The Thinara King

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Chrysaleon,” she whispered.

  “She is ready,” the first priest said. “Take her to the shrine.”

  The guards jerked and dragged her through corridors, down stairways and into the courtyard. When she opened her eyes she glimpsed an ice-blue dawn, studded with pink and yellow clouds. The heavens reflected nothing of Kaphtor’s continuing misfortunes.

  Warriors formed an impenetrable armed escort. They took her to the cave shrine at the west end of the village.

  Smoke filled the cave, stinging her eyes.

  Harpalycus waited at the lustral basin in the center of the chamber, holding an unsheathed dagger.

  “At last,” he said. “Can she stand?”

  An image flooded Aridela’s senses, one so strong that for an instant her surroundings faded. She saw herself stumble into the shrine at Labyrinthos and fall before the statue of Athene. Gentle arms picked her up, cradled her. She peered into incandescent blue eyes.

  At first she’d believed they were Athene’s, but it was Menoetius who saved her. Where was he now? Was he alive?

  When the guards released her, her legs crumpled like sheets of papyrus. She would have fallen, but someone caught her around the waist; she gasped as she met Lycus’s frowning gaze. He returned her to the guards and stepped back.

  Hatred surged through her limbs like the fire-wind of the Destruction. “Lycus,” she said. “In the name of my mother, I curse you.”

  He didn’t look up. She noticed his unhealthy pallor.

  Harpalycus gave an impatient sigh. “Hold her then.” He strode to the altar. “Look, my queen.”

  Aridela blinked, trying to free her eyes of the acrid smoke. Harpalycus gestured toward a line of priestesses. Warriors with drawn swords stood near them. The first woman in line held her head high, though her dress was ripped and filthy, her face smudged with dirt.

  It was Helice.

  Harpalycus seized a handful of the queen mother’s hair and jerked her forward. He pressed the edge of his knife to her throat. “Poseidon is lord and master over Athene,” he said. “He will take her to wife even as I take you, Aridela. He will see my devotion, my loyalty, and he will reward me. All I do is in his honor.”

  “No,” Aridela whispered.

  Her mother showed no fear. “Isoke,” she mouthed.

  “Let her go.” Aridela struggled to free herself, twisting one way then another to escape the grip on her arms. “You said she would be a slave.”

  “Bring her,” Harpalycus said, and the guards dragged Aridela closer. Harpalycus pulled Helice’s head backward. “A queen so reverenced is too much of a danger. Better to be rid of her.” He lifted one brow. Never taking his gaze from Aridela, he slashed Helice’s throat, one side to the other.

  Fountains of blood splattered across Aridela’s chest. She reeled against the guard’s implacable armor. “No!” she screamed.

  The priestesses moaned. Several tore at their hair and scratched their faces. A few covered their eyes with their hands.

  Harpalycus dropped Helice’s body onto the altar. She choked and convulsed then lay still.

  Lycus strode forward, his hand pressed against the partially healed sword wound in his side. “What have you done?” he shouted. “You will make everything harder.”

  Harpalycus still wore a faint smile. He motioned; two of his men seized Lycus and pulled him away.

  “Peace, my friend,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Mother….” The deafening roar in Aridela’s head made the interchange between Lycus and Harpalycus faint, meaningless babble. Stars spilled through her eyes, blinding her. She couldn’t feel her legs.

  “I am the daughter of Helice,” she intoned. “She called me isoke, which means ‘Beloved Gift.’ Helice was born from the womb of Admete, who was the daughter of Selene, who was the daughter of Evadne, who was the daughter of Zoë. Before her came Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy.”

  Harpalycus motioned for the next priestess in line. The woman was brought forward. She was Laodámeia, Themiste’s beloved maidservant, the one person trusted to stay with the oracle during her visions.

  “For you, Blue-skinned Poseidon,” he said, and lifted his stained blade.

  She screamed and tried to shrink away. He grabbed her, jerked her upright, and punched her in the nose with his balled fist. Then he slit her throat. Her cries faltered into a sickening gurgle and her body fell on top of Helice’s.

  Aridela staggered and retched. The guards held her, prevented her from falling. Blood from the dead women flowed into the lustral basin, swirling, eddying, thickening the water.

  She sank against the guard’s chest. “I am the daughter of Helice,” she whispered, “the daughter of Admete, the daughter of Selene, the daughter of Evadne, the daughter of Zoë, and before her Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy.” White-hot fury surged through her limbs; she lifted her face and screamed, “Demon Women. I call upon you. Hound him.”

  Harpalycus’s eyes glittered with killing lust. “No one can hear your threats in here. I’ll sacrifice many more. Enough to satisfy my master. He craves blood now, for Crete’s years of neglect.”

  He motioned to the guard, who tugged her to the basin and forced her to kneel. “Come,” Harpalycus told the priests. “Let us be finished with this.”

  Next to her lay the bodies of her mother and Laodámeia. Laodámeia’s eyes stared blankly at her.

  Aridela no longer felt the sting in her wrists or the throb of her bruises. Watery rainbows danced wherever she looked.

  “I am the daughter of Helice, who was the daughter of Admete, who was the daughter of Selene, who was the daughter of Evadne, who was the daughter of Zoë, and before her Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy. My mother called me isoke, which means ‘Beloved Gift.’”

  Dropping to his knees, Harpalycus forced her head back as he had her mother’s. He pressed the edge of his knife against her throat. He held her face close to his, half-turned toward him. A pulse beat rapidly in the side of his neck.

  The roar in her head took up the rhythm of the pulse and obliterated the ceremony. She knew the barbarian priests spoke words that were sacred to them. Wine was sprinkled and strong incense burned her nose, but all meaning crumbled beneath the steady thrum-thrum… thrum-thrum in her brain.

  Someone held the ritual goblet of wine and bull’s blood to her mouth. She pressed her lips tightly together so that none could enter her mouth. It ran over her chin and dripped to the cave floor.

  Harpalycus yanked her to her feet. For the first time she saw Kaphtor’s council, herded into a tight group between several armed warriors.

  They stared at her. Some wept. Kios looked old and broken. Her aunt Oneaea was stony-eyed, her expression defiant and accusing.

  Aridela searched out Lycus. Still restrained by guards, he stood near the cave opening.

  “My Mother,” she said clearly as she met his cold yet anguished gaze. “Bring your son’s fire and lightning. Sweep us away as you did Callisti, and free your world of this evil. Let us all die here, together.”

  As the sun followed its upward path, Harpalycus stood before the people of Natho and made his decrees. Aridela was forced to stand at his side, her wrists bound behind her. A soldier pricked her in the small of her back with his knifepoint, a measure, Harpalycus said, to keep her quiet.

  “I am your king,” he finished. “You will show me the same honor and obedience you gave your queen.”

  The people muttered, but as a phalanx of warriors lowered their spears and readied their shields, they grew quiet, cowed, perhaps, by what they’d already endured. Aridela knew Harpalycus’s men had spent the night burning, slaughtering and raping at will.

  “My ships have sailed into every port,” Harpalycus announced. “I now hold Tamara, Damerto, Phaistos, Aptara, Tarrha, Knossos and Kydonia. Your queen is my slave. Her mother is dead. Your famed oracle st
arves in my prison.”

  Was he blustering? Could he have achieved such an incredible thing? Between the mighty waves, poisoned air, fires and earthshakings, the long, intoxicated marriage celebration, and help from Lycus, she couldn’t be sure.

  “No land escapes change,” Harpalycus said. “Now change has come to Crete. Follow my laws, obey me, and you will live in peace.”

  He led Aridela under the arch toward the villa, which still boasted wedding garlands and pennants.

  “Fight,” Aridela screamed. She struggled and managed to twist free. She ran back toward her people. “Fight them. Don’t obey.”

  The crowd’s mutter expanded into a low, threatening rumble. They began to mill.

  The soldier grabbed her. Harpalycus swung her around. He struck her so hard she could neither hear nor see. The force of the blow again wrenched her neck almost beyond endurance.

  “Curse you, Harpalycus,” Lycus shouted. “You promised—”

  “You are growing very tiresome, bull leaper,” Harpalycus said. “You helped me achieve this. Your pathetic quibbling wears on my patience. All this blood is as much on your hands as mine. Stop sniveling and become the warrior you wish to be. Did you think these people would invite us in and give us their land without protest?”

  Motioning to his men, he said, “Remove my young friend if he has no stomach for war.”

  He turned back to Aridela. “Tie her to the bed in my chamber,” he said to the soldier.

  Twining his fist in her hair, he drew her chin up and kissed her.

  She did not twist or struggle. She did nothing.

  He raised his head, one brow lifting and the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t fight me, Aridela?”

  “For you to remember,” she said, returning the smile, “when the Erinyes come.”

  Chrysaleon was shoved into an oxcart and forced to kneel. His arms and legs were bound with harsh rope. Another rope was wrapped around his neck, nearly strangling him, and anchored to the front of the cart. One of the warriors mockingly placed a crown of grapevines on his head and sent the oxen trudging through the village of Natho.

  The vanquished watched from beside the lanes. Many wept. Some wore expressions of sympathy while others seemed apathetic or angry. The slaughtered still lay where they had fallen. Chrysaleon’s guards had to kick a few out of the way.

  High on the cliffs gleamed the white villa where Chrysaleon had so recently made love to his young wife. Sunlight reflecting from it sent his mind to another day, when the hot midday sun had caressed the terracotta walls of Labyrinthos. Jumping from his chariot, he had admired the massive horns adorning the entry into the palace, and the enormous fresco of a black bull, stylized yet still realistic. Aridela, her mother, cousins, and aunts had come forth to greet him in their bright, layered gowns, their hair worked in elaborate styles. It was the first time he had seen his lover from the cave in her royal setting.

  The memory dissipated as the oxcart bounced over a stone, jerking him off balance, returning him to the chafe and scratch of the rope around his neck and wrists, to his humiliation.

  He was taken before Harpalycus.

  The usurper had wasted no time stealing what riches he could find. Gold bands adorned his arms and wrists. An embossed belt cinched his clean white kilt. He wore Chrysaleon’s jeweled crown, his sword, and the king’s bright gold seal ring.

  Thoroughly in the role of conqueror, he stood with his feet planted wide, his fists resting on his hips. Behind him were his priests and personal guard, and to one side Proitos, the lackey who had long followed Tiryns’ prince.

  Cold breezes, tinged with the scent of the sea, teased the priests’ robes and the purple-dyed edges of Harpalycus’s tunic.

  Soldiers dragged Chrysaleon from the cart and pushed him to his knees before his enemy.

  He knew he would be gutted. He also knew Harpalycus would toy with him first.

  “Behold, crown prince of Mycenae, bull-king of Crete. I offer news of home—of your father. If you hope for a rescue, I fear you’ll be disappointed.” Stepping closer, Harpalycus said, “For months, with every meal, he’s been fed infusions of the helleborus root. He dies, and when I send you after him to the land of shades, I will be High King, not only of Crete, but Mycenae and every great House on the Argolid. Every one of your kin, even to the lowest bastard you have sired, will perish on my sword.”

  Chrysaleon tried to show nothing but contempt, though he reeled inside with shock and despair. “No one trusts you,” he said. “None will forget your treacheries.”

  Rage whitened Harpalycus’s lips then he threw back his head and laughed. “Chrysaleon. Heir to the crown of Mycenae, but you wanted Crete’s as well. You already had a wife, but that didn’t stop you from taking another. Have you thought of Iros once since you came here?”

  “No,” Chrysaleon said.

  “No.” Harpalycus’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. “You’ve been obsessed with Aridela. My sister is forgotten.”

  “I had no wish to marry her. I was forced into it.”

  “Yes, by our fathers. Do you know why it happened so quickly? My father arranged it because Iros was carrying my child and he was afraid of what might happen. The people were already grumbling about me for other things. He saw a way to prevent judgment against him and to foist his grandchild off upon the House of Mycenae at the same time.”

  “There is no honor among your kin,” Chrysaleon said. “If I ever did feel any debt to her, it’s gone.”

  “She’ll never know,” Harpalycus said softly, his eyes now mere slits and his lips twitching, “because she is dead.”

  Chrysaleon pictured that small, pale girl, weary in her bridal finery then later, weeping in his bed. He experienced a surprising instant of pity before he began to wonder how she’d died. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You’ve found out what happened there?”

  “You will wonder for the rest of your short life. But know this. Your whore, Theanô, wasn’t it? She killed my sister, and you will pay the price for that.” He paused, regarding Chrysaleon with triumph. “The queen of Crete is chained to my bed.”

  Chrysaleon strained at the ropes around his wrists, but they withstood his efforts. The guards’ sword points inched closer. One pricked the flesh over his ribcage.

  Harpalycus watched him, his smile widening. “I will use her,” he said. “And then I will give her to my men. Everything I do to her will avenge Iros, and bring suffering to Chrysaleon, the spoiled prince. You will burn because you cannot save her from me.”

  “You think the Kindred will allow you to live after murdering the High King? Your body will be torn to pieces and left to putrefy. Not even jackals will eat you.” Chrysaleon lifted his head. “Formidable Erinyes,” he shouted, his words echoing off the surrounding walls. “Hear me, Daughters of the Night. I call for vengeance in the name of my mother, Clematia. Gnaw his heels, chase him across the earth. Send him madness and death.”

  “They won’t come,” Harpalycus muttered. Yet he peered at the wooden-faced warriors who overheard the curse. Straightening to his full height, he strode from one to the next, clasping a shoulder here, a forearm there. “Not even the goddesses of dread can harm my warriors,” he shouted. “You are the finest in the world, the only men strong enough to overthrow legendary Crete.”

  His men cheered.

  Returning to Chrysaleon with a satisfied smile, Harpalycus said, “I will send you and Themiste to Labyrinthos. I want you to die there, in the bowels of the citadel where you sought to be king. But you’ll see me again before that day. I will bring Aridela. I want you to look upon her belly when she is about to give birth to my child.”

  Chrysaleon tried to suppress his rage. Perhaps, if Harpalycus believed he didn’t care what happened to Aridela, things would go more easily for her. But he couldn’t stop his teeth gritting or his breath growing shallow.

  One brow lifted. Harpalycus watched him. Then he laughed. He gestu
red to the guards, who yanked Chrysaleon to his feet.

  Harpalycus punched him in the stomach, leaving him doubled over, gasping.

  “Take him,” Harpalycus said, and watched, his smile lingering, as the guards dragged his hated enemy away.

  Water trickled down one of the cell walls. Labyrinthos’s ingenious interlocking water pipes must be leaking.

  At least his prison offered hazy light during the day, and a bit of fresh air, something that would rankle Harpalycus if he knew. There were three holes high in the walls; it appeared rocks had punched through during the Destruction. Several black, pitted stones lay on the floor.

  Pacing across the packed dirt, Chrysaleon tested every crack for a means of escape. He slept, woke, and slept again. At first a guard brought food and water, then, nothing. Chrysaleon lost track of how many days and nights passed.

  Help me, Chrysaleon.

  He started awake, hearing Aridela’s voice in his head. Sweat stung his eyes.

  “Harpalycus holds me prisoner,” he whispered. He beat the walls until blood spattered from his knuckles.

  Chrysaleon’s last glimpse of her had been in their chamber as warriors surrounded him.

  You would have tricked her, if Harpalycus hadn’t beaten you to it. Don’t think you have more honor than he.

  His thoughts assaulted him, bringing unfamiliar guilt. He didn’t know if his starving mind was torturing him in his last days with brutal honesty or if the voice belonged to someone else, a god, perhaps, wanting to humble him. He daydreamed about starting his time on Crete from the beginning and making no mistakes. His favorite vision was of killing Harpalycus during the wrestling.

  If you had another chance, would you become bull-king and end your life in Crete’s sacrifice?

  It was easier to allow his thoughts to spin in useless circles than to contemplate what Harpalycus might be doing to Aridela.

  Death from starvation was painful. But at least the leaking pipe provided a little water, though never enough to truly slake his thirst.