around them was the sickening sound of other bodies swelling. Bursting.
He forced himself to his feet. “Aridela,” he muttered. She too, had fallen and lay, retching.
His throat was as dry as a stone. He was dizzy, disoriented, barely able to hear Aridela moan. She compressed into a ball, hiding her head beneath her burned arms.
Part of a nearby wall crumbled. Dust clouds mushroomed. Pillars hung fragmented, topless. Debris and silent corpses covered the flagstones.
Chrysaleon gazed, breathless, awestruck, holding himself stiff, still, and blank.
He stood in the presence of malevolent gods, witnessing a depraved power he had secretly dismissed as fantasy born in weak minds.
“I want to go home,” Aridela cried, sobbing. “I need my mother….”
“We’ll go at sunrise,” he whispered.
If we are still alive.
Aridela and her lover fled from the horrors of the dead and dying but could not bring themselves to abandon Phaistos. They wandered through the ruins, looking for survivors.
The Thinara King (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 3
