"Goddess will protect me," I muttered, and instantly recognized my mistake.
"You know Goddess is angry with me."
What my mother had done to offend Goddess I did not know, but Her wrath had started before I was born and continued despite everything we did to appease Her. My mother and I danced at every new moon, not just before the Festivals; countless snow-white heifers had had their throats slit on Goddess's altar, their tender meat feeding the twelve priestesses who served Her; my mother tended the white Goddess-shaped stone in the shrine as carefully as a new mother tends to her firstborn, rubbing it with oil until it gleamed, wrapping it in rich robes purchased from traders who traveled from so far away that they spoke a language no one could comprehend.
Yet Goddess continued to visit my mother with punishment, most notably through Asterion. More than one man had offered to sacrifice himself to the wrath of Goddess by killing my brother, but my mother always refused. It was not her love for him that stopped her; the real problem was that no other could take his place. My brother was Minos-Who-Will-Be. Without a Minos, our city of Knossos would fall, and with it, the island of Krete. This we knew as surely as we knew that the sun rose and set once every day and that the moon disappeared and reappeared thirteen times every year.
My mother broke the silence. "I should go to the Minos's quarters and make sure the girl has everything she needs."
"I'll go." I tried to hide my eagerness. "I've been sleeping all day, and you've been working."
"She who is served by all serves all," she murmured.
I nodded at the familiar phrase. "And you have a headache. I'll go and make sure the new one is settling in, and while I'm there I'll see how Glaukos is." The rosy-cheeked child always ran to me when I visited and tugged at my hand to beg me to play with him. His right eye looked to the side as if watching something that no one else could see, something in another world. Worse, he favored his left hand, which made everyone uneasy. It was not natural, but despite his nurses' attempts to make him use his right hand, he persisted.
She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess has to help people, of course, to be kind to them and assure their safety. But she must not grow close to them, not to the children of mortal parents, no matter who those parents were. Glaukos had been conceived by my mother when she was a mortal woman, not Goddess, and his father was a man, not the god Velchanos, so Glaukos was not my brother. If my mother knew that I was growing attached to any one of the children who lived in the Minos's quarters—even if that child was hers—she would forbid me to visit.
"So, may I go to the Minos's quarters and see to the new wife?"
"You liked her, did you?"
I nodded. "I think she might be..." I hesitated; it was not a word I said often. "I think she might become a friend." I didn't want to hear what my mother had said so many times before: You don't need a friend. You have me and Asterion, and if it pleases Goddess, you will have other brothers and sisters. And now you have your duties as priestess. You don't have time for friends. She gave me permission, though, with a reminder to walk with dignity.
I dreaded going through the palace. It was not only that the dark and twisting corridors took longer than a direct route would have; it was not only that the halls and chambers were tedious in their familiarity. No, the real reason was that it was full of people who would be talking to one another, sometimes laughing, and both the talk and the laughter would cease as soon as they saw me. I always longed to tell them that I, too, liked conversation and a funny story and a hand on my arm as a confidence is told, but of course I couldn't. So I would lower my eyes to the ground, acknowledge their bows with a quick nod, and hurry on.
This time I thought I would be lucky enough to reach the Minos's quarters without meeting anyone. Two women carrying plucked partridges pretended not to notice me and ducked into a chamber until I passed, as though that had been their destination all along. The room they had entered was where the scribes sat all day incising marks into clay tablets, and there was no need for partridges in there. I couldn't resist glancing behind me, and I saw them emerge hurriedly and scurry down to where they were truly going, no doubt eager to tell people of their near encounter with She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess.
A tiny girl lurched out of a room where women were chatting and working on a large loom, and she grabbed my knees as her unsteady legs failed her. I stopped, and she grinned toothlessly up at me, her curls bobbing. As I reached down to touch her smooth cheek, a woman inside the room looked up, gave a stifled shriek, and ran out. She snatched the child away from me, then bowed so low that she folded over the little girl, who wailed in protest as she was squeezed.
"Pardon, p-pardon," the woman stammered, and she backed away, clutching the now-screaming child, until they both disappeared into the weaving room, where the talk and laughter had suddenly ceased.
I stood in the corridor and struggled with myself. I knew that woman; her oldest daughter, Timandra, had been my favorite playmate when we were little girls. She had fed me treats along with her own children, had comforted me when I fell from a tree, had scolded me when Timandra and I wandered too near the pen where the sacred bull was housed. Did the foolish woman really think I would harm my old playmate's sister?
I wanted to stamp into the weaving room and demand that they talk to me, that they not make their children fear me. There's no reason to be afraid, I wanted to say. Even if I wanted to hurt someone, I don't know how. And I don't want to. But this would only frighten them more. So I turned and continued on my way, trying to squeeze the tears back into my eyes.
Then I heard more voices, this time men's and women's mingling. Although it was difficult to tell in those twisting and crisscrossing corridors, the speakers appeared to be coming directly toward me. If it was awkward meeting women unexpectedly, it was a thousand times worse when I saw a man. They would always make a fist with the thumb sticking out between their clenched fingers in the sign that averts evil, and no matter how discreetly they tried to do it, I always saw them pointing it at me.
I didn't think I could bear that now, not after my disturbed night and the deaths of that woman and her children. Without looking where I was going, I ducked into another hallway, but it turned almost immediately, leading me back in the direction I had come from. I looked around wildly; by now, the desire to escape these unknown people had become an urgent need. Only one remaining corridor led away from them, and I plunged down it.
Chapter 4
I RAN DOWN the hall without noticing where I was heading, trying only to distance myself from that merry band. Suddenly I found myself in the Arena of Velchanos. The enormous hall was lit by slanting light coming through windows placed near the high ceiling, and although no bulls were present, their smell lingered in the straw and dirt. A group of boys clustered against the far wall. Some were small, still with the round belly of childhood, and few appeared to have even the beginnings of a beard. Simo, an unpleasant boy I had known since my childhood, surveyed the stands seeming to consider the people soon to be sitting there barely worthy of his notice. Next to him stood his friend Enops, who was a little older than me, and at the end of the line was little Glaukos. I liked Enops, whose easygoing way with me had become tempered with respect when I became She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess. Glaukos was sweet, and I didn't like the thought of him dancing near the sharp horns of the huge bull that would soon be in this arena.
A man stood with them, his back turned to me. I recognized him from the long white scar that wrapped around his ribs: Lysias, the greatest of the bull dancers in his day, who had survived being chosen by the god. The god had gored him during his first Planting Festival ritual, and now Lysias trained boys who were to put themselves to the test.
I should not have been there. Even though these boys were merely training and were not yet ready to meet the god, preparation for the men's rituals were as sacred as those for the women's, and a violation would cause a great deal of bother, as the area would have to be resanctified. Ever since I had bec
ome She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, my mere presence was enough to disrupt the balance of a sacred space. But so far, I had escaped their notice, and I hesitated to attract attention by moving.
Then I saw that I was not alone in the viewing stands. A man stood a few yards away, resting his elbows on the fence that divided the practice area from the spectators' benches. He, too, had his back to me, and his stocky form and broad shoulders were not familiar. I thought he must be an outlander; Kretan men were almost always more slender than this stranger. At the man's feet lay a large dog with wavy, cream-colored fur. Its long ears hung down, instead of being pricked up like those of our dogs, giving it the appearance of a giant puppy. The dog caught sight of me and rose on its long legs. It trotted to my hiding place and fixed me with its eyes. I am fond of dogs, so I extended my hand. It sniffed my fingers, its plumed tail waving gently.
"Who are you?" I whispered, and the dark eyes looked at me as though wanting to answer. I had just made up my mind to slip away when the dog's head shot out and its teeth clamped on my wrist. A deep voice exclaimed something, and a large brown hand clouted the dog's head away. The dog cringed and squirmed on its belly to its master, licking the hand that had struck it, reminding me of the one thing I didn't like about dogs.
"Did she hurt you?" the man asked. No, it was a boy, but he was mostly grown. He had the darkened skin of one who spends time outdoors. His brown hair and short beard—the beard confirmed that he was not from Krete, where most men are clean-shaven—were streaked with a lighter color where the sun had touched them. His teeth flashed white as he spoke. Despite his hair being cut in an odd way—short in front and hanging down past his shoulders in back—he was handsome. To my surprise he looked directly at me, and I recognized him as the boy I had seen at the port the day before.
I glanced at my wrist. Red marks that would turn bluish purple appeared on both sides, but the skin had not been broken.
"Did the dog hurt you?" the boy repeated, his lilting voice sounding impatient. I was unaccustomed to being directly addressed by anyone, especially a stranger and a foreigner, and I didn't know how to answer. I shook my head and clutched my wrist in my other hand, trying to think what to say—Had the dog hurt me? Was a ring of bruises an injury?—when five of the Minos's guards ran up to us, their long hair flying behind them.
"What happened?" asked Gnipho, the senior of the guards present. Gray streaks ran through the long hair under his cap, which was decorated with two small horns indicating his seniority, and the cloak thrown over his wiry form bore the double stripe of an officer.
"The dog was playing," the boy said gruffly. "Grabbed the young lady's arm in her teeth. No harm done."
"The young la—" Gnipho stopped, looking appalled at hearing me referred to in such an offhand manner. He went on stiffly, his eyes fixed on the ground near my feet, "She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess was not hurt?"
"No," I said.
"I will report as much. Guard, kill the animal."
A younger man grabbed the dog's collar from behind and pressed his knee into her back. He let go of the collar to seize the animal's muzzle, and the dog's body convulsed in an effort to free herself, as a whine escaped her. The guard pulled her head back sharply, stretching the long neck, while reaching for the knife in his belt with his free hand. The boy made a sound of protest and stepped forward, but in an instant the other three guards were holding their spears at his throat.
"No," a voice said. It took me a moment to realize that it was mine.
The men paused in their various tasks and glanced at me before hurriedly removing their gaze to the floor, the air, a point in the distance. Only the dog's owner kept his eyes fixed on me. They were as black as sand, and they glittered as a hint of a smile crinkled the lids.
"I'm not harmed," I said. "The dog was merely playing. Release it."
They hesitated. I let go of my wrist and allowed my right hand to drift up, fingers curling. The guards stared at it, and fear loosened their limbs even as their knuckles turned white with the strength of their grips on their weapons. The men around the dog's owner lowered their spears and stepped back. "Release it," I said again, and this time the guard holding the big dog stepped back and allowed her to rise. She surged to her feet and moved next to her master, pressing against his legs. His hand came down and rested on her head. It looked brown and sinewy among the bright waves.
I dropped my arm. "Leave," I said. The guards bowed and backed away, turning when they were barely seven paces distant, and fled. They stopped and regrouped in the doorway, but at least they were out of earshot. It was the best I could hope for; I could order them to go farther away, but if I did, my mother would surely hear of it.
The boy kept his hand on the dog's head. He looked at me again, this time up and down my whole body, appraising me. I flushed. I knew I should be angry, but instead I felt oddly excited and even pleased that he was looking at me the way I had seen men look at other girls—not at the floor in front of my feet, not at a point somewhere above my head.
"What was it he called you?" His voice was amused, and I flushed again. Now he would behave like the others. Perhaps he would even drop to the ground and lay his forehead on my feet and beg for forgiveness. Somehow, I didn't want to see that broad form bent in humility at my knees.
"I am She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess." I waited for him to stammer an apology at the very least, now that he knew who I was. Instead, his face continued to hold a half smile as his fingers lightly stroked the head of the dog.
"Is that what everybody calls you?"
"What else?"
He shrugged. "What does your mother call you?"
This was where I made my first mistake. My second, really; the first was not withdrawing from the practice arena as soon as I'd seen where I was. Perhaps if I hadn't offended the god by remaining, he would have averted all the disaster that was to follow and tonight I would still be at home, on Krete, dancing on the ancient floor under the crescent moon while holding my daughter's small hand and showing her the steps that have been passed down from She-Who-Is-Goddess to She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess since time was time.
But that's not how it happened. I told the stranger my name. And at that moment everything began to unravel, the way a tug on an end of yarn makes the whole ball, once firm and round, turn into a meaningless, useless tangle.
Chapter 5
ARIADNE," I said. "My name is Ariadne."
The foreign boy bowed. "A fitting name. 'Most holy.' I am Theseus."
The only people whose names can be pronounced with no threat, who can reveal their real names to others without fear, are either so utterly powerless that they have nothing to risk—like small children or my brother—or so strong that nobody would dare try to harm them. It was brave of this Theseus to trust me, a stranger, with his name. I, of course, had nothing to fear by telling him mine, yet out of respect most people avoided saying it.
"But they address you by another name. She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess?" I nodded. "So ... you will be a goddess one day?" Something in his voice made me squirm. It wasn't quite mockery, but also not the reverence I expected or the fear that would strike most people. I murmured a confirmation.
"And how is that?" The amusement I was certain I heard this time stung. The dog at the boy's side looked up at him and then at me.
"My mother is She-Who-Is-Goddess." I didn't care that my voice was stiff. Let him see that he had offended me. "When she joins our grandmothers, the moon, and becomes Goddess Forever along with them, I will be She-Who-Is-Goddess."
A brief silence, then, "Forgive me. I really am trying to understand. We don't have such goddesses in my country."
"What?" I was astonished. "You have no moon?"
"Of course we have the moon and of course we worship her, but she doesn't walk among us."
How sad, I thought, to know Goddess only as a light in the night sky that comes and goes! Even the smallest children in Krete know about She-Who-Is-Goddess and She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess. They know who we
are and what we do. They also have some confused ideas about our power, which is why they fear us. Did this Theseus really not know? Were the homes and customs of foreigners so utterly different? If Goddess did not walk among them, how did babies enter the world, and how did the Athenians ensure that their crops would grow?
I thought of the feasting and the merriment of the Planting Festival, and of sweet Ision. He had smiled and waved to his wife and son as the Minos led him out that final morning of last year's Festival. The woman and the boy had clung to each other, as motionless as the stone streaked with dark stains that stood alone in the field under the mild spring sun. The two didn't move while the Minos's men bound Ision's hands to the bolts driven into the stone's corners. The smile stayed on the blacksmith's face even when the shining knife in the Minos's fist came down and opened the doorway to his life. The Minos caught the blood in the bowls used only once a year and handed them to his priests. They ran, letting it splash and drip over the fields, quickly, before it clotted and refused to bestow its blessing anymore. Only then did the skin of Ision's face go slack and the light leave his eyes, and finally the smile slid down until it disappeared.
The memory fled as Theseus asked, "Are you unwell?" and I saw him standing in front of me, solid and strong, the blood beating in a pulse on his temple, his lips red and full, not blueish and withered like Ision's.
Before I could speak, a manservant approached. He bowed, then said to Theseus, "The Minos is waiting."
Theseus started, as though coming out of a dream, and said, "What? Sundown already?" Together we looked out the window, which was placed high in the wall so that the light wouldn't strike the bull dancers' eyes. We were facing east and could not see how far the sun had sunk, but the wisps of clouds were tinged with pink and the sky behind them was darkening. It was too late for me to continue to the Minos's quarters; my mother would forbid me to visit again soon if I appeared to have spent so much time there.
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