“Boldness and I are unacquainted.” Iphiboë stared at the floor. “And I cannot bear Mother’s disappointment.”
Aridela stifled a sigh. As usual, Iphiboë refused to take any risks. Determined to believe the rites would be terrifying, she would no doubt bring her worst imaginings to fruition. Aridela opened her mouth, meaning to ask if there was not someone, anyone, who Iphiboë admired, but let the question go. She knew the answer already.
It was far more pleasant to think of her rescuer, the Mycenaean boy from the mainland, where lions roamed, and boars, and battles raged, and too many kings who were crowded into too small a space quarreled over petty kingdoms. Carmanor, of the pale skin and straight dark hair like a fall of water. It wasn’t quite as black as Aridela’s would be, were it allowed to grow, but the rich shade of oak wood. And those eyes. Surely her mind, in fever, embellished that hue, bluer than the dark seas surrounding Kaphtor. Bluer than the sky at the summit of Mount Ida. Blue, the most lovely of all shades crafted by Gaia, mother earth.
At her mother’s invitation, he and his father had moved into the palace. Perhaps he was exploring. He might be outside her chamber this very moment.
But when she ran to the door and threw it open, the only face to greet her was dour old Halia’s, who’d been ordered on pain of torture to prevent any more escapes.
She shuffled to the balcony and leaned on the rail, moaning. Carmanor fell ill at the feast just as she did, with sudden dizziness, faintness, and a fever. Like her, the illness soon vanished, the difference being that when he recovered, he could do as he wished while she remained confined to her chamber. After the many ordeals he’d suffered at their hands, he’d probably arranged for passage home with vows never to return.
Pain and fever left her memories so jumbled she couldn’t recall his face clearly. If she concentrated, she could dredge up vague images of the day they brought him to her chamber, when they’d decided he wasn’t guilty of trying to harm her and in fact saved her life. He’d been grave that day. Solemn. He’d even seemed unhappy, which made sense, as he’d been brought to her room in shackles, uncertain whether he would live until the disappearance of the old moon.
There must have been a moment or two where he was sorry he’d hauled her out of the shrine at all.
She giggled.
Iphiboë looked up from her stitchery. “A moment ago you were sobbing. Now you laugh?” She shook her head. “How I wish I could return to the thoughtless innocence of childhood.”
Aridela nearly spat out a sarcastic retort but managed to refrain. Iphiboë couldn’t help her nature. It must have seeped into her through her father’s blood. She possessed other aspects, however, which shyness kept her from sharing with anyone but her sister. Iphiboë was quietly romantic, idealistic, devout and, in her own way, passionate. Only Aridela knew that Iphiboë dreamed of doing something no one else could do, which would make her name live on after her death, something that would make everyone’s doubts about her vanish forever. Aridela loved her sister, frailties included. “If I could, I would attend the rites in your place,” she said. She would have said anything to reassure Iphiboë at that moment.
Iphiboë’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Aridela.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Now. You say you want to see this boy Carmanor. Perhaps we can find a way.”
Aridela’s balcony table boasted fish and fruit, soft barley cakes with sesame, bowls of honey, mint water and mulled cider pressed from the latest crop of apples. The morning was fresh, ripe with breezes carrying hints of the sea and the sweet scent of apples, which pervaded the island this time of year.
Dressed in blue linen set off by a belt of hammered silver disks and armbands, Aridela’s final touch was the heavy scarab amulet an Egyptian ambassador had given her, molded from carnelian and quartz. Though overbearing for her small bone structure, it was an impressive piece, and she’d long wanted an occasion to wear it.
If only she could curl and braid her hair like Selene’s, but every child’s head, including the heads of princesses, was shaved until the age of twelve. She made the best of things by weaving tiny silver links through her topknot.
Glancing into the courtyard, her concentration faltered at the sight of her bloody handprints on the pillar at the entrance to the shrine. No one had yet washed them off. A flurry of scuffling and voices broke off somber memories. She rearranged the pot of herbs and dittany and walked into her chamber to find Halia greeting Carmanor.
She held out her hand. “Thank you for having breakfast with me.”
Those eyes of his were as extraordinary as she’d remembered. No trick of light or invention of fever, they seemed lit from behind, like gems held up to the sun. She found it hard to look at anything else, especially when he smiled.
The maids withdrew to their needlework, leaving Aridela and her guest to enjoy relative privacy. Aridela’s mouth went dry as old bones, so she poured them both mint-flavored water as they sat down. Heat radiated through her flesh. Resisting the urge to fan herself, she instead lifted her chin and spoke the first thing that popped into her mind.
“Why were you in the shrine that day? I thought mainlanders followed sky gods now.”
His smile faded. Aridela glimpsed something flash through his eyes. Instinct wanted to name it grief, but she couldn’t be sure.
“No,” he said. “Many worship Athene above any other, even there.” He paused then added as he picked up his bowl, “I’ve long wished to pray to her on Crete, her true home. I hoped she might speak to me, and I… think she did.” He glanced at Aridela, blushing.
Was he trying to say she was Athene’s message to him? Tears pricked the back of Aridela’s eyelids. Waves of compassion shivered down her spine. He felt as she did about Mistress Athene. His tone, his stance, his expression, all betrayed it. Here was one, finally, who might truly understand her.
It had long been rumored that Princess Aridela and the Great Goddess shared an eerily intimate relationship. Aridela had been told that when she was little, she’d been overheard on occasion speaking to an invisible companion she called “Mother.” Though she had no conscious memory of such things, Aridela did feel Athene’s presence. Sometimes, if the mood and shadows were right, she felt the caress of diaphanous fingers on her cheek. She knew better than to share such revelations with anyone, though. It was a private, holy, secret thing—and everyone would think her demented.
“She does speak clearly here,” Aridela said. “She speaks in the water, and from trees. I can show you.”
His eyes revealed an instant of undisguised hope. “You’re most kind. Everyone on Kaphtor is as courteous as its fame avows. But are you well enough?”
She fidgeted. The place she mentioned was sacred; the uninitiated were seldom allowed there. It made things worse that he respectfully called the island ‘Kaphtor’ rather than ‘Crete,’ as most foreigners did. Now she’d have to take him. “Yes,” she said. It wasn’t quite true, but almost. “I’m well, and tired of being cooped up.”
He rescued her again, this time from guilt by changing the subject. “Your home is wondrous. Are there truly as many rooms as there are stars in the heavens?”
Only he erred in his efforts to master the language, and the question came out as, “Are there truly as many rooms as tuna in the heavens?”
Tension and shyness fled with Aridela’s laughter.
“If you prefer,” Aridela said, “We can talk in your language. I learned it long ago, along with the language of the Phrygians and the Egyptians.” Stop, she thought. You’re boasting.
But Menoetius’s expression didn’t change. “I like speaking in yours. It helps me learn. Soon I’ll make no mistakes and you’ll have to laugh at someone else. I’m getting better, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “Much.”
They climbed the path up the rocky flank of Mount Juktas. Aridela was pleased to see her companion didn’t get breathless like so many of the pampered ambassadors.
“You won’t be disappointed. I’ve come here since I was little, and I always feel the Lady’s presence.”
“You’re still little.” Her companion grinned at her scowl. “Why does that make you angry? There’s no shame in being young. Surely you won’t have so much freedom when you’re older. In my country, princesses never go adventuring. A princess there would never be left alone long enough to sneak into the bullring and get herself gored.”
Aridela didn’t understand. It wasn’t as though they were alone. Following discreetly at the queen’s insistence were ten maids, including Selene, and two serving men. She wouldn’t call this freedom.
But as they topped the last incline, other thoughts faded beneath anticipation and excitement. “We’re almost there,” she said.
The temple, tucked into the natural ridges on the edge of a cliff, circled a cave entrance. It was constructed of matched blocks of limestone topped with pairs of bull’s horns, ibex carved from marble, and doves in flight. Bronze poles towered above the roof to draw down the god’s potent lightning.
They couldn’t enter as Carmanor wasn’t initiated, but Aridela left a basket of offerings with one of the priestesses who came out to greet them.
“The old temple wasn’t so nice as this,” she said as they continued along the path toward the wood. “When I was born, fire destroyed it.”
Carmanor’s interested glance was gratifying and made her feel important. “Yes,” she said, “moments after I was born it was struck by lightning. But the Lady showed Themiste that we must rebuild. We made it quite fine, didn’t we? There’s a statue of her son inside. This whole mountain is dedicated to him. To Velchanos, the god of lightning.” She held up her left arm. “See? I have this scar from that night. They say Velchanos used his lightning to mark me.”
She expected him to be surprised, maybe awed, but he merely nodded. “Your brother told me,” he said, adding, “It does look like a pair of bull’s horns.”
They stepped into a primordial oak forest, where the sky narrowed down to gnarled, interwoven branches supporting a canopy of fluttering green. Carmanor peered from side to side, his expression transfixed.
Her efforts to persuade Queen Helice to allow the excursion, her promises that Carmanor wouldn’t defile their holy places, had been worth the trouble.
Beyond the wood lay the place she most wanted him to see. A suspended cliff where one could look over an enormous swath of island, spread out like an ocean of green with towering violet mountains to the east and west.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Wait.” Aridela grabbed his hand and pulled him along the edge of the creek. Sunlight filtered jewel-like, blinding then vanishing, through the leafy ceiling. Just within the far edge of the wood next to the path they came upon another statue of Velchanos. Constructed of marble, the naked likeness was larger than a mortal man and stood upon a pedestal to make him even more imposing. In one hand he held a clutch of arrows, and a bow hung off his shoulder. Serpents twined over his wrists and forearms, and thick curls caressed his head. He faced east, to the rising sun.
Aridela knelt and touched the god’s bare toes. She gazed up into the impassive face, struck by an uncommon likeness to the boy standing next to her.
“What is it?” Carmanor asked as she turned from Velchanos to him and back again.
Too shy to point it out, she mumbled, “Nothing,” and stood, gesturing to him to follow.
They crossed a flat grassy expanse to the edge of land.
For the first time Aridela didn’t drink in the beauty before her. She kept her gaze locked on her new friend, wanting to measure his response.
He sat on the ground and she joined him. Wind blew against their faces, offering scents of rosemary and oregano. Their vantage point provided views of cypress and fir clamoring in unhindered tangles of green up the mountain’s ridges, and the fertile valley spread out to the north. Dust clouds muted Knossos, but Labyrinthos’s higher stories pierced the haze. Its signature red pillars gleamed in the sunlight.
He asked, his voice hushed, “Does anyone else come here?”
“Oh yes. This is one of our most holy places. You must never speak of it. I got special permission to bring you. The uninitiated fear this place, and a few have been put to death for spying on the sacred rites. But don’t worry. My mother likes you. She can see, as I do, that you respect our ways.”
He faced her at last. “My lady, could I be alone?”
On the contrary, sensing what was in his heart filled her with gratification, and she noted his respectful use of a woman’s title. She jumped to her feet. “Only tell me first. Can you feel her? The Goddess?”
“Yes.” He didn’t smile or frown, but there was a suggestion of deep, possibly rare, contentment.
The serving men killed and skinned an ibex while the maids built two fires, one for Carmanor and Aridela, and the other for the attendants. An offering was made of the thighs, the rest divided and roasted. Wood smoke and thyme saturated the air.
Aridela sat close enough to observe Carmanor, but not so close she’d make him uncomfortable. He’d tucked one leg under his rump and propped the other against his chest as he scraped in the dirt with a stick. From time to time he peered into the heavens, where a retiring sun drenched the clouds in shades of pink, scarlet, and purple.
She hoped she managed to disguise her growing appreciation of what she’d decided must be true perfection. His was a face defined by bones. Smooth, sharp planes molded one into the next as though whatever god fashioned him had run short of flesh. One could imagine those cheekbones splitting through skin if he missed a meal or two. She found the economy tantalizing, more masculine than her countrymen, who liked to paint their eyes and cultivate a softer appearance. Her gaze lingered on the beard; it, too, was spare, adding, in her eyes, to his unconventional charm. Anyway, she couldn’t ask him to scrape it off. From many tiresome months of study she knew that on the mainland, a man who shaved his beard would be deemed impotent, a eunuch.
Honesty forced her to admit her initial feelings for the boy had changed. It made her skittish, jumpy. She feared this might be the love she heard the serving maids gossiping about, and for which males and females alike strived and suffered. If so, she must pray Athene save her from it. Too often she’d witnessed love turning ladies and slaves alike into weepy, irritating buffoons. Love caused her to stamp her feet and swear like a soldier when she couldn’t get the attention she wanted. Up until now, she’d ridiculed love as suitable only for the empty-headed.
“Tell me about your country,” she said. “Do you live near the sea?”
“Not as close as Tiryns or Pylos. Have you heard of them? Great regions ruled by powerful kings, but even they are subject to one—Idómeneus of Mycenae.”
“That is where you live?”
“Yes.” Shifting so his other leg cushioned him from the ground, he opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, frowned and turned the crude spit. Judging from the smell, slightly burned but rich, the meat was nearly ready. A drop of fat fell hissing into the flames, setting off a tiny eruption of fire.
The vanguard of attendants, their cheery fire burning bright at the other end of the clearing, giggled in unison over something.
Aridela fancied wistfulness in the glance Carmanor sent their way. Fearing he might invite the others to join them and she would end up forgotten and invisible, she said, “My mother is friendly with King Idómeneus. She sent our finest sculptors to help construct a monument to the Lady. It crowns the entrance to his citadel.”
He bit his lower lip. She’d noticed him doing this from time to time, and found it endearing, like everything else about him. “I heard about that as well,” was all he offered.
“You aren’t telling me much.” Exasperation helped her avoid scarier emotions.
“It’s the language. If Alexiare were here, he could help. Remember him? The old man who came with me.”
Recognizing an evasion when she heard one, Aride
la frowned. “Yes, I remember. I heard he speaks our tongue like a native.”
“He lived on Crete in his childhood.”
Rather than ask why a free man would choose uncivilized Argolis over Kaphtor, she said, “Is your father a farmer or an artisan?”
“My father….”
Aridela worked to contain impatience as his hesitation persisted.
He sent her a glance, a mere flash of iridescent blue tucked beneath frowning dark brows, before he dropped his gaze and poked at the fire. “I lied. Alexiare isn’t my father. He’s my slave.”
Aridela’s shock evaporated. She’d known instinctively he was lying about something. “Why?”
“I suppose I thought having a Cretan father might make the queen look more kindly on me.”
Aridela shook her head. “My mother wouldn’t be swayed by such things. Who is your father then?”
“A warrior. He made a name for himself in the battles for the high kingship.”
“Will you be a warrior, too?”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” His eyes crinkled around the edges as he stared into the fire. “I’m going to be captain of King Idómeneus’s personal guard.”
“On Kaphtor, kinsmen get positions like that.”
His smile was faint yet confident. “The king’s custom is similar, but no matter. I’ll become his captain, and I’ll be the youngest ever appointed to that post.”
She admired such ambition. “Someday I want to see the king’s citadel. I’ve heard it’s the finest on the mainland. Tell me of your mother.”
Even in this fading light, the reflective brilliance in his deep-set eyes mirrored sparks from the fire and subtly changed color from one moment to the next. He shrugged. “I don’t know her. She went away before I could speak or walk. I don’t even know if she lives.”
Aridela waited, pressing her knuckles to her mouth to make herself be quiet.
“She was caught in battle,” he said, “and became my father’s slave. Alexiare and she were friendly, so he’s told me about her. Her name was Sorcha. She came from a place called Ys, on the coast of an island far to the west. He called it Albion. Supposedly, she was a priestess of impressive power; she could see the future, decipher the past, and control things to her will.”
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 9
