Artemis Rising

by Cheri Lasota

  “I know what you would say. I know that you don’t care for the marquês. I saw it in your face at the supper table weeks ago. But this must be.”

  “Please,” she mouthed.

  “I will not be moved, Arethusa.” He brought a handkerchief to his lips and coughed. “If there were any other way, I would not give you to him—he was never my first choice—but there are forces working here that you cannot know.” Pai’s back stiffened at the questioning in her gaze. “You will obey me. Now go. Tell João and the condessa we will depart for Angra in one hour.”

  She would have objected further, but he put her away from him and pointed to the door, as if he were sending away an unruly child. She glanced back at him as she turned to shut the door, but he averted his eyes from the accusation in her own.

  If you knew what Diogo was capable of, would you still consent? she wanted to ask him. If she was married to Diogo, no one could stop him from killing her at the slightest provocation. And as a marquês, the law would protect him. Not even Tristan could shield her from her own husband. She would fight this. She would fight them all if she must.

  After dutifully delivering Pai’s message to the condessa and readying herself for the long ride to Angra do Heroísmo on Terceira’s southern coast, she sat down to write a letter she hoped would change the course of everything.

  *

  The condessa was cheery on the journey to Angra, as though she were daydreaming of titles and wealth and marrying her husband’s insolent children off to the highest bidder. Pai was as quiet and pensive as Arethusa, saying little. He studied her, but she made her face a mask, staring down at the bouquet of lilies and roses she had picked for Tristan.

  It was customary for the society girls to bring bouquets for their favorite bullfighter. If the young man triumphed, the girls would toss their bouquets into the arena at his feet. She planned to give Tristan his flowers before the bullfight in one last attempt to turn his head.

  The myths came to her mind, and she searched the stories of Tristan and Arethusa for any possibility that she could have mistaken her destiny. But in Tristan’s myth, he married another, and, in her own, the nymph was joined to the River God for all eternity. How could she have ever thought herself Tristan’s Isolde? It was a foolish dream.

  She fingered the pendant at her neck, absently pressing the moonstone to her cheek.

  “Put that away.” Pai grabbed her arm, knocking the pendant from her fingers.

  Arethusa was surprised he spoke in Latin as it was not his custom, but then she realized what she had done. She had brought out the moonstone right in front of the condessa. She slipped it under her shift before the condessa turned from the window to look.

  Arethusa glanced again at Pai, curious to know his interest in keeping her pendant a secret. But now his face was a mask. She couldn’t believe he still recognized the pendant. The last time he had seen it was three years ago at the festa. He had no way of knowing the moonstone’s power or significance. Perhaps he knew of it as a pagan symbol. That was likely given his studies in history and literature. But the condessa would have no knowledge of such things. Arethusa’s thoughts tumbled over each other. Nothing seemed to connect or make sense.

  As they crossed through the grazing fields of Terceira’s low country, the shadows of the storm clouds moved over the land and Arethusa’s careful façade began to crumble, until she could no longer hide her misery from Pai. Without his understanding, she would be at Diogo’s mercy. She pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to him. His surprise was evident on his face.

  Pai,

  I want to honor your wishes, but I must tell you of Diogo’s true nature. I have kept these secrets because Diogo has threatened me if I reveal them. Even Tristan knows little of what Diogo has done. You must know that on the night of the shipwreck, Diogo nearly succeeded in strangling me. He was the one who damaged my voice and he was the one who instigated the stoning against me at the orphanage. Diogo has been the mastermind behind everything.

  I believe him to be Alpheus. My mother believed it too. But I cannot marry him. Please believe me when I say he is a grave danger to me. If this does not turn your heart, nothing will. But know this: as long as I live, I will never consent to marry Diogo Cheia.

  —Arethusa

  Her father’s eyes were hard as rock when he gazed up at her. “Meu Deus,” he whispered, and then his voice soured to bitterness. “And that bastard came into my house? Meu Deus.”

  Pai’s anger was a salve to her fear, and she began to hope that he would come to understand the threat of Diogo at last.

  “What did you say?” the condessa said.

  Pai waved his hand dismissively at her as he turned away toward the line of blue sea. Neither of them could communicate fully with the condessa so near. Silence descended again, with only the clopping of the horses’ hooves to accompany their thoughts.

  Just as the carriage approached the outskirts of Angra do Heroísmo, Pai did something Arethusa did not expect. He asked for her pencil and the leather-encased notepad that he had given her. Bemused, Arethusa handed them over.

  He wrote for so long that he had to flip through several pages. The condessa and Arethusa exchanged glances, but Pai handed it back to her, saying, “Read.” He had written in Latin. Arethusa understood. This was to be kept secret.

  Arethusa,

  Forgive me, child. I didn’t know that boy was capable of such violence. I see now that I was deceived. If I had known, I never would have approved this match. I will have him publicly disgraced before the end.

  He came to me, swearing he was Alpheus. And he knew things he should not know. But it was not merely that. I believed him to be the embodiment of King Mark, Tristan’s uncle, as well. Do you understand what that means for you? Do you see?

  You are in love with Tristan. It’s the reason I see despair in your eyes. Don’t be afraid. When I told you the marquês was not my first choice, it was true. What I did not say and wanted to say was this: Tristan was always my first choice.

  If you remember the myths of Tristan and Arethusa, you must know now who you are. Every hardship you have suffered is like to the sufferings of the nymph and Isolde the Fair. If Tristan defeats the bull, he will marry Isabel. But you must understand. The bull is the dragon. Today, Tristan fights for the wrong Isolde and he does not know it.

  There is still time. The moonstone is Isolde’s ring. If you give the stone to Tristan, he will remember again who you are. He has long believed you to be Isolde the Fair, but he has been bewitched by Isolde of the White Hands. She has taken your place in his heart, and you must remind him now that his true Isolde has been at his side all along.

  We will all suffer consequences if I allow this, but if I know you well, you will suffer gladly to have that which you have desired most.

  —Your Pai

  The tears in her eyes blurred the paper so badly that Arethusa had to read the letter twice. Pai believed her to be Tristan’s Isolde. He was offering his blessing. Arethusa gazed up at Pai, showing him with her eyes all that she could not say.

  “She’s near to tears.” The condessa leaned over, peering into her face. “What did you say to her?”

  “Don’t alarm yourself, Inês. I have admonished Arethusa to be happy. I have told her she must be a good hostess to her sister-in-law when the time comes.”

  The condessa raised one prim eyebrow and then nodded in agreement.

  “Do you understand?” Pai asked Arethusa. His voice was emphatic, but Arethusa knew the answer he was looking for.

  She could do no more than nod, trying to tell him with her eyes how grateful she was, how he had brought her back from the edge of despair and given her a faint hope at last.

  His face softened and he gave her a small nod. “There’s a good girl.”

  *

  Island gossip traveled fast and the whole city of Angra do Heroísmo had heard of the contest for Isabel’s hand. As they entered the dusty arena, Arethusa’s ea
rs buzzed with the hushed conversations of farmers and fishermen and fishermen’s wives. “Look, there’s Conde Estrela!” “Do you think they’ll go through with the contest?” “What if Tristan Vazante loses?” “They say he’s an excellent forcado, but will he have the courage to stand against his own father’s prize-winning bull?”

  Arethusa hurried on, clutching tight to Tristan’s bouquet. She had heard these questions before. She had asked them herself.

  “Inês, go to our seats and ensure that everything is in order,” Pai said. “Conde Branco should be seated beside us.” He lowered his voice. “Greet him with the utmost respect. Arethusa and I will go and wish Tristan good luck.” Pai didn’t wait for an answer but took Arethusa’s arm and led her toward the area where the bullfighters were gathering.

  “Hurry, Arethusa. We must reach Tristan before the trumpet sounds.”

  She gawked at Pai, stunned at the sudden change in him. Who was this man who spoke of love and legends; who kept dark secrets from his wife; who gave his son consent to marry two women, one of whom was his own sister?

  I am not his sister, she chided herself. And if I am Isolde the Fair, then we are fated for each other, beyond all reproach or fear. This is my chance.

  She saw Tristan near the arena gate. He was dressed in his formal forcado costume: a short jacket of tan brocade, a white ruffled shirt and red tie, a wide red sash across his waist, and tan knee pants. In his hand, he held a small green cap.

  As another forcado moved out of the way, Arethusa saw Isabel standing next to Tristan, saw her hand brushing his cheek, saw Tristan touch her lightly on the arm.

  Arethusa felt embarrassed, as if she shouldn’t be there, as if she didn’t belong. She pressed Tristan’s bouquet to her chest, hesitating.

  “Have faith.” Pai’s gravelly voice came to her ear. “He will not break from the myth.”

  But what if Isabel is Isolde the Fair? she wanted to say, but he was pulling her on, and Tristan had marked their approach.

  “Pai, you made it at last! And Arethusa—you look beautiful.”

  “We’ve come to wish you luck.” Her father’s voice was steady.

  “Good afternoon, Conde Estrela.” Isabel gave a slight curtsy. “Or should I say, my future father-in-law?” She laughed but no one joined her.

  Pai was gracious. “Good day to you, Senhorita. I trust your father has made his way to our reserved seats already.”

  “Yes, he is waiting for you now.” She cocked her head toward Arethusa. “Bom-dia. Are you as nervous as I am? I mean, he is your brother after all.” She didn’t wait for any response but leaned into Tristan. “I’m so afraid you’ll get hurt.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been training for days and days. You’ll soon have me, whether you want me or not.”

  “Of course I do!”

  A wave of nerves swept through Arethusa, but she resolved to remain patient.

  “Senhorita, if you’ll wait over there, I’ll escort you up to your family’s box.” Arethusa could tell by Pai’s tone that he was starting to lose patience. “Give me a moment to speak to my son.”

  Isabel opened her mouth to protest but said nothing. She wasn’t about to upset the balance of power when she was so close to achieving her goal. She nodded and blew Tristan a kiss. “Stay safe.”

  Isabel held her head high and walked off, and Arethusa couldn’t help but be reminded of the condessa. But here was her moment. She faced Tristan with a bold gaze, determined that her courage should not fail.

  Pai’s mouth drew into a hard, thin line. “I have not come to wish you luck.”

  Tristan’s eyebrows crinkled and he glanced at Arethusa. “Is something wrong?”

  “I want to give you a warning, but Arethusa has something else to give you first.” He motioned to her.

  She looked up at Pai and then Tristan, who glanced at the bouquet in her hand. She knew he thought that was what Pai meant, for Tristan did not yet see the moonstone clasped in her fist. Would he remember Isolde’s ring from the myth and understand what this meant? She took a deep breath and held out the flowers first, which he took with a smile. But when he opened his mouth to speak, she silenced him with a gesture. Holding out her fist, she opened her palm. Amid the sounds of cattle stomping and people shouting and her own heart beating, the stone lay quiet between them. Tristan stared at it, first confusion then recognition moving over his face.

  “Take it,” Pai said. And Tristan did, but his gaze did not break from Arethusa’s.

  Tell him!

  She made the sign she had made a hundred times to Pai, a sign she had never made to the condessa, a sign she had always wanted to make to Tristan: I love you.

  He signed it back to her, but Arethusa knew he didn’t understand. He said “Thank you,” but it sounded like a question. An empty sadness washed through her. She blinked methodically so her tears would not break from their holds.

  Tristan touched her shoulder. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “He doesn’t understand, Arethusa,” Pai said. “Wait over there for me. It’s time I spoke to Tristan myself.” His mouth was rigid, his tone brusque.

  She was grateful. She didn’t think she could have lasted one more moment. She watched from a distance as they spoke low, their heads bowed. Pai touched the pendant in Tristan’s hand. He looked down at it and then to her. She turned away, afraid, and moved straight for the arena stands. She couldn’t bear to wait any longer, didn’t want to see his rejection of her.

  She weaved her way through the crowded stands. The noise grew intense as the trumpeter stood and readied his instrument. Crying babies bounced on the women’s laps, men in straw hats ate linguiça sausages and drank cerveja, and a thousand conversations mulled around her numb body. She did not see the people nor hear their shouts, but she felt the rumble of their feet beat up through her heels. She felt empty, as though she walked alone in a field of silent, waving grass. Arethusa ignored Isabel and her family as she took her seat.

  “Where is the conde?” The condessa leaned over and snapped. “The bullfight is about to begin.”

  On cue, the sad call of the trumpeter sounded, announcing the start of the bullfight. Arethusa shrugged and the condessa huffed out her displeasure. The first cavaleiro marched his white Lusitano stallion out onto the pristine field of sand. He wore white pants with shiny black knee boots and a scarlet coat filigreed with gold embroidery.

  As the cavaleiro displayed dressage techniques with his plumed and ribboned horse, Pai made his way through the stands to his seat. The condessa glared at him, but she dared not say a word with the Brancos so near.

  Pai nodded to Conde Branco and his wife and then turned to Arethusa.

  “Have faith.” With an imperceptible smile, he whispered.

  She ached to question him, but the first bull was set loose at that moment. His great muscles writhed under his hide as he strutted in the dust and his loud snorts resounded through the whole arena. His thick horns looked like great antennae seeking out the perpetrator of his anger. He soon found his prey as he eyed the prancing Lusitano and rider at the opposite side of the ring. He charged and charged, yet failed to catch the skilled cavaleiro every time.

  Arethusa was on edge, as much for the fight before her as for the fight to come when Tristan would be pitted against a bull like this one, except face-to-face and on foot. It was said the forcados faced death every time they stepped into the Praça de Touros. But today wasn’t about nameless men from legends and small talk in village shops. It would be Tristan Vazante walking into this arena. He had great skill, but this was his first official bullfight. Success was never guaranteed, even for the most experienced fighter.

  The cavaleiro faced the bull without fear. He raised the banderilla, a slender spear wrapped in bright tinsel. A moment of silence and expectation followed. Then the bull charged. The Lusitano leapt toward the bull, sand flying behind his hooves. Closer and closer—it was impossible for them not to collide—the cavaleiro and his h
orse twisted away. He plunged the banderilla into the bull’s shoulder, and the crowd erupted in applause.

  Again and again, the cavaleiro and bull charged at one another. Each time the rider was victorious. The cavaleiro bowed to the crowd and the bull was ushered from the arena by a herd of cows, their bell-collars jangling from their thick necks.

  The next competitor, a handsome matador dressed in a mint green coat with fuchsia stockings, strutted out onto the field. He would be the first to fight Pai’s enormous prize bull. The matador held the banderillas and cape at his side, bowed to the crowd, and the battle commenced. Pai’s bull charged the moment he burst from the pen, but the matador stood his ground. He spread the fuchsia and saffron cape before him and arched his hips in time to distract the bull from his aim. Out from behind the brilliant cape, a banderilla shot backward and struck the bull. The crowd erupted in approval. The young matador’s dignified air and graceful footwork won the crowd’s heart. When he strode from the field, many of the society girls threw their bouquets at his feet.

  Pai’s bull remained in the ring, the banderillas draping from his bleeding back, his breathing heavy, his anger intense.

  Arethusa leaned forward. Eight men stood behind the arena wall. The music died away and the trumpet heralded the entrance of the forcados. At the same instant, the eight men vaulted over the wall and lined up inside the ring opposite the bull. The beast stood eyeing them, his breath heavy with exertion.

  She spotted Tristan at the front of the line of men. He stood rigid, his feet planted firm. The only movement was the shifting of the green cap in his hands. He gazed up into the stands, and it seemed to Arethusa that he looked right at her. She stood, feeling embarrassed, but knowing he would see her. The green cap went still. He bowed low to her. Or does he bow to Isabel? He put the cap on and marched in the direction of the bull, his lithe body made graceful by the gait of his long stride.

  Arethusa couldn’t sit. She watched Tristan’s slow, measured paces down the center of the arena, the line of forcados following. Does he march to his death?