The Thinara King

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Aridela dismissed her attendants in a tone that brooked no argument, something she had been specifically forbidden from doing by both her mother and the oracle, Themiste. His hopes leaped. She had put him off so far, citing his wounds and all those who watched them so carefully. Perhaps she’d finally realized he was perfectly capable of making love to her.

  In answer to their timid protests, she said she was taking Chrysaleon for a short walk along the road, pointed where she meant, and promised they would remain in sight. They reluctantly agreed. Wasting no time, she led him south along the well-worn road. At first they passed fishermen, women carrying baskets of laundry, litters and oxen, but the farther they walked, the fewer people they encountered. Eventually, trees and rolling hills hid them from the palace altogether.

  Chrysaleon’s hopes crept upward again.

  “Tell me about the first time you met Menoetius,” he said. The request stuck in his throat like bad cheese; he hated the idea of his brother sharing secrets with this woman, no matter how innocent the circumstances. He needed Aridela’s side of things.

  “He didn’t tell you?” Aridela’s gaze turned up to his and he was freshly astonished at her eyes, which seemed to consume half her face. They’d never held a hint of trickery or deceit. He wanted badly to rip off that tunic, to feel her beneath him, and he suspected she had arranged this walk so he could, but it would wait for the right place, the right time. Then he would have her, again and again, and forge her to him as a sword blade forged to its hilt, leaving no room for Menoetius, Lycus, or any other man.

  “No,” he said. Now that they were out of sight of the palace, he clasped her hand. “I learned of it the day of the Games, from your brother.”

  Her mouth turned up in a wistful smile. Apparently, his question sparked fond memories. He struggled to maintain an unconcerned air and tightened his grip on her hand.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Even then, he was quiet, shy. He saved my life. I confess I loved him, as a child will love an older, brave, and handsome man. I’m sure he thought me quite silly. I remember weeping for days when he left, and thinking death preferable to losing him.”

  Chrysaleon unclenched his teeth with effort and forcibly swallowed resentment and jealousy. “What happened?”

  “I tried once before to dance with a bull.” She laughed. “I was ten and very stupid. I thought the bull was no match for me. Of course I was gored. You’ve seen the scar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isandros helped me sneak into the ring. He was under sentence of death for that. So I went to the shrine to pray for mercy, and my wound broke open. I would have bled to death but for Carmanor. That was the name he used, I don’t know why. It’s hard to think of him now as ‘Menoetius.’ He was there, praying. He carried me to the courtyard. He told you nothing of this?”

  Chrysaleon shrugged. “He was praying?”

  “Yes,” she said. With a quick glance backward, she pulled him off the road, beneath the overhanging branches of an enormous plane tree, and into a verdant, deserted meadow. “I loved his reverence. It wasn’t idle habit or show, but real, and meant much to me, for I’d heard all mainland barbarians were crude and impious.”

  With a snort of laughter, Chrysaleon said, “Menoetius, devout? Not anymore, my lady. He no longer has any use for such things.”

  Surprise passed over her face then she looked sad, saying only, “He is much changed.”

  Good. If he could damage, even raze those tender memories, so much the better. “What happened after?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t clear at first if he’d tried to help or hurt me. My mother was suspicious. She confined him until I could verify his story. Then of course, we feasted him and gave him many gifts.”

  “So I am in my blood brother’s debt.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I must thank him.”

  A strong wind lifted from the west; it was hot, dry, leaving them thirsty. Darkness fell earlier than usual, leaving vaults of purple in the heavens and the scent of wild thyme flowing on swift currents of air.

  They came upon an old ruin of a wall that offered protection at their backs. Gathering wood, they built a fire. “All my life I’ve heard of Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon said as they settled beside it. He put one arm around her and made a sweeping gesture with the other. “Rich land of ships, palaces, mountains, caves and fertile plains. I thought these must be fanciful lies. Women, owning the land, passing it to their daughters? Such a thing could never happen in my country. Yet my slave, Alexiare, explained how well your people managed, and for how many long ages—since before any of Argolis was tilled or any citadel built. My ancestors brought powerful gods to help them conquer these mainland villages, but when we came to the edge of land and looked out for more places to vanquish, Crete’s mighty ships forced us to stop.”

  “Where do your people come from?”

  “Our bards sing of vast plains of grass, high mountains on every side, of snow and ice that can freeze a man solid in a single night. It’s said our ancestors traveled four entire seasons to reach the lands we now call home.”

  “And your gods? I have only learned a little about them.”

  “They reside in the sky, the ocean, on mountaintops. They control everything, from sunlight to earthshaking, and have jealous tempers. Foremost among them is King Poseidon, Hippos, Father of horses, Lord of the earth, sea, and heavens. He gave us the horse, a beast more precious to us than any other. One of his palaces lies beneath the sea, where he keeps stables of coral and white stallions with manes of gold. He sinks our ships when angered, and destroys our coasts with waves as tall as thunderclouds. He visits us in the form of a bull, and in the heavens, we see him in the sun and the moon.”

  “My tutors told me about Lord Poseidon,” Aridela said. “But they never made him sound as glorious as you do.”

  “Every village my ancestors conquered worshipped Lady Athene, White-Armed Hera, and she the farmers call dark Hecate. We merged these mistresses into our own beliefs, for we saw their worth and knew we would have an easier time with the people if we honored their deities.”

  Wind swooped as though wanting attention. The fire leaped in swirls of sparks and blue-edged flames.

  “Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon continued, “where the path of moon and stars is as familiar as the change of seasons, and the smallest lump of gold can be measured. Palaces sprawl like cities, marvels of comfort and elegance. In truth, Alexiare reminds me how Labyrinthos stood established and civilized when my own people were naked savages living in caves.” He bowed his head in exaggerated homage. “A commanding yet generous lady—that is Kaphtor, lying in perfect conjunction along the best trade-routes from Egypt and Isy. She brings us the tin we crave, purple dye to impress our rivals, gold, and all the comforts we can no longer live without. She forges ties with everyone and leads all in prosperity.”

  “Do you mock us?” She looked wary.

  “Perhaps I would like to.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “But Alexiare spoke the truth. I always thought his claims mere lies, the overblown boasting or false memories of an old man. But now I see they were not.”

  “Lady Athene showed favor to my people when she sent her daughter to lead us here from our homeland.”

  “Where is the land of your ancestors?”

  “To the south. It is a country so vast it takes years to get from one end to the other. The sun burns everything; no snow ever falls but on the highest mountains. There is a beast I’m told, which towers as high as our highest walls. It eats the leaves from the very tips of trees, and another, so big it can crush a man with one foot. And lions, my lord.” Lifting her hand, she touched his hair then rested her palm on his cheek, her mouth curving into a slow smile redolent with desire. “You are like a lion. Your father named you truly.”

  The need to kiss her threatened to blot out Chrysaleon’s argument. His mind fell into blankness, but he fought his way back. “You say Athene showed your people favor. Yet it seems to
me she’s shown you no favor at all.”

  “Why?” Aridela’s smile faded into startled surprise.

  His wounded leg ached; he rolled onto his side so he could stretch it and cupped her knee in one hand. “If you were a peasant or farmer’s child, you could leave Crete, be with me.”

  “Athene sees all, from beginning to end. She doesn’t plan things according to the fleeting wishes of mortals.”

  “You accept your lot without question or protest.” He sat up and seized her shoulders. “Does it never weigh upon you?”

  “It has,” she said in a small voice. He felt her tremble.

  “And now?” He shook her, more roughly than he intended.

  “If I were a peasant, you wouldn’t want me.”

  He bit back the urge to shout, to strike, to cut something with his sword. “Can’t you see this is beyond any duty? Curse my father, my brothers and the child who believes herself my wife. I would have you no matter what your station, or mine. You alone separate us. I would abandon my vows, betray my father and my country to have you.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You would not do that.”

  Wind zipped over the wall and set upon them, pulling Aridela’s hair free of its knot and sending it whirling about her head.

  Chrysaleon’s gaze followed the flight of her hair as he recalled his purpose. To find a way to overthrow these people. To end the king-sacrifice. He realized how hard he gripped her and saw pain reflected in her eyes. Biting his lip, he relaxed and massaged her shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but I would perform my duty like a man whose soul had been stripped from him and cast into the shadowlands.” Uneasy truth laced his words. Could he overthrow Kaphtor and subjugate Aridela, make her and her kin his slaves? No longer certain, he jerked her against him, closing his eyes and mind as he kissed her.

  When he did at last release her, she sighed and rested her cheek against his collarbone. He felt her resistance dissolve, yet he experienced no sense of triumph.

  She fit against him like song to a lyre, like a dolphin’s greeting to scarlet dawn.

  “I wish I were common,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “And no one cared what I did.”

  “Were I truly a man of honor,” he said, “I would leave. But I won’t. I’ve desired one thing since I arrived and now I have it. You long for me as I do for you, and what does it accomplish? I will be consort to your sister and you’ll live far from me in the mountain caves. We’ll be as lost to each other as if we’d never met. And in a year….”

  He felt her stiffen in his arms.

  Another gust of wind smacked them. The fire jumped in response; sparks flew. “A storm is coming,” Chrysaleon said. “We should return to the palace.” But he didn’t move.

  She ran a finger down his temple and through his beard. “The firelight makes jewels of your eyes.”

  Lust charred his blood, yet he forced himself to remain still. “I saw you, before the cave. Before I came to Labyrinthos.”

  She waited, relaxed, her face mirroring the love he felt running hot through his veins.

  “When we landed, Menoetius and I set out to explore. I wanted to see your country. I wanted to learn everything I could, to determine if my father’s army could invade and overthrow you.”

  For one endless instant she seemed frozen, then she broke free and scrambled away. She crouched on the other side of the fire, staring at him, so many emotions streaming across her face he couldn’t separate them.

  “No, Aridela,” he said, stretching out a hand, but she backed further away.

  “How could you think to plan our destruction then woo me as you have?” Her voice dropped. “They were right about you.”

  “I tell you this truth so no secrets remain between us. I wouldn’t invade Kaphtor now, not if it contained all the riches of the world. Kaphtor is precious to me because it holds you. I would die to defend it.”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  He breathed in and out slowly. “I thought if I couldn’t win the Games, and if Kaphtor seemed ripe, I could convince my father to attack. It would be bad, Aridela, if your island fell into the hands of Gla, Pylos, or Tiryns, or any of the mainland kingdoms. Especially Tiryns. It would be the end of us.”

  She uncovered her face and glared at him. “You and your Kindred think you can fight over us like dogs with a bone. You think us easy prey.”

  “It was foolish and arrogant of us.”

  She watched him, silent, narrow-eyed, all hint of trust vanished.

  “We heard gossip that you and Iphiboë were hunting on Mount Ida. We went there, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kaphtor’s princesses. We searched and spent the night. We’d almost given up when we came upon a path in the forest and heard laughter. There you were—you, Iphiboë, Selene, and your cousin, swimming in a pond. That was the first time I saw you.”

  He paused, but she said nothing. Her chest rose and fell, giving away her shallow breathing.

  Chrysaleon peered into the sky, his eyes tracking the fire’s wild, darting sparks. “That was my end.” He paused again as his mind worked out what words would convince her. “Our bards sing of tribes who live on hidden isles in these seas. Amazons, we call them. Moon-women. It’s said they shoot as well as any man and are joined to their horses. Proud as the proudest king, they fight to the death rather than suffer dishonor.”

  “Selene comes from those tribes.”

  “She taught you their ways?”

  “Yes. My mother brought her to Kaphtor to teach us the skills of her people. She stays now because she is our friend, and Kaphtor is her home.”

  “They’re legendary in my country. When I looked down on that pool, I thought I’d discovered a cache of those women. Your weapons lay on the ground. You swam without fear, never suspecting you were being watched. I know you and your council wonder why I competed in your Games when there’s so much for me to lose. This is the reason. Since that day in the forest, I’ve been yours, Aridela, though I’ve tried to deny it.”

  He thought he discerned an almost imperceptible relaxation in the bow-strung tenseness of her body. “I had ideas of climbing down for an afternoon of pleasure. Menoetius held me back. Then I heard Selene call you ‘Princess,’ thank Black-Horned Poseidon, and realized who you were.” He gave a wry shake of his head. “Queen Helice would have diced us into fish food if I’d done what I intended.”

  His brief amusement died away. “I watched you step from the pool and wring water from your hair. I couldn’t breathe. I knew what it would feel like, to die.”

  He added, low, “You’re the woman my father promised I would find someday. The one who would bind me, make me a willing slave. All my doubts vanished when you leapt the bull.”

  She still made him wait an interminable length of time, suspended, not knowing what to expect. Then she crawled back, her eyes wet with tears. He enclosed her, not only with his arms but his legs, trapping her against his body. He felt her heart quicken, swift and fluttery as a bird’s. She was strong, but she could never escape her ancestry. Her bones were fragile. She was a small woman, and ever would be.

  “Princess of Kaphtor.” He rolled on top of her, holding himself up to keep from crushing this bird. “For longer than can be dreamed, I am yours. Even death won’t break our bond.”

  He saw her startle, her eyes widen.

  Propping his elbows on the ground, he took her face in his hands. “Even in death, Aridela,” he said. “I am yours.”

  He kissed her a long time to keep her from speaking. When he felt all resistance evaporate, he raised his head. “We return to Labyrinthos in two days. Is this the last for us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pressed his mouth and tongue to her neck, wanting to taste her, to blot out every memory of her insipid sister.

  The unguents she used intoxicated him. “If this be the last time—”

  “Yes… yes,” she whispered.

  Neither bothered to undress. Chrysaleon simply pulled
up her tunic, struggling to hold back, for in truth, his body needed satiation and had no concern for gentler emotions. But this was Princess Aridela of Kaphtor, not a defeated female in a conquered province. Her thighs crept around his hips; he sank into her, and fought to control his basest instincts.

  “Aridela,” he whispered. “Aridela.” Mother of kings.

  Unbearable pressure blazed, turning his body to a rampage of fire.

  “What is happening!”

  He heard her cry out, but faintly; his need deafened any other concern.

  Fulfillment shot from mere pleasure into divine ecstasy. He pierced like an arrow, seeking her very core. “Aridela,” he choked, clutching, thrusting, driving into a void of unconsciousness.

  “Chrysaleon!” She shoved him, hard enough to push his upper body off hers.

  He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, gasping. Awareness was slow to return.

  She grabbed his injured forearm as she stared into the sky, her face rigid with concentration.

  The pain her grip caused brought him back to the windy night. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, fighting to catch his breath and calm his blood.

  Then he heard what she’d heard, felt it through his bones. A guttural vibration emanating from the ground.

  With a grating clash, the earth beneath them split, sucking them into a fissure. Chrysaleon, flailing as he fell, caught a protruding root in his right hand and Aridela’s wrist in the left. He strained to hold her, groaning beneath shooting agony in his injured arm and thigh as she climbed his body, gripping his thighs then his waist, and finally his shoulders. There they hung, choking in a cloud of dust and avalanche of dirt and stones, suspended by one tough root and Chrysaleon’s ability to disregard his injuries. Outside the trench, he heard blasts and roaring. The crack of wood. The earth splitting open in a thousand wounds.

  The world was being unmade.

  Blood ran down Chrysaleon’s injured forearm as he hoisted Aridela to the summit of the chasm. She pulled herself out and turned, grabbing him, helping him over the crumbling lip and back onto the earth’s welcoming surface.