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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “I wish I could remember.” Aridela frowned; familiar throbbing behind her eyes warned of an impending headache. “I try and try, but….”

  She didn’t need the old woman to recite the legendary prophecy. It was etched permanently into her mind. But she also knew, from many similar discussions, that the subject effectively distracted Halia from other concerns. Trying to decipher the meaning kept her nurse from asking where she’d been and whom she’d been with. It also helped keep Aridela from dwelling on where she’d been and whom she’d been with.

  “You were in a trance. Of course you wouldn’t remember. Even your voice was different, or so I’ve heard. It’s wrong to try, child. Wisdom and insight comes to those who can simply be, without effort.”

  “All I remember is feeling sick then waking in my bed.” Aridela chewed on her thumbnail. “And what does it mean?”

  She and Halia had explored the possible meanings of the prophecy numerous times. Halia invariably ended these discussions, as she did now, with a lift of wiry white eyebrows and the tiresome words, “I am a servant, a mortal woman, and uneducated. It’s Themiste you must ask. Only Themiste can interpret such mighty things.”

  “I’ve asked her. She won’t tell me anything. ‘Isle of cloud, Moon’s stronghold,’” Aridela recited. “That must mean Kaphtor.”

  “Perhaps,” Halia said even as she sent a pointed frown toward Aridela’s abused fingernails. “Though Kaphtor has many outposts, and each one is a stronghold of the moon, yes? There is Callisti, Isy, Ios—even Lady Selene’s faraway country.”

  “Every time I try to understand the prophecy, you make it impossible.”

  Bia, Aridela’s sleek black cat, rolled over. The collar it wore, fashioned of fine gold links, flowed like liquid. Green eyes opened. With an inquiring meow it stretched, yawned, and curled up again, reassured by Aridela’s absent stroking. Taya, the white Egyptian hound who slept on the cooler tiles by the balcony, merely opened one eye and offered a thump of the tail.

  “Forgive me, poppet,” Halia said. “It could mean Kaphtor. It’s late, time for sleep. And please, a princess should be above nail-biting.”

  “Tell me again about my birth. If it’s clear in my mind, maybe I’ll dream the answers. Mother Athene will speak into my ear and I’ll remember when I wake. I’ll never have another nightmare.”

  “May it be so.” Halia loved it when Aridela asked for her versions of events. Extending one gnarled arm in a dramatic sweeping gesture, the old nurse repeated the familiar story. “A strike of lightning, singular in strength and brilliance, ripped the heavens. I myself saw it. It’s no rumor or storyteller’s tale but true fact. It came out of a clear night sky, and was surrounded by streams of green, blue, purple and gold. It struck the summit of holy Mount Juktas. The crater remains to this day. The world trembled and we were afraid—even more so when we learned about the burn that appeared on your wrist at the same moment. It was hard to know what to think. Was Velchanos angry? Had we done something to displease him? But Themiste reassured us. She said it was a sign of your future purpose and a special blessing, a mark of kinship. Everyone knows that Themiste took cara to determine our Holy Mother’s wishes. You’ve heard it all your life. Her vision revealed that Velchanos entered your earthly father during the holy rites. So, my little princess, your blood is partly divine. It is no coincidence the people of Kaphtor call you Shàrihéid euan Velchanos Calesienda—Daughter of the Calesienda.”

  Goose bumps washed across Aridela’s arms and legs. Daughter of the Calesienda. It never failed to delight her, especially now, after the god kissed her on the holy mountain and promised they would spend eternity together.

  But Themiste, even after the vision granted to Aridela on the mountain or the prophecy she spoke, still refused to acknowledge Aridela’s special role in her country’s future, and even went so far as to forbid the princess to take part in rites that every other woman, even Iphiboë, was free to enjoy.

  No matter. Aridela would accompany Iphiboë to the grove rites. She’d given much thought and planning to the unfolding of the rite. It had to be unique—no simple wine guzzling and falling into the grass with whomever she happened across. She mustn’t see Lycus alone again now that she knew how easily he manipulated her resolves. Aridela was determined that if the rite brought her first encounter with seduction, it would not be with any mere male.

  She meant to create an opportunity for Velchanos to come to her again, as he’d promised. She would give herself to no one but the god.

  “I know my dreams will be good tonight,” she said. “I feel them waiting for me to fall asleep. Tell me about the night someone tried to kill me, and how Themiste’s serpent saved my life.”

  “No, poppet,” Halia said. She gave her hoarse, cackling laugh, which degenerated into a fit of coughing. “My bones need rest and so do yours. Your mother wants you to attend the visitors from Egypt tomorrow. How would it look if you were sleepy and cranky? Old Halia’s bones would be broken then, wouldn’t they?”

  “My mother wouldn’t harm you for mountains of gold.”

  Halia cackled again and pushed herself with many grunts and groans off the edge of the bed. “Sleep now. Remember, Themiste chose your name the night you were born. Everyone knows it came from old prophecy. Your name means ‘Utterly Clear.’ It’s an exalted name, never given to any family member before you.”

  Smoothing the coverlet, Halia added, “Goddess bless your dreams, my poppet,” and backed away to blow out all the lamps but one.

  Thick warm darkness, fragranced of hot oil, descended. Halia groaned as she settled on her pallet at the foot of the princess’s bed, and groaned again as she made herself comfortable.

  Halia couldn’t expect her to fall asleep. Pictures and thoughts raced through Aridela’s mind, leaping from one to the next like frightened ibex chased by balls of flame. Pressure mounted behind her eyelids. Incapacitating headaches had plagued her for years; the only way to ward them off was to relax, let her thoughts go, embrace silence and stillness as Themiste taught. But how could she? One line of prophecy disturbed her more than the others. See your death come in a shower of gold. If she couldn’t unveil the meaning of these words, if she failed to live up to the weight of the titles and legends surrounding her, wouldn’t those she loved suffer some calamitous tragedy? She, Aridela, second daughter of Queen Helice, was meant for a unique purpose, whether anyone else recognized it or not. She, not Iphiboë, who would reign someday and who received so much more attention, would determine the fate of the entire island and everyone living on it.

  Perhaps even the fate of the world.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Aridela mouthed her nightly prayer. Mother, give me the answers I seek. Show me the way, divine Goddess; guide my steps.

  No otherworldly voice whispered into her ear. Invisible caresses didn’t smooth the frown from her forehead. Yet a sense of peace trickled into her mind. As she drifted toward sleep, an image formed of the holy shrine, located deep in the earth beneath the palace of Labyrinthos. Not the public triple shrine on the west side of the courtyard, but the private one used only by Themiste and the royal family. In her imagination, Aridela saw the statue of Athene, which was believed to have come with Kaphtor’s first settlers. Carved from mahogany, it was blackened with age, smoke, and polish. The beautiful face turned upward toward her, for she seemed to be floating near the ceiling. Athene granted her a serene smile. Strong, certain conviction flooded Aridela’s being. All would be revealed at the proper time.

  The ceremony joining Chrysaleon to Iros drew royal guests and curious bystanders from as far as Euboea. His bride was dressed and decorated, painted to mimic a sophisticated woman, though the panic in her eyes could not be camouflaged.

  He’d always imagined his marriage would be to a beautiful heiress, a woman he could show off. There were plenty such, and all had encouraged him. His only desire when he looked at Iros was to send her away with her nurses, but he went through the parades, ceremoni
es and rituals with shallow, indifferent obedience.

  From dawn into the deepest night, King Idómeneus held games of skill to entertain his guests. Chrysaleon won several tourneys and only briefly wondered if his competitors were toadying favor. Night after night feasts, dancing, gambling and songs of valor were presented. It was widely claimed that no celebration in history could compare.

  When it came time for the customary bedding of the bride and Iros’s women led her from the hall, a disturbance erupted at the other end of the room. Harpalycus, who appeared sloppily drunk, was pushed against the wall by two guards. His father, King Lycomedes, looked on impassively. Chrysaleon forgot it as his own intoxicated retinue surrounded him with whoops of encouragement.

  Iros was as reticent and inexperienced as he’d expected, yet he was surprised to discover no barrier to his penetration. It was inconceivable that she’d ever lain with a man. The way she shrank away and wept afterwards convinced him. Some injury must have broken the membrane.

  He awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Do not fear me,” he said. “Here you’ll lead a pleasant life. I’m not selfish or cruel. It could be worse for you, could it not? Your father could have married you to an old man. As my wife, you’ll be queen over all Argolis.”

  She only cried harder.

  Women. He rolled away, wondering where Theanô might be and what she was doing.

  Dolphins leaped alongside the ship, calling to each other. In the distance, Crete’s shoreline and ridge of high mountains glowed in the first rosy light of dawn. Two other ships ranged on either side of Chrysaleon’s, laden with his men, horses, chariots, other passengers, merchants and trade goods. Faint drumbeats and occasional barked orders broke the endless wash of waves and buffet of wind.

  “My lord.” Menoetius spoke the language of the northern steppes as he joined Chrysaleon in the relative privacy of the prow.

  Chrysaleon returned in kind, “No one can hear us.”

  Menoetius kept his head high, hands clasped behind his back. “No one in sight does not mean no one listens.”

  Chrysaleon glanced at the rowers, who were relaxing due to a brisk northerly wind. “They have no interest in us. Two more foreigners mean nothing. If we’d traveled in a fleet of my father’s ships, with full armor and a thousand horsemen, none of these people would spare us a glance.”

  “If we arrived that way, you’d never stay out of the Games, even if it left Mycenae without a king.”

  The wind drew Chrysaleon’s attention to his bastard brother’s hair. Shaggy but still too short to bind, it blew wildly across his face. He’d stopped having it sheared some months back—after Idómeneus agreed to send them to Crete. Perhaps he simply hoped to blend in better on the island where all men wore their hair long, yet an odd, indefinable suspicion reared in Chrysaleon’s mind.

  The rising sun transformed the cliffs of Crete into massive chunks of gold and amber. “You could always wear the crown in my place,” Chrysaleon said.

  Menoetius squinted and his mouth tensed. “What is that supposed—”

  “Easy, brother. I merely jest.” Chrysaleon punched Menoetius’s shoulder. “With enough men, we could halt the sacrifice no matter how divine. If we enlisted my wife’s father—”

  “Just because Lycomedes gave you his daughter doesn’t mean he’s now your ally. And what of your own loathing for Prince Harpalycus? You might kill each other and leave the high king waging two wars.”

  “True,” Chrysaleon admitted with a laugh. “I could dispatch Harpalycus with no regret.” He combed through his beard with his fingers. “Fortune favors the bold. My grandfather chose that motto for the royal house of Mycenae. What’s happened to the king? Why has he grown so timid?” He gripped the mainstay as the wind picked up and a heavy wave caused the ship to yaw. “To my mind, it’s easy. Win the Games, win the princess, and Mycenae rules Crete. Simple. Bloodless. Maybe even pleasant, if the princess is fair.” His chin lifted in an insolent tilt as his gaze settled on the small-boned, dark-skinned captain who swaggered among the rowers.

  “Until the rise of Iakchos.”

  Chrysaleon sneered. “With the throne secured, it would be an easy matter to halt that custom.”

  “How many dead men have believed that?” Menoetius pointed. “What have we here?”

  Three ships moved toward them from the direction of the land ahead. Chrysaleon felt a twinge of concern before he remembered. “Relax. Father told me no vessel enters Queen Helice’s seas without an escort. But how do they always know?”

  “It was the same six years ago,” Menoetius said. “They may seem lazy and overconfident, but here is proof they aren’t. Even the god-like Pharaoh holds Helice in high esteem. They visit each other and exchange wondrous gifts.”

  Leaning against the rail, Chrysaleon said, “Their ships are large and heavy, yet look how they skim the water.”

  “The Cretans cannot be defeated at sea.” Menoetius kept his voice low, though chances were slim any of these sailors could understand them. “They have more ships than we could build in two years, and they know how to use them.”

  “There are weaknesses.” Chrysaleon drew in a deep breath of moist salt air. “We’ll not go home and tell our father we’ve failed. Harpalycus won’t win.”

  Chrysaleon studied the man standing in the prow of the foremost approaching ship. He must be the captain. Possessing an arrogant demeanor, he was flanked by two lines of warriors armed with bows and round shields. He was naked but for a sky-blue loincloth, the front long, tapered, sporting a dangling scarlet tassel. Armbands gleamed against his dark skin and his hair hung well over his shoulders in perfectly crimped ringlets.

  The three ships bound for Crete dropped their sails and the approaching ships drew alongside. The captain of Chrysaleon’s ship greeted the captain of the arriving ship with fist to forehead. There were good-natured shouts. The two captains held a short conference, punctuated with laughter.

  Chrysaleon observed the exchange as he accepted a cup of wine from a bowing attendant. “Iphiboë no doubt believes herself superior to those men who fight over her. They will call her Goddess-of-Life-in-Death as well as queen and priestess. Grand titles. But if the man who wins her in the Games this year comes from the Argolid, she’ll rank no higher than a slave.”

  “He would be a fool to ill-treat her,” Menoetius said sharply. “And he may even accept his fate. Crete has never lacked for heroes who embrace death in exchange for honor and glory. I’ve heard Lady Potnia beguiles them so they walk to their death holding the hand of their murderer.”

  “They suckle their fate in their mothers’ milk.” Chrysaleon’s snort was eloquent. “It’s in their blood. For us it’s different, especially now. The wolves gather. Helice shouldn’t relinquish her throne.”

  “She isn’t dead. She can take back that throne any time she wishes.”

  The captains said farewell. The escorting ships swung around and lifted their sails, displaying fierce black bulls’ heads with long, curved horns. The trio of ships from the mainland did the same, and soon all were again underway.

  “Helice’s daughters were beauties six years ago,” Menoetius said. “Iphiboë was slender as a willow, and it struck me that her little sister would blossom as well. Of course,” he added, in an odd suppressed tone, “time can bring unforeseen changes.”

  “They could look like lizards. It makes no difference. Crete is the prize. Our captain gave them due credit, of course. He said dewy-eyed Athene, who visits men’s dreams and plants the desire, had an easy task this time.”

  His words revived razor-edged memories of the dream—the taut-skinned woman pressing her warm breasts against him before lifting her dagger to steal his life. The image sparked foreboding even as it sent his cock twitching hungrily.

  The last time Chrysaleon visited Crete he’d scarcely reached as high as his father’s waist. He’d stared awestruck at the riotous crowds and activity that comprised the renowned northern port of Amnisos.


  Now he reared head and shoulders above the tallest Cretan male and stalked through the jostling throng with haughty disregard.

  He and Menoetius oversaw the unloading of their horses, chariots, and men before being taken in litters to their host’s villa on the Cretan coast. A Mycenaean merchant, this man was a trusted member of Boreas and the king’s confidant, a fact no one told Menoetius.

  After baths, refreshments, and pleasantries with their host, Chrysaleon and Menoetius armed themselves with flasks of wine and made their way to the marketplace.

  Citrus and plane trees shaded the square where throngs gathered every day. A voluptuous woman, carved in gypsum, stood above the central water fountain, pouring water from her ewer; clay pots, filled with jasmine, decorated every niche and the subtle scent of crushed thyme flavored the air. Famed Cretan hospitality soon found the two foreigners seated and included in the local gossip. It didn’t take long to determine that people in the marketplace at Amnisos loved to talk, and politics was a favored subject.

  The discussion turned to the upcoming festival and king-sacrifice. Having learned the language when he was small, Chrysaleon followed along well enough.

  He unplugged his flask and filled every container within his reach.

  “Iphiboë,” a nearby man shouted, raising his cup. “May she reign with as much wisdom as her blessed mother.”

  “Tell us about her.” Chrysaleon refilled the man’s cup, waving off his gratitude. “I’ve never seen Queen Helice’s daughter. Is she fair?”

  “Both daughters inherited their mother’s famed loveliness. Have you ever heard, friend, of the lightning that accompanied the birth of Princess Aridela, and the mark placed upon her?”