Themiste clasped Helice’s hands. “Rest,” she said. “Later, we will talk.”
“There’s no time for rest. Tell me what I must do to quell Athene’s anger, to bring peace again.”
Themiste beckoned to her attendant. “Wine then,” she said. “You must be thirsty.”
Helice agreed she was. Two priests hurried to assist Iphiboë but she waved them away, descending from her litter and walking on her own into the shrine.
Aridela accepted a cup of wine. It helped wash away the dry, lingering taste of gritty ash and sulfur.
The Holy Minos stood to one side and waited.
Before long, her mother’s head drooped. Her eyes fluttered and closed. No doubt she hadn’t allowed herself to sleep since the first explosion fractured their island.
“Lay her on the pallet,” Themiste ordered.
“What’s happened? What’s wrong with her?” Aridela asked as the priestesses made Helice comfortable.
“I put poppy in the wine. When she wakes, I will tell her what I have seen.”
Themiste told a priestess to bring stools. She approached Iphiboë’s chair and gestured for Aridela to join her.
When they were seated, she dismissed her maids and carefully examined Aridela’s arms. “Are the balms helping?”
“It’s nothing of consequence, Minos.” Sympathy and kindness were emotions she didn’t deserve. Pain, scarring, she did.
Themiste gave Iphiboë’s knee the same scrutiny. “I see no bruising now,” she said. “Is there any pain?”
“No, my lady,” Iphiboë replied. “I am fully healed. It’s been a month.”
“A knee thrown out of joint is a small price to pay, I suppose,” Themiste said, “for the way you two defied me.”
She didn’t look angry. Perhaps she didn’t know everything about that prophetic night when Aridela went with her sister to the Cave of Velchanos, against Themiste’s orders, and joined with Chrysaleon—also against Themiste’s orders.
Maybe Aridela’s secret was safe—for now.
Themiste leaned back on her stool, squeezing her hands together. Finally she said, “You are goddess beloved.”
Tears spilled from Iphiboë’s eyes. She only half-succeeded in stifling a sob.
Themiste’s considered words made Aridela’s throat close up too; her heart started to pound.
She suspected a measure of poppy might have found its way into all their wine cups.
“True love brings unforeseen strength.” The high priestess’s voice, though low, reverberated through Aridela’s skull. “When we make sacrifices for the sake of love, miracles happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Aridela said, though she didn’t. Her pampered life hadn’t included many sacrifices, but Themiste appeared agitated; she repeatedly clenched her hands, and Aridela saw her jaw clench too. If she could offer respite, she would.
“In Hesperia,” Themiste said, still very soft, “the great orchard on the far side of Okeanos, fruit hangs ripe upon the vine. Spring blooms every day. Those who reside there drink happiness from rivers. They absorb joy from sunlight. Kaphtor’s heroes are taken to Hesperia when they give their blood to the crops. Earthly cares and sorrows are forgotten.”
“It must be beautiful,” Iphiboë said. Her tears stopped. She watched Themiste, her eyes wide, unblinking.
“Everlasting renown comes to those who give all they have.” Themiste caressed Iphiboë’s cheek then leaned in close and kissed her on the forehead. “The greatest kings know this. It is why they meet death unafraid. They know it is but one of many labyrinths on their path of immortality.”
“‘There is never new life without death,’” Iphiboë said. “‘No new god without annihilation. Acceptance brings unimaginable glory.’”
Themiste drew back from Iphiboë. Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Why do you weep over me, Minos?” Iphiboë asked.
Themiste knelt on the floor so she could kiss Iphiboë’s foot. She rose, drew Iphiboë out of her chair, and embraced her.
“Athene must have retribution.” Her voice was so soft Aridela scarcely caught the words. “The greatest payment we can give. A god did say this to me. ‘Iphiboë must open the path.’”
Shock spread from Aridela’s scalp to her toes, leaving behind an echoing numbness. “No,” she whispered.
Iphiboë gazed beyond Themiste into the darkness shrouding the corners of the shrine. “I can avert the anger?” she asked.
“Truly,” said Themiste, “out of all our long line of queens, you are the greatest. You are your vision-chosen name, ‘Strength of Oxen.’”
Swallowing, gritting her teeth, Aridela fought to maintain control. “No,” she finally cried, her voice strangely hoarse. “It was my crime. I must be the one. It must be me!”
Themiste didn’t ask what crime she’d committed. She simply shook her head and repeated, “A god did tell me, long ago, what must be done.”
“Be quiet, Aridela,” Iphiboë said without looking at her.
“You don’t understand—only my suffering can soothe Athene’s anger.”
Iphiboë turned her gaze upon her sister. “Would you take this from me as you have taken everything else?”
Aridela opened her mouth, but whatever protest she might have made died unsaid at the bitterness she saw in Iphiboë’s eyes.
Iphiboë crossed to her sleeping mother and kissed her lightly, so as not to wake her. “Give me your blessing, Minos,” she said, turning back to Themiste.
Themiste touched Iphiboë’s forehead with her fingertips. “Great princess of Kaphtor, you have my blessing. You have my gratitude.” Her voice broke. “May you live at the side of the Lady in joy eternal, as beloved by her as you are by your people.”
Iphiboë crossed her arms over her breasts and lowered her head.
“I will go with her,” Aridela said, her hands clenched. If Themiste forbade it, she would—
But Themiste nodded. “It won’t anger the Lady. But Aridela, you too have tasks to complete.” Her eyes said the rest. Return to me. Do not think to take her place.
Iphiboë held out her hand. Aridela clasped it and walked with her from the cave.
Iphiboë’s hand trembled in Aridela’s like a newborn bird, and her breathing was choppy. Yet she half-ran, half-stumbled up the steep narrow path to the cliffs.
“Stop,” Aridela cried. “Iphiboë….”
Twelve more steps at most would bring them to the edge. Aridela knew without looking what they would see. Water edged in gray foam, pinnacles, boulders, and, since the destruction, massive ugly reefs of rocks so light they would not sink but clogged every cove, every niche along the shore.
Iphiboë paused. She stared at the edge, breathing hard, before leaning on her sister.
“Please, for my sake,” Aridela said.
But Iphiboë stumbled on, half-falling over slippery scree. “If I stop the fear will catch me.”
Thundering spray shot high, as though striving to reach them. After the destruction, the water had turned a thick, murky brown. It seemed to Aridela a hungry beast, eager to devour whatever it could seize. She turned her back on it and grabbed her sister’s hands.
“Iphiboë. Don’t do it.”
Iphiboë looked up from the fury, her eyes large and dark, more haunted than the death cloud that melted Phaistos.
For the first time Aridela noticed Themiste. She had followed them up. The oracle waited some distance away. Her hands were clasped, her head lowered, yet still she seemed alert and wary. Rage flamed inside Aridela and she tightened her grip on Iphiboë’s hands.
“This is best,” Iphiboë said. She freed one hand and stroked Aridela’s hair. “Now you can be queen, Aridela.”
“Athene chose you.”
“A mistake, somehow. A mistake of birth. You can be with Chrysaleon. Do you think I haven’t seen how you look at each other?” She smiled. “An ox could see.”
“Have I hurt you? If he found you in the cave instead o
f me….”
“He would have been miserable.” With a brief, faraway smile, Iphiboë added, “I wouldn’t have liked him either. Everything about him is too big. Too bold. He is terrifying. You haven’t hurt me. You and he… seem a perfect match.” She touched, lightly, the puckered burn above her sister’s left ear. “I cannot decide which one of you I would wager on in a fight.”
Iphiboë returned her gaze to the surf. Aridela embraced her, ignoring the sting from her half-healed burns, agonized more by the unceasing tremble rippling through her sister’s body.
Iphiboë pressed her forehead to Aridela’s and closed her eyes. “I dreamed of this,” she said. “I have always known this was my purpose. It’s why I couldn’t love a man. Love might have made me cling to this life. Now I can make my offering freely, with my whole heart.”
“You—dreamed of—doing—this?”
“Many times. Potnia Athene was preparing me, I think. She planned it this way from the beginning. She has plans for you, too, Aridela.” Tucking Aridela’s cropped hair behind her ears, she added softly, “We go about our lives in ignorance, but the Goddess has every shade and texture perfectly woven into a magnificent tapestry. I feared ruling. I only wanted to serve her.” Her shoulders lifted. “Now I can.”
“But what if Themiste is wrong?” Aridela sent a glance toward the oracle, who remained still and silent, giving no indication she could hear them.
“You know she isn’t.” Iphiboë shook her head. “Listen to the Lady. Pay attention to the signs. You’ll see. You are meant to be queen. You’ll bring recovery to Kaphtor and our people. That’s your purpose.” She kissed Aridela’s cheek and with determination, pried herself from her sister’s grip. She backed away, toward the edge. “I couldn’t have made him happy. Consorts deserve to be happy. Their lives are so short. I go to Hesperia, where I will ask Athene for mercy. I will heal the land, and you will bring the world of the barbarian closer. You will forge peace among those who worship the Lady and those who follow angry gods.”
One more step brought Iphiboë to the precipice. Aridela couldn’t breathe. This cannot be happening. It must be a dream.
Somehow, she rallied. She swallowed useless fear and managed to speak in a fairly steady voice. “Your name will live in our hearts until the earth grows old and brittle,” she said. “I love you.”
Iphiboë smiled. “Yes. That’s the one thing I always knew was real.”
Even as Aridela stretched out her arms to seize her, to pull her back, Iphiboë stepped into space, her smile fading.
Aridela started forward, but strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, preventing it. Themiste had come forward at last.
Misery crept up her feet and legs, through her belly and into her brain, turning her stiff and still as a shaft of bronze.
Then, without warning, she dissolved. Her cheek struck the earth. The pungency of dust filled her nose. The sting of sharp stones burned her skin.
Far beneath her, the water roared its triumph.
I took cara. I breathed the smoke and swallowed venom. I gave myself to the vision and prayed for true sight.
Years ago, our northern settlement of Callisti was abandoned but for a colony of priestesses whose only duty has been to appease the mountain’s anger. All this time these women have tried to quiet the earth and calm Athene’s discontent, but what I have seen, if true, angered the Lady beyond all reckoning.
As Prince Kios surmised, Callisti was the root of Athene’s fury, but so terrible was this rage that Kaphtor was nearly destroyed as well, and who knows how many other lands? Perhaps the whole world lies dying or dead beneath burning ash.
I was sent into the mind of one of those women. I saw through her eyes. Unbalanced by fear and loneliness, by the poison she constantly breathed, she did welcome and lie with a man during the time dedicated to chastity. She took him to the shrine. There, he turned on her. He beat and bound her. This warrior’s men found the high priestess, asleep in her chamber. They dragged her to the altar and outraged her there, she whose body was dedicated to the Goddess alone.
This warrior and his soldiers pulled over the sacred statues, breaking them to bits.
I could not see his face, but blurred impressions came to me: people screaming as they were cut down, steam rising from pots, concoctions drunk, black prayers, and blood. The outline of this man seemed familiar. There was a beard that proclaimed him an Achaean or some other barbarian, mighty shoulders, battle scars, but his face remained hidden, smeared like wet paint. He stood before the priestesses and declared himself lord and king of the islands, even of Kaphtor. He proclaimed an end to the holy king-sacrifice and promised he would rule for the length of his natural life.
Laodámeia tells me I shrieked during the trance and tried to throw myself into the pit. Horror lies like the weight of the ocean upon my soul.
I see such a length of deep shadow that our children’s distant unborn descendants will be blinded by its darkness.
If we can show we are still Goddess Athene’s, completely, utterly, that we will give whatever we must, whatever she wants, to prove our devotion, we have a chance. It begins with Iphiboë. I think we must also seek out and kill this murderous barbarian. Only then can we hope for forgiveness.
At first Helice didn’t believe me when I told her. When she realized I was not lying, she dropped to the shrine floor, gouging at her eyes. “Why could Athene not take me?” she cried. “I would have given myself. I have lived. Iphiboë. My child….”
I gave her poppy. She fell asleep in my arms, whispering her daughter’s name. I hate myself for the grief I have caused this poor woman.
When did she become so thin and fragile? Holding her, I realized for the first time that Queen Helice of Kaphtor is lost to her people. The imperious ruler who cowed would-be invaders and brought warriors to their knees, she who commanded the respect of all surrounding countries—that singular leader is gone. She slipped away and I didn’t even notice. All that remains is a tired old woman, crushed by illness and desolation.
She isn’t the one who will lead us back to prosperity.
None thought Iphiboë possessed more than a glimmer of the fascination that draws everyone to Aridela like flame to oil. Shy and timid, she became almost invisible in her sister’s presence.
Yet she kissed Aridela and leaped from the cliffs with determination and courage. Iphiboë made this sacrifice with a willing heart, to save Kaphtor.
For the first time in many days, the earth did not shake. Today it rained, real, fresh rain, which seemed to bury some of the ash. After, the sun came out, still hazy, but bringing rainbows that stretched from horizon to horizon.
My priestesses and I watched the sun go down. I cannot describe the brilliance of the heavens. It was like being lifted in the hand of a god, of swimming through color, breathing every hue ever imagined until I became something other than a mortal woman. I was color itself. It was like being washed clean in a vast sea of paint.
The waning moon is as red as blood.
Chrysaleon found Menoetius after a long day of clearing rubble at Labyrinthos. His brother looked tired. Not surprising, as he had spent his day collecting corpses. Chrysaleon was tired too, but not enough to seek his bed. Though his burns and other injuries didn’t hurt so much anymore, gruesome nightmares made sleeping difficult, and lying in his bed made the longing for Aridela almost unbearable. Nine days he had waited for her to return. She’d promised him it would only be two or three.
“Knucklebones?” he asked. Menoetius hesitated then gave a weary nod.
They’d hardly begun their game before messengers came through announcing the royal family’s return. Exchanging a glance, the two ran to the south gate.
Helice stepped out of her litter, drew her fur close around her face, and walked away without responding to anyone who bowed and greeted her.
“Aridela,” Chrysaleon said, frowning after the queen. “Has something happened?”
“My sister is dead.”
The gaze she leveled on him was opaque, emotionless. “She offered herself in the hope that Athene’s rage might cool.”
Shock bolted through him. He sensed more than saw Menoetius’s head rear back sharply. He started to speak, then didn’t, not knowing what to say.
Murmurs rose from those who overheard. Aridela glanced at them. “Athene’s anger is great,” she said. “Our oracle understood that we must make a sacrifice beyond any other. I only pray, if ever I am called, that I can equal my sister’s courage.” Her voice trembled; she fell silent and her jaw clenched.
Only later, when Chrysaleon lay alone and sleepless in the undamaged west wing of Labyrinthos, did realization wash over him.
He no longer faced union with a woman he didn’t desire.
Aridela was now Queen Helice’s oldest daughter.
Selene’s vision on the mountain would come true. The Goddess had stated that Aridela would take Kaphtor’s throne.
Now she would.
Mourning and death blanketed Kaphtor.
Helice closeted herself and refused to see anyone. Aridela sank into despair so dark Chrysaleon could see no way of breaking through. The intensity of her grief was foreign to him. He found himself dwelling morosely on the uninhibited passion she’d offered in the cave, her incandescent laughter when she leaped the wild bull, her unselfconscious exuberance as she played with her companions in the forest pool. Was that woman lost forever? Could she possibly come back after all this?
Iphiboë. Half the country ridiculed her when she was alive. In death, she became Crete’s greatest hero.
Chrysaleon walked with his brother to the cliffs near the razed port of Amnisos. Wreckage and carcasses still littered the beach and clotted the bay. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air. Every ship at anchor that day succumbed to the tremendous wave. Now Crete’s people were cut off from the rest of the world. Worse was the annihilation of the island’s master shipbuilders, who had made their homes in the ports. Only a few survived, and to those fell the gigantic task of reconstruction.
The Thinara King (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 5
