The Thinara King

by Rebecca Lochlann

  At this time in the wheel of the year, Kaphtor customarily blossomed after a short, invigorating winter. Only mountain summits and slopes would continue to hold snow. Fed by spring rains and snowmelt, almond trees would explode with blooms. Carpets of wildflowers and poppies would glorify the plains from one coast to the other. This was normally the much-anticipated season of Velchanos’s rebirth, the prayed-for result of the king sacrifice, and was celebrated with feasting and festivals.

  As he explored the barren wynds, Chrysaleon thought back to the day—marveling that it was scarcely seven months ago—he and Menoetius stepped onto the quay at Amnisos. The shouts of vendors reverberated off the buildings. Sweaty children darted, laughing, all sticky hands and mischievous eyes. Ripe fruit intoxicated the senses. Brightly dyed pennants lined every avenue, while awnings promised cool shade. His mind recreated the heady scents of jasmine, aromatic herbs, and baking bread.

  Foreigners had swarmed the streets, dark-bearded men swathed in flowing robes, leading their veiled giggling wives, who paused to admire the myriad wares on display. Nobles, adorned to impress, reclined in litters. The constant entertainment of bull leapings, games of luck and skill, acrobatics, wagering, and competitions, made the days before the Games pass quickly. Artisans disrupted the peace with their hammering, the clack of potter’s wheels, and ring of bronze being shaped.

  Chrysaleon’s nostalgic memories faded as he passed a villa he knew had belonged to Lycus, the bull dancer who died trying to rescue Aridela. It stood deserted now, its pennants gone, the walls dirty and flaked. One wall had collapsed. Clay pots, once boasting fragrant flowers, lay shattered or empty, half-buried in slush.

  Spotting a Mycenaean soldier near the arch leading into the courtyard, he paused, curious. The warrior, wearing inlaid leather armor over a warm quilted tunic, turned and walked toward him. He had his arm, and most of his cloak, around the shorter figure of a woman, and walked slowly to accommodate her. She leaned against him, allowing him to support her; his attention was so engrossed that he never noticed his prince across the lane, watching.

  Though Chrysaleon had no idea what lay between these two, he had a sudden, sickening realization. The man might keep her. They might even marry. He looked old enough to satisfy Mycenaean law, which didn’t allow common soldiers to wed until they reached their thirties. If they wished, they could live out their lives together. She appeared ill, but the soldier was probably taking her to his barrack where she would receive food and medicines.

  Chrysaleon, Crete’s royal beloved prince, who wore the king’s signet ring and bore the sacred title of Zagreus, had no such choices. Six more cycles of the moon were all he could look forward to. On the day he’d killed Helice’s consort, he experienced a vision of an oak grove, of maddened women, their faces disguised by masks. Perhaps it had been a moera-formed image of his own future death, for he’d learned that when the midsummer moon next grew full, in the month called Moon of White Light, he would meet his successor not in the ruined labyrinth beneath the palace, but in a clearing surrounded by oaks and olive groves. There his blood would be spilled. Women made mad by laurel and the cara mushroom would gorge upon his flesh. Kaphtor’s soil would swallow him as though he’d never existed, and Aridela would take his murderer into her bed.

  His muscles clenched. Fury ripped through him. He forced himself to wander on and leave the villa behind.

  A few more turns brought him nearer to Labyrinthos and a scene of activity. Servants rushed, laden with wooden casks, tables, cloth, and clay urns. Builders and architects shouted at laborers. Giant new pillars, some already painted red with bright blue stripes around their capitals, lay on the ground, ready to be hoisted into place. Slipping past all this, he stepped into the courtyard.

  He scanned the area, searching for Aridela, and quickly found her. Dressed in heavy warm robes, she sat on a low balcony watching the bustle. Neoma and Selene stood beside her, absorbed in conversation with one of the palace’s architects. They appeared to be studying something, probably plans for rebuilding.

  The chill, noise, and busyness died away. His resentment evaporated, replaced by quiet. The words Damasen spoke in his death-dream returned.

  Love for your queen brings infinite pain as well as joy.

  Her lost necklace with the crescent moons and blue lapis bead lay in one hand, a mass of metal warmed by his flesh. Stepping out into clear view, he sent his love flying to her on shafts of invisible arrows. Before long she turned, feeling his gaze as he wanted her to, searching the courtyard until she found him.

  His heartbeat quickened; his limbs tingled. Truly, he had never known such passion over a woman, not even the first time he’d experienced the act of love. On the night of the Destruction, he had given Aridela his vow that not even death could part them. He knew now, as he returned her smile, that he’d never uttered words with more deliberate intent. His hands clenched as he repeated the oath.

  Not even death.

  He walked closer.

  She rose, leaned over the balustrade, and tossed a cluster of anemones over the edge. They floated to him as though directed by a god. Where had she found them, in this land where flowers had become rare and precious?

  Aridela, with a body nearly as delicate as the blooms she gave, had pulled a dagger from her flesh and used it to slay the warrior Harpalycus. Their glorious victory would be praised in song for as long as the sun rose in the heavens. How perfect she was, this unique, irresistible combination of strength and frailty, cold pride and warm succor, giver of life and divine slayer.

  He relived the spilled blood, the sweat and froth of battle. His mind recreated the queen fighting with her people, and that agonizing panic when he saw her slumped over Harpalycus’s body. Sending desperate prayers and reckless promises to every god he could think of, he leaped to her side.

  The amount of blood flooding from the dagger wound terrified him. Her face was deathly white. He pressed his hands hard against the puncture.

  “Is she dead?” Menoetius shouted.

  Aridela’s eyelids flickered. “Butcher,” she whispered.

  “No. Not yet.” Chrysaleon motioned to Gelanor and several others to carry her to safety.

  After that, he could only guess her fate as he, Menoetius, Selene, the Cretans, and the mainland armies finished off the enemy on the beach of Amnisos.

  Exhausted, bloody, limping, he sought out the cluster of people surrounding the queen. He shoved them aside and knelt.

  Padding made from a tunic was wrapped around her torso, thicker where herbs were packed on the injury. Rhené, her arms slimed with blood to the elbows, bundled the fine bone needles she’d used to stitch the wound.

  “She’ll live.” Themiste laid a hand on his forearm. “My Lady did guide the blade into the one spot that wouldn’t take her life.”

  “Are we victorious?” Aridela peered up at him. Harpalycus’s blood was still stuck in her hair, smeared on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her voice was small and weak. When he nodded, she stretched out her hand. “I want to see.”

  Ignoring Rhené’s protests, Chrysaleon lifted her into the crook of his arm.

  Cheers rose as he carried her across the sand, over the bodies of Kaphtor’s enemies. Her people crowded close, reaching out to touch her. She held a spear aloft in her right hand and shouted the call of triumph.

  They circled the battlefield three times. Aridela asked for a sword, and when it was brought, she offered it to Chrysaleon.

  He cut off Harpalycus’s head and rammed it onto the end of her spear.

  Cheering resounded against the surrounding hills. They called Chrysaleon Kaphtor’s greatest hero, and bowed low before him.

  The adoration from that day echoed in his head as he stood in the palace courtyard and gazed at Aridela. Just above her left breast, hidden by her robes, lay the reddened, puckering wound where Harpalycus had stabbed her.

  It had been so close to her heart, yet, guided by Athene, it slipped between the
vessels that if severed, would have killed her in a matter of three breaths.

  Crete’s queen appeared fragile to the uneducated eye, a girl just budding into womanhood.

  The cloud cover broke. Shafts of sunlight cartwheeled over the courtyard, transforming the dismal scene into one of heady color.

  “Here.” He tossed the silver chain. It glinted as it flew to her waiting hands.

  “My necklace,” she cried. Delight warmed her still-thin, pale face.

  “I’m coming up,” he said, forcing thoughts of his grim future out of his head.

  Infinite pain as well as joy. Let today be joy.

  In 1965, not far from Knossos, archaeologists discovered an undisturbed chamber next to a plundered larger tomb. Here they uncovered the remains of a woman, dressed in a lavish amount of gold jewelry. One of the signet rings she wore depicts a female in the traditional fancy skirts of the time. The engraved woman stands between two men; one appears to be dancing in a celebratory fashion around a shrine. He is holding a tree, some kind of plant, or perhaps bull roarers. The other man is kneeling. In 1975, in a second valuable discovery, yet another lady was found. The gold necklace she wore was crafted into the likeness of a paper-nautilus shell. Lying on her side, she faced Mount Juktas and held in her hands a copper mirror.

  Christos Tsountas discovered the famous Vapheio cups, which portray the Cretan method of capturing wild bulls.

  While still quite young, Rebecca Lochlann began envisioning an epic story, a new kind of myth, one built upon the foundation of Greek classics and continuing through the centuries right up into the present and future.

  This has become her life's work, although she didn't exactly intend it to be that way when she started.

  The Child of the Erinyes is mythic fantasy fiction, “Loads of testosterone, slaughter, and crazy magic,” says one reader. (With a love story, of course.)

  It took about fifteen years to research the Bronze Age segment of the series, and encompassed rare historical documents, mythology, archaeology, ancient writing, ancient religions, and vulcanology.

  The Year-god's Daughter is her debut novel: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes. The Thinara King is Book Two. Book Three, In the Moon of Asterion, ends the Bronze Age segment of the series, and kicks off the next phase in the lives of Aridela, Chrysaleon, Menoetius, Selene, Themiste, and the rest.

  Rebecca believes that certain rare individuals, either blessed or tortured, voluntarily or involuntarily, are woven by fate or the Immortals into the labyrinth of time, and that deities sometimes speak to us through dreams and visions, gently prompting us to tell their lost stories.

  Rebecca’s website offers more details into the history, characters, research, and the arc of the series.

  Like Rebecca’s Facebook Author Page to receive updates and publishing schedules.

  Send her an email at: rebeccalochlann@gmail.com

  Please consider leaving a review with your thoughts at the point of purchase. A line or two can make a big difference and is much appreciated.

  To all my wonderful writing buds, only some of whom are listed here:

  Gemi Sasson, Val-Rae Christensen, Sulari Gentill, Cheri Lasota, Lorri Proctor, Greta van der Rol, Linda Orvis and all the members of Refiner’s Fire.

  To April Hamilton. I will always be grateful to you.

  To those who support me in other ways, and without whom I could not have made this happen:

  Lance Ganey, Peter Vancoillie, and John Shrimpf.

  Those who fate (or Phantom) brought together at The Place that Shall Not Be Named:

  Angel, Kenci, Jenn and Christi.

  To the generous readers who have interviewed me, written reviews, invited me to be a member of their beautiful organizations, and who gave me the nerve to continue:

  Melissa Conway, Lavender Ironside, Past Times Books, Annia Lekka-Blazoudaki, Susan Mahoney, Hannah Davis, Dolores McCabe, Linda Mahoney, and the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative.

  Paul Raymond

  I finished this even with your frequent interruptions to give me love and attention.

  Kathryn

  who told me what cover to use and stopped me from spiraling into the madness of indecision.

  And Brian, who has taken care of her.

  The Child of the Erinyes

  If you enjoyed The Thinara King and would like to see what happens next, please look for the third installment.

  Read on for a preview of:

  We are free!

  The Butcher is dead!

  Our queen is restored to her throne!

  Kaphtor thunders with these shouts. The people make merry as we reclaim our island and take stock.

  Though the worst seems to be over, I remain uneasy. I want to return to a time before these barbarians unleashed disaster upon us. I will not draw an easy breath until Chrysaleon’s blood spills beneath the moon of midsummer. On that night, I will drink mead and dance in the light of Iakchos. I fear him. I distrust him. None of us are safe while he lives. Yet, I confess this secret, as I must, to the Oracle Log:

  I am drawn to him as I have never been drawn to any man.

  Every row of benches around Knossos’s bullring groaned under the weight of multitudes. Those who couldn’t fit inside crowded thick as schools of anchovies across the plain. All wanted to partake in this triple-tiered festival—Queen Aridela’s seventeenth birthday, the annual observance of Velchanos’s rebirth, and the feting of their mainland liberators.

  Just over half a month had passed since the glorious victory over Harpalycus, cursed prince of Tiryns, the Usurper and Oppressor of Kaphtor.

  His head now rotted on the tip of a spear outside the palace of Labyrinthos.

  In underground chambers beneath the ring, Aridela and her friends were nearly ready to begin the victory celebration.

  “You look wondrous.” Neoma gave Aridela a spontaneous hug. “This is the first day I’ve seen color in your cheeks.”

  “You as well,” Aridela said. “Freedom and victory have revived us.”

  Neoma touched the shallow dent in her forehead, a permanent reminder of the night when stones fell like spears from the sky. “I thought this would make things difficult, but the opposite is true. My lovers are so many I cannot choose between them.” She laughed. “I suppose it could be because I am the queen’s cousin.”

  “For some men, that could be a hindrance rather than an advantage.”

  The Phrygian warrior, Selene, a princess in her own right, possessor of sea-colored eyes and cream-colored hair, peered at them from the doorway. “The people are waiting. Are you ready?”

  As Aridela turned, yes on the tip of her tongue, dizziness spiraled through her head, leaving her ears humming, her eyesight spackled, and her balance in jeopardy. She was more annoyed than surprised. Such attacks were frequent since she’d been stabbed. Ending the life of the infant in her womb had made it worse. The royal healer, Rhené, blamed an excessive loss of blood, and was dosing her patient with noxious concoctions of half-raw meat and boiled ox bones in an effort to rebuild her strength.

  This bout of vertigo, though, felt different. Usually she either fainted or vomited, but this time, hallucinations flooded Aridela’s mind—dazzling, terrible flashes from the two months she spent as Harpalycus’s captive and personal plaything. Grabbing Neoma’s shoulder to keep from falling, her heart skipped and raced as she relived his drunken assaults, the cold, the filth of the straw mat in her cell, the cruel eunuch’s daily beatings, the leather thongs biting into her wrists.

  Chilling echoes replaced the lively chattering around her. Deep within, as if dredged from her soul, another voice drowned them out.

  We will make ourselves barren. No more children. No more love. Not until they all lie dead. Then we will begin again.

  The chamber walls melted like wet paint, vanishing into a different scene. One amongst a crowd, Aridela huddled on the side of a hill, soaked by cold rain. Above, on the summit where her voice would carry, a woma
n with long dark hair shouted these words. Some members of the crowd wept. Some were angry. Many cheered and raised their fists.

  If we are barren, Aridela wanted to ask, how can we begin again?

  Neoma brought Aridela back to the present by clasping her chin and gazing somberly into her eyes. “What’s happened? Is it the wound?”

  Selene’s brow furrowed as she crossed the space between them. “Are you strong enough to do this? You’re shaking.”

  Aridela breathed the comforting scents of dust, wood, sweat, and unguents that for centuries had permeated the walls of these chambers. Her hand rose to the healing puncture above her heart. Harpalycus had done his best to end her life, yet through Athene’s divine intercession, she had survived. She had triumphed. In the end, it was Harpalycus who failed, who lost everything, who breathed his last in the blood and muck of battle.

  The strange, otherworldly vision made no sense, and this was not a day for somber thoughts or reflection. “Yes,” she said, gripping her old friend’s hand. “I’m strong enough. I’m ready to begin life at last, to see Kaphtor begin again.” An exhilarating shiver ran up the back of her neck as she pictured her mother. Be happy, isoke, Helice would say if she were here. Iphiboë felt close as well. Her beloved sister, a nervous, shy girl terrified of lying with a man, had willingly sacrificed herself to calm the Lady’s anger and bring mercy to their people. In throwing herself to her death, she’d become Kaphtor’s most cherished treasure.

  Squaring her shoulders and filling her lungs with air, Aridela managed to shake off the nauseating whirl in her head.

  Cheering and the stamp of feet vibrated the ground as Aridela followed Selene into the ring. Leaves and flowers fashioned from feathers and cloth rained over them. Aridela held Selene’s waist, Neoma held Aridela’s, another woman held Neoma’s, and so on. Together they formed a long, winding, triumphal line. In imitation of the divine serpent, they would weave through the opened sections of the labyrinth, leaving behind a fresh, clean skin, and later, when night fell, smoke from reverent offerings would be sent into the heavens from every mountain sanctuary.