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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Placing her hand on Chrysaleon’s arm, Aridela smiled. He hesitated, but then inclined his head and resumed his seat. The guards, four by this time, two with bared swords, removed the struggling, cursing, Harpalycus from the stands. Chrysaleon didn’t glance his way again.

  “Your wound,” Aridela murmured, since everyone else’s attention seemed centered on the altercation. “How does it fare?”

  “A pinprick,” Chrysaleon said with a careless wave.

  “Did your guard sew it up?”

  Chrysaleon frowned. “Yes.”

  “Is he here today?”

  “I don’t know.” Annoyance flickered across his face. “He disappeared earlier with no word.”

  “There, Aridela.” Neoma touched her cousin’s forearm with the edge of her fan. “Isn’t that him?” She pointed. Eight rows or so down sat a man, companioned by none other than Selene. An unexpected stab of jealousy surprised Aridela. Selene could lie with whatever man she fancied, appear in public with him, even rest her hand on his back as she was doing that moment. There would be no lectures or punishment, not even a raised brow. But if Helice, or worse, Themiste, discovered Aridela had served as sexual proxy to her sister, right before the Games, with a foreigner, the outcry, blame and punishment would be severe. She could be whipped or starved, and would most certainly have to endure a humiliating symbolic cleansing.

  Selene leaned close to her companion and said something. He turned toward her, giving Aridela a clear view of the ghastly scar that marred his entire cheek, including the corner of his lower lip. More scars covered his shoulders, his arms, even the backs of his hands. It looked as though some unimaginable beast from the realm of nightmares had used him for cruel sport, but more than likely, men had done it.

  Odd, that Selene, a beautiful woman who could have any man she wanted, seemed so enthralled by this one.

  “Ah,” Chrysaleon said. “There he is. I see my blood brother has found a distraction.”

  “Your ‘blood brother?’” Aridela asked. “What is that, my lord?”

  His smile intensified the green of his eyes. “He was attacked by a lioness that had recently given birth. I saved his life.” His grin widened, suggesting this was an oft-told story and a pleasurable memory—at least for Chrysaleon. “We mingled our blood after and swore loyalty. Only death can sever it. In my country, such a blood-vow is more sacred than any other among men.”

  “Is that so?” Aridela gave him her full wide-eyed attention, which seemed to deepen his unconscious swagger.

  “My horse ran off with my weapons, leaving me with nothing but a dagger. The lioness left this on me—” he turned his right arm over, displaying a jagged white mark running from elbow to wrist, “but as you can see, she did far worse to him. I’ve never seen so much blood come out of man and leave him alive. The gods must have some purpose in mind to keep his heart beating after that.”

  She stared at the brutal scar on the man’s face. The shape, though rough, was reminiscent of the crescent moon on Themiste’s oracle crown.

  All horned beasts were sacred to Lady Potnia, especially bulls. The bull-king’s sacrifice fertilized the crops with holy blood; it also symbolized the expiration of the crescent moon and triumphant return of the glorious full.

  Had the crescent-horned Goddess deliberately marked this man with her most holy sign? If so, what meaning did it hold?

  She recalled the way he’d stared at her from the shadowed recesses in the cave. Knowing as she did how much importance highborn mainlanders placed on the idea of unmarried women being without any knowledge of men, it was possible that Chrysaleon’s guard now considered her as spoiled as maggoty grain. The idea heated her cheeks. She was a princess; what was he? A common soldier. Perhaps even a slave.

  Strange, incomprehensible beliefs accompanied these foreigners’ ancestors when they surged from their desolate northern countries and conquered every region they encountered.

  Yet she saw no sign of ill feeling toward Selene, who gave herself to him in the same erotic fashion. Nor would Selene have any patience with such prohibitions, which would be mortal judgment against the will of a goddess.

  Shadows had filled the cave that night. Overwhelming emotions and the disruptive effects of cara made her dizzy, excited, and confused. She might have imagined that judgmental expression.

  When he turned the other direction, his attention drawn by a group of giggling females, Aridela glimpsed the opposite side of his face, the side unblemished by scarring. Struck by an abrupt sense of familiarity, she ran a list of names through her mind, but then he turned back to Selene and the fleeting intuition disappeared.

  “Your father must be proud of your courage,” she said, returning her attention to Chrysaleon. “Saving the life of such an older man.”

  “Older?” He shook his head. “We are the same age.”

  Startled, Aridela glanced again at the lower benches. Though Chrysaleon’s guard possessed the firm muscled flesh of a young man, gray threaded his dark hair, and she’d noticed lines around his mouth and eyes that Chrysaleon lacked.

  With a short laugh, Chrysaleon said, “It’s his somber outlook that makes him seem older.” He discreetly twined his forefinger around the little finger on her left hand. “Everything for Menoetius is a battle or threat. He changed after the attack. He lost any ability to enjoy life. It’s one of many differences between us.”

  If he kissed her right now, in front of this audience, she would find a way to forgive him. To distract herself from the now familiar ache, she turned away and ate a few grapes from the bowl placed on a nearby tripod.

  Neoma was busy flirting with one of the royal cousins sitting next to her; Iphiboë reclined, morosely silent and still, on Chrysaleon’s other side.

  Chrysaleon, perhaps realizing they’d neglected her, asked, “Are you comfortable, my lady?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How did you injure yourself?”

  Iphiboë blinked and her hands fluttered. “I fell,” she said, but instead of elaborating, turned her face away.

  Aridela offered a whispered explanation. “On the loose rocks outside the cave. If Iphiboë hadn’t hurt herself, you would have found her. I wasn’t meant to be dedicated. I’m promised to the high priestess, and was ordered to remain untouched. No one can ever know what we did.”

  She hoped he would discern the message she tried to send. The hand of the Goddess interceded. Our twined fortunes overrode mortal concerns.

  His brows pulled together. He started to speak, but the queen and Themiste entered the ring, surrounded by priestesses and priests. They bowed to the eastern edge of the pit, where an enormous oaken likeness of Athene towered above the bull gate. Each of the goddess’s outstretched arms rested on a tall blue pillar. Holy snakes wound round her wrists. Her face tilted down, as though to observe the perilous undertaking done in her name.

  Helice approached the bound white ram on the altar.

  Silence fell. The ram’s terrified bleat carried through the stands, but was cut off as the axe-blade bit into its throat. Blood poured into the offering jugs. Priests and priestesses sprinkled it across the sand.

  Aridela glanced at the barbarian prince. He wore a solemn expression and touched his forehead before turning back to her.

  “I’ve never seen a Cretan bull dance,” he said.

  “The bulls we capture for the ring are ferocious, bad tempered, and very intelligent. Every time a bull enters the ring, he learns more about the dance, and bulls never forget what they learn. It soon becomes impossible to fool them, and deadly to try. But the risk brings us closer to Goddess Athene and her mystery.”

  “I have a slave who once lived on Crete. He claims the Lady buries the moon inside your Mount Ida those nights it disappears from the sky.”

  “It’s a common tale. One of many stories mothers tell their children. Another is how Athene brought Kaphtor up from under the sea to save our ancestors from drowning.”

  With the
fall of twilight, priests circled the perimeter of the bullring lighting torches, which stood as tall as two men. Iphiboë sat as still and far away as possible, a motionless shadow. Neoma giggled stupidly at whatever was being whispered into her ear. Aridela felt she and the prince were enclosed in a secret circle of intimacy. She found it difficult to look at anything but his face, as it reminded her not only of their night together but also of the seductive dream when the god Velchanos touched her, wearing the face of this man.

  For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us. Believe, no matter how many try to turn you against me.

  In a weak attempt to regain control, she turned her gaze away. Diminishing sunlight splashed the western heavens in a gauzy pastel wash of color. Against that backdrop, the summits of the Ida mountain range gave off a brilliant glow, causing halos to pop out behind them. A suggestion of snow glistened on the highest peak.

  She felt bewitched by the press of bodies around her, the scent of the dusty ring, and the nearness of this man she found so irresistible. If only this night could continue on and on.

  She clasped her necklace, tracing the shape of the two moons and tucked within it, the lapis circle representing a star. “My mother and father were lovers before he won the Games. I was born during his year as bull-king, before he met his death in the labyrinth. He held me on his lap at the bull dance spectacle. His name was Damasen.” With a shy glance, she added, “He was a native of your country, my lord, born at the citadel of Gla.”

  “He competed in your Games?” Chrysaleon kept his voice low, but his gaze was intent.

  She nodded. “He and my mother were lovers for many seasons. He abandoned his kin and homeland to remain near her, and served our country faithfully. He wanted to become bull-king, but she wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t want to lose him, but our Lady called him to it, so he appeared on the morning of the Games and competed. She couldn’t stop him at that point. She’d learned she was carrying me and hadn’t yet told him. I wonder sometimes if knowing would have changed his mind about choosing short life with renown. I might have known my father, if only my mother had told him about me a day earlier.”

  She thought his expression held compassion, but wasn’t sure.

  “I’m curious about your Games,” he said at last. “Will you tell me what happens?”

  “It’s forbidden. It’s different, anyway, for every man. I can tell you that those who compete suffer many trials. They go without food or water and in the darkness of the labyrinth they find their souls. They emerge as Iakchos rises, reborn.”

  His gaze narrowed but he obediently changed the subject. “What is that?” he asked, gesturing toward her hand.

  She held out the silver charm. “My most prized possession. Damasen had it made for my mother and she gave it to me. It’s fashioned from ore mined on Mount Ida, near the shrine.” She pointed to the highest peak in the west, now but a purple shadow against the horizon.

  He followed her gaze then returned his attention to the ornament. “It is fine work.”

  Breezes plucked at his hair.

  “Once my brother Isandros accidentally broke the chain,” Aridela said. “It fell and I thought it lost, but it came back to me in the hand of a farmer. He said he found it while clearing stones from his field. With cleaning and polishing, it retained no damage at all.” She paused as he placed two fingers underneath the charm so he could see it better. “Rumors claim it actually comes from a lake of silver on the moon. It does surpass in shine and strength any silver-work I’ve ever seen.”

  Something passed over him; she felt more than saw the change. The ornament lay draped across his fingertips, yet he stared at her face, his body suddenly so still he didn’t even appear to breathe. His eyes, darkened by the ever-spreading shadows of evening, widened. Then his lashes fell, hiding his thoughts.

  “My lord?” she asked.

  “Just before we sailed,” he said, his voice husky, “I had a dream. A woman showed me her necklace, a necklace, I vow, exactly like this. She said it knew its birth in a lake of silver.”

  Their surroundings faded from her awareness as they stared at each other. She spoke on sudden impulse. “Do you intend to fight in our Games?”

  He frowned but did not answer.

  She continued, knowing it was wrong yet tempted beyond control. “The men who compete are filled with the god’s holy fire. They go without food or water for three days in preparation. It can be cold in the labyrinth at night. Many are so weak from wounds they’ve suffered, they collapse trying to achieve their goal. Your task wouldn’t be easy, but….” She placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and clench of his jaw. “If you carry the day and become my sister’s consort, you will stay on Kaphtor. I want you to stay, Chrysaleon of Mycenae.”

  On his other side, Iphiboë turned at last to stare at them.

  “Then nothing will stop me,” he said.

  Aridela swallowed a mouthful of wine as she fought to control both horror and desire. Her reckless request condemned him to death if he triumphed. He could die during the competition. Yet how else could he stay? He was a prince and heir to a mighty throne. Unless he won, his obligations would force him to leave. She would never see him again.

  Guilt warred with longing. She wanted this foreign prince to be hers, not Iphiboë’s, not anyone else’s. Athene’s unknowable will brought him to the cave to lie with her, yet their stations and duties would keep them apart. If he won the Games he would become Iphiboë’s consort and give his life in the sacrifice. If he lost, he must return to his own country to rule after his father.

  And no matter where his fortune carried him, she would serve the rest of her days as priestess or oracle in Themiste’s mountain shrine, a place utterly forbidden to any men other than castrated priests.

  What if he did win? He might try to change Kaphtor’s ways. Who here could claim to see the truth in this man’s heart? She didn’t know him; just because Damasen and Carmanor were noble didn’t mean Chrysaleon was.

  News from the wider world outside Kaphtor whispered its warning beneath confusion and infatuation. The trade ships that docked in Kaphtor’s harbors brought ever more disturbing tales, of temples up and down the coast around Troy and Ephesus being sacked and burned. Of holy women being raped and enslaved, forced to serve whatever god the conquering warriors wished to install. Gone was the honor they’d always received as representatives of the star-clad Mother. Gone too were the sacred zonahs from the Hebrew lands. The traditional seven days of prostitution performed by brides in faraway Babylon was nearly unheard of now. From time before memory, children born to temple maidens in Chrysaleon’s own country had received exceptional reverence. More recently they’d become known as bastards, and bastardy carried such disgrace among the Kindred Kings that many of these children were abused or murdered outright.

  Everything, everywhere, seemed to be violently changing.

  But, she consoled herself, Kaphtor and its colonies remained steadfast to Goddess Athene. ‘I have come from myself’ was the meaning of her name. She bore the title, ‘Great Virgin,’ as well, making it clear she was beyond the control of any male. Kaphtor, the land these men called Crete, would forever belong to her. There was no culture, army, civilization or god strong enough to destroy that.

  Aridela felt through every fiber the intimate nearness of this man, this foreigner, who was her lover. Yet, like a shroud over enthrallment, images of decimated shrines, murdered priestesses, and shattered holy statues pressed on her heart.

  She turned her face again toward Mount Ida. Tell me your wishes, Mistress. Send me a sign.

  Helice climbed the steps and sat upon her throne. Aridela worked to restore calm and kept her gaze on the ring as the final torches slipped into place.

  Velchanos, wearing the guise of this Mycenaean, had stepped from his pedestal to lie with her. There must be a reason.

  Toge
ther we bring forth a new world.

  “Aridela?” The queen touched her daughter’s forearm. “You’re quiet.”

  Recognizing her chance, Aridela said, “My head hurts. Allow me to retire, Mother.”

  Chrysaleon’s expression seemed to convey more than concern or disappointment, but she couldn’t be sure. Did he struggle with the same guilty conflict as she?

  “Of course, isoke,” Helice said. “I’ll send for your litter.”

  “I’ll walk. Neoma will come with me.”

  Below them, the first team ran through the gate and into the ring. The people rose to their feet with a thunderous cheer. Helice and her daughters acknowledged their salute.

  “No one will notice if I go now,” Aridela said.

  “Have Rhené mix you a sleeping balm,” Helice said. “There’s been too much excitement over the last days, and worry over your sister.”

  Neoma reluctantly told her new suitor farewell. She and Aridela crept through the crowd and ran down the ramp to the back of the ring, to the underground chamber where dancers prepared. It was empty; the servants and guards must have gone above to watch. From overhead came the thud of stomping feet and clapping hands. More faintly drifted the music of lyres, drums, and the breathy aulos.

  Aridela pulled off her diadem and jewelry. She unfastened her belt, dropping the skirts to the ground while Neoma tied her hair back with a thong and gave her the leather wristbands. She put them on and Neoma tightened them, weaving leather strapping in a crosshatch pattern. Aridela flexed her fists; the bands would strengthen and protect her wrists when she made her somersault over the bull’s back.

  Isandros, Aridela’s second conspirator, entered through a side door. His eyes were lavishly painted; his arms glittered with gold bands. A bright crimson loincloth draped his hips, designed to draw the bull’s attention. For almost two entire seasons, Isandros had danced with bulls, suffering only one shallow gash on his thigh. People were beginning to compare him to the revered Lycus.