The Thinara King

by Rebecca Lochlann

  So struck was Aridela by this dark, younger version of her consort that she lost her concentration. One of Harpalycus’s soldiers slipped in with a brutal yell of victory and punched her in the chest with the butt of his knife.

  She fell. For what seemed an eternity, she could do nothing but gasp like a land-bound fish.

  The warrior’s eyes narrowed. He raised and turned the dagger, starting to grin.

  Shock displaced his triumph as he flew off his feet like a bird taking wing. Chrysaleon and the black-haired youth stood on either side, lifting her attacker by the arms. Selene and Menoetius circled, cutting down any who sought to breach this strange tableau.

  Chrysaleon thrust his sword into the warrior’s side and dropped him in a convulsing heap. He held out a hand to her and smiled.

  Aridela tried to keep any tremble from her return smile as she clasped his hand and let him pull her up. Death had breathed upon her, and hadn’t left her unaffected. She took the dagger from the fallen warrior’s hand. It was a Cretan ceremonial knife—the curved obsidian blade flaked to such an edge that the lightest graze across her finger split the skin and drew blood. The ivory grip was carved into an exquisite likeness of Athene, standing upon the pillar of life, divinatory owl upon her shoulder.

  “This knife was made for a queen,” she said, gazing coldly down at the dying soldier. He stared back, his eyes dulling and his gasps growing fainter. “You sully it with your touch.”

  The handsome youth who fought with Chrysaleon swiveled to parry a sword-thrust and didn’t look her way again.

  Aridela lifted her face into the misting rain. “Ololu, ololu,” she shouted. Her breath exhaled in clouds from the chill yet she wiped sweat from her eyes. Selene, who seemed determined to remain close, briefly clasped her shoulder.

  Kaphtor’s warriors echoed the call and cheered as their queen held up the knife.

  The press of men thickened as soldiers from Idómeneus’s ships landed. Rain clouds gave off a frothy-red tint. Aridela searched again for Harpalycus but couldn’t find him.

  Chrysaleon seemed impervious to injury, guarded, perhaps, by the devotion of his god Poseidon. When an arrow pierced the fleshy backside of his thigh, he broke off the shaft and continued with hardly a limp.

  Aridela saw one of the guards who had often dragged her to Harpalycus’s bedchamber in Natho. He had watched a few of his master’s rapes, and his eyes had held lust. Succumbing to the fire of blood-rage, she lunged away from Chrysaleon, lifting her sword in both hands. He was a big man, with massive shoulders and a jutting brown beard. She saw by his sneer that he recognized her as well. He counter-attacked, sending his blade whistling sideways toward her neck.

  She braced, ready to parry his swing, but a third blade slipped between them, grinding and screeching as it halted the thrust of her enemy’s.

  With the strength of just one arm, Menoetius forced the warrior’s sword backward toward the man wielding it.

  “Traitor,” the guard shouted. He barreled into Menoetius and shoved him. “You should be fighting with us.”

  Drawing the dagger that had nearly killed her, Aridela stabbed it into the man’s neck beneath the edge of his helmet.

  He fell, his back arching.

  She made sure he was dead before she wiped his blood from her face.

  As she and Menoetius glanced at each other, she found herself reliving the day they had peered over limitless space at the summit of the world. Looking over the dizzying drop-off left her frozen with terror. She had mourned the loss of her courage, and doubted it could ever return.

  As she stood on the battlefield, the blood of the slain warrior staining her flesh and Menoetius’s eyes upon her, courage and confidence flooded in a tremendous surge, leaving her tingling. She inwardly pictured the battle won, the people of Kaphtor free and triumphant.

  The enemy pressed close. Many wanted to kill Aridela, no doubt hoping to score points with Harpalycus and demoralize the Cretans. There was no time to give Menoetius anything but the briefest smile. As she turned to engage her next opponent, she hoped the bitterness between them had begun to mend.

  Selene’s teeth bared like a wolf’s as she flew from one warrior to the next, leaving behind a swath of writhing death. Blood covered her face, her arms, and congealed in her hair, but it was mostly the blood of the enemy.

  There came an odd pause. Shivers touched the nape of Aridela’s neck.

  The roar of battle ebbed, leaving one sound—Harpalycus’s snarl as he cut through the royal guard, his eyes fixed on her consort.

  Two enemy warriors had engaged Chrysaleon. His back was turned, his full attention taken as he parried, thrust, and cut.

  Desperation transported Aridela through a clot of men. She slashed at them almost absently. Harpalycus engulfed her entire vision.

  Yet she had fallen some distance behind. Harpalycus’s sword-blade rose as he raced closer to Chrysaleon.

  Screaming, Aridela shot like an arrow through the space that cleared before her.

  Harpalycus aimed for the area beneath Chrysaleon’s ribs. With such power behind it, the thrust would pierce his armor. So engrossed was the Butcher of Kaphtor that he didn’t turn at Aridela’s scream. He didn’t see her coming. His desire to murder his childhood foe made him deaf to all distractions.

  Her entire weight struck him in the back.

  His sword flew from his hand as his spine bowed. She held onto her sword, but lost the knife and fell off balance, landing hard on the side of her head. Dirt stung her eyes. Her ability to think and act vanished in a deluge of pain.

  As she lay gasping, he seized her legs and rolled her over on her back. He straddled her hips, grinning. Pinning her sword hand to the ground, he picked up the dagger she had dropped and without any pause to gloat, stabbed her just above her breast.

  The obsidian blade was so sharp it sliced her leather breastplate as though it had no more substance than a cloud.

  A sonorous hum pushed everything else from her mind. All that remained was Harpalycus’s satisfied smile. His hot breath stole hers as he bent close over her face.

  “My Cretan whore,” he said in his own language, knowing she would understand. He had used the title many times.

  Despair weighted her bones. The earth pulled at her. Was she going to die here, defeated, slain by the man she hated most?

  He released his grip on the dagger, leaving it in her. Still smiling, he straightened. He lifted his arm and motioned to someone.

  In one instinctive movement, Aridela extracted the dagger from her flesh with her right hand and thrust it into his throat, into the soft, vulnerable spot to the left of his larynx.

  She sliced back and forth then withdrew the blade.

  Blood gushed over her face.

  His eyes widened. He grabbed at the knife, gasping, but as his lifeblood spurted he slumped and rolled to the side. He wasn’t yet done, though. One hand seized her thigh. The noxious stench of smoldering ashes made her gag. Her eyes filled with stinging water. For the briefest instant, she thought she saw a blackish-green cloud rise from his torn throat. There was a sickening drag on her senses, reminiscent of Themiste’s mind link; she felt her thoughts and experiences being drawn to the surface and for some unknown length of time she merged with Harpalycus, with his hatred and loathing, and she understood what drove him. She saw him creep, naked, into the bedchamber of Iros, his sister, slit the throat of the nurse, and stand by the bed, panting as he drew back the blanket. She saw through his eyes the day his father learned the truth. He flayed Harpalycus with a horsewhip, screaming curses and contempt. She floated within Harpalycus as he descended stone steps to a dank underground chamber where Proitos waited, along with a pile of dead bodies, scurrying shiny black beetles, and vials of a stinking tarry substance. She watched Harpalycus vow revenge upon the priest who betrayed his misdeeds to his father. She heard him tell Proitos that Iros was to be given to Chrysaleon, and she felt herself suffocating in his rage.

  Then
a spear, shining and bright white as the face of the moon, thrust between them, and the awful connection snapped. A woman, surrounded by a blaze of glistening light, fury upon her face, shouted, “Release the child of Velchanos!”

  Harpalycus cringed. His hand fell free but he reached out again with the other, this time clawing at the leg of a soldier who stumbled past.

  The blinding specter vanished.

  Again there was a stench and black-greenish haze. The man Harpalycus had seized fell, choking. He stopped moving and lay still as though dead, but then, as Aridela gazed in shock, he rose, glanced at her, and ran away, disappearing swiftly into the mist.

  Aridela fought the urge to close her eyes, to slip into the quiet peace of death. Instead she dragged herself onto her knees, shuddering, pressing one hand against the puncture in her chest, and crouched over Harpalycus’s body.

  His mouth hung lax; his head fell to the side. Thick pinkish goo mingled with the blood at his throat, like rotted meat turned to jelly.

  “I will feed your carcass to the sea,” she screamed.

  He didn’t hear.

  He was dead.

  Nausea and dizziness made her retch. Blood flowed between her fingers from the wound above her breast. She felt herself falling into pieces like a broken pot. Her mind detached from her body, disintegrated, washed away in the rain.

  “Take me, Athene,” she whispered, and sank into an emotionless, unfeeling void.

  After the battle, we victors returned to Labyrinthos, carrying Harpalycus’s severed head on the tip of a spear. The remainder of the usurper’s soldiers have been unearthed and put to the sword. Our cities belong to us again.

  The bodies of Helice and Laodámeia were brought to us. Harpalycus had left them in the cave where he slaughtered them. They were amazingly preserved, perhaps because of the dryness in the cave and the frozen weather. Aridela, though she was weak and had to lean on my arm, waited with me upon the quay as they arrived. She insisted on helping me purify their remains. While I washed Laodámeia, she cleansed her mother’s body and arranged her hair. She dressed Helice in a gown stiff with gold. I set my favorite copper mirror into Laodámeia’s hand, and around her throat I fastened a necklace left to me by my mother. Her most unique and prized possession, it is shaped into a fragile chambered shell.

  Helice was placed in a sarcophagus decorated with cuckoos and partridges. Aridela made the carriers wait while she leaned down and whispered something into her mother’s ear. She remained there, trembling, eyes closed; I stood by, longing to comfort her, grieving, thinking of all this child has endured.

  Hundreds followed the procession to a site not far from the palace walls.

  Our Zagreus and his brother designed their tombs. In their land, important folk are buried in massive graves such as this, which they call monuments.

  The grave lies beneath a shaft dug into the slope of a hill. The two sarcophagi were lowered onto a bed of pebbles. The men were careful with the placement, so that the faces of our beloved dead are forever turned toward holy Mount Juktas. After setting the head of a white bull at the grave’s entrance, we returned to the city, where Aridela ordered the sacrifice of ten more bulls.

  I will sorely miss Laodámeia. She was my friend and confidant. I never fully realized how I depended on her. Her crusty voice woke me each morning as she brought me milk. Laodámeia rubbed my skin with soothing oils when I ached from chewing the laurel leaves. I’ll miss her astute observations, which she never hesitated to share with me.

  Chrysaleon has searched the prisons, trying to find an entrance to the caves in his death-dream. I showed him the secret corridors we used to spirit him away. The old paintings on the stone walls caused much excitement. “I saw these,” he shouted. “This is the way to the land of Velchanos.”

  I didn’t like to crush his hopes. I felt weighted with grief as I led him through every corridor, clear to the exit outside the city.

  He examined the walls for cracks that might indicate hidden doorways. Disappointment shadowed his face when at last Aridela convinced him to give up. “Why would we keep such a secret from you?” she asked. “You are Kaphtor’s hero. If there were an underground corridor into the land of Velchanos, my love, I would gladly share this knowledge.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “you saw these paintings as we carried you from your cell. I did think you unconscious, but maybe not. It would explain why they seem familiar.”

  Chrysaleon has an angry frown. He doesn’t like our answers. Though he’s powerfully built, with a man’s full beard and massive arms that can wield our heavy shields, I see hints of a sulky child within him.

  Something curious happened after our forces defeated Harpalycus on the beach at Amnisos. We converged upon Knossos and the palace. There we found Proitos, Harpalycus’s eunuch-slave, fast asleep in his master’s bed.

  Our soldiers surrounded him, ready to impale this blubbery creature if he so much as twitched. But before orders could be given or anything done, a stooped, gray-headed man, leaning upon a stick, pushed his way into the center of the room. He was dressed in a fine tunic and had his hair styled the way men of Mycenae favor. I took him for an old nobleman, and this notion persisted because he spoke in an authoritative manner, ordering the soldiers to step back from the bed but to keep their weapons ready, and under no circumstances allow Proitos to touch any of them.

  This man then turned to me. He introduced himself with a wobbly bow as Alexiare, Chrysaleon’s slave. He claimed to be acting on the orders of King Idómeneus, explaining only that this cowering, sweaty man was more dangerous than he seemed. He had no interest in how we dealt with the rest of Harpalycus’s men, but insisted no one be allowed near Proitos, and moreover ordered that he be taken out onto the plain and killed by a spearman standing a good distance away.

  Other matters demanded my attention, so I left them as they prodded Harpalycus’s lackey from the chamber. Later, I interrogated one of the guards who went with them. He told me Alexiare spoke to Proitos. With a puzzled shrug, the guard said Proitos made a mad claim. He told Alexiare that Harpalycus the Butcher is not dead. I made him repeat the words exactly as they’d been spoken. “You think my lord is dead, but you will see, to your sorrow.” Alexiare asked Proitos who Harpalycus had ‘consumed,’ and promised to show mercy if he told. But Proitos could not, or would not say. Alexiare accused Proitos of conjuring tales to save himself. He informed Proitos that Harpalycus’s head now resides on the point of a spear, and asked if he would like to see it for himself. The guard reported that Proitos appeared despondent, but seemed to rally. He lifted his head and stated with surety, “I know my master. He found a way.”

  I made it to the field as the spearmen took aim. I myself heard Proitos curse Alexiare. He swore he would return and take his vengeance, but Alexiare only shook his head, his expression almost sympathetic. Then Proitos called Alexiare ‘Father,’ and begged him to hold his hand while he died, but Alexiare wouldn’t approach him. Secrets curled around these two like smoke, causing me to feel dizzy.

  I might be more concerned about all this, but I have seen Harpalycus’s body. He is, without a doubt, dead. And now so is Proitos.

  Only later, in the midst of instructing one of my priestesses, did I remember Alexiare. He was the old man who accompanied Menoetius to our island years ago, and passed himself off as that youth’s father. That must be why he seemed so familiar when I first saw him. Alexiare has a harmless, respectful demeanor. He is an aged, unwell man who has much trouble walking. Some injury left him with barely any voice. Yet he avoids me with youthful alacrity. He never lets me look into his eyes.

  He makes me uneasy.

  Something about him, I cannot pinpoint what, strikes at my mind like a slam of cymbals.

  Chrysaleon walked along the dirt-packed roads of Knossos, contemplating the changes inflicted on this once-great island.

  Snow covered the ground as far as he could see. Where carts ran and litters were carried, it decomposed to u
gly gray slush. The air was unrelentingly chill. Several days of moist coolness coupled with watery sunlight had encouraged the almond trees to put forth blooms, which then blackened in sudden nighttime freezes.

  A contingent of his father’s soldiers were collecting the abandoned dead and carrying them into the country to be burned. The majority, he was told, were children.

  The peasants he encountered were dirty and pinched. Their eyes followed him. When any approached, begging, he sent them to Labyrinthos with the promise of food. Others seemed too far gone to care. He passed a woman sitting at the edge of a narrow alley, hunched over the body of an infant on her lap. She made no response to his queries.

  Idómeneus and Eurysthenes brought more than triumphant fighting forces to Crete. After the battle was won and order reestablished, the men hauled jars of grain, dried fruit, olives, honey and wine off the ships. These were transported to Labyrinthos, along with oxen, sheep and goats, piglets, and wickets of quail.

  It was Alexiare, apparently, who had conceived the idea that Kaphtor would need such things, and he who persuaded Idómeneus to be generous.

  His premonitions about the disarray Harpalycus would leave behind proved farsighted. Aridela’s first act upon being restored to her palace was to search for food, but the storage jars that survived the collapse of walls had been used to feed Harpalycus’s armies and were depleted. Precious oil and other riches were shipped away to his father’s citadel at Tiryns.

  Ash obliterated crops in the east. To the west, where the fall of ash was minimal, flourishing corn and barley now withered under pervasive frosts. The future of Crete seemed set for ruin.

  Aridela, Themiste, and what remained of the council stood in silence at their first glimpse of the palace storehouses. Once crammed with worked gold, precious jewels and trade goods, they now held little but dust and rat droppings.

  Harpalycus hadn’t found some of the deeper storerooms, however. When Aridela and her council discovered this, it was cause for rejoicing.