Heaving an annoyed sigh, Aridela crossed the courtyard to the morning hall. One of the most beautiful and soothing rooms in the palace, the hall boasted potted fruit trees, fragrant flowers, and delicate frescoes that brightened it with color. Square skylights drew in the rosy dawn and when it grew too hot, were covered with reed awnings. It was the queen’s preferred place to discuss judgments and policies, or simply to enjoy the cooler morning air and scents from the adjoining garden.
She was about to enter when she saw Harpalycus of Tiryns sitting next to her mother at the high table. She paused and considered slipping away, but the serious expressions and quiet, closely held conversation held her still. The frown on Helice’s face roused protective instincts and she lingered, uneasy.
Lavender twilight suffused the room. The maids began lighting lamps.
Harpalycus, scraping at his chin, turned and spotted her. He broke off his conversation and rose. A smile curved his lips; odd, how his attempts to be charming conceived an urge to run away.
“Sit with us, my lady,” he said, bowing, all courtesy and consideration.
She armored herself with cool formality as she took a seat beside her mother. Her favorite cake, baked with barley, honey, and sesame, was placed before her, along with watered wine.
“Are you sailing back to the mainland soon, my lord?” she asked.
Heavy eyelids dropped over blue eyes as he speared a fig. “Yes. Alas.” He held up his right hand, bound in wrappings, kept immobile with wood splints. Rhené used the technique to assist in healing and minimize loss of use. Even so, this warrior would never again wield a sword properly, if at all. Yet he appeared light-hearted as he perused the damage. “What is there to keep me here?” He met her gaze. “Only your face. Life will be hollow when I can no longer admire it.”
Aridela inclined her head. “You have mastered the honeyed speech of an ambassador.”
“Aridela.” Helice gave her daughter a reproving glance.
The prince excused her rudeness with a shrug. “I do hope to see you from time to time, now that tiny Crete is to be part of powerful Mycenae.”
Aridela bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing outright, but a subtle snort escaped. “And Mycenae part of tiny Crete,” she said.
The way his mouth turned up on one side suggested skepticism. “I fear this union will bring unforeseen changes.”
“I hope not too many.”
His voice remained smooth. “Iphiboë may find small pleasures at Mycenae’s citadel, though it will never offer the comfort she’s accustomed to, and the winter can be bitter.”
“What?” Aridela asked, startled out of bored annoyance.
“I don’t understand, my lord.” Helice was much better at disguising her surprise.
“Forgive me.” Harpalycus’s brows lifted innocently enough, though Aridela felt certain he knew exactly what he was doing. “Have I given some offence?”
“Iphiboë will live on Kaphtor as she has always done.” Aridela kept her voice level. “Those who would be king on Kaphtor are reborn to our land and our ways. They become our kin, and give up previous alliances.”
“You suppose Idómeneus will relinquish his son and heir?” He drummed the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table and sent his gaze wandering over a serving maid’s cleavage as she poured wine for Helice. “Mycenae isn’t a huddle of mud bricks, you know. Iphiboë should have chosen an unimportant prince, like me, for instance—”
“Iphiboë didn’t choose.” Helice succumbed to a sharper tone. “Goddess Athene picks the man who will wear the ring of Zagreus.”
“Of course, my lady.” Harpalycus bowed his head. “But I noticed how openly the guard opposed his prince competing. If Chrysaleon defied his father, it could mean trouble for you and your people.”
Helice’s hesitation was nearly imperceptible. “The prince assured us he received his father’s blessing. Necessary compromises will be made,” she said, again noncommittal. “I have much respect for Idómeneus.”
As the tenseness abated, Aridela excused herself and wandered into the gardens with a basket and small knife. All hint of the coolness and rain that so oddly transformed the king’s death day had evaporated as though no more than a dream. Today it was so hot that one must keep to the shadows, and the onset of evening brought little relief. She’d always disliked the Moon of White Light, even aside from the consort’s violent death. Vegetation wilted, heat shimmered along the ground, and pestilence stole young and old alike from those who loved them. Everyone much preferred winter. Snowy caps on the mountains heralded the return of life and vitality. She often asked Selene to describe the winters in her northern homeland, and tried to picture a place where snow fell as deeply as a tall man’s knees, fierce winds sliced at the skin and the trees and crops went into several months of divine sleep.
By the end of the Moon of Asphodel and Honeysuckle, spring flowers would bud. In the Moon of Flowering Apples, the almond and apple trees would burst into bloom. Winter lasted such a short time here, yet served the important purpose of quenching the earth’s thirst, which was why they called the month after the winter solstice the Moon of Drenching Rain. This year, Themiste would insist she spend the entire winter and spring in the mountain shrines. The budding and bloom of the palace garden’s magnificent floral arrangements would occur without her there to watch. She wouldn’t get a chance to walk the scented paths to the queen’s cypress maze, where, on an evening like this, she and Lycus had come so close to consummating their desire.
Tears of aggravation stung the back of her eyes; pain stabbed her temples. The bee balm did nothing to calm her headache. As serious as Chrysaleon’s wounds were, Lycus was in more danger of dying. Rhené had kept him alive through the night, but refused to make any promises.
The unwholesome heat couldn’t prevent a shiver as Aridela imagined the fight between the two men. Lycus wasn’t trained to wield a sword. Had Chrysaleon needed to wound him so cruelly?
But she knew what starvation, thirst, and cold did to the heroes who struggled in Kaphtor’s king-sacrifice. That kind of physical suffering coupled with the dark endless corridors beneath the palace often caused temporary madness. She knew little of what happened, all of it second or third hand. Lycus might have forced Chrysaleon to show no mercy. From the sound of things, Chrysaleon had battled for his life.
To her irritation, Harpalycus appeared on the path behind her. His eyes widened as though he was surprised to see her, but she was sure he’d followed her deliberately. “I’m pleased to find you, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I should use this opportunity to give you warning.”
Another shiver crept across her shoulders, this time from the proximity of Tiryns’ prince. A strange smell emanated from him. The closest she could come to naming it was the smell of still-smoldering ashes.
“Chrysaleon’s people will be angry if the wife of their crown prince refuses to take her place with him at Mycenae. It will anger your people if she goes.” He sighed, wearing that signature bland, nettling smile she found so abrasive. “It seems a great inconvenience. If only….”
“Chrysaleon has a brother. Gelanor, isn’t it? Could he not take Mycenae’s throne?”
He tilted his head as though considering. “I fear it isn’t that simple. Chrysaleon already has a wife. Didn’t he tell you?”
Aridela struggled to hide her shock, but he was watching. His lip curled.
“His wife is my sister, the lady Iros. She is as much a princess as you and Iphiboë, and has certain rights. So does my father, who believes he married his daughter to the future high king. What will become of Iros now? What will my father do when he hears of this?” The shake of his head told Aridela that King Lycomedes would be quite annoyed, if not enraged. “Now Chrysaleon is giving up his throne and has acquired another wife. Iros, Idómeneus, my father—all are likely to be insulted.”
This was her doing. She’d encouraged Chrysaleon to compete in a moment of weak selfish desire. I
f not for her request, which many men would find difficult to refuse on honor alone, he would be preparing to sail home to Mycenae. To his wife. Now, because of her meddling, the king of Tiryns might make war on Kaphtor. Helice must be told.
Harpalycus broke into Aridela’s thoughts. “Chrysaleon is quite taken with… Iphiboë. He shows her and… you… more regard than I’ve ever seen him show his citadel women. This unexpected marriage will be a shock for them, too. They haven’t yet accustomed themselves to the first wife. They’ll fight like jealous cats to turn his attention from your sister. I know it’s discourteous to speak of such matters, but when one deals with Chrysaleon….” He paused, peering around them, then extended one arm toward a wooden bench, clasping her elbow with the other.
Thinking he might divulge more about potential problems with the mainland, she stopped herself from making an excuse and they sat. She sorted through the flowers she’d gathered while trying to absorb his shocking revelation. Despite the deepening twilight, she saw the blooms were already wilting. She would try to revive them with water and take them to Lycus. Hopefully they would cheer him.
Chrysaleon has a wife.
“Iphiboë must do what your council demands,” Harpalycus said. “No doubt Chrysaleon can bring his people to heel. As for my father….” He shrugged.
He brushed her forearm with two fingers from wrist to elbow, lightly enough to tickle. She wanted to jerk away, but kept herself from doing it.
“I came here with my brothers once. Your mother feasted us. When I saw you at the high table with your sister, Zeus the Protector struck me through the heart with one of his mighty thunderbolts. Do you remember?”
She shook her head. “When was it?”
“Long ago. You were small, but I saw what a beauty you would be.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Chrysaleon never voiced a desire to compete in the Cretan Games. He seemed content with his fights, hunting, and women. I didn’t want my sister to marry him, yet she seemed resigned. I wonder if Idómeneus ordered him to come. It’s hard to believe, but Crete is a rich land, and the high king is ruthless. He loves to expand his holdings and deepen his coffers.”
Aridela frowned. She didn’t want to be reminded that many suspected Chrysaleon’s actions, any more than she wanted to question her dizzying attraction to him. For foreign lands, the purpose of competing could be a matter of state, a desire to ally countries, to create new ruling Houses, or to shore up old ones. The mainland was crowded with kingdoms. They constantly warred and sought the upper hand although on the surface, everyone paid homage to Idómeneus, high king of Mycenae.
“Even then I wished you were the oldest,” Harpalycus was saying, “and dreamed of becoming your consort, or at least your lover.”
Aridela returned her attention to the prince, whose hands now curled around hers. The cutting knife was squashed in her palm; its honed edge pressed against her skin.
“I could have told your mother what you did in the cave with Chrysaleon, but I didn’t,” he said. “I kept your secret.”
But he didn’t know. He came into the cave after their joining, after they’d risen and dressed. Aridela peered into his eyes steadily; when his gaze dropped she knew he was casting bait, trying to trick her into making confessions.
He said, “If you were Crete’s heir and I the winner of the Games, it would be a matter of love rather than conquest.”
“Chrysaleon may have come here with that in mind, I cannot say, but he vowed to honor our ways—”
“Has he professed love? Or does he speak of lust—possession? There’s a difference.” Harpalycus’s hands slid to her upper arms; he tried to draw her forward, bending closer as though to kiss her.
Aridela’s spine pressed against the back of the bench. She shoved him in the chest, keeping hold of the knife in one fist.
Her resistance didn’t stop him. He grabbed her wrists in his uninjured left hand, clamping both in a grip like a shackle and forcing her to drop the knife. His other arm shot around her neck; at the same time he threw his left leg over her lap to hold her down. Even with the limitations of a shattered hand, he held her immobile. She couldn’t kick him, strike him with her fists, or flee.
Selene’s warnings echoed. Even a small man could best you, if it came to a battle of physical strength alone. You must be quick-witted, and learn other ways to triumph.
Harpalycus leaned into her, his kiss a bruising assault. When she wrenched her face free, he laughed; he pressed his arm closer around her throat, choking her until her ears hummed and she saw a glitter of stars. Triumphant conquest gleamed in his eyes.
Lowering his face to her chest, he tore her gown with his teeth, giving her the helpless, terrified sensation of prey in the fangs of a predator. Part of her observed this with unemotional interest; she understood why Chrysaleon resorted to fracturing this man’s hand in the wrestling. He must have seen no other way.
She felt a minute relaxation in the grip on her wrists as his concentration veered to tearing her gown and biting her. Twisting one hand free, she smashed the flat of her palm against his ear. His head reared backward, giving her the opening she needed to slam her fist into his nose.
Blood spurted. He fell away, cursing. She drilled her knee into his groin.
He grunted, gasped, and hunched over.
Her little cutting knife lay next to her on the bench. Seizing its handle, she sank the blade into the base of his neck where it met the shoulder, as deeply as it would go, which wasn’t far.
He jumped to his feet and staggered, clapping his wounded hand to his neck as though stung by a bee. Yanking the knife out, he threw it on the ground and swiped at the blood gushing from his nose and over his lips. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and stood still but for heavy breathing and the reflexive, furious clenching of his good hand.
She stood. He’d thrown the knife between them but she hesitated, hoping she’d done enough to force his respect.
Rage manifested in his tightly pressed lips and harsh breathing. His jaw muscles worked. Aridela heard his teeth grind. A trickle of blood seeped from the neck wound she’d inflicted.
They stared at each other. When he spoke at last, his voice was surprisingly calm, though hoarse. “Come now, my lady,” he said. “I punished you for what you did to me, and now you’ve punished me in return. Let us speak truth. I’ve sampled a few of Chrysaleon’s women. They vow I’m the better lover. Mycenae’s prince need never know.”
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Oh, but he will know. I will tell him, and together we will watch you being put to death for laying hands upon me in such a manner.”
A cynical smile accompanied Harpalycus’s sigh. “I’ll swear you gave yourself to me, asked me to leave those marks on you. Here, that may be no crime, but the laws in Mycenae are clear. Even if Chrysaleon has doubts, he could never ignore such an insult, not without jeopardizing his position, and he would never willingly share a female with me.” He glanced at her ripped gown and his eyelids dropped over his eyes. “In my land, women are put to death for lying with men other than their husbands, even if they’re forced, for duplicity poisons every woman’s heart. All of Argolis knows this.”
Aridela struggled to control the unbearable urge to pummel his face into mush.
Harpalycus swiped again at the blood on his face but he appeared calm, serene, as though they enjoyed the most innocent of pastimes. The only betrayal of anger or pain was the continued clenching of his jaw. She took what pleasure she could from the splatter of blood marring his face and the front of his tunic, and the swelling, which was turning his eyes to puffy slits. He would have to make up some story to explain these injuries to his men.
Clarity washed through her anger. The mainland was different from Kaphtor. Perhaps their differences ran too deeply for any true understanding, much less the rapport for which she longed.
She didn’t know Chrysaleon so well that she could disregard Harpalycus’s threat, much as she might like to. “I
won’t tell Prince Chrysaleon what you’ve done,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t spoil his first days as bull-king, or slow his healing with insignificant accusations.”
She couldn’t confide in her mother either, for Helice would never be stopped from exacting vengeance upon Harpalycus, no matter what it cost, and Harpalycus would make sure his poison found its way to Chrysaleon.
“Wise,” he said. He took a step closer, lifting his good hand toward her hair, but she knocked it away with a feral hiss.
His jaw clenched; his lips tightened, but when he spoke, he kept his voice even. “All my life, I’ve watched Mycenae hoard the best of everything. Kingdoms pay tribute, merchants offer the richest gifts, while my kingdom languishes. Always I’m forced to make do with dregs. My father even gave him Iros. That’s why I came here. Crete was the one thing I meant to win for myself, for my own honor. But again, Chrysaleon stole what should be mine.”
“What should be yours? We rule the sea and lived in luxury when your people hardly knew how to speak. My mother will hear what you truly think of us after all your fawning and false compliments.”
“You mistake me,” he said, bowing in a humble fashion she knew better than to believe. “I only meant I wanted to win the Games, to become Crete’s consort and year-king. Forgive my ill-considered words. Chrysaleon makes me speak rashly. He and I have a long, unpleasant history.”
Her resolve didn’t fade. She might not have the courage to reveal Harpalycus’s attack, but nothing would stop her from warning Helice about his true motives concerning the Games.
“I can lay offerings at your feet, my lady, which would surely amaze you, and recompense you many times over for the pain I’ve caused.” The swelling and blood clogging his nose made him sound congested and somewhat foolish, yet still he made no move to leave. “I’ve uncovered secrets known only to the gods, secrets I’ll share with those I trust. It’s too soon to tell you more; your doubts are plain. But when you forego your resistance, you’ll understand the honor I offer to you above all women.”
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 35
