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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Her mouth turned up in a wistful smile. Apparently, his question sparked fond memories. He struggled to maintain an unconcerned air and tightened his grip on her hand.

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Even then, he was quiet, shy. He saved my life. I confess I loved him, as a child will love an older, brave and handsome man. I’m sure he thought me quite silly. I remember weeping for days when he left, and thinking death preferable to losing him.”

  Chrysaleon unclenched his teeth with effort and swallowed a stone formed of resentment. “What happened?”

  “I tried once before to dance with a bull.” She laughed. “I was ten and very stupid. I thought the bull was no match for me. Of course I was gored. You saw the scar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Isandros helped me sneak into the ring. He was under sentence of death for that. So I went to the shrine to pray for mercy, and my wound broke open. I would have bled to death but for Carmanor. That was the name he used, I don’t know why. It’s hard to think of him now as ‘Menoetius.’ He was there, praying. He carried me to the courtyard. He told you nothing of this?”

  Chrysaleon shrugged. “He was praying?”

  “Yes,” she said. With a quick glance backward, she pulled him off the road, beneath the overhanging branches of an enormous plane tree, and into a verdant, deserted meadow. “I loved his reverence. It wasn’t idle habit or show, but real, and meant much to me, for I’d heard all mainland barbarians were crude and impious.”

  With a snort of laughter, Chrysaleon said, “Menoetius, devout? Not anymore, my lady. He no longer has any use for such things.”

  Surprise passed over her face then she looked sad, saying only, “He is much changed.”

  Good. If he could damage, even raze those tender memories, so much the better. “What happened after?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t clear at first if he’d tried to help or hurt me. My mother was suspicious; she confined him until I could verify his story. Then of course, we feasted him and gave him many gifts.”

  “So I am in my blood brother’s debt.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I must thank him.”

  A strong wind lifted from the west; it was hot, dry, leaving them thirsty. Darkness fell earlier than usual, leaving vaults of purple in the heavens and the scent of wild thyme flowing on swift currents of air.

  They came upon an old ruin of a wall that offered protection at their backs. Gathering wood, they built a fire. “All my life I’ve heard of Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon said as they settled beside it; he put one arm around her and made a sweeping gesture with the other. “Rich land of ships, palaces, mountains, caves and fertile plains. I thought these must be fanciful lies. Women, owning the land, passing it to their daughters? Such a thing could never happen in my country. Yet my slave, Alexiare, explained how well your people managed, and for how many long ages; since before any of Argolis was tilled or any citadel built. My ancestors brought powerful gods to help them conquer these mainland villages, but when we came to the edge of land and looked out for more places to vanquish, Crete’s mighty ships forced us to stop.”

  “Where do your people come from?”

  “Our bards sing of vast plains of grass, high mountains on every side, of snow and ice that can freeze a man solid in a single night. It’s said our ancestors traveled four entire seasons to reach the lands we now call home.”

  “And your gods? I have only learned a little about them.”

  “They reside in the sky, the ocean, on mountaintops. They control everything, from sunlight to earthshaking, and have jealous tempers. Foremost among them is King Poseidon, Hippos, Father of horses, Lord of the earth, sea, and heavens. He gave us the horse, a beast more precious to us than any other. One of his palaces lies beneath the sea, where he keeps stables of coral and white stallions with manes of gold. He sinks our ships when angered, and destroys our coasts with waves as tall as thunderclouds. He visits us in the form of a bull, and in the heavens, we see him in the sun and the moon.”

  “My tutors told me about Lord Poseidon,” Aridela said. “But they never made him sound as glorious as you do.”

  “Every village my ancestors conquered worshipped Lady Athene, White-Armed Hera, and she the farmers call dark Hecate. We merged these mistresses into our own beliefs, for we saw their worth and knew we would have an easier time with the people if we honored their deities.”

  Wind swooped as though wanting attention. The fire leaped in swirls of sparks and blue-edged flames.

  “Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon continued, “where the path of moon and stars is as familiar as the change of seasons, and the smallest lump of gold can be measured. Palaces sprawl like cities, marvels of comfort and elegance. In truth, Alexiare reminds me how Labyrinthos stood established and civilized when my own people were naked savages living in caves.” He bowed his head in exaggerated homage. “Powerful, generous lady—that is Kaphtor, lying in perfect conjunction along the best trade-routes from Egypt and Isy. She brings us the tin we crave, purple dye to impress our rivals, gold, and all the comforts we can no longer live without. She forges ties with everyone and leads all in prosperity.”

  “Do you mock us?” She looked wary.

  “Perhaps I would like to.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “But Alexiare spoke the truth. His claims were not exaggerations after all.”

  “Lady Athene showed favor to my people when she sent her daughter to lead us here from our homeland.”

  “Where is the land of your ancestors?”

  “It lies to the south. I’ve heard it’s a country so vast it takes years to get from one end to the other. The sun burns everything; no snow ever falls but on the highest mountains. There is a beast I’m told, which towers as high as our highest walls. It eats the leaves from the very tips of trees, and another, so big it can crush a man with one foot. And lions, my lord.” Lifting her hand, she touched his hair then rested her palm on his cheek, her mouth curving into a slow smile redolent with desire. “You are like a lion. Your father named you truly.”

  The need to kiss her threatened to blot out Chrysaleon’s argument. His mind fell into blankness, but he fought his way back. “You say Athene showed your people favor. Yet it seems to me she’s shown you no favor at all.”

  “Why?” Aridela’s smile faded into startled surprise.

  His wounded leg ached; he rolled onto his side so he could stretch it and cupped her knee in one hand. “If you were a peasant or farmer’s child, you could leave Crete, be with me.”

  “Athene sees all, from beginning to end. She doesn’t plan things according to the fleeting wishes of mortals.”

  “You accept your lot without question or protest. Does it never weigh upon you?” He sat up and seized her shoulders.

  “It has,” she said in a small voice. He felt her tremble.

  “And now?” He shook her, more roughly than he intended.

  “If I were a peasant, you wouldn’t want me.”

  He wanted to shout, to strike, to cut something with his sword. “Can’t you see this is beyond any duty? Curse my father, my brothers and the child who believes herself my wife. I would have you no matter what your station, or mine. You alone separate us. I would abandon my vows, betray my father and my country to have you.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You would not do that.”

  Wind zipped over the wall and set upon them, pulling Aridela’s hair free of its knot and sending it whirling about her head.

  Chrysaleon’s gaze followed the flight of her hair as he recalled his purpose. To find a way to overthrow these people. To end the king-sacrifice. He realized how hard he gripped her and saw pain reflected in her eyes. Biting his lip, he relaxed and massaged her shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but I would perform my duty like a man whose soul was trapped in the shadowlands.” Uneasy truth laced his words. Could he overthrow Kaphtor and subjugate Aridela, make her and her kin his slaves? No longer certain, he jerked her against him, closing his eyes and mind as he kisse
d her.

  When he released her long moments later, she sighed and rested her cheek against his collarbone. He felt her resistance dissolve, yet he experienced no sense of triumph.

  She fit against him like song to a lyre, like a dolphin’s greeting to scarlet dawn.

  “I wish I were common,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “And no one cared what I did.”

  “Were I truly a man of honor,” he said, “I would leave. But I won’t. I’ve desired one thing since I arrived and now I have it. You long for me as I do for you, and what does it accomplish? I will be consort to your sister and you’ll live far from me in the mountain caves. We’ll be as lost to each other as if we’d never met. And in a year….”

  He felt her stiffen in his arms.

  Another gust of wind smacked them. The fire jumped in response; sparks flew. “A storm is coming,” Chrysaleon said. “We should return to the palace.” But he didn’t move.

  She ran a finger down his temple and through his beard. “The firelight makes jewels of your eyes.”

  Lust charred his blood, yet he forced himself to remain still. “I saw you, before the cave. Before I came to Labyrinthos.”

  She waited, relaxed in his arms, her face mirroring the love he felt running hot through his veins.

  “When we landed, Menoetius and I set out to explore. I wanted to see your country. I wanted to learn everything I could, to determine if my father’s army could invade and overthrow you.”

  For one endless instant she seemed frozen then she broke free and scrambled away. She crouched on the other side of the fire, staring at him, so many emotions streaming across her face he couldn’t separate them.

  “No, Aridela,” he said, stretching out a hand, but she backed further away.

  “How could you think to plan our destruction then woo me as you have?” Her voice dropped. “They were right about you.”

  “I tell you this truth so no secrets remain between us. I wouldn’t invade Kaphtor now, not if it possessed the riches of the world. Kaphtor is precious to me because it holds you. I would die to defend it.”

  She covered her face with her hands.

  He breathed in and out slowly. “I thought if I couldn’t win the Games, and if Kaphtor seemed ripe, I could convince my father to attack. It would be bad, Aridela, if your island fell into the hands of Gla, Pylos, or Tiryns, or any of the mainland kingdoms. Especially Tiryns. It would be the end of us.”

  She uncovered her face and glared at him. “You and your Kindred think you can fight over us like dogs with a bone. You think us easy prey.”

  “It was foolish and arrogant of us.”

  She watched him, silent, narrow-eyed, all hint of trust vanished.

  “We heard gossip that you and Iphiboë were hunting on Mount Ida. We went there, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kaphtor’s princesses. We searched, spent the night. We’d almost given up when we came upon a path in the forest and heard laughter. There you were, you, Iphiboë, Selene and your cousin, swimming in a pond. That was the first time I saw you.”

  He paused, but she said nothing. Her chest rose and fell, giving away her shallow breathing.

  Chrysaleon peered into the sky, following the fire’s wild, fierce-flying sparks. “That was my end.” He paused again as his mind worked out what words would convince her. “Our bards sing of tribes who live on hidden isles in these seas. Amazons, we call them. Moon-women. It’s said they shoot as well as any man and are joined to their horses. Proud as the proudest king, they fight to the death rather than suffer dishonor.”

  “Selene comes from one of those tribes.”

  “She taught you their ways?”

  “Yes. My mother brought her to Kaphtor to teach us the skills of her people. She stays now because she’s our friend, and Kaphtor is her home.”

  “They’re legendary in my country. When I looked down on that pool, I thought I’d discovered a cache of those women. Your bows lay on the ground. You swam without fear, never suspecting you were being watched. I know you and your council wonder why I competed in your Games, when there’s so much for me to lose. This is the reason. Since that moment in the forest, I’ve been yours, Aridela, though I’ve tried to deny it.”

  He thought he discerned an almost imperceptible relaxation in the bow-strung tenseness of her body. “I was all for climbing down and enticing you into the forest for an afternoon of pleasure. Menoetius held me back. Then I heard Selene call you ‘Princess,’ thank Black-horned Poseidon, and realized who you were.” He gave a wry shake of his head. “Queen Helice would have diced us into fish food if I’d done what I intended.”

  His brief amusement died away as he added, “I watched you step from the pool and wring water from your hair. I couldn’t breathe. I knew what it would feel like, to die.”

  He said, low, “You’re the woman my father promised I would find someday. The one who would bind me, make me a willing slave. Any lingering doubt vanished when you leapt the bull.”

  She still made him wait an interminable length of time, suspended, not knowing what to expect. Then she crawled back, her eyes wet with tears. He enclosed her, not only with his arms but his legs, trapping her against his body. He felt her heart quicken, swift and fluttery as a bird’s. She was strong, but she could never escape her ancestry. Her bones were fragile. She was a small woman, and ever would be.

  “Princess of Kaphtor.” He rolled on top of her, holding himself up to keep from crushing this bird. “For longer than can be dreamed, I am yours. Even death won’t break our bond. I give you my vow.”

  He saw her startle, her eyes widen.

  Propping his elbows on the ground, he took her face in his hands. “Even in death, Aridela,” he said. “I am yours.”

  He kissed her a long time to keep her from speaking. When he felt all resistance evaporate, he raised his head. “We return to Labyrinthos in two days. Is this the last for us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He pressed his mouth and tongue to her neck, wanting to taste her, to blot out every memory of her insipid sister.

  The unguents she used intoxicated him. “If this be the last time—”

  “Yes…yes,” she whispered.

  He pushed up her tunic, struggling to hold back, for in truth, his body needed satiation and had no concern for gentler emotions. But this was Princess Aridela of Kaphtor, not a defeated female in a conquered province. Her thighs crept around his hips; he pushed into her as deeply as their bones allowed, and fought to control his basest instincts.

  “Aridela,” he whispered. “Aridela.” Mother of kings.

  His body felt like a rampage of fire. Unbearable pressure burst, like waters escaping a collapsed dam.

  “What happens!”

  He heard her cry out, but faintly; his need deafened any other concern.

  Fulfillment shot from mere pleasure into divine ecstasy. He pierced like an arrow, seeking her very core. “Aridela,” he choked, clutching, thrusting, driving into a void of unconsciousness.

  “Chrysaleon!” She shoved him, hard enough to push his upper body off hers.

  He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, gasping. Awareness was slow to return.

  She grabbed his injured forearm as she stared into the sky, her face rigid with concentration.

  The pain her grip caused brought him back to the windy night. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, fighting to catch his breath and calm his blood.

  Then he heard what she’d heard, felt it through his bones. A guttural vibration emanating from the ground.

  With a grating clash, the earth beneath them split, sucking them into a lacerated chasm. Chrysaleon, flailing as he fell, caught a protruding root in his right hand and Aridela’s wrist in the left. He strained to hold her, groaning beneath shooting agony in his injured arm and thigh as she climbed his body, gripping his thighs then his waist, and finally his shoulders. There they hung, choking in a cloud of dust and avalanche of dirt and stones, suspended by one tough root and Chrysaleon�
��s ability to disregard his injuries. Outside the trench, he heard explosions. The crack of wood. The earth splitting open in a thousand wounds.

  The world was being unmade.

  He felt warmth and wetness on his injured forearm as he hoisted Aridela to the summit of the fissure. She pulled herself out and turned, grabbing him, helping him over the crumbling lip and back onto the earth’s welcoming surface.

  But what he’d always considered solid, imperishable, was dissolving. Dirt and sand erupted in fountains on every side. A nearby grove of black oak and junipers thrashed as though a titan stamped through them, yanking them out as he came.

  Blood soaked through the dressing on his arm. He tucked it behind him so Aridela wouldn’t see, and tried to ignore the burn of it being torn open.

  Distant susurration echoed like the faraway roar of lions, and built until the air hummed. Another rift opened, so close to Aridela that she teetered, but this time, Chrysaleon yanked her to safety before she fell.

  She covered her ears and hunched over. Chrysaleon took her hand and pulled her, first one direction then another, as gashes split the earth and barred their way.

  Above them, the heavens erupted.

  Neither could do anything but press their hands to their ears and wait for death to end the terror. The detonation of the sky ripped through Chrysaleon’s head with such force he feared his skull would shatter.

  The ground heaved, throwing them off their feet.

  “Goddess, forgive me!” Aridela shrieked as she stumbled and fell to her knees on land turned to maelstrom. “Forgive us!”

  She thought Lady Athene was punishing them for what they’d done. Shivers arced through Chrysaleon’s spine as he peered into the sky, convinced she was right. A dirty-red glow, sparked by eerie rapid-fire flashes of lightning, marred the northern horizon.

  Something else, a boiling blackness, ringed with molten haze like clouds of fire, obliterated the heavens in the same direction. He stared, stiff with horror, seeing Great Poseidon rise from the sea, set on vengeance. “Come,” he cried, knowing this blood-soaked shadow brought their deaths. “Run!” He half-dragged Aridela past old trees whose raw upturned roots clawed at the sky.