“All will be done. I promise.”
“Were it not for my fears,” the queen said, “I would be happy to hand you the titles. I’m tired, and you’re more than capable.”
Though this statement seemed at odds with the earlier criticism she had offered, Aridela accepted it with gratitude. “The time has come to rest, to enjoy your freedom.” She tried to speak with confidence, but her mother’s sallow skin and the ever-deepening darkness around her eyes and mouth made it difficult.
“It’s hard for a queen to love, isoke. This is something for which I cannot prepare you.”
Aridela could think of no response other than the pat answer that Helice’s consorts were resurrected in the beautiful gardens of Hesperia.
Her memories took her back to the day a sweaty, panting Chrysaleon seized her hands after winning the footrace. Fear had forced her to hide her feelings, that day and for many days after. She was glad to leave secrecy behind. Now she could spend all the time she wanted with him, openly, as she preferred… until the end.
Helice was watching her. Abruptly, she realized her mother had broached the one subject she’d always before avoided. “Mother,” she asked, “is it true that you loved my father more than any other consort, as you’ve said, or was this something you thought you should tell me?”
“No,” Helice replied after a slight pause. “No, Aridela, I meant it. Damasen gave me something no other consort could. They all have unique gifts and I loved many of them. But Damasen and I shared everything, all the mysteries within us. I have never felt as close to anyone.”
“Then… how could you allow him to be killed?” She knew this question would hurt her mother. But in two days, she would take on Helice’s role as leader of the people. She must know what lay beneath the words, It’s hard for a queen to love.
Helice’s pause stretched into a lengthy silence. She seemed to shrink into herself.
Aridela forced herself to wait, to refrain from saying, Let us talk of other things.
Finally Helice spoke, but she didn’t reply directly to Aridela’s question. “You love Chrysaleon very much, I think.”
“I know you and many others distrust him, but Chrysaleon and I share a bond just like you and Damasen. He will never betray me. When Iakchos rises, he will offer himself, if for no other reason than to prove his love.”
Tears slipped down Helice’s face. “Then Chrysaleon is like your father.”
With a deep breath for courage, Aridela asked the question she knew every queen who had ever loved a consort had pondered. “Would you… would you have changed anything, if you could?”
Helice faced her straight on, her eyes shining with moisture. “Yes.”
There were those on the council who would consider such words treason. Aridela realized she was holding her breath and let it out on a sigh.
“I would gladly have died in his place,” Helice said. “But he wouldn’t allow me to change the laws or appeal for more time.” She brought up her hand and touched the necklace at Aridela’s throat, the gift Damasen had left for her. “Be careful, isoke,” she said. “Yours is an impulsive nature. You’ll be forced to curb it, again and again. Damasen’s most loving gift to me was his refusal to allow me to change things. It showed his love more than any other act could.” She paused, gazing straight into Aridela’s eyes. “When Iakchos rises, that is when Chrysaleon’s truth will emerge.”
“He will honor his vows.” Aridela heard the defensiveness in her voice.
Misgivings shadowed Helice’s smile. She motioned to her handmaid. Leaning on the woman’s arm, she said, “Come to me later. We’ll watch the sun set over the sea.”
When she was alone, Aridela tried again to admire the landscape, but anger and uneasiness overshadowed the view. He will honor his vows, she’d declared. But the truth she didn’t dare examine was that she didn’t want him to. A year was such a short time.
In two nights he would be her husband. She wouldn’t squander an instant of this gift from Athene. Iphiboë wouldn’t want that, and neither did she.
Memories of earthshakings and deaths, Iphiboë’s sacrifice, and fears of what winter might bring were put aside to celebrate two monumental events—Kaphtor’s royal union and the crushing of now rare and precious grapes.
Themiste worked with the council to choose the most auspicious time. She had determined in vision that the wedding must take place during the second phase of the waxing moon. The augurs chose the day after for blowing the conch shell to the four winds, offering sacrifices, and trodding new grapes into rich purple mush.
Prayers and sacrifices begged for sunlight and warmth, but the morning of Aridela’s wedding to Chrysaleon of Mycenae dawned cold and overcast, with bouts of splattering, dirty rain.
At Knossos, the couple would have followed tradition by descending into the labyrinth to be blood-cleansed. At Natho, they had to substitute caves. Priestesses accompanied them into the caverns long before sunrise. There, deep in the earth, in echoing, dripping, torchlit chambers, each underwent somber cleansings meant to free them of unconfessed crimes, purify their hearts, and ready them for the ceremony.
While they prepared, multitudes from every province across Kaphtor collected outside the villa and throughout the village. Heads bobbed, elbows stabbed, and bodies collided in fierce jostling for the best position; all wanted a clear view of the royal parade as they made their way down to the sea.
A collective sigh marked the procession’s appearance. Two lines of warriors marched, outfitted in shining leather, polished bronze armor, and helmets. Behind them pranced Chrysaleon’s black chariot-stallions, white-eyed and snorting, their manes plaited with ribbons. Over their hindquarters fluttered tapestries embroidered with Poseidon’s image, holding a trident, and Athene, wearing a crown of poppies, a dove on her shoulder and a lioness at her side.
It wasn’t Chrysaleon but Menoetius who handled the beasts. Queen Helice waved and smiled at his side, clasping her charioteer’s arm, but the surly guard stared straight ahead, unresponsive.
“Obsidian to his master’s gold,” one woman shouted from a windowsill, but she received no more than a brief frown for her poetry.
Litters came next, decorated with ivy-wound poles at each corner. Reclining upon cushions, the ranking women of Kaphtor displayed themselves like living frescoes as they tossed wreaths and garlands into the crowd.
Robed priests followed, their pennants depicting Mycenae’s lions and the bulls of Crete.
The crowd cheered at the sight of a gilded, pine-draped cart drawn by two white oxen.
Chrysaleon, his hair wreathed in holly and grapevines, his face painted with swirls of royal crimson, held the oxen’s reins. Beside him, Aridela wore layered skirts that flowed around her in a myriad of colors. Her hair boasted a glorious wreath of golden ivy woven with white asterion and clover. Smiling shyly, she waved and tossed flowers to those who crowded against the cart, calling to her for blessings.
People hung out of the overhanging windows on either side of the lanes. They pelted the cart with leaves, making it seem the very heavens rained greenery.
The procession swept past. Those trapped in the narrow wynds fought to avoid being crushed against walls and posts as they cheered and shouted.
“She’s beautiful… I caught a flower….”
“He’s the most handsome to ever win the Games.”
“Their glory pleases the Lady.”
“All will be as it was….”
The onlookers, cheering, dancing, and leaping, flowed after the couple down to the strand by the sea.
Aridela walked hand in hand with Chrysaleon to the impromptu shrine near the water. Temporary it might be, but the craftsmen had poured all their talent into it. Sheer white draperies rippled between carvings of sacral knots and double-headed axes designed by master woodcarvers. Each corner column symbolized life. Greenery and holly berries festooned the ceiling.
The beauty of the structure brought tears to Aridela’s
eyes. With the survival of such gifted artisans, Kaphtor would surely follow suit and regain its former glory. Lined up on one side, the builders shuffled, pleased and embarrassed when she sent them a grateful smile.
Hundreds congregated on the sand and along the cliffs to watch the bonding of the prophesied bull-king to Kaphtor’s last remaining princess.
Chrysaleon led her up three steps where they joined Helice, Themiste, and two priestesses.
Aridela bent her head and tried to visualize the familiar image of Athene, the gray-eyed Goddess who had resided in her mind for as long as she could remember.
Give me strength and wisdom, Mistress. Show me how to earn your forgiveness.
She knew she’d changed. The spoiled, overconfident child seemed a stranger now—a distant memory. Since the Destruction, she could seldom relax; whenever she began to slip into enjoyment or happiness, guilt jerked her backward as though she had a rope twisted around her neck. Sometimes she caught Chrysaleon studying her, his expression brooding. She fancied he was sorry for the promises he’d made to a woman who no longer existed.
Besides the constant ache for Iphiboë, she missed her half brother, Isandros, her nurse, Halia, and her cousins, Neoma and Phanaë. Neoma had awakened, only to fall back into senselessness where she continued to languish. The rest, and too many others, rotted in mass graves.
Helice was a fair and devout queen, but that hadn’t protected Kaphtor from fire, poison and stones raining from the sky.
Themiste, however, often stated that Athene had tempered her anger. After all, Kaphtor still rode the waves of the dark blue sea, and given enough time, could recover, unlike the vanished isle of Callisti.
At Helice’s nod, Aridela and Chrysaleon knelt side by side on a smooth limestone block. The queen twined a strip of fine white cloth around their wrists, binding them to each other.
The fitful rain subsided as Themiste placed triton shells in a circle around them. Sunlight broke through the clouds.
Helice was impressive in her tall ceremonial hat, wide belt and full panoply of layered skirts, overskirt and high-backed bodice. Crossing two ceremonial axes over her breasts, she projected her voice toward the expectant faces in the audience. “Though this day brings feasting and celebration, it is also a solemn event.” She handed her axes to one of her attendants and took from Themiste the ancient Labrys, the wood and stone double-headed axe that had come with their ancestors from the homeland, and which, for more years than anyone could reckon, had spilled the blood of kings. “Through holy sacrifice, the bond between our queen and consort becomes sacrosanct. None may sever it until the rise of Iakchos, and all upon this island will give their lives in defense of our bull-king.”
She leveled a grave contemplation upon Aridela and her consort. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae has given his oath to honor our great sacrifice, to make the land fertile with his blood and body. He has sworn to go consenting, to surrender his life so that all may live.”
Aridela turned to face him, but he wasn’t looking at either her or the queen. Following the direction of his gaze, she found Menoetius, who returned his brother’s stare with an expression she could only call incredulous.
The prince bowed his head and made the proper response. “I am Zagreus. My life and my death belong to Kaphtor.”
Aridela’s neck shivered. Her attention disrupted, she looked again upon Menoetius. From the corner of her eye she saw Themiste’s arms lift toward the heavens. The oracle spoke, yet her words echoed as though filtered through a tunnel.
“Wondrous Athene of Many Names, thy radiance blinds mortal man. Enter into the soul of thy servant, he who kneels before thee. Fill the chalice with thy fire. His blood shall flow to the rhythm of thy design, and he shall walk the remainder of his days in the footsteps of every predecessor before him, holding thy hand and adoring thee.”
A blanketing mist rolled in from the sea; the caress of water against sand gave off a hushed, tranquil susurration. Themiste’s voice faded beneath the heightened sound of Aridela’s breathing. It filled her ears, punctuated by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.
Menoetius’s gaze shifted from Chrysaleon to her. As they stared at each other, shocked surprise replaced the frown on his face.
She had never felt so strange, so separated from what was real. Her mind seemed to soar into the mist. She saw Menoetius as he used to be, his youthful beauty restored—Carmanor as she remembered him.
Through some divine visionary gift, Aridela was allowed to see through Menoetius’s eyes everything that happened the morning he carried her out of the shrine, bleeding, near death. She felt his desperate need to save her, the tenderness with which he held her, the kiss he placed on her forehead. She startled along with him when the doves in their cages began their terrified fluttering and the dim torches abruptly blazed. She felt her soul slip away as he raced up the steps, shouting, and saw the beautiful, shining handmaid, smiling at her.
Her eyes stung with tears.
A voice broke into the memory. Gentle and melodious, it merged with the whisper of the sea. She couldn’t distinguish if it was male or female.
I have lived many lives since the beginning, and so shalt thou. I have been given many names and many faces. So shalt thou, and thou wilt follow me from reverence and worship into obscurity. In an unbroken line wilt thou return, my daughter. Thou shalt be called Eamhair of the sea, who brings them closer, and Shashi, sacrificed to deify man. Thy names are Caparina, Lilith and the sorrowful Morrigan, who drives them far apart. Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times, far into the veiled future. Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost, and thou too wilt forget me. Suffering and despair shall be thy nourishment. Misery shall poison thy blood. Thou wilt breathe the air of slavery for as long as thou art blinded. For thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.
Aridela couldn’t move. She couldn’t even blink. As she stared at Menoetius, he seemed to disintegrate and remold into his blood brother, with Chrysaleon’s green eyes and honeyed hair, but the cruel expression worn by this phantasm immersed her in dread and anguish.
The voice spoke again.
I have split one into two. Mortal men have burned my shrines and pulled down my statues. Their arrogance has upended the holy ways. I decree that men will resurrect me or the earth will die.
The mist, shot with rainbows, lifted. Aridela heard the innocent wash of water. Freed from whatever had pulled her from her body and filled her with vision, she turned toward Chrysaleon then her mother. Nothing had changed; Helice laid one hand upon Chrysaleon’s shoulder then caressed his jaw as she spoke to him of his duties as bull-king. Themiste knelt to refresh the patterns of red dye on his face, which had melted in the rain.
Aridela fought to keep her teeth from chattering. Her flesh shivered uncontrollably.
Almost afraid, she turned her head to find Menoetius, half-wondering if she had imagined it all. He no longer wore that macabre guise of Chrysaleon, but was himself again. He stared at the sand, his hands fisted, white-knuckled.
As much as she had loved and trusted him in the visionary interlude, joined almost as one, she now welcomed the anger that crashed through her.
Every day since he’d stepped upon Kaphtor’s shore at Chrysaleon’s side, she’d felt nothing from him but judgment and censure. This man was now the stranger, ‘Menoetius.’ Her beloved Carmanor was worse than dead; he had never existed. All her memories were lies.
Menoetius raised his head and leveled his dark, unsmiling gaze upon her. Her anger sharpened and she turned away, trying her best to make her disdain and dismissal plain for him to see.
Now, as she gazed upon Chrysaleon’s profile, new insight into Helice’s unhappiness shocked her into stillness. Even Iphiboë understood Kaphtor’s ways better than she. Numerous men would come to Aridela’s bed after
Chrysaleon. She couldn’t possibly love them all with this intensity. Some might disgust or even repel her. She feared the agony of being separated from this golden lover she so adored. She couldn’t imagine continuing without him. Dizziness and grief overwhelmed her; she gripped Chrysaleon’s hand as though that alone could prevent what must happen in one year.
Her stricken awareness caused her to glance once again at her consort’s blood brother. She was freshly shocked to see him stalking across the sand, his back stiff and straight. Menoetius was abandoning the sacred ceremony.
He never hesitated to show his abhorrence. He was morose and difficult. Aridela couldn’t understand why Selene loved him. He never made any effort to be charming. He seldom smiled. Aridela too often caught his unreadable frown directed toward her.
He hated her. Probably because she hadn’t recognized him. That must have hurt his pride. But he had changed so much.
Yet Selene had known him. Selene had remembered.
How she had loved that handsome youth who called himself Carmanor, his pure, unmarred skin, blue eyes bright as stars, thick fall of dark hair and easy laughter. The wonderful smell of him, like clouds caressing fallen leaves. She’d felt such terrible, racking sorrow when he left.
Another wave of dizziness washed over her. As she turned back to Chrysaleon her eyesight blurred, making his features hazy, indistinct; she glimpsed Menoetius’s scar and the tawny hair darkened. Treasured words wrapped through her mind like a soothing balm.
For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together, we bring forth a new world, and nothing can ever part us.
Divine insight told her that something greater fused these two than the mingling of blood between the mauled, dying Menoetius and the prince who had saved him. She imagined the bindings lashing them together. They were frayed, nearly worn through, but there nevertheless.
The Thinara King Page 10
