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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “From the lady Aridela,” she said.

  “Do you swear,” said the other, “to face your death willingly, consenting to your fate as the Zagreus has consented?”

  He could only nod, his tongue too dry to speak. The image of Aridela’s face, the belief that she would despise him if he changed his mind, stopped up his throat and prevented him from refusing this ordeal.

  The third gestured toward the opening. He was to go in. Gripping his sword, he took a step. Another.

  The first priestess removed the torch from its bracket and backed away. He turned to look at her. She expected him to enter this black hole with no light?

  She made a shooing gesture. He was to go on. Two men approached and pushed the thick wood door shut. The priestess’s eyes glimmered in the flickering light as the door closed. He heard it latch.

  He was locked alone in darkness.

  Chrysaleon’s blood brother stood just two spear lengths away, staring without expression at the walls of the palace. He hadn’t noticed Aridela, surrounded as she was by chanting white-robed priestesses. She must seem as faceless and formless as they, for she wore the same hooded garb.

  Carmanor.

  She had adored that beautiful foreign youth, his sleek dark hair, his flawless skin, and most of all those indescribable blue eyes, which she at first believed were Athene’s.

  Little of that boy remained. Carmanor was now a brutish soldier, a frowning stranger. Even the cloak flowing over his shoulders seemed warlike, with its beautiful yet fiercely bold black and white stripes. It was the fur of some beast she couldn’t imagine; if things were different between them, she would ask if she could touch it, maybe even wrap herself in its luxury for a moment or two.

  Aridela’s gaze faltered. The mesmerizing beauty she recalled so well was gone. Even his name had changed. Menoetius. How had he become what he now was, even as she remained cocooned in the innocence of childhood?

  Something in his eyes told her he still bled in some concealed place.

  Reluctant pity flooded her even as she felt herself shrink away from pain beyond her understanding.

  If only he’d never returned. She could have cherished her perfect memories for the rest of her days.

  Perhaps it was the mead she’d shared with the other priestesses that made her so sad and lethargic. Punctuated by the drip of leftover rain from the palace’s cornices and balconies, everything seemed dismal, stricken by grief.

  I lived. What did it mean? Anger emanated from him like heat from a fire. Gone were the slow, enchanting smiles and that peculiar glow in his eyes, stolen by the unhappy scars a violent fate forced upon him.

  “He’s beautiful, Aridela.”

  Aridela returned to the wet night with a start. Neoma stood beside her, her face framed by a protective hood.

  Tilting her head at her cousin’s shock, Neoma asked, “What’s wrong?” She peered past Aridela, saw Menoetius, and grinned. “Did you think I meant him? No. I speak of your lover. The prince.”

  “Be quiet.” Aridela looked around to see if anyone overheard. “No one knows. No one can know.”

  “Are you afraid?” Neoma drank from the horn she held, dribbling a little on the front of her robe.

  “Yes.” Tears blurred the torchlight. Aridela accepted the comfort of her cousin’s embrace.

  Neoma kept her voice low. “He’s a man at the height of his strength. Lycus is no match for him. And, by the Lady, he’s magnificent. She would never allow a man such as he to be harmed. She’s drawn to charm and beauty even as we are.”

  Aridela squeezed her eyes closed. Let it please you to protect him, my Mother.

  “Not like that one,” Neoma said, louder.

  Aridela opened her eyes. Her cousin was staring at Menoetius.

  “Look how nobody will even stand close to him. His ugliness is like a wall. How is it that Selene can lie with the likes of that?” She shook her head and gave a deliberate shudder. “I wouldn’t want that touching me. Do you think she snuffs the lamps?”

  She sees something more than we do.

  But it was too much effort to say it aloud. It didn’t make Aridela feel better to hear her own guilty aversion spoken aloud. She didn’t like realizing she wasn’t quite so wise or gentle as her people loved to claim.

  “I could ignore the rest of the scars, but that face turns my belly,” Neoma said. “I wonder what happened?”

  “Chrysaleon told me he was mauled by a lioness protecting her cubs.”

  “Oh—that’s awful.” Neoma shrugged. “No wonder. Death would have been more kind. It’s pitiful—”

  “Don’t say that.” Aridela edged away from her cousin’s arm. “He doesn’t want your pity.”

  “How do you know? He may crave it. Maybe that’s how Selene won him, by speaking words of pity.”

  Biting off a sarcastic retort, Aridela turned away just in time to catch Menoetius staring at her. Torchlight and shadows flickered over the scars, making them appear even worse.

  He walked away, vanishing into the crowd and the night, leaving her to wonder, cringe, and shrink beneath the weight of unfamiliar self-disgust.

  Chrysaleon waited for his eyes to accustom to the dark or for the priestess to take pity and open the door.

  Cold air wafted over him, smelling dank and moldy, like cave air.

  He fingered the shred of papyrus in his hand. What good was this gift from Aridela? He couldn’t tell what, if anything, was written on it.

  He nearly threw it down but changed his mind.

  Faint, echoing chants tickled his ears, but he couldn’t determine from where they came. One word, endlessly repeated.

  Gorgopis.

  Those who worshipped Athene at Mycenae spoke this title when they crouched in terror, seeking to placate she who all men face at their death.

  Darkness intensified the effects of whatever he’d eaten. He fought to transcend the disorientation, nauseating vertigo, the sense that he was being watched by something terrifyingly spectral. He couldn’t be sure if the voices he heard were real or fragments of songs concocted in his mind.

  Stretching out his arms, he took one careful step. Another. His knuckles scraped against a rough wall of rock. He continued, not knowing if the path he chose would lead him to the bull-king or disappear under his feet, leaving him to lie, helpless and broken, until he died.

  The chants died away. He heard only his own breath, felt his own shivering.

  Fear consumed him, shredding the new power and confidence he’d come to rely on in recent days.

  He tried to bolster his anger.

  When he’d asked what he was to do here, the priestess replied, “You are to kill the bull-king.”

  “Where will he be?”

  “No one knows that but the Lady.”

  He stopped to rub his arms, stamping to get his blood moving. The next instant he fell still and silent, holding his breath, wondering if that slight sound could be Lycus sneaking up on him.

  Bitter hatred lived in that young bull leaper’s manner. Why?

  His right hand came to an edge on the wall and plunged into empty space. Through careful exploration, Chrysaleon determined he’d come to a fork in the path. He could either go straight or turn.

  He decided to turn.

  After some time he thought he detected faint illumination. He wasn’t sure. Perhaps his mind played tricks. But soon he saw that there was, indeed, a lamp set in a niche carved into a massive pillar. He approached, wary yet eager.

  A dark substance splashed the base and covered the ground. He knew it was blood, poured here to strengthen the supports holding up the palace. His flesh crawled; he felt the dead watching him in this eerie silence, their eyes hidden beyond the lamp glow.

  Remembering the papyrus, he held the paper up to the light.

  There was but one thing on it. A short wavy line.

  The ageless symbol of the labyrinth. Similar lines were engraved on Aridela’s necklace.

  Not knowin
g the significance of the mark or how this could help, he crushed the paper and threw it away.

  It hurt to breathe through his broken nose. Bright explosions of color popped startlingly at the edge of his sight. So many sounds drifted from the dark that he gave up trying to decipher them. He wouldn’t play this Cretan game any longer. He would stay here until the lamp went out. Eventually he would die.

  Carrying the lamp, he crossed to the wall and sat down. He closed his eyes and rested his face against his knees. Shivering took precedence.

  He heard a soft, barely discernible scrape, but refused to open his eyes until he felt something glide across his bare feet. Rising with a shout, he seized his sword.

  It was a serpent. It stared at him, tongue flicking, but didn’t strike, maybe due to the chill. It uncoiled and went off into the dark. Not knowing what else to do, Chrysaleon picked up the lamp and followed.

  They came to a place where the corridors split in three directions. The serpent slid close to the wall of the far right corridor, looked back at Chrysaleon, and curled itself into a neat round cairn.

  The oil in the lamp was nearly gone. At the edge of its circle of light he saw something on the wall next to the snake. He crept closer.

  At the base, a wavy line was etched into the stone.

  Straightening, he pressed his fist to his chest, inclined his head, and said, “I thank you, my friend.”

  The snake’s eyes were dark and deep, like Aridela’s.

  His flesh began to simmer with renewed confidence; leaving the serpent behind, he continued along that corridor, holding the lamp close to the wall. He came to another opening that offered two directions. At the base leading to the left was a wavy line. There was nothing on the right.

  The lamp gave a tiny sputter and died.

  Chrysaleon felt the way on his hands and knees, sword gripped in his left hand, his right trailing along the base of the wall searching for more signs. He hoped he understood the meaning of the paper and the serpent’s offering.

  Two heroes journey deep within the labyrinth. They seek to kill the Zagreus. He who succeeds will be king and consort to Iphiboë.

  One is a warrior, a prince from Mycenae.

  The meaning of his name, Chrysaleon, is “Gold Lion.”

  Is he the Gold Lion Aridela prophesied, come to bring our destruction? If so, then who is the black bull he is destined to defeat? Is it the Zagreus, Helice’s consort, or all of Kaphtor?

  I feel the prophecies falling into place. I shall protect Aridela as I have vowed. She will not be betrayed; I won’t allow it. As soon as the new king is crowned, I’ll take her to the safety of the cave shrines. Then I’ll return. I will watch him, doing nothing to put him on guard.

  This I promise to my predecessors and my queen—if this prince intends to bring us under the heel of his father, he will find me a formidable enemy.

  Darkness pressed against him.

  He heard a sigh.

  His grip tightened on the sword.

  You will fail.

  He couldn’t tell if the voice originated in his mind or outside, in the dark. Its lilt was feminine, with a darker quality that struck him as masculine.

  He turned, trying in vain to pierce the blackness.

  “Who is it?” he said. “Face me.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll show you how I fail.” He stood, swinging the blade, but it struck only air. His second swing hit stone, causing a deafening clang and shower of sparks.

  You will follow. The voice’s timbre didn’t change.

  “Follow?” He stepped forward, leaving the security of the wall, forgetting that he mustn’t lose track of the wavy lines. “Follow who?”

  But when you ask it, you will have my forgiveness.

  A cold draft whined from the dark. Not far away, a scream broke the silence.

  He found the wall again and crept forward.

  His fingertips explored where stone ended and wood began. He determined he’d found a door.

  He swallowed and pushed it open.

  So you found your way.”

  Chrysaleon swiveled, lifting his blade. Lycus stood in front of a wall filled with so many lamps he was almost in silhouette. But the Cretan didn’t attack. He waited, arms crossed, leaning against one of the labyrinth’s support pillars.

  It was more than Chrysaleon would have done for him.

  If he’d had a clear head, Chrysaleon would consider his next move, but rage, hunger and thirst sent him leaping recklessly. Frustration blazed like the killing wrath of an angered Poseidon. Here, finally, was something he knew—fighting, swordplay, and an enemy he could see and touch.

  Chrysaleon circled his sword over his head to increase the energy behind the thrust. Lycus deflected it. The blades clanged and scraped as blow after blow was struck and parried. Other than forcing his opponent backward, Chrysaleon made no headway. Fury jarred the inside of his skull like a woman’s shrill screams.

  They paused after the initial onslaught, weapons ready, breathing hard, each trying to size up and unnerve the other.

  “No one thought you would find your way down here,” Lycus said. “We joked about finding your skeleton someday. I’ve had ample opportunity to kill the Zagreus.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Chrysaleon asked.

  The corner of Lycus’s mouth curled. “It pleases me more to kill you… barbarian.”

  “Why?” Chrysaleon watched for an opening even as he dismissed Lycus for a spoiled fop. What chance did he have? He might be able to execute a pretty somersault in the bullring, but that didn’t make him a warrior. It was simply a matter of waiting for the inevitable mistake, which might come more swiftly if the fool could be coaxed into careless bragging.

  “You’ve taken something that was promised to me.”

  Chrysaleon met his antagonist’s gaze. Saw what burned there. “You had more chances than I to take it,” he said.

  Those black, painted eyes narrowed. Knuckles whitened on the sword’s handle. Giving an incoherent yell, Lycus engaged.

  Heftier than Lycus and with at least twice the power in his shoulders and arms, Chrysaleon again pushed the boy backward under a volley of heavy blows.

  They came alongside a pillar. Just as Chrysaleon thought he would crush his enemy’s fading defense, the bull leaper jumped behind it. Chrysaleon lowered his sword. “Hiding won’t save you,” he said with a derisive laugh.

  He caught a flash from the corner of his eye as something flew at him from the side. Too late, he raised his sword. Lycus, grasping the pillar with his arms, used it to propel his body in a horizontal flying arc, using both feet like a battering ram to bash Chrysaleon in the chest. Such a move could only have come from the bullring.

  Thrown hard to the ground, Chrysaleon nearly lost his grip on the sword. Lycus landed upright a few steps away, as gracefully as if he’d jumped off a bull’s back. He pivoted, aiming for Chrysaleon’s belly.

  Scrawny, but there is talent. Chrysaleon staved off the killing thrust with a brutal kick to Lycus’s groin.

  Lycus bent over, moaning, giving Chrysaleon the opportunity to follow up his kick with a fist-blow to the bottom of the chin that drove Lycus’s teeth through his lip.

  The Cretan flew backward. His arms flailed, but he kept hold of his weapon.

  Chrysaleon leaped to his feet. Now he stood above his gasping competitor. In a moment, Lycus would be dead. He lifted his sword. “I’ll think of you,” he said with a smile, “while I enjoy her.”

  Lycus’s thrust, swift as a serpent strike, left a crippling slice in the muscle of Chrysaleon’s outer thigh.

  Chrysaleon staggered away as he fought to remain standing. He looked down, gritting his teeth, hardly able to see through bolts of pain, but reassured. His blood wasn’t spurting. Still, the leg buckled and he dropped to one knee.

  Lycus rose, breathing hard, his lips compressed. “Will you?” He sneered, his return smile marred by blood. He sliced his blade sideways; it sang as it carved
the air in a perfect line to separate Chrysaleon’s head from his neck.

  Even as he lifted his weapon to deflect the oncoming edge of Lycus’s sword, Chrysaleon’s mind formed an image of Aridela holding this dandy’s hand.

  In the instant it took Lycus to bring his weapon round again, Chrysaleon jumped up, balancing on his good leg. He leveled a ferocious beating with the flat of his blade, silently cursing the refusal of his wounded leg to follow his commands, but at least it had gone numb, for the moment.

  Lycus’s sword flew across the chamber, striking the wall of lamps. Several shattered and fell. Flames leaped as oil splashed across the floor.

  In the pause that followed, both men worked to calm their breathing. Sweat glistened in the firelight. Lycus sent a desperate glance toward his fallen sword.

  Throwing his own weapon down with a snarl, Chrysaleon grabbed Lycus around the neck and slid behind him, pressing against his back and yoking him in an unbreakable chokehold.

  Lycus clawed at Chrysaleon’s arm, tugging and scratching, but couldn’t dislodge himself. He fell to the ground, yanking Chrysaleon down on top of him, and tried to grasp Chrysaleon’s discarded blade. He was choking, gagging, one moment falling slack and the next fighting with renewed energy.

  Chrysaleon flexed his bicep, pressing the crook of his arm against his rival’s larynx. He was enjoying himself now. He didn’t want to kill Lycus too quickly. Far more gratifying to see him suffer.

  When the blow to his skull came, he fell away, his sight disintegrating into explosions of starbursts. A hot stream of blood cascaded over his cheek.

  Lycus had seized Chrysaleon’s fallen sword and levied it against his head, not only giving him a disorienting blow but carving a gash into his scalp.

  If Lycus could rise, he’d have plenty of time for the kill. But Chrysaleon had choked him into near unconsciousness.

  Enough. This gangly bull leaper was proving too painful a hindrance. Chrysaleon, spitting blood and fighting his way back from darkness, rolled away just in time to avoid being skewered through the belly.