“I cannot make the earth shake,” he said with the faintest of smiles. “But in truth, had I that ability, I would have used it.” He clasped her forearms so hard she gasped, and nearly cried out. “By the Father of Horses, I will have you.” His lips whitened and the tips of his fingers dug into her flesh. “I will rip that woman’s head off.”
“No,” Aridela cried, not knowing if he spoke of her mother or Themiste.
“Menoetius.” Chrysaleon kept his narrowed, furious gaze fixed on Aridela. “Find a ship, a boat, or a plank of wood. We’re leaving this cursed island.”
“No,” Aridela and Menoetius shouted in unison. Menoetius shoved Chrysaleon in the chest, forcing him to release Aridela and driving him backward until the courtyard wall stopped them both. Aridela remained still, gasping, trying to brace for the next shudder of the earth.
Surprise passed over Chrysaleon’s face when Menoetius pinned his arms then drove the breath from his lungs with a hard thrust of the shoulder. Every time Chrysaleon attempted to free himself, Menoetius’s grip changed to keep him trapped.
At last, only a sneer betrayed Chrysaleon’s impotent rage.
“Does the queen speak for you?” Chrysaleon asked Aridela.
“I am bound to follow the council’s decision.”
“You will lie with a man only at the Festival of Velchanos—a man wearing a mask. You won’t know the name or face of he who plants his seed within you. That is what you want?”
Once more he strained to free himself, but Menoetius held him firm. “Curse you and every bastard you ever sire,” Chrysaleon said. “You’ve lied to me about far too many things.”
The way they stared into each other’s eyes sent an uneasy tremor down Aridela’s spine.
“You make my duty seem a poor fate,” she said, hoping to divert this hostility between them.
“Why did the council reject me? The true reason.”
Aridela searched for duplicity in Chrysaleon’s eyes, but saw only anger and frustration. “They believe Mycenae will use our weakened condition to subjugate us. The truth is they have never trusted you. They remember the history of your people. Did the ancestors of your Kindred Kings not overthrow the entire Argolid?”
Menoetius turned his head and frowned at her, his expression indecipherable, but Chrysaleon laughed bitterly. “Is there a Mycenae? Does it have ships or warriors? My father might be dead. Our citadel may lie in ruins like so many of yours. I asked to remain here because living my old life, without you, is worse than death. Worse than defeat.”
Menoetius’s stare, as it shot back to the prince, was naked with surprise. That more than anything else convinced Aridela of Chrysaleon’s sincerity.
“Release me,” Chrysaleon said, “before I order my loyal men to throw you into the deepest hole on Crete.”
Menoetius stepped away and Chrysaleon straightened. Aridela approached him and leaned against his chest, closing her eyes. He put his arm around her.
“I know you grieve for your sister,” he said. “I grieve with you. But her death does make you Kaphtor’s heir. Your mother lied. I don’t believe you’ll be given to the priestesses nor will they abandon the sacred kings. It’s me they don’t want. They’ve lost their faith. That’s why the earth shakes, and why it will go on shaking.”
Lycus emerged from the villa on his litter, his female attendants surrounding him, and began screaming curses and threats as soon as he spotted Chrysaleon. The bearers took him the other direction, down the steep road toward the village.
Aridela touched Chrysaleon’s temple. She grasped a lock of his hair and pulled gently.
His expression of rage faded as he looked down at her. His love was so clear, so clean and honest. Why could no one else see it?
“I haven’t lost my faith,” she said. “Goddess Athene holds me in her hand and has since my birth. If the Lady wants this union, she will give me a sign.”
Chrysaleon’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying there is still a chance?”
Aridela nodded. “Give me a little time.”
He returned her nod. “So be it. I await your decision.”
Though no messenger came to summon her, Aridela knew Themiste was waiting to hear her confession.
She cloaked herself in heavy wool, for even here on the southern coast, persistent haze blocked the sun’s warmth. Every day dawned clammy cold, chilly enough to bring snow to this fishing village whose inhabitants never saw such a thing except from a distance, on the highest mountain summits behind them.
Day faded into evening before she found the oracle. Themiste was sitting on the ground inside a cave shrine overlooking the sea. A statue of the Goddess stood next to her; one marble hand rested upon a loom fashioned from grapevines and the other held an olive branch. Yet Themiste didn’t seem to be praying or making offerings. Her distant, meditative expression was turned away from the statue toward the sea, the sound of which echoed eerily against the cavern walls.
“Minos.” Aridela stepped around an offering basket of bread and honey.
Themiste looked almost relieved at the interruption. “Aridela,” she said. “I pray for answers, but….” She shrugged. “I felt so helpless when the earth shook today. Small and useless. As though, for all the power and rank I’ve been given, I could do nothing to protect you or the queen. Never again can we assume our world is solid and safe.”
Aridela ran her hand over the olive branch in the statue’s hand. “Unfamiliar sounds send me into cowardly shivering,” she said. “Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I feel uncommon gratitude for a day without earthshakings.”
“And this cold….” Themiste stood. “If it does not subside, any crops that survived the destruction will die.” She paused, her stare perceptive, but instead of the accusations Aridela feared, she said, “Let me see your burns.”
Glad for a distraction from her purpose, Aridela pushed up the wool covering her arms. “There’s hardly any pain.”
Themiste inspected her skin. “You will have scars.”
Aridela shrugged. “I am alive. Many are not.”
“Have you come to pray?”
“I’ve come to confess.”
Themiste’s brow rose then she frowned and sighed. “Walk with me,” she said.
They left the shrine and followed a path that snaked among the cliffs. Wintry breezes eddied around them. A conflagration of pinks, purples, blues and greens swaddled the heavens, creating mirrored reflections across the surface of the sea, where dark blue succumbed to every imaginable tint of fire.
“Never could I dream of such displays of color and light,” Themiste said. “Last night the moon was as green as seaweed. I wonder sometimes if your sister sends this beauty from Hesperia, so that we do not forget her.”
“Perhaps.” Aridela swallowed the sudden knot that formed in her throat.
“You worry about Chrysaleon’s lies.”
Again Aridela swallowed as she sought courage. “Do you remember last Moon of Mead-making, when we took Iphiboë to the holy mountain to prepare her for dedication?” She kept her gaze locked on the sea, watching it lap gently against the rocks far below.
“Yes.”
“That night, I had a dream—or a vision. Velchanos left his statue. He came to me. He spoke.”
Themiste stopped walking. There was silence, until Aridela gathered her courage and looked at the oracle’s expressionless but intent face.
“I remember,” Themiste said quietly.
Aridela forced herself to go on. “The first time I met the prince of Mycenae, I believed he was the god from that vision. Many times since I have told myself I was wrong, but when he came to us yesterday, clean-shaven, I was certain. Chrysaleon is the god as he appeared to me that night. His hair, his eyes, even his voice. Surely this means something.”
Themiste’s gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Aridela rushed on, too afraid now to pause. “Minos, on the night of Iphiboë’s dedication, I sneaked out of my bedchamber and
went with her to the cave of Velchanos.”
Themiste’s lips parted. Her eyes widened.
Aridela backed away from the Minos’s unfathomable expression and unnerving silence. “Chrysaleon found me. How could he have done that if Athene hadn’t directed him? We told no one where we would be except my mother, and not even she knew I was going. My intent was only to offer Iphiboë strength and encouragement—I did not mean to defy you. I meant to hide nearby if a man found us. How could I have known she would fall and injure her knee, or that she would charge me with fulfilling the dedication in her stead?”
“An omen of what was to come,” Themiste said, slowly, as if to herself.
“Chrysaleon told the truth. We lay with each other. Nothing happened to suggest we’d angered Athene. Until the night of the Destruction, I believed we had done no more than follow the Lady’s wishes.” Aridela’s muscles relaxed as she concluded her confession, though an ache lingered along her shoulder blades. “Minos, in the dream-vision, the god, or Chrysaleon, said he would be with me for longer than I could imagine. He promised nothing would ever separate us. It made me feel safe, like when I was small, and you kissed me, and helped me brave the nightmares. Oh, I make no sense. It’s puzzling, but I swear to you. We never meant any harm.”
Themiste turned her face down and closed her eyes.
Nauseated with guilt, Aridela cried, “I beg your forgiveness. I never meant harm to anyone, least of all the innocent people of Kaphtor or Callisti.”
Lifting her face, Themiste clasped the sides of Aridela’s head. “In the vision on the mountain, it was the Achaean? There must be no doubt.”
Aridela’s gaze faltered. “Not at first. When he crossed the clearing he was a god of the night, of darkness and moonlight, but then he transformed, and became Chrysaleon in every detail.”
Her voice shook as she stammered out the second crime. “Minos, the prince and I lay together again, just before the fire and rocks fell from the sky. He repeated what the god said on Mount Juktas, and this time I was fully awake. ‘I am yours,’ he said. ‘Even death won’t break our bond.’ And he said, ‘for longer than can be dreamed.’ I felt I knew Athene’s mind. I believed she approved our union, but it’s clear now we angered her. You commanded me to remain untouched, and I defied you. My crime was more than child’s mischief—look what has come of it. Chrysaleon and I… we caused the destruction of Kaphtor, of Callisti.” Aridela rubbed so violently at her tears that she left red wheals on her skin. “I caused Iphiboë’s death.”
“You gave yourself to him, again, outside the rites? You defied me not once but twice?” Themiste covered her mouth with one hand. She staggered a little, and put her hand out to clasp Aridela’s shoulder.
“We were going home the next day,” Aridela whispered. “Chrysaleon to wed Iphiboë. I, to enter the mountain shrine. We intended to honor our obligations. I beg your forgiveness….”
“You cannot be oracle now,” Themiste said. “You cannot take my place.”
Aridela looked out, over the cliff, across the vast wash of water. If she jumped, she would join her sister in the cold dark sea. Perhaps that would quell Potnia Athene’s anger. She looked down, where sea met land, and pictured herself falling, but Themiste, still holding onto her shoulder, pulled her away from the edge.
Themiste placed the fingertips of one hand to the frown between Aridela’s eyebrows and cradled the back of her head with the other. Aridela felt a queer inner pull. Themiste was initiating the ancient oracle art of subliquara to see into her mind.
“True,” the Minos whispered, her eyes closed. “Pure. Your thoughts flow like a mountain stream.”
Aridela tried to jerk free but the mind link had a way of freezing the body. She hated it. As a child, she had enjoyed their ‘game’ and how Themiste could speak her thoughts. Now she wanted to hold onto her privacy.
Themiste’s hand dropped to Aridela’s stomach. She pressed her palm there for some time. At last she opened her eyes. They held shadows of some emotion Aridela couldn’t name. “There is no child. For that I am grateful. Your vision remains clear. I heard the words he spoke to you. Velchanos took the form of Chrysaleon during the rites. That seems certain. And the fact that he found you in the cave…. I wonder if he will ever understand the blessing he received? I saw the prince’s guard too. He was grieving and afraid. Somehow… lost.”
“Menoetius?” Aridela thought back. At the beginning Velchanos hadn’t resembled Chrysaleon. He was darker. Yes, very much the opposite of Chrysaleon. Something had snapped. When the ring of sound and blinding light faded, Velchanos had changed. It took effort to recall that in the beginning, she had recognized the god as Carmanor, her childhood love. She had even named him, and he hadn’t denied it. In the months since that night, she’d forgotten how, at first, the statue bore the likeness of Menoetius. Golden Chrysaleon, with his vivid, bold personality, had smothered the rest.
Themiste turned away. “Oh Athene,” she said, “I want to do as you wish. Do you hate these barbarians or love them? Do you want Chrysaleon punished or rewarded?”
She walked away, leaving Aridela on the edge of the cliff.
Then she stopped and swung around. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand and beckoning sharply. Aridela hesitated, but couldn’t disobey. She placed her hand in Themiste’s. The oracle pulled her charge down the hill, back to the villa, leaving the sea’s hunger unquenched.
Themiste spent her free time hunched over two large tables in her chamber, transcribing from memory Kaphtor’s lost prophecies onto new clay tablets.
She worked at this task until her mind blurred, her arms numbed, and she no longer trusted the phrases and symbols she pressed into wet clay. Was it Melpomene who wrote the holy child will follow a path of deep shadow, or Pelopia?
Hundreds of prophecies, some on clay tablets, others on fragile papyrus, had survived, safely preserved, even through other earthshakings, for thousands of years….
Until now.
Themiste tried to suppress the fear that she was sending Kaphtor into a future built on hazy, unsound recollections. Laodámeia, her most trusted handmaid, did her best to help, but she had never been allowed to study the logs as thoroughly as her mistress. All she knew of them came from forbidden, secret readings deep in the night when she wouldn’t be discovered, and from transcribing Themiste’s oracle visions.
Themiste had left instructions at the ruins of Labyrinthos, and a crude map. As laborers cleared and opened the labyrinth, they were to search specific areas. The first time a messenger came to Natho holding a recovered tablet, Themiste snatched it from him and smiled. The act felt foreign, awkward, as if she’d nearly forgotten how to form such an expression. As she placed the tablet on her worktable and stroked the edges, she tried to remember how much time had passed since she’d had a good day, one that contained a smile, a grin, a single laugh.
She couldn’t recall one.
Though the recovery of a tablet was cause for celebration, she knew she couldn’t rely on the hope that more would be found. She must create replicas as best she could, from memory.
After the confrontation with Aridela, she returned to her chamber and settled at one of the tables, a lamp by her side. She knew which reconstructed tablet she wanted and quickly found it—the prophecy Aridela herself spoke when she was ten.
Lion of gold from over the sea.
Destroy the black bull,
shake the earth free.
Curse the god,
crush the fold,
pull down the stars
as seers foretold.
Isle of cloud,
Moon’s stronghold,
see your death come
in spears of gold.
For years, this prophecy had defied all attempts at understanding. But now it made sense. Now that the prince of Mycenae, he who was called ‘Gold Lion,’ had appeared from across the sea and planted himself like a fishhook in Aridela’s heart.
Themiste glimpsed
Aridela’s true feelings when she peered into her mind. Aridela always gave her heart fully, and this time was no different. Themiste remembered how the child had once loved Carmanor, who, as it happened, was the prince’s personal guard. Carmanor was Aridela’s first love, but now she hardly noticed him, such was her obsession with Chrysaleon.
It might be amusing, if there was not so much at stake.
The scent of damp clay and hot oil hung in heavy stagnant layers, making her room oppressive. She thought of the clean, cold air at the cliff shrine, but there was no help for it. Aridela’s revelations changed everything. Now Themiste would have to rearrange the future, yet again.
She searched through her newly created tablets until she’d gathered all that mentioned the lion. If she could connect the pieces from the different prophecies, she might be given insight into what must be done.
The first was Melpomene’s.
He of one father but two mothers will grow to dominion in a foreign land—one split into two, gold and obsidian. The universal egg will crack. All that is sacred will spill and be lost. Lion and bull, they are forged.
How could a child be born of two mothers, split into two yet at the same time remain forged? The lion must be Chrysaleon of Mycenae, but who or what was the bull? A memory sparked—she dug out a papyrus on which she’d recorded her dream from just before the Destruction.
A handmaid of Athene had shared what was to come. Athene’s great design. But that dream left many questions unanswered. Themiste remembered asking her the identity of the bull, but the handmaid had refused to reveal it. If I told you,she’d said, you would try to change his fate.
She had added a puzzling statement. What seems the end is only the beginning.
Could he be Xanthus, the bull-king Chrysaleon killed in his quest for the title? If so, Kaphtor was already overcome, for how could a dead bull defeat a living lion?
Minos Timandra also mentioned a lion in her prophecies.
The Thinara King Page 8
