Aridela stared at Menoetius. He returned her stare, the slight frown he always wore accented by night shadows, his eyes nothing but impenetrable black smudges. She shivered. “I’ve grown weary of being in the hands of foreigners,” she said with a hint of her old swagger. “Take me with you, Selene. I won’t hide like a coward while my people are slaughtered. You and I, together, will gather an army and defeat Harpalycus.”
“Aridela, we can’t argue about this now.” Selene rose to her feet. “We killed two guards, and one of our own died to free you.” She paced, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Harpalycus probably knows by now you’re gone. He’ll scour the coast and the mountains. Can you imagine what he’ll do to anyone he suspects of harboring you? If you won’t go, many will die, many who must live to fight.” She rubbed her eyes, and it seemed her fingers were shaking.
“For-forgive me,” Aridela said. “I’ll do whatever you say.” She slipped the queen’s seal ring off her left middle finger and pressed it into Selene’s palm. “Keep this safe for my return.”
Selene pulled Aridela up and embraced her. “May the Lady make it soon.”
When Menoetius entered the cave after only two nights, with the announcement, “I’ve found a better place,” Aridela made no complaint.
Since he hadn’t had time to acquire anything to cover her feet, he carried her on his back for the better part of the morning to his new hiding spot, so deep within this white, lifeless mountain range Aridela lost any sense of which direction the village of Natho lay.
The cave had two entrances, one at ground level, a low cleft disguised by the gnarled roots of a group of ancient cypress trees, and another on the summit of the knoll above, tucked within a tumble of rocks. Both led to a dank, frozen cavern spotted with animal droppings. Aridela was dismayed, both by the smell and the cramped quarters, which didn’t even allow one to stand upright. Before she could protest, Menoetius led her to the back and a low dark hole, one they had to squeeze through on their stomachs. Only the dimmest glimmer of light followed them.
The second chamber felt deeper and bigger than the last, dryer and warmer. She inhaled, grateful for space enough to stand. Yet they still hadn’t reached their final destination. Menoetius drew her to another orifice, sitting at cross corners from the first and angling steeply downhill. It too had to be maneuvered, this time on hands and knees.
With a striker and flint, Menoetius lit a torch he’d left behind on his initial exploration.
Light reflected in dazzling rainbows off embedded crystals of selenite and quartz, shooting ever-changing prisms as Menoetius lifted the torch and swept it in an arc.
This chamber had room enough to stand up straight—even to walk around. There were no animal droppings and nearly none of the chill in the two previous caverns.
Moreover, it was beautiful. Icicles of stalactites hung like decorative columns from a vaulted ceiling, some stretching clear to the floor. Crystals formed natural facets more intricate and perfect than any gem cutter’s work. In comparison to the initial cave, which had been adequate, this seemed a grand, exotic palace, eliciting a spontaneous laugh from Aridela and a rare grin from the man who had found it.
She breathed in the smell of earth, stone, minerals and damp—the unique scent of a deep, undisturbed cave.
Menoetius left her there with the torch while he fetched their supplies and erased his footprints from the snow.
When he returned, Aridela set up house, using natural nooks and shelves for storage. As she put things away, she took inventory. There was a good amount of bread, nuts, raisins, dried figs and dates, flint, and animal furs, along with arrows, bows, two spears, numerous knives, even a woodcutter’s saw.
Another detail she couldn’t help but notice was her protector’s relaxed confidence. He must have spent much of his life thriving in wilderness solitude, for he seemed more at ease than ever he had at the palace of Labyrinthos.
Though the cavern was pleasant, she chafed at the confinement. Menoetius, looking shamefaced, promised he would get her warm clothing and boots as soon as he could. Until then, she was forced to remain inside the chamber. To relieve herself, she had no choice but to borrow his boots and jerkin when he was there, or use a clay pot when he wasn’t.
He built an ingenious charcoal pit that warmed the chamber and produced virtually no smoke. Next, with her help, he constructed a sleeping pallet, raising it off the floor on squat wood legs, and padded it with animal skins. She asked if they would make one for him, but he shrugged and said he preferred to sleep on the cave floor. He did, wrapped in that luxurious white fur cloak with the symmetrical black stripes he’d brought from Mycenae.
Through all of this, her companion managed to remain as aloof as ever. Aridela’s conviction that he disliked her made her ill at ease, tongue-tied. He seemed to share her reticence, so there was almost no conversation between them. He never touched her except by accident; whenever that happened he would start away, which caused many unhappy conjectures on her part. He hardly ever looked her in the eyes for more than an instant or two.
She studied him overtly one night as he stared at the glowing embers in the fire pit. His expression was unguarded, as though he’d forgotten her and thought himself alone. Worry lived in that frown, which she understood. But the way he drummed his fingers against one knee without appearing to know he was doing it, the way his jaw clenched, unclenched, and clenched again, suggested more.
Unkind intuition left her shrinking, breaking into a sweat as her mind recreated one of Harpalycus’s more brutal rapes. He had gripped her chin and told her she had better show her fertility soon, before he tired of her.
Ambushed by the memory, Aridela succumbed to another fancy. Menoetius must feel trapped, but was caught up in his promise to Selene. Aridela was a nuisance, the ‘whore,’ ruined first by his prince then finished off by Harpalycus. He probably wondered, as she did, how soon her belly would swell.
Sickened, she turned away. She knew the beliefs of his people. Women must be untouched. Purity was the requirement for honor and respect.
What Harpalycus had done to her might never be forgotten in the eyes of the barbarian mainlanders. He had made it so clear, that long gone day in the palace garden at Labyrinthos, and many times since.
In my land, women are put to death for lying with men other than their husbands, even if they’re forced. Duplicity poisons every woman’s heart. All of Argolis knows this.
Perhaps because of their unease with each other, the two fell into a routine that allowed an excess of solitude. In the mornings, after consuming a fig or two, Menoetius left the cave to hunt. He hunted every day, but the Moon of Flying Swans was a cold, barren month even in favorable years. Here in these remote mountains, the weather never improved. Many days Aridela could hardly stand upright against the raging wind. The air was infused with a bitter, humid cold that burned her lungs. Snow lay as deep in places as her hips. Most of the wildlife had vanished, either hunted or gone to the lower foothills. Menoetius often returned at twilight without a single kill. They carefully rationed their food, which caused Aridela no hardship; she had lost her appetite while a prisoner of Harpalycus, and ate very little.
Seven days passed in this manner. Aridela spent the days alone, evenings and nights with her inarticulate guardian.
The first nightmare descended deep in the abyss of the seventh night after they came to their cavern of icicles.
Comfortable on her soft pallet, mesmerized by the radiantly shifting glow of the embers in the fire pit, Aridela was lulled to sleep. Her last sense was one of pure, selfish joy to be free of Harpalycus. She could close her eyes without fear, her body left in peace.
The dream shattered that brief tranquility. She found herself again in the smothering cell. The eunuch stood over her, holding the bowl of water and cloths that meant he was going to prepare her for her daily ordeal with Harpalycus. At first, these ministrations had sparked a firestorm of threats and protests, but by the time
she was rescued, she no longer offered any reaction.
She heard Harpalycus’s echoing drunken laughter. I know you’ve quickened by now, he said. But I’ll kill it. You won’t foist another man’s get on me.
Her belly was swollen, heavy with child. She was in the bullring at Knossos; Harpalycus stood beside her, holding her hand high. A warrior, sword at ready, pressed close, hot sunlight licking the sharp edge of his blade.
Five other women were interspersed along the width of the ring, each under guard. Three slumped or wept quietly. Two stared, their faces naked with terror. All were heavily pregnant. Six sets of stakes and ropes protruded from the sand.
Chrysaleon sat in the queen’s royal seat. He held the crescent-topped staff, and gazed into the ring without expression.
Harpalycus sneered at his mainland rival and raised Aridela’s arm higher, pulling her up on her toes.
An audience crowded the stands. There wasn’t a child or female anywhere. Eerily silent, these men, too, stared at the women.
Soldiers poured into the ring from the entrances at either end. As they neared, Harpalycus released Aridela. Fear sent her racing with the other women toward the shadows at the far arch, but the soldiers quickly caught them. To a backdrop of sudden deafening cheers, the women were dragged to the stakes. Aridela struggled. She screamed. She even bit one man on the forearm. But no one came forth to help them. She was forced onto her back, her wrists and ankles roped to the stakes.
Young males, dressed in loincloths and armed with knives, entered the bullring. They spread out and gathered around each woman.
Now Aridela, in the way of dreams, knew what was going to happen. In an initiation meant to turn these boys into men, they would cut the babies from the wombs of the women. Male babies would elicit a celebration. Females would be thrown to the dogs.
Either way, Aridela and the other women would be left to bleed to death, spread-eagled on the sand beneath the burning sun.
She woke just as the first male, his eyes as hard and hungry as a jackal’s, knelt beside her and lifted his knife.
Sitting straight up on the pallet, Aridela stared into the cave’s depths. Ever-undulating shadows grew tall then shrank. Mouths opened, filled with teeth of crystal. Drenched in sweat, she gasped, long, painful breaths, pressing her hands against her throat. Menoetius, already awakened, was coming around the fire pit toward her.
For one stifled instant she thought him the boy, coming to slice her open. She heard a bloodcurdling scream and didn’t at first realize it came from her own mouth. She stared into the corners, searching for the other women.
Menoetius bent. Shadows webbed his face. She screamed again and fought free as he tried to clasp her hands. She scrambled off the pallet and backed away.
“Aridela,” he said. As he turned, the embers in the fire pit illuminated his face, forcing the shadows into retreat. She knew him then, but still she burrowed into her dream to make certain he hadn’t been there, hadn’t held one of those knives. Only when she had recalled every face she’d seen did she slump to the floor, hug her knees, and press her face against them.
Menoetius knelt beside her. He didn’t touch her. He said nothing as her heaving gasps and shuddering slowly lessened.
When she rose, she didn’t look at him. She ripped off the flounced skirts Harpalycus had forced her to wear and threw them on the embers. Flames wavered, bright and hot. The tight linen bodice followed. She watched as the material blackened and crumpled.
“I won’t wear this filth,” she said, her voice breaking. “I would rather be naked.”
Menoetius stood. He fetched his cloak and placed it over her shoulders, keeping his gaze fixed on the clasp at the neck.
She tensed and shrank away, even as she remembered the night, so long ago, that she had envisioned wrapping herself in this sumptuous fur.
His hands dropped to his sides and he spoke very softly. “A merchant’s concubine gave this to me,” he said. “She called the beast it was taken from a ‘tiger,’ and claimed I could never live long enough to cross the distance between its homeland and Mycenae.”
Clutching the cloak around her, she returned to the pallet and lay on her side, curling her knees to her breasts, covering her head with the fur.
She didn’t move until after she heard Menoetius leave the cavern in the morning.
Why do you linger here? You sit by this fire, warm and safe, while I die. Where is the woman who danced with a wild bull? Are you a coward now?
Aridela woke to the echo of Chrysaleon’s voice. Goose bumps raced across her skin in a parody of chill, though she was covered in sweat.
In the dream, he’d been thin, pale. Close to death.
She sat up. Her head throbbed. Every bone felt the long expanse of time in which she hadn’t truly slept. Menoetius squatted on the other side of the fire pit, watching her. Behind him, the shadows laughed and made obscene gestures toward the back of his head. He was oblivious. He couldn’t see they were alive, malevolent, that they were just waiting to creep out and eat her.
She dropped her gaze.
“You’ve been dreaming,” he said.
“We must leave this place. Avenge the deaths of those we love. I—I feel the Lady’s anger at our inaction.”
She said nothing of the white-hot terror that Harpalycus’s offspring was growing inside her. Or could it be Chrysaleon’s?
The blood of her kaliara hadn’t come in a long time. She couldn’t remember how long.
After a lengthy pause, he said, “Not yet.”
“Have you had no word from Selene? Why hasn’t she come for us? I want to go home, to fight Harpalycus, to find my consort.”
A scowl sliced a sharp dent between his brows. “Selene no longer knows where we are. Harpalycus has offered cartloads of gold to anyone who returns you to him. Many search for you.”
“You think Selene would betray us?” The possibility was so absurd she didn’t wait for a reply. “If only I could see Chrysaleon. I must know if he’s alive. And Themiste. What’s happened to her? My life is slipping away. My dreams accuse me of cowardice. The people suffer. Harpalycus’s hold on my land grows stronger. I cannot bear it.”
He said nothing, only sighed and scraped back his hair.
“We have to make our way to Labyrinthos before any more time passes. Do you not care about your blood brother?”
Menoetius rose. He paced from one side of the cave to the other then returned. “I didn’t want to tell you. Chrysaleon is dead.”
Shock jolted through her like a thunderbolt, though she’d been half-expecting this news. She’d thought it herself a hundred times. In a desperate attempt to ward off annihilating grief, she held onto logic. She would prove it wrong. “Where did you hear this?”
“From a man I trust in Araden. He heard it from others who claim to have mingled with the crowd when Harpalycus buried Chrysaleon’s head under the north gate at Labyrinthos.”
Aridela’s eyes squeezed closed. Tremors racked her body. Grief swelled from her stomach like vomit, choking her. She sensed the shadows crawl out of the corners and stretch toward her, and saw again the door through which part of her longed to go. “Harpalycus uses Chrysaleon’s courage to safeguard his own unworthy life. I curse him. I curse him. Rumors aren’t facts. It might not be true. It’s not true. It’s not. I curse him.”
“I grieve with you, Aridela. But those who watched said the warrior’s hair was long and yellow, like a lion’s.” He bit the corner of his lip where it was puckered by the scar. “I think we should leave Crete. There is no safe place on this island for you anymore.”
She grasped anger, feeling in its fire the dampening of pain, the slithering retreat of the shadows, and flung her rage like a spear at the person who brought such misery. Rising onto her knees, she shouted, “So that is your plan. You want me as your prisoner. Just like Harpalycus. Do you think to ransom me to him? You won’t frighten me. You could never match what’s already been done.”
&n
bsp; “Aridela.” He approached the pallet and seized her hands. “I only want you to regain your strength. I know your sorrow. Do you think I don’t share it? But one day, because you are… wondrous Aridela… you will desire life again, peace, happiness. You’re wounded, but you will heal. I know it. I will keep you safe until that day. I plan for that day.”
“I….” Something made her pause. His whole face lay open in a way she’d never before seen, not even when he was young and beautiful, and called himself Carmanor.
She’d been trained to read what people betrayed in their movements and expressions. Many had praised her abilities, including Helice.
But she must have lost the talent, for what she saw, in the ardency of his eyes, the lift of his brows forming creases across his forehead, and that slight hesitation before he’d uttered wondrous—all this proclaimed something that couldn’t be.
For months, his every glance had borne nothing beyond an icy chill or blank reserve. She’d long ago concluded that her failure to recognize him when he returned with Chrysaleon had spoiled whatever tender feelings might linger from the past. No doubt she had bruised his pride by giving herself to his blood brother, though just six years ago it was Carmanor she had loved, Carmanor she had idealized with all the romantic fervor a ten-year-old girl could muster. Unwitting though it was, she had intensified the sense of ugliness his scars forced him to endure.
No. Menoetius couldn’t care about her that way.
“Your life is in danger,” he said, breaking into her astounded thoughts. He seemed to recover his usual reserve as he continued. “I haven’t told Selene where we are because if Harpalycus captures her, he’ll torture her to find out what he wants. No one can know where you are, not because I distrust the people of Kaphtor, but because I know Harpalycus.”
The Thinara King Page 19
