“True, everything has changed,” said Prince Kios before Helice could react. Aridela’s uncle was a thoughtful man with a reputation for wisdom; as soon as he spoke, everyone turned toward him and offered courteous attention.
He looks tired. Grief over the loss of his wife has not yet abated. The thought only served to bring back images of Iphiboë. Aridela bit her lower lip and sighed.
Rubbing his eyes, Kios said, “It is hard to know what to do, but my instincts tell me that we dare not accept this man as our king, despite the outcome of the Games.” Drawing in a deep breath, he added in a low voice, “We must be rid of him, somehow.”
Oneaea returned her accusatory stare to Helice. “You’ve given him an excessive sense of himself with your doting and attentions. How could he otherwise be unaware of the arrogance he displayed today? Most didn’t trust him before, including me. He has no humility. That he dare come before us publicly and demand Aridela, like she is one of his mainland slaves—to be given for the price of a beard!”
Helice frowned. She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her palms over her shoulders as though she was cold.
“It could be as he says.” Aridela tried to appear casual. “Perhaps he is willing to love me in Iphiboë’s stead.”
Oneaea shook her head. “What does that matter? His own countrymen caused the near-annihilation of our entire world, perhaps with his knowledge.” She struck the table with her fist. “You may not know this, but some suspect he staged the horrors on Callisti while remaining here, courting Iphiboë and cloaking himself in a veil of innocence. I agree with Kios. The violence of that night, all we have suffered, and most of all, your sister’s death; these events have destroyed traditional relations with the mainland. We are weakened, and must be extra vigilant. There can be no sacred king now unless it is one of Kaphtor’s own, a man we can fully trust.”
“Does he deserve this judgment?” Aridela rose from her chair and paced, fighting to quiet her scattered nerves and keep her voice even. “I feel as Mother does—there is no evidence to link him with what happened, and without that, we cannot blame him for what other men may or may not have done. Kaphtor’s women have long taken Achaean men as husbands. You did so yourself, Mother. There’s nothing new about it. Chrysaleon is my equal in rank and he won the Games. Where has he transgressed us? He has made every effort to show us respect and honor, and he denied any knowledge of whatever evil may have transpired on Callisti. We haven’t yet received news from there, anyway, only Themiste’s vision. None of us can pretend her visions have always been accurate.” Locking her gaze to her mother’s, she added, “Chrysaleon could have abandoned me multiple times on the night of the poison fires and death. When the earth split open, he could have let me fall. He could have left me to burn. But instead he used his body as a shield to protect me. He risked his own life to preserve mine.”
Helice’s reply shocked her. “Apparently you have developed feelings for him as he has for you.”
Aridela felt her face betray her with hot color. She’d given away more than she intended. “I try, as you taught me, to be impartial. I don’t believe the prince to be underhanded. I’ve conversed with him many times, more than any of you. I have seen no deception in his face or manner. It was clear to me on that terrible night that he would sacrifice himself in order to save me.” She placed her hands on the table. “My aunt says he has no humility, but Chrysaleon came to you and asked your permission. He shaved his beard, which we know is never done, and vowed to submit to our ways. How can this be called arrogance? What more could he do to win your approval?”
“You’re right, Aridela.” Helice gave a brief nod. “We cannot allow emotion to sway our judgment. I’ve given much thought to the prince, and though your words are eloquent, I will share my concerns. Chrysaleon expends considerable effort to achieve brief kingship and his own death, when he could have Mycenae’s crown and live until unknowable fate severs the thread of his life. I have learned he has a wife there and has fathered children. Does he mean to die at the next rising of Iakchos, or does he have other plans, plans designed to benefit Mycenae rather than Kaphtor?”
“He is subject to our laws, now more than ever. He cannot think that has changed.” Even as Aridela spoke in her lover’s defense, she remembered him asking her to abandon her country for Mycenae. He had dismissed with scorn the wife who waited for him there. Confusion and fear sharpened her voice. “Do we or do we not believe the Lady chooses our sacred kings? If we believe it, as we’ve always claimed, our direction is clear. Chrysaleon descended into the labyrinth and killed the Zagreus. He won the Games. Athene chose him. To lie to him, to send him away—it is this sort of defiance that risks more divine anger.”
Oneaea fingered one of the crystals in her necklace. Her clenched jaw and stony expression remained unrepentant. “He does not and never has seemed to me a man who would walk willingly into certain death. At Mycenae, he is heir to kingship over all the Kindred. He will inherit riches, power and glory, if any remain.”
“We’ve discussed this many times,” Aridela said, no longer trying to hide her impatience. “We asked him repeatedly if he wanted this, if he was willing to honor our laws. He agreed, time and time again.”
“Yes,” Helice said. “We’re not arguing that fact. We’re wondering if his agreement was sincere, or if other motives hide beneath his spoken words.”
Oneaea rose from her chair. She leaned forward, fists pressed to the tabletop. “Mycenae offers but shallow honor to Potnia Athene. I’ve heard they call Poseidon her uncle, and give him authority over her.” She sneered, making clear her disdain. “If he were anyone other than the son of Idómeneus, High King of Mycenae, I might consider this union—if, indeed, Themiste would relinquish her claim upon you, Aridela. I wish she were here to consult. That aside….” She banged her fist on the marble tabletop. “I don’t trust him. I vote to refuse and banish him.”
“The ship being built in the harbor is almost finished,” Kios said. “It will be ready to sail in a few days.”
Helice nodded. “In many ways I admire the prince, and I will always be grateful for the protection he offered you, but in this matter I agree with my sister and brother.”
Aridela bowed her head. Again, eyesight melted into a haze of tears, but these burned with fury, not grief. Her teeth clenched. Here, at this momentous crossroads, she was being dismissed, her years of training, education, and preparation given no weight. The council obviously didn’t think she should have any say, though every one of these decisions concerned her. Even so, her mind, trained to look at things from all sides, forced her to concede. “Chrysaleon is a proud man from a race of warriors where the male reigns supreme,” she said, very softly. “I have to admit he may not understand, or might plan to thwart the ways of our people. I wish I could prove his honesty. I wish he were a common man. I think then you would trust him, as I do.”
“The barbarian profanes us.” Triumph glittered in Oneaea’s dark eyes. “Before more punishment falls, we will show the Goddess and her son Velchanos, that we will never bend to the ways of foreigners. Themiste must go into trance—false if need be, to speak Athene’s wishes. Then Chrysaleon won’t be able to accuse us of prejudice.”
“A false trance?” Aridela stared at her aunt. “Is that what we now stoop to? Cheap trickery? Is that what you think of our oracle?”
“Aridela,” Helice began.
Aridela threw up her hand in an impulsive demand for silence. “Why do you think you can speak for Themiste? Intolerance has clouded your judgment, aunt. I want to know what Minos Themiste’s true opinion would be if she were here, not what you foist upon her.”
“Silence.” Helice rose from her chair, her skin mottling from forehead to chest. “You will not speak in such a manner to my council. Go to your chamber and wait there for me.”
When Aridela opened her mouth to argue, her mother stopped her with a pointed finger and flashing eyes. For an instant, she resembled the Helic
e of old. “Do you think to defy me?”
“Follow your mother’s wishes, child,” Prince Kios said, giving her an understanding smile.
Aridela ran from the room. Tears flooded so hotly she could scarcely see where she stepped. She longed to run to Iphiboë, to scream, weep, and allow her anger its just release. But Iphiboë was dead. Neoma would be her next choice, but her cousin still lay near death from her head wound. Isandros, who shared so many of her childhood adventures and helped her defy the restrictions placed by birth, was dead as well.
There was only one person in whom she could confide. One person, who should have been at this meeting, and to whom she must now bare every secret.
Chrysaleon was summoned to the queen’s makeshift council chamber the following morning.
Helice sat upon her throne, which had been hauled over the mountains from Knossos to Natho on an ox-drawn cart. At her right stood Aridela. A necklace of golden ivy, fashioned by master artisans, fell in priceless drifts over her breasts. Themiste stood on the queen’s left, her face and thoughts hidden behind the terrible bull’s mask, feathered, jeweled, and horned in ivory, that marked her station.
“We must choose our words with care,” Helice said to Aridela. “Kaphtor is unprepared to engage in war. Anything we can do to preserve the ties we have forged must be done.”
“Except giving Chrysaleon what he wants,” Aridela said. “What he fought for, nearly died for, and has every right to expect.”
Helice made no verbal reply, but her measured stare and pointed frown demanded obedience.
Bystanders gossiped in low voices. Lycus reclined on a litter in the corner, scowling. Four beautiful and attentive women knelt beside the litter, smiling, flirting, touching him. But his dark, angry gaze kept returning to the dais and Aridela.
Helice’s steward escorted the Mycenaean prince and his guard into the room. Chrysaleon strode through the press, watching the three at the throne as though he might discern his fate from their expressions, but only Aridela’s gaze faltered. The others were too experienced to give anything away.
Helice rose. She lifted her scepter, a gold and ivory labrys, to command silence. With a polite inclination of her head, she began. “Prince Chrysaleon, heir to the kingdom of Mycenae, son of High King Idómeneus. You fought for my daughter Iphiboë, who gave her life in supreme sacrifice to save her people. You have stated your willingness to accept my younger daughter in Iphiboë’s stead. My council has discussed the matter with care and consideration.”
Chrysaleon’s gaze never wavered from the queen’s, though his brows lowered. Aridela watched his jaw clench.
Invisible charges of lightning seemed to zip between the two. The air felt sweaty hot, and the crowded chamber grew still, apprehensive.
Aridela’s skin crawled; she could hardly breathe. She felt Athene’s eyes staring down upon the scene.
“My lord,” Helice said, “you proved yourself as powerful a warrior as Aridela’s father, my beloved Damasen, who gave his life bravely, and who now watches over those he loves from Lady Potnia’s land of honey and nectar.”
Chrysaleon inclined his head.
Helice seemed to decide she’d made enough conciliatory statements, or perhaps that his patience was wearing thin. Lifting her chin, she said clearly, without hesitation, “Kaphtor’s council refuses your request, though we recognize your worth and all we owe you. Our gratitude is measureless, Prince Chrysaleon.”
She offered her most gracious smile, but Chrysaleon’s frown remained.
Helice cleared her throat. “We cannot continue as though nothing is changed when everything has. I urge you to return to the mainland, my lord, to your wife, and a long, respected reign as High King—”
“You disregard your own laws?” Chrysaleon’s voice rang against the walls. “Aridela will be queen. I won the Games. I am bull-king, and have won the right to be consort, either to her or to you.”
Helice drew in a deep breath. Briefly, her eyes narrowed in a way Aridela knew and respected. The queen of Kaphtor was not accustomed to being challenged. “My lord, you are not privy to every circumstance surrounding my youngest daughter.” Her voice was studiously patient now, as though she hung onto the last shreds of control over anger. “Omens follow her. On the night she was born, a bolt of lightning struck the summit of our holy mountain and she herself was marked with its burn. Long have we considered the portents of this event. Aridela added to her own mystery by speaking prophecy when she was but a child. Because of what we have suffered, of what our oracle has seen, because of the written prophecies—of which you know nothing—the council has decided to initiate new traditions. Aridela was promised to Minos Themiste, and dedicated to oracle training; the prophecy she spoke showed this to be her calling. We will now combine the queenship with her original purpose.”
Aridela stared at her mother. No one had told her of this plan. Helice and the council must have come up with it after ejecting her from their discussion. She noticed the smug satisfaction on her aunt Oneaea’s face.
The way Chrysaleon jerked his chin and released a sharp breath clearly demonstrated his impatience. Helice hurried on. “Aridela will take no yearly consort. She shall rule according to the Great Marriage. The children she bears will be the fruit of the grove. We hope this will please Goddess Athene and bring us back into her favor.”
Aridela’s breathing shortened. Her heart sped up. The Great Marriage? Her face flushed.
Chrysaleon’s gaze broke its hold on Helice’s at last, shooting first to Aridela, then Menoetius.
“The Great Marriage,” he said.
“This is no reflection upon you,” Helice said. “It is merely our attempt to correct a certain laxness and indifference that has, we now see, crept into our lives and angered our Mistress.”
From the corner, Lycus gave a snort of laughter. “At last,” he said, loud enough to be overheard.
Eyes narrowed, mouth tight, Chrysaleon pivoted. Aridela sensed his muscles tensing, and feared there would be a brawl. Menoetius stepped closer to his prince.
But Chrysaleon surprised her by turning back to the queen with a dismissive snort. The anger on his face vanished, leaving determination. “It is too late for that,” he said, sending his voice like the snap of a whip over the assemblage. “Mortal man has already coupled with Princess Aridela, outside the grove. I was that man. She may in fact carry my child in her womb.”
Gasps and protests filled the chamber. Aridela closed her eyes, swaying under a deluge of lightheadedness. She gripped the backrest on her mother’s throne. If only Helice had warned her of this excuse they meant to foist off on him. She would have confessed her crime. This public humiliation would have been avoided. She sensed Themiste staring at her, and tried desperately to control her expression and her reaction.
“My lord,” Menoetius said in a tone of warning. His hand wandered to his hip, where his sword would be if weapons were allowed in this room.
“Barbarian filth,” Lycus shouted. Chrysaleon smiled, lifting his brow as he glanced at the wounded bull dancer. Aridela couldn’t help but admire his triumph and confidence, when, if he but knew it, his very life hung by a single rotted strand of seaweed.
Themiste stepped forward. Such was her dominance from behind the mask that silence fell instantly. Her voice, neither male nor female but somehow reflecting the Divine, echoed off ceiling and walls. “You dare blaspheme us? Aridela was dedicated to Athene when she was born. At my decree, she has given herself to no man, in or out of the grove.”
Chrysaleon turned to Aridela. “Tell them,” he said.
Helice seized Aridela’s arm. “Is this true?” she asked, fear and anger in her eyes.
Even before Helice finished her question, the pottery in the wall niches started to rattle as though a herd of oxen were stampeding on the other side of the wall.
Themiste’s hand stretched to Helice’s.
Murmurs grew swift, loud, and frightened. Those who had come to see what m
ight happen with the foreigner milled like beasts trapped in a pen.
A lamp fell and shattered on the tiles. From the stones, from deep within the earth’s dark, moist, secret places, a low, throbbing bellow oozed.
Panic exploded. “The Earth Bull,” someone cried.
“Goddess is again angry!”
Several women screamed. It was deafening in the small chamber.
The bellow intensified; walls reverberated and vases shattered. Water splashed over the edge of the purifying basin.
Themiste dropped to her knees. She pressed her fists to her breasts and lowered her head.
Helice and Aridela did the same.
“Isoke,” Helice whispered.
Aridela opened her eyes. Chrysaleon stood before them, feet planted firm and wide, arms crossed. He scowled down at them as though he didn’t care about the rumble of the earth, the broken pottery and frantic people who now fought to escape through the single narrow door.
“Pray, my queen,” Themiste cried. “Pray for forgiveness.”
“You have betrayed the wishes of Athene, not I.” Chrysaleon seized Aridela’s arm and yanked her to her feet. “I won’t leave her here,” he said to Helice’s startled protest. “What if the ceiling falls? Stay if you wish, Queen Helice.” He shoved through the crowd, knocking people out of his way, dragging Aridela with him. Menoetius followed close behind.
The heave of the earth was short. By the time they emerged into the courtyard, all had stilled, leaving giant cracks in the brilliant blue paint on the entrance pillars. Broken pottery and overturned flowerpots littered the ground. The threshold stone bore an ugly ragged fracture.
The Thinara King (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 7
