The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Chrysaleon, noble royal prince, heir to the throne of Mycenae, and Menoetius, the lowly, scarred bastard with whom he was forced to share attention, differed in many ways, but this was one of the most obvious. Chrysaleon would always prefer a female’s honed legs to the honed blade of a sword. Already he’d fathered three sons. If the thunder god Poseidon continued to bless him, there would be more. Perhaps in time he would outstrip the king, whose ability and willingness to seed children was legendary.

  Even idle conversation would be better than standing here in silence, thinking of the trophy asleep in his bed. “Did you have a go at King Eurysthenes’s wife?”

  Menoetius merely snorted.

  “She was ready to spread her legs on the king’s dais for you, if you asked. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “What do women see in you? You’re ugly, my brother.”

  Menoetius smiled.

  “And,” Chrysaleon continued, chafed by the bastard’s stoic calm, “you feel nothing for them. Why can’t they see that at least?”

  “How is that different from you?”

  “Our differences are clear when the lamps are lit.”

  There was a slight pause. Chrysaleon laughed and slapped Menoetius between the shoulder blades. “They’ll slaughter you if they ever figure it out. They’ll pluck out your eyes and geld you. They’ll finish off what scraps that beast left.”

  “No doubt.” Menoetius turned his back and stalked across the wide walkway to the edge of the rampart. There he remained, looking down toward the gate, though night made it invisible. Knowing him, he probably imagined an invasion, and how handy this bastion would be for defense. Wind rippled along one side of the fur again, cajoling. How far will you go to have me, Prince?

  If only he would fall off and split his skull open on the rocks beneath.

  Annoyance blackened Chrysaleon’s mind. The restless desire to triumph, to make his name as immortal as a god’s, to wipe out the regard his father carried for lesser offspring, had hounded him as long as he could remember; it only intensified with manhood, like the sting of a maddened horsefly.

  The scrape of wood against stone drew his gaze to the nearer end of the rampart. Finally. The king. He ascended the half-finished ramp and limped toward his sons, leaning on a spear. Wet weather always inflamed the old wound in his thigh. Again, Chrysaleon wondered why his father demanded they meet here, in the rain, at night, on the summit of a dangerous, rubble-strewn wall.

  Menoetius returned to stand at Chrysaleon’s side.

  One lone torch had managed to stay lit through the drizzle; its sputtering flames outlined Idómeneus’s hawk-like nose and glinted against the gold of his royal headband. The faint light also lent the king’s hair a false yellowish cast, resurrecting tales of the man whose wild mane and ferocity in battle garnered him the title ‘Mad Lion of Mycenae,’ and which influenced the naming of his successor. The high king’s hair was thin now, paled to wispy gray, but Chrysaleon knew, with no little pride, that whenever his sire gazed upon him, he could be reminded of his own triumphant youth. Chrysaleon had inherited not only the irrepressible tawny hair, but the same unquenchable need for glory. One day, with the support of blue-thundered Poseidon, he would outmatch the deeds of every dead king and warrior immortalized in bard song.

  Chrysaleon cleared his throat to force a courteous tone and suppress impatience. “What is this about, Father?”

  Spear in hand, Idómeneus swept out his arms and peered into the night sky. “On the night of your birth, a great flare of light crossed the heavens. The people believed it a divine omen from Hippos, blessing you and your magnificent future.”

  One of Chrysaleon’s brows lifted. He bit his lip to prevent himself from asking, to which son do you speak? The king frequently proclaimed this message from the gods, yet years ago Chrysaleon overheard a different rumor. It was said Idómeneus grew forgetful; that the long-tailed star blazed through night’s void during the birth of Menoetius, bastard offspring of a troublesome slave, and had vanished by the time Chrysaleon’s head appeared between his mother’s thighs. This gossip was never deliberately repeated to Chrysaleon, but eavesdropping on busy women wasn’t difficult.

  “Kings seldom enjoy true privacy,” Idómeneus said, “and in this, there must be no listening ears. If word reached Crete or her queen, even my counselors….”

  “Whatever you say remains between us, my lord,” Menoetius said. He hadn’t seized his position by having a loose tongue.

  “Crete?” Chrysaleon stifled bored annoyance. Politics. He thought again, with edgy resentment, of the girl in his bed. She always scented her limbs with some sweet unguent that heated his blood and his pleasure.

  “Yes.” Idómeneus’s upper lip rose in a feral smile. “A fat rabbit among hungry wolves. I must be the wolf that consumes her.”

  “Many would call Crete the wolf,” Menoetius said.

  Idómeneus snorted. “Be off if you’ve no stomach for glory. Your brother and I will decide your future.”

  He waited, nostrils flared, lips tight. His fist, wrapped around the spear, was white-knuckled; he scraped the butt against the stones. Perhaps he would skewer the bastard. Chrysaleon hoped so.

  Menoetius stood his ground, his anger betrayed only by the repeated clench of his jaw and shallow exhalations.

  Much to Chrysaleon’s delight, Idómeneus continued to submerge his bastard son under an avalanche of frustration. “I sent you there six years ago with one simple task—to discover Queen Helice’s weaknesses. You returned with nothing but warnings and evasion. It would have done me as much good to send your sister.”

  “I gave you the truth, my lord. Alexiare was with me and he—”

  “Alexiare.” Idómeneus sneered. “A slave whose loyalty has always been doubtful. He thinks himself one of them.”

  This was anger talking. Chrysaleon knew his father trusted old, dusty-voiced Alexiare. More interesting was what he said about Crete. Chrysaleon hadn’t heard any hint of his father’s desire to overthrow the island for years, not since Menoetius returned from that bungled mission where he’d paraded himself as “Carmanor,” and nearly got himself executed. The whole affair had sparked a wrath in the king that blazed unabated for a month, until the day Menoetius nearly died in the jaws of a lioness. Grinning triumphantly, Chrysaleon said, “I didn’t know you still wished to depose Helice, Father. If so, I vow I will find a way.”

  Idómeneus shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed. When he spoke, he sounded weary and half-ashamed. “If I don’t, another will. We’ll spend eternity in the shadowlands, regretting our inaction.”

  He was silent a few seconds, then he pounded the butt of the spear against the rubble, snarling a wordless fury. “We should have the advantage,” he said, throwing spittle. “Instead, we have no plan, no knowledge of how to defeat her—”

  “My lord—”

  “Don’t give me excuses. You failed me then. I don’t know why I’m talking to you now.”

  Though he enjoyed his brother’s humiliation, Chrysaleon was chilled, and hopes of sex lingered. Whatever this meeting was about, he wanted it done. “Why the secrecy, Father, this meeting in the rain? Has the queen betrayed us?”

  His father shook his head impatiently. “For months I’ve heard rumors, strong rumors, that Helice means to relinquish her throne when their new year begins, and marry the next bull-king to her eldest daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “It isn’t clear,” Idómeneus said. “My spies have heard she’s sick, or weary of the sacrifice. Apparently her daughter is unready to rule. She’s shy and fearful. Maybe Helice hopes to toughen her up.”

  Long years had passed since Chrysaleon had last visited Crete with his father. The eldest daughter was presented to him, but he couldn’t recall any details about her. “Rumors. Rumors mean little. Why does this matter to us?”

  “Opportunity, my son. A crack in their defenses. We cannot let someone else take advantage.�
�� Idómeneus glowered back toward the hulking shadow of the palace. Chrysaleon heard his teeth grate. “The man who captures that island will seize my crown.” Lower, the king added, “And I do not intend to lose my crown.”

  “Who would try? Only Mycenae has enough strength to accomplish such a feat.” Chrysaleon allowed his hereditary arrogance its freedom.

  “Are you so certain of that?” Idómeneus flung out his arm and growled. “Helice’s cities have no defensible walls. Foreigners come and go without restriction. She has the strongest ships, the finest oils, the purest bronze. She trades with uncountable lands and becomes richer with every season. Imagine the power of the king who conquers her. Greed makes men crafty, and there are some, right here, who suffer an uncommon obsession with the idea.”

  “Crete has no need of walls.” Admiration tinged Menoetius’s words.

  Chrysaleon laughed inwardly. Such honesty risked reigniting the king’s displeasure over the inept handling of that long-ago Cretan affair. With any luck, his bastard brother would bury himself in a bottomless abyss of disfavor.

  Yet Idómeneus listened without interruption as Menoetius continued. “I know you don’t want to believe this, Father, but her warships can rout any fleet before they ever reach her shores.”

  Chrysaleon waited for Idómeneus to explode, but the old king merely gave a nod, spiced with a grunt.

  Passion livened Menoetius’s voice as he described the courage of Crete’s warriors and their fighting abilities. He seldom displayed interest in anything other than the training field, and usually refused the more subtle pleasures offered to men of wealth and status. This single-minded ambition had helped him surpass senior men to become captain of the royal guard, an elite squadron sworn to defend the royal family and the citadel. He was the youngest man, at twenty-three, to ever hold such a post. Most impressive of all, Mycenae’s soldiers respected Menoetius. They didn’t believe he’d achieved the position because of favor or kinship to the king.

  This last thought wiped away Chrysaleon’s smug satisfaction. Idómeneus did favor the bastard. He always had, even after the botched Crete mission. Love existed between the two, no matter how furiously they sparred.

  Unclenching his teeth, Chrysaleon interrupted. “I still don’t understand. Why are you so worried? If you think Crete has become weak, your armies are ready.”

  Idómeneus sighed and shook his head. “As we grow in strength, so do others, Tiryns especially.”

  “You think Tiryns plans to invade Crete?”

  “Menoetius has discovered the truth of it.”

  The questioning glance Chrysaleon sent his brother gained him no insight. Menoetius hadn’t discussed his recent journey to the massive holdings of King Lycomedes, sitting an easy ride south of Mycenae. For the first time, Chrysaleon realized he hadn’t even asked about it; he’d been too distracted by his latest lover.

  “Tell him,” Idómeneus said.

  A crease appeared between Menoetius’s eyes. “I spent three days in Tiryns, hiding who I was, dressed as a peasant. I heard that one of Tiryns’ own has vowed to sail to Crete in two months and compete in their Games.” Menoetius paused. “It’s Prince Harpalycus. If the rumor is true, he has his father’s blessing.”

  Chrysaleon swallowed instantaneous rage. “Ah.” So now they came to the heart of it. Harpalycus, heir to the throne of Tiryns, was the man with an “uncommon obsession.” It was well known fact. “He wouldn’t risk his neck without assurance of success.”

  “If the prince of Tiyrns competes in the Cretan Games and wins,” Menoetius said, “he’ll surround himself with allies and find a way to bring in his father’s forces. He’s a strong, gifted warrior, no matter what else we think of him. There is no reason why he cannot become their next bull-king.”

  “If we suspect this,” Chrysaleon asked, “wouldn’t Helice?”

  Idómeneus turned his head, cleared his throat, and spat loudly. “I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that no Cretan bull-king has ever thwarted his death.”

  “Foreigners compete in their Games,” Menoetius said. “It’s not common but wouldn’t raise undue suspicion.”

  “Helice’s youngest daughter was fathered by a warrior from Gla,” Idómeneus said. “I knew him.”

  “They leave it to Lady Athene,” Menoetius said. “There’s a saying that no one, man or woman, can hide duplicity from her.”

  “Unite with your allies,” Chrysaleon said. “Muster armies from Gla and Pylos. Neither Tiryns nor Helice could withstand so many.” He scratched his chin and swiped rain mist from his coarse beard. “The outcome would be a foregone conclusion.”

  “Must I point out the consequences of such an alliance?” Idómeneus growled.

  Chrysaleon hoped darkness disguised his embarrassment. The other kings would consider themselves entitled to hefty portions of rich Crete if they helped overthrow her. Idómeneus would be forced to share control. Stupid not to think of that. A tickling wind slipped down the back of his neck. He must be wearier than he realized, or this girl was making him soft. Maybe he should send her away, spend his time with the wrestlers and sword masters.

  But he hadn’t yet begun to tire of her.

  Idómeneus leveled a somber gaze on his heir. “Your kingship depends on the decisions we make tonight. Six years ago, Menoetius assured me that any attempt to overthrow Crete would mean our humiliation. Helice was too strong, the island too well protected. But now she’s distracted, if these rumors be true, by her daughter’s weakness and this possible illness. I feel it in my bones; this changeover in power is our opportunity, and we dare not let it pass. Tiryns cannot be allowed a foothold in Crete, no matter how tenuous.”

  Chrysaleon strode to the far edge of the bastion, weaving between piles of tools, rubble and uncut stone. The inexorable strength of the gigantic blocks, fitted one against the next like lovers striving to become one, hummed through his feet. His long heritage surged like wind-blown sparks through his veins as he lifted his head and sent his voice echoing across the valley. “Fortune Favors the Bold!”

  A dog somewhere below erupted into fits of barking.

  His father and brother joined him. Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s forearm with one gnarled hand. “Our motto serves us well,” he said. “We’ll shout it from the rooftops of Knossos and fill their famous water pipes with blood. We will take our supper in their great hall and sing the songs of our fathers over their corpses.”

  He sighed. His shoulders slumped and his brave words evaporated into the clammy air. “We cannot continue as Helice’s allies. Crete is too rich, too lazy. Now is the time for expanding and strengthening the kingdom. Now, with Helice stepping down and that scrawny daughter taking the throne.”

  Chrysaleon scraped a hand through his hair. “I can’t remember. What is this daughter called?”

  Idómeneus’s laugh was coldly sarcastic. “Iphiboë. She wouldn’t attract you, my son. She’s timid, plagued with agues. It hardly seems possible such a meek bird came from the womb of mighty Helice.”

  “Perhaps the father’s blood weakened her,” Menoetius said.

  “Don’t underestimate those men.” Idómeneus managed to sound both admiring and cynical. “Do you think them spineless because they paint their eyes and shave their faces smooth as women?” The king fingered his own beard, once bright blond, now the hue of ashes. “Though they know the end their priestesses design for them, they walk to it willingly, compete for the honor of spilling their blood into the ground.”

  “Senseless,” Menoetius said, “done to preserve the dominion and glory of women.” His voice held scorn, but something else as well. Chrysaleon had heard that restless dissatisfaction more often over the last few years. Menoetius suffered an older man’s bitterness and a veneer to match.

  “You’ve chosen to follow the sun and Poseidon,” Idómeneus said. “He dwells in storm clouds, on mountaintops, not in the sticky bowels of the earth. Here at Mycenae, Lady Athene bows before blue-bearded Earth
Shaker; soon she’ll take her rightful place among the women and slaves.”

  A moment of tense silence ensued. Chrysaleon waited for what might happen. Before the clandestine journey to Crete, this subject would cause raging battles between Idómeneus and his bastard son, who spent his youth revering Potnia Athene with the same singular passion he now gave to a mastery of weapons. There was also the problem of Idómeneus’s advisors. Most didn’t share the king’s abhorrence. They chided him about showing more respect to the powerful Goddess of many names. Due to their harping, a stone-carved monument to her greeted every mortal who passed under the gate into Mycenae’s citadel. Four years it took to construct, and hoisting it into place caused much trouble, including the deaths of twelve slaves. Idómeneus detested the thing.

  Chrysaleon watched closely to catch Menoetius’s reaction, as he suspected his father was doing. Nothing happened but a slight frown, which told Chrysaleon all he needed to know.

  The king pushed harder. “I’m pleased you finally put away your childish pledges to her. It’s a sign of your manhood.”

  Menoetius acknowledged the praise with a tilt of the head then changed the subject. “I heard something else in Tiryns. I’m not sure it’s important.”

  “Well?”

  “It concerns Harpalycus and his lackey. Proitos.”

  His half brother’s hesitation and the way he glanced at Chrysaleon gave warning.

  “What about them?” Chrysaleon kept his voice even.

  “I heard, not once or twice but many times, that people are going missing or turning up dead, their bodies mutilated. The whispers claim Prince Harpalycus is murdering them.”

  “You make no sense, brother. Why would he do that?”

  Menoetius sighed. He shook his head slowly. “He’s trying to find a way to achieve life without death.”