The Thinara King (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  If only he had found her sooner. The destructive interlude in the cave wouldn’t have happened. Menoetius might be here with them, and she wouldn’t be consumed by guilt and regret. Where had he gone? Was he injured? Dead? Without Chrysaleon’s presence to distract her, she agonized over her mountain champion’s fate. Over and over again, she heard Menoetius’s exultant laughter when she confessed she loved him, and the way she had pulled him closer yet denied him. He believed she had coldly, deliberately manipulated him, and she didn’t blame him.

  He would never know how she had forgotten her resolve even as she clung to it, or how much she had longed for their consummation, and in the time she spent alone in darkness, how bitterly she’d wished she could go back in time and give him everything he wanted, and more.

  Menoetius had returned her desire to live. Menoetius had restored the ability to join with Chrysaleon in the cave without ever once picturing Harpalycus. Menoetius had done that. And this was how she repaid his gift.

  She would give much to tell him how sorry she was, though she doubted he would believe it.

  If he returned to the cave and found it empty, he would think she had run away again, without any care for the pain it might cause him.

  Mistress, why does he have to be hurt? He has always loved you. He is a good man. Why?

  She picked up the dagger Chrysaleon had left and rubbed her thumb over the leather-wrapped hilt.

  Unease drew her gaze to the edge of the forest. Every leaf and branch lay perfectly still. She fancied something was watching her. If only Chrysaleon would return. She couldn’t leave these mountains soon enough. Active planning, reuniting with Selene, would suppress these thoughts, would erase Menoetius’s stricken face and the promise he’d made. I will have victory, Aridela.

  She must concentrate on something, and movement would help warm her. Tossing the jerkin around her shoulders, she set off into the forest to search for edible roots, perhaps a valiant berry or two.

  The sunset stained the clouds in the western heavens with effervescent crimson, but where she walked, green shadows reigned. Greenish-blue haze settled over her, as though the Goddess, in her guise of Dictynna, she who helps fishermen find their catch, had flung mystical sea nets across the sky, diffusing clarity.

  Aridela found and gathered dusky blue berries and twigs from a juniper tree. She would burn the twigs and sweep their campsite with the smoke. It was well known that juniper smoke cast a veil of protection. The berries she could simmer in water and make an energizing drink. As she carried her finds to their camp, she came across a great old plane tree. Gnarled roots protruded from the snow, creating pockets of rich earth. Using the dagger blade, she dug between them, hoping to find the root of white asphodel, or perhaps, with luck, a few leaves of wild parsley.

  “How did you do it this time?”

  She scrambled to her feet, pressing her back against the trunk. It was so like Menoetius, to appear when she’d finally managed to stop thinking of him.

  A sudden breeze sent the high branches swaying.

  Only a half-rotted log lay between them.

  His eyes betrayed relief, though his mouth told a different story, of anger. Impatience.

  He reached over the log and clasped her wrist.

  Her grip on the dagger loosened. It fell into the snow.

  “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

  “Why did you tell me Chrysaleon was dead?”

  His brows rose. She saw him stiffen. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

  “He is here.” She moved away from the tree trunk, pulling her hand free. The forest’s breath seemed to catch then a breeze brushed against her, cold enough to raise goose bumps.

  “That cannot be.” Menoetius frowned.

  She retrieved the knife then ran from him back to the stream, her emotions so jumbled she thought she might rend into pieces.

  Chrysaleon had returned during her absence. He reclined against the rock where she had dried her hair, sharpening his knife on the edge of a wet stone. When he saw her face, he threw down the stone and jumped to his feet. “What is it?”

  The tree canopy gave a drawn-out sigh.

  Menoetius stepped clear of the forest, his bow dangling in one hand.

  A grin spread across Chrysaleon’s face, erasing the frown of concern. He stepped away from Aridela. “Finally,” he said.

  “I thought you dead, son of Idómeneus.”

  “Themiste took me out of Harpalycus’s prison through secret tunnels. The Cretans know much of healing, and returned me from the land of shadows.”

  “Did Selene send you here?”

  “No, I came on my own. She’s nearby, though. She’s been searching for you a long while.” His eyes narrowed. “Explain why you trussed my queen like a goat.”

  Menoetius flushed. His gaze dropped. “She was always running away. I couldn’t hunt or collect water for worry over what she might try next. Once she nearly went over a cliff. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Chrysaleon squinted at him, his jaw muscles working. Aridela held her breath.

  But he slapped his brother on the back and gave a hearty laugh. “I know well how stubborn and troublesome she can be. She said as much herself.” He turned away, adding, “I killed a badger. It was all I could find. Come, share our supper. Tomorrow we will find Selene.”

  He crossed to his budding fire and laid a few more sticks on the flames. “Aridela told me how she refused to eat, so I hold you blameless, but if we bring her back so skinny, I fear what her people will do to us. Her bones are about to split her skin open.”

  Aridela remained beside the boulder. She stared at Menoetius. He returned it. She couldn’t begin to read his thoughts.

  He knew her duty. Yet sickening guilt and loss made her feel she’d done everything wrong.

  I didn’t want to cheat you, Menoetius, she told him with her eyes. Forgive me….

  Aridela has returned! She sits on a footstool next to me, holding her hands to the hot coals, pretending she’s cold so she won’t have to spin. All the people feel the power she has brought. They walk straighter. Hope brightens their eyes as though they already see our victory. I pray their sight is true.

  Chrysaleon reclines on the cave floor next to her. Since their return they cannot be parted. He touches her constantly in some way or other, and her gaze upon him is transparent with delight. Here, in this deep underground place where our people have prayed, danced, sacrificed and made offerings for time beyond memory, love is strong. Desire is strong. It affects me. I ache for what I alone of all the inhabitants of Kaphtor am denied.

  Harpalycus kills five people each day, sometimes children. He vows to continue these atrocities until I am returned to him. His warriors seize women and imprison them for the master’s brutal pleasure. My spies tell me he’s grown dependent on our wine, which is far more potent than what they ferment on the plains of Argolis. He staggers, rants, and froths. Sometimes his faithful dog, Proitos, must restrain him. Most nights, I hear, the drink steals his senses and he lies in unconscious stupor.

  Men will speak of their honor as though it is the most important aspect of their lives. But I have too often witnessed their inclination to seize advantage of their foe’s weakest moment. Brutal earthshakings devastated Kaphtor. Cruel mountains of water destroyed the harbors of Amnisos, Tamara, Elasa and Kydonia. Blizzards of ash smothered crops and killed animals. Harpalycus chose his time well. With few men he conquered our palaces and cities. He vanquished us in our sleep, during a celebration when guards were few and we thought ourselves safe. Now he locks away the remaining stores of grain and we starve. Will he hold us? My visions give no answers, but as long as I breathe, I will resist.

  Kaphtor’s people are courageous, but they cannot endure this suffering much longer.

  We have smuggled weapons from Labyrinthos. Aridela and I sift through the growing piles of javelins, swords, spears, arrows, and shields. She and the two men who shadow her, C
hrysaleon and Menoetius, describe to me the skills of conquest and warfare, sometimes demonstrating the best way to kill a foe. I see their stark desire to engage, but Chrysaleon has advised us to wait a few more days. “My father will come,” he insists. It is hard. Everyone grows restless and impatient.

  I see something else as well, between Aridela and Menoetius. Something they pretend isn’t there. Something Chrysaleon, in his spoiled arrogance, hasn’t seen. I consider the many days and nights spent in the mountain cave with only each other for company, and I wonder.

  Catching how they glance at each other then away, I remember the long-ago morning when Menoetius carried Aridela from the shrine and was thrown into our prison for his trouble. I remember how devastated she was when he left Kaphtor to go back to his home on the mainland.

  These warriors from the north, these ‘Kindred Kings,’ are strong and ruthless. Every year they find new places to conquer, to assert their authority and their gods. They become ever more entrenched. It is the same to the east, where countless legions of invading tribes swarm the countryside. Everywhere they go, they crush Mother Goddess and replace her with the war-hungry male gods who support their desire for power. To our south there is Egypt, a strange conglomeration where the female is revered but only males rule. How can our tiny island hold out against these ever-expanding dynasties? Long have they eyed us with greed and envy. They covet our land, our artisans, and perhaps our women most of all, to enslave and dominate. They want to destroy our glory and replace it with their own.

  Again I ponder Damasen’s words in the long-ago vision. ‘You will know when the time comes,’ he said. ‘Aridela and her sister are as one. Iphiboë must open the path, so Aridela can walk alone into the dark.’

  Was this prophecy fulfilled when Iphiboë died and Aridela suffered alone at the hands of the Usurper?

  Prince Chrysaleon lingers in my mind as well, along with his claim of being the thinara king. If we triumph in this war, but he remains Aridela’s consort…

  Will we have defeated our enemy?

  “Ships, my lady! They come.”

  The messenger fell to his knees. Tears streaked his face.

  Aridela jumped off her stool. Apathetically spinning wool when the man entered, she dropped the distaff, paying no attention as it clattered to the floor and rolled away.

  “No one sails the seas in the Moon of Drenching Rain,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I swear it’s true,” he cried. “Their sails bear the gryphon.”

  She exchanged a glance with Chrysaleon, then Themiste. She had told them of Harpalycus’s boast that King Eurysthenes of Pylos, ‘The Gryphon,’ had promised many warriors to bolster the invasion. She knew they had argued and bartered. Then winter set in. She had half-believed, half-hoped Eurysthenes wouldn’t or couldn’t appear for at least another month; not until the rough seas calmed.

  “Come,” Chrysaleon said. “We will see what is to be seen.”

  The three armed themselves. They left the cave by the secret way and hiked over stony hills to a vantage point above Amnisos.

  A thick wet mist, rolling in from the sea, prevented Aridela from counting the exact number of battle-ships anchored some distance from land’s edge. There seemed to be dozens. As one ship then another floated eerily in and out of the fog, she glimpsed men leaning over the sides, pointing toward land. Every now and then she caught snatches of their shouts.

  Indeed, the sails bore the Pylos gryphon. Chrysaleon scowled his fury.

  Phalanxes of men marched into sight on the road from Labyrinthos, armed with spears and carrying ox-hide shields stolen from Kaphtor’s weapons reserves. A single chariot ranged in front, followed by four rows of foot soldiers holding smaller, round shields and javelins. Mist and drizzle made determining the numbers of this approaching army impossible, but Aridela guessed they were about three hundred.

  “Harpalycus is in the chariot.” Aridela stared at the man who had tortured her for so long. Hatred made her stomach churn. The soldiers following the Usurper carried their weapons upright, in ceremonial stance. Their plumed helmets rode high. They strode without shouting, haste, or alarm.

  Chrysaleon’s fists clenched.

  The warriors lined up in precise rows on either side of, and behind, the chariot. Harpalycus handed the reins to the man standing next to him and stepped out. He wore no helmet and was dressed in fine Cretan armor, tooled in bronze, a bull’s head in front and back, horns curling over the shoulders. He wore a treasure in gold that would dazzle the eye if the sun were shining.

  Tenders carried the incoming warriors to shore. These legions scrambled like a nest of uncovered snakes as they disembarked and waded onto dry ground, but they quickly formed into organized units.

  Aridela bit her lip, trying not to believe all was lost.

  Harpalycus, flanked by one man, walked toward the commander of the Pylos army, distinguishable by a crimson cloak and personal guard.

  “Eurysthenes,” Chrysaleon muttered when the commander removed his ornate helmet and exposed his grizzled hair. “Many times has he been a guest on the citadel. My father and he contracted a union between my sister Bateia and his son.” He ground fist against palm and gritted his teeth.

  “How did Harpalycus gain his support?” Themiste asked.

  Chrysaleon shook his head. “He must have promised something very great, especially to bring them in winter.”

  Eurysthenes’ spearmen gathered in thick rows, their long pointed weapons resembling a forest of sharp-tipped trees. More landed, and more again.

  Harpalycus’s men were forced to back up in order to make room on the beach for the incoming warriors. The two armies faced each other in silence.

  Still Harpalycus and Eurysthenes spoke. Harpalycus beckoned his guard forward. The man bowed low and offered a welcoming bowl to Eurysthenes, who accepted it and quaffed the wine.

  “What can we do?” Themiste asked. “This might be merely the beginning. What if more ships are landing even now in other harbors? There are so many.”

  Aridela clasped the oracle’s hand. “We will never give up.”

  Harpalycus gestured toward the partially reconstructed pier. He and Eurysthenes strolled to a pile of rubble and stared at the heavy gray seas. Harpalycus swept out his hand. Perhaps he spoke of the wall of water that had raged against the land, leaving nothing but mud and broken bits of lives, of memories.

  His arm faltered. Aridela looked up, following his gaze.

  She gasped.

  A ship’s prow… and another, broke through mist. Two by two they came, edging around the point. The fog couldn’t fully stifle the drummers’ beat.

  These white sails bore Mycenae’s royal lion head etched in crimson dye.

  Aridela and Themiste glanced at one another, puzzled.

  Was Idómeneus coming to help her people, or to rescue his son and conquer the island for himself? He could even be in league with Harpalycus. Helice and the council had suspected Mycenae of duplicity. Their warnings crept through Aridela’s mind.

  “Chrysaleon?” she asked.

  “Look.” He pointed.

  Eurysthenes had drawn his sword. Harpalycus leaped away from him, fumbling for his own.

  The warriors from Labyrinthos began to shuffle. Their meticulous line broke. Helmets swung back and forth as men peered from the arriving ships to the formidable rows of armed men facing them.

  Eurysthenes’ warriors attacked with a united roar. Spears flew in a whistling cloud of death. Mainland phalanxes pushed Harpalycus’s men back. Archers rushed on each side like waves borne on a hurricane. Sword-blades cracked against ox-hide. Arrows hummed. Screams ripped through the air as countless soldiers fell in the initial onslaught.

  Aridela seized Chrysaleon’s forearm.

  He grinned, confident now and easy. “Eurysthenes supports my father. It was a trick.” He laughed.

  “Quickly, Themiste,” Aridela said. “Run back to the cave. Get Menoetius and Selene. Tel
l our people the time has come. Today, we fight. Today, we rout Harpalycus.”

  “Yes.” Themiste wiped at her tears. “What will you do?”

  Aridela faced Chrysaleon, thankful to see the same fierce desire blazing in his eyes that she felt.

  He bent his head. They kissed.

  Holding hands, they ran down the slope to the sand.

  Rocky hills magnified the fury of shouting, clash of blades, and whine of arrows, making it seem an army of divine proportions fought upon Kaphtor’s shore.

  Both Chrysaleon and Aridela carried swords and were protected by hard leather armor over linen tunics, but they had brought no helmets, and were soon recognized. Eurysthenes’ men called their eager support to Chrysaleon. Someone threw him a spear. Word rippled that the Crown Prince of Mycenae lived and fought with them.

  Harpalycus’s men also recognized them.

  “Kill the Cretan queen,” shouted one, pointing at Aridela, but before he could do or say anything else, he sank to the ground, a spear protruding from his stomach. Aridela looked around and saw Selene. Somber-faced, she held Aridela’s gaze for only an instant before turning to fight someone else.

  Led to battle by Selene and Menoetius, Kaphtor’s survivors poured over the hills in a screaming mass. They were not many, but they fought with all the pent-up vengeful rage that had festered for months under Harpalycus’s cruel regime.

  Aridela never stopped searching for Harpalycus. Finally she glimpsed him, backed up to the water’s edge, fending off one of King Eurysthenes’ guards. The king himself lay on the ground, unconscious or dead.

  She caught Chrysaleon’s attention and pointed.

  He nodded and moved with her. Side by side, they slashed a path toward their nemesis.

  A youth emerged from the mist near Chrysaleon. His green eyes were made intensely startling and ferocious by a frame of bronzed blood-spattered skin, black brows, and wild, unbound black hair.