Though the people cheered, Aridela felt a change in mood, a darkened spirit. Who could miss how sunlight bounced off amber and obsidian where once it was gold and lapis? Real flowers remained scarce, so these poor substitutes of cloth were thrown. Hunters searched for meat yet found little. Sickness stole more lives every day. The harbors were bereft of Kaphtor’s famed fleet. Now they were crowded with ships belonging to King Idómeneus, King Eurysthenes, and the defeated Harpalycus.
She, too, careened between despondency and elation. After many tears and arguments, she had convinced Rhené to put an end to her pregnancy, just six days after the battle. The healer couldn’t manage the task during Harpalycus’s occupation because she had no medicines, and she flatly refused to attempt pricking Aridela’s womb with a sharpened instrument, declaring the queen would surely die.
Rhené again balked after the battle because of the near-fatal knife wound above Aridela’s heart. She relented only because she couldn’t argue with the fact that the longer they waited, the more risky any method would become.
After prodding and poking her, Rhené declared the child unlikely to be Chrysaleon’s, claiming a lack of hardness she said would be typical in a woman’s third month, but she was forced to speculate, as Aridela could not recall whether her monthly kaliara had ever flowed after Harpalycus made her his prisoner. The royal augurers had no better luck divining an answer from the portents and entrails.
Kaphtor’s queen choked down foul-tasting brews and endured a suppository of birthwort. After a day and night of ripping cramps, pain that left her helplessly screaming, and profuse bleeding that Rhené and her attendants all but failed to stop, she lapsed into unconsciousness. While she floated ever closer to the land of the dead, and her moera, her destiny in the mortal world, floundered, the unwanted baby was expelled.
Had she stopped the life of Harpalycus’s offspring, or Chrysaleon’s? The answer always twined away in a bewildering black maze. One was understandable, even necessary, the other a blistering torment. Only the Immortals would ever know the answer.
As she and her sisters danced around the arena, Aridela waved and blew kisses to the audience. The crowd returned her effort with deafening cheers. Her task, as queen, was to revive their confidence, no matter what personal grief she suffered. She, Themiste, and Chrysaleon, with the intercession of a mollified Lady Athene, would reinvigorate their island, and they all could start over.
The women circled the perimeter of the bullring seven times while the spectators made a thundering drumbeat with their feet. Continuing through the wynds of Knossos, the dancers shed layers of their skirts and threw bits of cloth representing snakeskin.
They crossed the viaduct and glided through the olive groves, accompanied by swarms of boisterous admirers.
At the palace, they entered the processional corridor and danced their way past newly painted frescoes of smiling youths, their arms filled with rich offerings. On they went, circling columns, spinning across terraces, and marching over balconies draped with banners.
Their supporters thronged the courtyard as the cavalcade wove down the steps to the underground, where laborers had cleared rubble and hoisted support pillars to create pathways for them.
Deeper and deeper the women danced, singing songs of purification. They stopped only to put out bowls of milk for the holy snakes.
Up and out they climbed, back through the courtyard to the north gate, past the charging bull fresco, which still bore cracks across its middle.
Tomorrow morning, the foreign kings and their armies would depart. They’d enjoyed half a month as Kaphtor’s acclaimed guests while waiting for King Eurysthenes to recover from his wounds. Tonight they would be feasted. Though the meal couldn’t compare to Kaphtor’s feasts of old, even now skilled cooks were roasting ibex, poaching seafood, baking bread from mainland grain, and collecting bowls of dried fruit.
Chrysaleon had announced his intent to accompany his father back to Mycenae, “To settle old affairs,” he told Aridela. He also wanted to see what damage had been wrought throughout the islands.
His decision added to Aridela’s despondency. The Zagreus was never supposed to leave Kaphtor. They couldn’t conceive his child if he was gone. And they’d already lost so much time. Now they would lose more. Worse, he’d failed to disguise his eagerness to be away, to engage in a new adventure apart from her.
When dusk fell, King Idómeneus was lifted onto the royal dais in the feasting hall. Placing his thin, cold hands over Aridela’s and Chrysaleon’s, he blessed them.
“Our lands are now joined,” he said, his voice quavering. “May your womb be fruitful. May the isle of Kaphtor return to its former glory.”
Aridela smiled and bowed as courtesy demanded, though she knew his words were a blatant lie. She and many others had overheard the vicious encounter between Chrysaleon, Menoetius, and their father. The very night of Kaphtor’s triumph, with Harpalycus dead, his army in ruins, his surviving warriors hiding in any cranny they could find, Idómeneus had summoned his two sons and proceeded to berate them. The king’s healers had raced past Aridela in the corridor at Labyrinthos, pausing for no more than the briefest salutation.
They mean to slaughter you like a pig, Idómeneus had raged. Do your vows to me mean nothing? All this for lust of a woman. To Menoetius he shouted, You promised me you would protect your brother.
At Idómeneus’s peremptory gesture, Aridela leaned closer and allowed him to kiss one cheek, then the other. His watery eyes remained bitter, yet she couldn’t muster any animosity. Only compassion, which she tried her best to hide.
The scent of death lingered on his flesh. No matter what his healers proclaimed, Aridela felt certain Idómeneus did not have long to live. Chrysaleon had told her of Harpalycus’s boast that he’d had the king poisoned with hellebore. The poor man’s unhealthy color, palsy, and emaciation gave weight to the claim.
The mainland nobles drummed their cups against the tabletops as she and Chrysaleon stood before them, holding hands.
Few, she suspected, displayed true feelings.
Gelanor, Chrysaleon’s younger brother, sat to Aridela’s left at the high table. His gaze leaped from the dancers to the wall hangings to the tables thick with nobles. Being but three months older than she and fascinated with everything of Kaphtor, he had quickly become friend and confidant.
“My mother named him before she died,” Chrysaleon said. “He lives up to her vision, laughing so often, over anything at all, we suspect his mind is weak.”
Gelanor sneered and sent his brother a crude gesture.
“And you have a sister?” Aridela asked.
“Bateia. She is betrothed to King Eurysthenes’ son.”
“My lady.” Gelanor leaned in closer. “There’s a story that Goddess Athene buries the moon in your mountains when it vanishes from the heavens. Is this true?”
The words swept Aridela back to the day she leapt the bull. How long ago it all seemed. Chrysaleon had regaled her with Alexiare’s tales. She told him of her father, and showed him her prized necklace, the charm she’d thought lost forever.
She touched the silver links at her throat and met Chrysaleon’s warm gaze. Back where it belongs.
That was the day she asked him to remain, to fight in Kaphtor’s Games and find glory, for one year, as sacred king.
“I vow it is true,” she said to Gelanor. “Every year hunting parties make their searches, but no mortal has a chance of finding the Lady’s hiding place.”
Chrysaleon’s faint, intimate smile told Aridela he recalled that distant day as well, when life was simple and pleasant. When she was carefree, happy, newly in love, and quite ignorant of what horrors were about to descend.
Now that he was clean and richly attired, Gelanor hardly resembled the blood-spattered warrior she’d fought beside on the battlefield. Surrounded by laughter, dancing, and rich food, his innocence and naivety were evident, but earlier, during the formal speeches, his face had worn an ominous
frown as he stood next to his father’s litter.
She was queen of Kaphtor again because of these men. Honor, gratitude, and gifts were being heaped upon them. Yet in six short months she would reward all they had done by overseeing Chrysaleon’s ritual murder.
Aridela lowered her gaze and tried to fight off queasiness. She doubted it had anything to do with a supper swimming in rich sauces.
If only her mother were here. Helice would know how to handle this delicate situation. She would find a way to satisfy Idómeneus, Gelanor, Chrysaleon—even the Immortal Goddess.
Duty and obligation lay heavy as a yoke over her shoulders on this night meant for joy.
She didn’t want Chrysaleon to die. Yet she dared not confess this selfish desire to anyone. She could do nothing to save him. Instead, she must stand with her head lifted and her grief hidden as his blood seeped into the earth, as he looked his last upon her, as his manhood was carried to the sea.
Blinking back tears, knowing she must extinguish thoughts offensive to the ever-watching Goddess, she turned to her consort. “Are you taking your slave with you to Mycenae, my lord, or leaving him here with me?”
“I can’t leave him here,” Chrysaleon said. “That old man is far more trouble than he seems, and loves to interfere in matters beyond his station. Who knows what mischief he would cause while I’m gone? Change your mind and come with me. It will be a short stay—a fortnight, no more.” He added, low, “We can use that time to begin a child,” and kissed her palm.
They’d already discussed the impossibility of this. Rather than restating tired arguments, Aridela said, “Would that not make your many citadel women jealous?”
Startled surprise, followed by a hint of uneasiness, flickered across his face.
She turned away, giggling.
Aridela’s stewards had scoured Labyrinthos and Knossos to obtain offerings for King Idómeneus, King Eurysthenes, Prince Gelanor, their officers and men. Merchants who squirreled away their wealth to protect it from Harpalycus donated it now in hopes of gaining favor with the queen. Presented with much fanfare were gifts of golden tripods, carved signet rings portraying full-breasted Athene with lions at her side, miniature bulls carved from crystal and onyx, bolts of Egyptian linen, and delicate quartz jars filled with Cretan oils.
Idómeneus in his turn gave Aridela an exquisite painting made especially for her. It depicted Athene brandishing a spear on the summit of a hill, flanked by two lionesses. The High King told her it was a likeness of the stone carving that towered over the main gate into his citadel.
The night wore on. Many left for other entertainments and the feasting hall grew quiet. Idómeneus was carried off to his bed. Aridela and Chrysaleon made excuses and slipped away to stroll through the neglected palace garden.
Lavender-jeweled light had begun to streak from the east, bringing a new dawn’s subtle promise. “I will bring it back,” she said, struck with fervor at the beauty. “I will make Kaphtor as great—no, greater—than it ever was.”
Chrysaleon pressed her arm against his side. They walked on without speaking, their steps making no sound on the dirt footpaths.
As they detoured around the skeleton of a dead bush, they nearly ran into Menoetius. Leaning against a stone pillar, the last remaining piece of an elaborate arch that once framed the outer entry into the garden, he was staring into the sky. He straightened at their appearance, obviously as startled as they.
Guilt prompted Aridela to step away from Chrysaleon. She fancied Menoetius noticed, and felt her cheeks flush.
After Chrysaleon took her from the cave in the Araden mountains, Menoetius returned to Selene. He hardly spoke to Aridela. In fact, she’d scarcely seen him since the battle. Obedient as always, he bowed to Chrysaleon’s wishes and hers, unspoken though they were.
Chrysaleon cuffed Menoetius on the shoulder, oblivious or dismissive of the tense atmosphere between his consort and half brother. “Where have you been hiding?” he said. “I can never find you these days. Is that milky Amazon girl roping you to her bed?”
In this brief space before sunrise, the sky turned deeply purple, like a vast royal robe soaked in the precious dye Crete’s fishermen extracted from snails. Such rich color made it hard to determine any subtleties, yet Aridela acutely sensed Menoetius’s desire to escape.
“Leave off, Chrysaleon,” he said. “I don’t ask what you do with your time.”
“Let every foolish wench on Crete invite you to her bed. Why should I care? I alone possess the queen of women.”
“Chrysaleon.” Aridela’s attempt at criticism was interrupted when he plucked her into his arms and swung her in a dizzying circle. So close were they to Menoetius that her heel struck his shin.
Setting her down and holding her fast, Chrysaleon gave her a long, suffocating kiss, effectively halting her sputtered protests. He lifted his head and shouted, his words bouncing off the crumbling walls. “The queen of Crete belongs to me. She is mine alone.”
“You show me little respect, Zagreus,” she said, her face burning with embarrassment.
“My property. My chattel. My slave.” Lowering his voice, he added, “My wife, my love, for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.”
“An earthshaking could bring those down tomorrow. What of you? Are you my property and slave?”
He dropped to one knee and pressed her right hand to his forehead before kissing it. “Command me.”
Tears stung her eyes as she drew him upright. “Who will make me laugh while you’re gone?”
Chrysaleon squeezed her hands, but she thought she caught the slightest hint of that anticipation she’d noticed when he first told her he meant to go.
Menoetius stepped away, drawing Aridela’s attention. She turned toward him, startled and guilty.
He offered a rigid bow. “I leave you to your privacy,” he said, and stalked toward the palace, swiftly vanishing into murky violet shadows.
Aridela realized what she’d said and how it must have sounded. Again, her face burned. She was glad the dim light disguised it.
“Not him.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “Women find my brother alluring because he frightens them, makes them shiver and feel alive. They fantasize about taming the ugly beast of Mycenae. But when his true nature is revealed, they run away as fast as they can.”
He wagged a finger at her. “Stop frowning like that or I’ll think you’re one of those simpleminded females.”
“I assure you I am not simpleminded.”
He laughed. “Until recently I suspected my father preferred the bastard over his true son. I was ravaged by jealousy. He’s older than me, you know, by a few breaths.”
Aridela nodded. Menoetius had described how the brothers came into the world almost simultaneously, from different mothers—one the queen of Mycenae, the other a slave.
Tilting his head up, Chrysaleon contemplated the sky. “At last I know differently. My father is angry and must shout his curses, yet I saw his pride. He’s disavowed Menoetius, though, for allowing me to compete. Menoetius has become a man with no home. It is me Idómeneus values.”
Aridela stiffened. “I will not stand for this. Menoetius has twice saved my life. If your father cannot see his worth, his home will be here, with us.”
Chrysaleon kissed her again, and guided her backward, into the still-deep shadows behind the ruined arch. As he drew her to the ground, he said, “I suspect you’re too soft to be a queen. Did I say I was disavowing Menoetius? He’s still my brother, as far as I’m concerned. And my father will forgive him when he calms down. He always does.”
A small, pale lizard, the kind with bumps that looked like armor, skittered across the pillar. She couldn’t help smiling as it paused and seemed to peer at them. She’d caught one when she was little and kept it as a pet, toting it around on her shoulder with a tiny leather leash.
It seemed a good omen.
“I overheard King Idómeneus the night of the battle,” she said between kisses. “He was so an
gry. I feared for you. I truly thought he might have you both killed.”
“If you knew him better, you’d understand.” Chrysaleon hiked up her tunic as he nuzzled her throat. “His anger is what made it clear. He wishes Menoetius, not me, was facing death at the midsummer moon. That was the plan, you know. Menoetius was supposed to compete in your Games. My father considered him expendable.”
His callous statement brought back the confession Menoetius made when they were living in the Araden mountains. If Chrysaleon hadn’t disobeyed our father, I could have won the Games. I could have become your consort. Only the gods will ever know what difference it might have made.
Chrysaleon lifted his face from hers long enough to add, “Be cheered it was me who fought for you and won.” He grinned. “My humorless brother would have made your life as grim as the ash-buried isle of Callisti.”
CONTENTS
THE THINARA KING
THE ABYSS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
SHADOWS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Author’s Note
About the Author
Thank You
IN THE MOON OF ASTERION
Chapter 1
The Thinara King Page 29
