This lion must bare his throat and consent to his destruction. The bull must consume the lion. The moon and stars will then return to the egg and the bull will repair the egg with his divine seed. If three become two, all the world will be reborn to the bountiful Mistress of Many Names, and the vine will again bear fruit.
She read two more of Timandra’s prophecies, though they didn’t talk about the lion. They did mention the child—the child she was certain was Aridela.
One more completes the triad. A child will spring from the loins of Velchanos, god of lightning, her celestial brother. Without her, all will fail.
The child must rise up from the intoxication in which she willingly drowns. If she becomes pure, utterly clear, the thinara king and his disciples will give her their allegiance. If she does not, every living thing will languish and the end will come.
Before she could pick apart these words, she was distracted from her purpose by another prophecy, which captured the lamplight and drew her eye.
Earth withers. Women are bartered for land, titles, and gold. Their songs are silenced. They are brought as low as fleas on the pelt of a dog, and the mysteries they have always guarded are lost. The days are set to come when women will forget their divinity and embrace their own slavery.
Themiste sat back in her chair and stared at the hearth fire.
Since coming to Natho, she’d hardly slept or eaten. Rewriting the tablets took all her concentration. She was so tired. But there was no time to rest. She must do something, even though she felt fragile and weak, as though she might shatter, much like a poorly forged clay jar. Rubbing her temples, she left the worktables and delved into coffers containing her visionary aids, the cara mushroom, laurel leaves, and vials of serpent venom.
No amount of pondering seemed able to bring her any closer to a solution. Perhaps, if she opened her mind to the sacred pathways and prayed for guidance, Athene might finally grant her true sight and wisdom.
Themiste sent for Helice and Aridela.
Dressed in her most formal ritual garb, including the bull’s mask, she waited beside the lustral basin, wherein the water remained perfectly still.
She had not yet thrown off the aftereffects of the powerful drugs she’d used to open her mind, and fought to display a veneer of calm, poise and confidence. She’d asked for revelations, and reeled still from what she had seen. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on what to say and what to leave unsaid.
A priestess stood close on either side, ready to support her if needed. Behind them, two lines of priests, bare-chested, in flounced skirts, stood with arms crossed. Kaphtor’s council members congregated nearby, half-hidden by drifting smoke from the incense, which made them seem to float like ghosts. Themiste drew in a deep breath and willed herself into stillness as the queen and her daughter entered the chamber.
She saw Aridela’s nervousness in the way she glanced back and forth between all those gathered. It irritated her, and she used that to strengthen her resolve.
None of these people could know that behind the expressionless bull’s mask, as Themiste stared at the princess, her mind went beyond the smoky chamber, back to the night Aridela played proxy for the injured Iphiboë. The entire act, preserved in Aridela’s memories, was revealed to Themiste when she had used the craft of subliquara.
The memory, coupled with the lingering hallucinatory strength of the potions, threw Themiste’s exhausted will into the experience as though she were Aridela. Chrysaleon’s mouth, his hands between her legs, the scrape of his beard against her thighs and face, the final culmination—each sensation reenacted with such immediacy that Themiste’s body livened from her scalp to her toes. Her breath shortened. She felt the surreptitious glances of the two priestesses who shored her up, and wondered if they could hear the erratic thudding of her heart.
She swayed; the priestesses clamped her upper arms and pushed against her. Her hand shook as she raised it to command silence.
“We have read the omens,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. “Seldom do the entrails and visions give such clarity.” She stopped and waited, drawing to herself perfect silence, rapt attention. “Aridela must be joined to the barbarian.”
“After what you saw his countrymen do to Callisti, and to us?” Helice cried. “No.”
Fighting the hallucinations and the sense of suffocation caused by the mask, Themiste fought to breathe normally. “Lightning struck our holy shrine at Aridela’s birth,” she said. “The lightning of Velchanos, promising transformation. Yet another sign came when Aridela was a child. Divine prophecy spoke through her. Do you remember, Queen Helice? Lion of Gold, from over the sea. Destroy the black bull, shake the earth free. Years later, on Mount Juktas, Aridela was given a dream of power. The statue of Velchanos stepped off his pedestal and came to her—to Aridela, not to you, not Iphiboë, not anyone else.”
Everything melted and swam; Themiste stumbled. The priestesses pressed more firmly against her and put their arms around her shoulders. Using the last of her will, she forced herself to finish, hurrying now. “On Mount Juktas, he blessed her and vowed to always be with her. But he was not Velchanos alone. Goddess Athene placed upon him the foreign prince’s face, so that Aridela would know him when he came to Kaphtor in truth. Chrysaleon of Mycenae and Velchanos the Calesienda merged. Chrysaleon of Mycenae’s name meaning is ‘Gold Lion.’ His coming was prophesied by the child, Aridela. And now he is here, the man, in truth, upon our land. If he is indeed a man, and not a god.”
Helice turned a shocked, bewildered gaze on her daughter.
“When Chrysaleon shaved his beard I was certain,” Aridela ventured. “In the mountain vision, Velchanos had no beard, and Chrysaleon’s eyes. It was him—the prince of Mycenae.”
Themiste welcomed the impatience that chafed her nerves at the sound of Aridela’s voice. It helped her shove the imagery of Chrysaleon’s lovemaking to the back of her mind and concentrate on the present dilemma. “If Aridela had told us the truth long ago,” she said coldly, “many mistakes could have been avoided. Now I must go before the foreigner and reverse the council’s decision. I must ask him to accept us. He is arrogant; he will think we fear him.”
Aridela’s lips tightened and her brows lowered ominously, but Themiste felt no remorse for her angry words. The girl had brought much trouble upon them with her defiance and secrets. Only the fleetest twinge of guilt made her wonder if there was another reason for this anger, but as her mind reacquired control over her emotions, over the physical needs she’d long submerged, she forcefully dismissed the suspicion.
“The barbarian came here for our rites by design, not chance. Athene’s design.” Themiste’s voice trailed off as disjointed images disrupted her concentration. She rallied, fighting to stay clearheaded. “Remember—the earth remained calm after Iphiboë’s offering until we refused the foreigner’s request. Runners from Tarrha tell me the earthshaking was felt there; it may have traveled much farther. Don’t you see, my queen? The lightning of Velchanos marked Aridela when she was born. His lightning marked her again during the Destruction. It marked our entire world. Unless we marry Aridela to Chrysaleon, the Earth Bull will roar again. The lightning will come again. Will we survive another night of destruction? Whether or not Chrysaleon had any part in it, this is what Athene wants.”
Themiste slumped and the priestesses caught her. Her legs shuddered; she could barely speak now. “When the waxing crescent begins its second phase and we harvest the surviving grapes, then we must give the prince of Mycenae our greatest treasure. We must make a spectacle like none have ever seen—a celebration that will be remembered, and sung of, for eternity. If we defy prophecy, our civilization will perish. Every blade of grass on Kaphtor will be destroyed. Chrysaleon wants Aridela. He battled for her. We have no choice.”
Her ears rang; faintly, she heard Helice say, “So soon?”
The last thing she remembered was motioning. One of the priests came forward, picked her up in his ar
ms, and carried her away to her pallet.
Three ships have returned! Three of our own ships, which had sailed to Egypt before the Destruction—they bring living men and desperately needed supplies. They entered the bay near the ruin of Phaistos; runners were sent immediately to inform us at Natho. These sailors describe being on the open sea and seeing, far to the north, boiling black clouds and constant bolts of lightning in many colors. They feared Kaphtor was under attack, and saw the hand of the Immortals. The ash that buried our crops fell on their ships; the men scooped it off as fast as they could, yet still one ship sank beneath the weight. Terrified, they turned and fled back to Egypt, and only now have dared the voyage home. As far as high waves, they claim the turbulence they encountered was insignificant, no more than gentle surf. It seems the crushing mountains of water that destroyed so much of our coast dispersed harmlessly on the open sea.
We welcomed these men and made offerings of gratitude. The wives and children of the sailors we thought dead now rejoice.
Their ships were laden with gifts from Pharaoh—barley, cloth, oil, and most importantly, shipbuilders. Their traders used to bring perfumes and trained monkeys for our entertainment. Now we weep in gratitude for barley seed. Such are the changes brought upon us.
Ships from other ports bring their own tales. On the isle of Isy, only one city, Salamis, escaped destruction. The storm of ash fell there to the depth of a tall man’s thigh. These travelers claim they saw people burst into flames when it touched them.
One shipload of curious sailors ventured into Callisti’s waters. They say it is vanished, but for a single curved black ridge, which sends up plumes of smoke and a burning stench. Death and silence suffused the air. Sensing a divine presence, knowing they were in danger, these men sailed away as fast as they could, making sacrifices and uttering prayers for mercy.
The disappearance of Callisti confirms what I saw in vision. No longer do any doubt me, or my power.
Pervasive cold continues, along with more snow than we have ever seen, and dismal, overcast skies. How I long for clear sunlight, for the warmth we once took for granted.
No news comes from Chrysaleon’s homeland. He could go, yet he lingers. Nothing, it seems, will induce him to leave Aridela.
Now I come to that which I dislike admitting, though I know I must. Truth is required, at least in the Oracle Logs. I see why Aridela finds Chrysaleon so mesmerizing. He is handsome, and can be charming when he wants. His presence has the power to quicken my heartbeat. I’m drawn to him, though I don’t wish to be. Since I peered into Aridela’s mind and saw their intimacy, I find it difficult to ignore the images, more difficult still to keep from enjoying them as though they were my own. Whenever Chrysaleon’s attention turns to me, I blush and stammer, I, who have never lain with any man and never thought I wanted to.
Aridela stared into the sky, awestruck by an all-too-rare event—a clear, cloudless morning.
The sun lifted above the mountains. Blush, gold, and hints of lavender splashed the heavens like a vow of forgiveness, a promise that the union between Aridela and Chrysaleon, scheduled for two days hence, would bring renewed prosperity.
Villagers left their work, turning their faces toward the sky. Laughter rose with the sun.
To brighten the ceremony, garlands hung from every post and pillar. Pennants, embroidered with olive trees, fluttered above the doorways in every village along the coast.
Mundane tasks took on a sharp ring and lively beat. Chattering bounced off steep mountain crags, merging with the echoing drum of hammers, the grating saw of wood and rich smell of sawdust.
After Themiste made her edict, runners and merchants spread out to announce the news and collect goods from the various precincts. Priestesses lit new altar fires at every shrine and grotto. Gifts piled high in caves and temples, ranging from gold rings and necklaces to seashells, jars of honey, clay statues and woven baskets. Near the ruined port of Amnisos, lines of women waited to pray in fertile Eleuthia’s cave. Burgeoning hope wove through air and soil.
Aridela gazed at the sky and allowed herself to think the words she’d long denied.
Chrysaleon will be my consort. We no longer have to hide.
Joy tried to ignite, but was instantly smothered in sorrow. Iphiboë died in order for this marriage to take place. How could she be happy? How could she let go of her sister?
He could never love me. I wouldn’t have liked him either. You haven’t hurt me.
Iphiboë’s comforting words brought a little peace, as did the wash of golden sunlight and laughter from below.
Besides, Athene herself wanted this union. It was blessed, even prophesied.
Helice joined her on the balcony. Aridela smiled at her mother and took her hand. Yet the queen stared listlessly; she seemed oblivious to the glowing transfiguration of the heavens. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. She was thin, her cheeks sunken, her hands shaky. The unhealthy pastiness of her skin frightened Aridela, though she carefully controlled her expression.
Finally, the queen spoke. “The prophecy of your childhood is at last made clear. Chrysaleon of Mycenae is the ‘lion of gold from over the sea.’”
Goose bumps shivered across the back of Aridela’s neck. “Goddess Athene wanted to prepare us for his coming; that’s what I think.”
“There’s nothing good for Kaphtor in that prophecy, Aridela.” Helice frowned. “And, I fear, nothing good for you.”
“Only if we refuse to follow Athene’s wishes. Chrysaleon will protect us from the warnings in the prophecy. Yes, the earth shook and fire rained from the sky. But look.” She gestured. “Now the sun shines. The sea is calm. And there are still grapes to harvest. How can you doubt Athene’s blessing? Renewal flows from Chrysaleon.”
“The prophecy says nothing about the Gold Lion protecting Kaphtor. Only his destruction of it.”
“Athene wants this union. Everything will be fine, now that we embrace her wishes.”
Helice stared at her. Her head tilted and she sighed. “You blind yourself, Aridela. You see only what you want to see. I, too, am guilty—I believed the gossip about you, that you are wiser, older than your years. Yet here you stand, spouting nonsense like any common love-struck peasant.”
Aridela clenched her fists, but the discipline her mother had just denied she possessed kept her hands at her sides and her temper in check.
Helice turned her face away. “This is what comes of keeping you overly sheltered. It was the same when you were ten, with Carmanor. You are easily impressed by anything different.”
Aridela gritted her teeth and drew in a deep, slow breath as anger flared almost beyond what she could swallow. She set her posset cup on the balustrade and clasped Helice’s forearm. “All my life I have received praise for my ability to see through lies to truth. Yet on this, you and many others continue to doubt. Well, I have none. Chrysaleon won the Games because Goddess Athene wanted him to win. He defended me because he loves me. You’ll see, Mother. He will fulfill every obligation we require of him.”
The queen’s gaze dropped from Aridela’s eyes to the hand on her forearm, then moved onward to the sea. “Lycus weighs on my mind as well,” she said, her frown lingering. “He is broken by rage.”
Aridela’s fragile, guilt-ridden happiness disintegrated. Yet what could she do? She couldn’t force herself to love Lycus over Chrysaleon. Love possessed its own measure and will, and went whatever way it chose, dragging the physical body behind. Didn’t it?
She sensed that her mother, and maybe others, blamed her for all this trouble; she felt their judgment, and wondered how many thought her a selfish, love-struck fool. Perhaps some, like her aunt Oneaea, believed she should have given Lycus her backing instead of Chrysaleon, no matter what she felt. Even she wondered if doing so might have given him the motivation he needed to succeed.
Keeping those thoughts private, she said merely, “His outlook is much changed. Is there not something else we can try?”
Helice
shrugged. “Every day, admirers visit him—women mostly, but he refuses their offers of romance.” With a discerning glance, she added, “His suffering isn’t caused solely by you, isoke. It’s jealousy, hatred of Chrysaleon, and being prevented from seeking vengeance. What angers him most is his perceived humiliation. These are the reactions of a spoiled child.”
Sudden tears stung Aridela’s eyes. Helice would never recover from the loss of Iphiboë, nor was she reconciled to the union of her younger daughter to the foreigner. Long, debilitating illness, too many deaths, and the ruin of all she’d known had dealt a mortal wound, yet she still tried to offer what comfort she could. The sharp, hurtful criticism was forgotten in a rush of love.
If fortune ever returned to Kaphtor and its rulers, hopefully she would someday earn the same admiration she felt for her mother.
Perhaps she could divert Helice’s sadness into happier thoughts, if only briefly. “Isn’t Natho lovely?” she asked. “The air is fresh. Summer flowers bloom. What a difference from the east, where everything is poisoned and dead.” She pointed at the sky, where the burgeoning crescent moon glowed as it bid farewell to the rising sun. “We’re told the land there is without feature, like the face of the white mother’s orb. I’m grateful you brought us to this place for shelter, where recovery and hope are clear to see. It was an inspired choice.”
“Yes,” Helice said. “At least this much was spared, and your union creates an opportunity to take our minds off all we’ve lost.” She turned an intense gaze upon her daughter. “Have you given care to the plans? Are you overseeing the arrangements?”
Aridela rubbed Helice’s cold hand. “It will be wondrous. I promise. It will be everything Themiste envisioned.”
“Your union to the foreigner must inspire songs and tales. It must exceed any festival or celebration we have ever held. It’s up to us, Aridela, to return hope and dignity to our country, to instill the strength to triumph over these tragedies. That is Themiste’s intent, I’m certain of it.”
The Thinara King Page 9
