The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Aridela will betray us?”

  She will betray all people, everywhere, and her Holy Mother, and all she loves, and all who love her.

  Grief washed in agonizing waves as Themiste thought of Aridela’s infectious laugh and fierce loyalty, that boundless courage which carried her into all sorts of precarious situations.

  She felt the unambiguous weight of a man’s stomach pressed to her own, and the brush of hair against her cheek, but feared opening her eyes, for part of her knew still that this was a vision, and looking upon it might break the spell.

  “What would make her do that?” she asked, her voice catching.

  Minos, look at me, the voice said.

  Shaking with dread, Themiste clenched her teeth and opened her eyes, but the face above hers, though grave, was also kind. Every aspect constantly changed. His hair transformed from dark to light as did his skin and eyes, like the astonishing flesh of the cuttlefish. He glowed and flickered; the wreath across his forehead melted from silver into bronze then lapis then obsidian. She gasped as the vision entered her body, not as a mortal lover would, but through her skin, an unimaginable melting and merging. She told herself she was dreaming; it couldn’t be real, yet she wished it were.

  She knew this man. He was Damasen, Aridela’s dead father, surrounded by an ethereal aura of divinity.

  He pressed his hands to her cheeks, causing a vision within a vision to form. She saw women, hidden in ponderous drapes that allowed no hint of feature. Heads bowed, they performed the menial tasks of slaves. Their homes were dank, filthy rooms that allowed no sunlight. She heard their weeping and felt their hopelessness. The world she saw in the eyes of Damasen was bleak; it blackened her soul, leaving her heavy with despair.

  Betrayal cannot birth from nothing, Damasen said. It weaves backward and forward, into and out of the thread of life and death, of faith and love, of envy and desire. This future will only come to pass if the child is first deceived by those to whom she gives her trust.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Themiste caught at the spark of hope in his words. This calamitous future might be avoided, so long as Aridela wasn’t misled.

  She read his face. Filled with fervor, she cried, “I won’t allow anything to harm her, either in body or spirit.”

  The god’s expression didn’t change. She wanted to strike him, to thwart what his eyes promised, what she couldn’t prevent, no matter what she did.

  You will know when the time comes, he said. Aridela and her sister are as one. Iphiboë must open the path, so Aridela can walk alone into the dark.

  “No. Not alone.”

  Remember. Damasen’s face changed. His eyes lengthened; lashes fell on her cheeks. His nose elongated and his lips thinned. His skin melted into matched grey and black scales. Soon Io lay on her breast, gazing at Themiste in a calm, unblinking way.

  She lay on the bed recovering her senses. Gradually, as she pondered, she was invigorated by energy. She felt free and light. Instead of taking Aridela’s life, she would nurture her. She would prepare the child, and herself, for whatever was to come. She would dedicate herself to averting the terrible future predicted by a dead god-king. Somehow, she would find a way to protect the princess from those who would forsake her.

  She stood, leaving Io on the bed. Crossing to the table, she smoothed a sheet of papyrus and sharpened a reed pen. The interlude with Damasen must be recorded before it could fade, before the venom headache made it too hard to think. And she must hurry. The counselors may have finished questioning the boy by now. She wanted to get to the throne room before any decision was reached.

  From the Oracle Logs, she wrote.

  Themiste

  Io the holy serpent stopped my hand. I tremble at what I nearly did, to myself, this land, and to the child— the child I have grown to love more even than the Goddess I am sworn to serve.

  Chapter Five: Moon of Field Poppies

  The last time Queen Helice visited Mycenae, Menoetius had only been ten years old. Still, as guards prodded him into the Cretan throne room, he feared she might recognize him. He reminded himself that he’d only met her in passing. It was Chrysaleon, his brother and heir to the crown, who was paraded before the royal Cretan visitor.

  Men and women sat on benches along the wall on either side of the dais, watching him with expressions ranging from curious to skeptical. To the queen’s left stood a slender young woman, her hand resting upon Helice’s shoulder. Her dark eyes flitted from each guard to him and away again. The gold links falling from her diadem trembled.

  She was the same girl Helice had clung to as they waited to hear Aridela’s fate the day she was gored. He’d heard someone in the crowd that day call her Iphiboë, the queen’s older daughter, and heir to her throne.

  The throne upon which the queen sat was carved from an enormous block of gypsum. Frescoes of black bulls flanked her dais, their heavy heads facing the throne, bowed in submission. Every wall featured these bulls, separated by sheaves of barley and flowering lilies. Bright blue and crimson whorls decorated the molding along the ceiling. Underneath the scent of incense Menoetius caught the more pungent bouquet of animals; several onlookers held pet monkeys and cats, restrained with embroidered collars and leashes. In the corner next to the well of holy water, a sleek black panther with yellow-green eyes lay at ease beside its handler, its tail flicking idly.

  A guard shoved Menoetius in the back then yanked him to a stop before a seated line of richly dressed men and women. He glanced about for Alexiare and was relieved to see his slave near the entrance.

  One of the women stood. Grey wove through her curled black locks and lines indented the skin around her mouth and eyes. She possessed an air of stern majesty, and resembled the queen somewhat. Menoetius shrank from her cold expression and the suspicion in her eyes. She held a smooth bronze pole as high as a tall man, topped with an upturned crescent of ivory.

  “Who are you?” she spoke in her native language; Menoetius silently thanked Alexiare for his painstaking instruction over the last several weeks and on the ship.

  “Carmanor.” He spoke the first name that came to mind. A pause followed. He wondered if indeed his choice was coincidence, for in the language of the Pelasgians, the name was a title given to those who served as priests to Goddess Hera.

  The advisors put their heads together and conferred. The muttering died after a moment and everyone stared at him, even the beasts. No one moved.

  “A foreigner.” The woman looked him up and down. “How did you get the princess out of her bedchamber? What was your plan?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Who sent you?” She sneered. “Whose command do you follow?”

  He could hesitate no longer. This might be his only chance. “Where are those who heard me call for help? I was praying in your shrine, alone. She came in by herself. She was bleeding. She fainted. I picked her up and brought her out—”

  “The palace shrine is forbidden to outsiders.” Her nose wrinkled as though he smelled bad. Maybe he did, after two days and nights in their underground, with only rats and insects for company.

  You allowed her to enter the ring and get gored, he almost shouted. I saved her life.

  He bit down on his lip. Certainty flooded. Saving the princess was the true reason he’d come to Crete. This conviction flared so stunningly he suspected it was indeed the rarest of gifts, divine insight offered by the Moerae, who saw a man’s future and held the fate of all in their cold, pale hands. He dare not dismiss it as coincidence.

  A man stood and gestured for the crescent-topped pole. The woman inclined her head, saying “Prince Kios,” and handed it to him.

  “Why are you here, then?” he asked, his voice far milder than his companion’s.

  Menoetius gestured toward Alexiare. “My father described the land where he spent his youth. I have longed to see Crete’s high mountains, fertile valleys, and great temples. I wanted to see this acclaimed palace, the House of the Double Axe.
”

  “Enough. You think I cannot recognize toadying?” Now the man appeared angry.

  “That is why I came. And to pray to Lady Athene in the place she loves more than any other, the only place in the world still loyal to her.”

  Shocked silence fell. The man who questioned him blinked several times. His lips thinned. “There are many places still loyal to her. And they will remain so, long after your death.”

  “The boy grew up on the mainland.” Alexiare stepped forward. “He means no disrespect. There, as you know, all has succumbed to gods of the sky and seas. He is ignorant of the world outside those borders.”

  The woman who initially questioned Menoetius seized the pole. “You. Why do you live there?”

  Anxiety flamed through Menoetius’s limbs. He didn’t want Alexiare interrogated. What if they decided to kill him, too?

  As he opened his mouth, determined to reacquire their attention, there was a disturbance. A woman entered the throne room, her face hidden behind a spectacular mask. Though stylistic, it represented a bull’s face. The crown of the head supported curved ivory horns. The face itself was crimson with shiny black, opaque eyes, but Menoetius realized from the way they rested on him, that the person wearing the mask could see. Feathers sprouted around the outer edge, giving a fiercely combative impression. The overall effect was a creature of nightmares.

  This woman, for her open-breasted costume made at least that much clear, must possess a high rank, for she approached the dais without any bow. The black bull’s eyes stared at Menoetius. She knelt beside the throne and spoke to the queen.

  The assemblage waited. Only the panther lapping a drink of water breached the silence.

  Sweat crept down Menoetius’s temple. It tickled; he wanted to wipe it away, but didn’t dare. He hadn’t presented himself well. If it were left up to the woman interrogating him, he would die before the onset of another day.

  The two at the throne continued to confer. Menoetius’s mind wandered back to the moment he’d first seen the princess. She’d staggered past him to kneel before the statue of Athene. As she fell, he leaped forward to catch her. The moment he touched her, so much happened he could hardly now separate all of it. The doves in their cages burst into frightened fluttering. The air itself took on a different quality; it felt as though he breathed fire. Every hair on his body lifted.

  He picked up the child, cradled her in his arms as a clap of thunder rent the sky. She’d been light, as though fashioned of little more than air.

  He’d never felt such devastating emotion as he held her and she sighed. “Thank you, Mother,” she’d whispered.

  He couldn’t deny how much he craved to be reunited with her.

  If he could never see her again, he might welcome a death sentence from her mother.

  The queen rose from her throne.

  Menoetius stopped breathing as she met his gaze.

  “Put him with Isandros,” she said. “We shall wait and hear what my daughter has to say.”

  That was all.

  He felt the eyes behind the awe-inspiring bull’s mask bore into him as he was pulled from the room.

  * * * *

  The gentle cooing of black-ringed doves on her balcony coaxed Aridela from sleep. Groggily, she stretched, only to be reminded of the wound by a stab of pain across her midsection that forced an involuntary gasp.

  Her nurse, Halia, hobbled over from the loom in the corner. “Shall I fetch Rhené?” she asked in her quivery voice.

  “So she can douse me in more poppy? I hate poppy.”

  “It makes you sick.” Halia smoothed the coverlet and shooed away the cat.

  “I know what you’re thinking. How can I be a priestess if poppy makes me throw up?”

  “You’ll make a fine priestess. Maybe even an oracle. Now poppet, here’s a nice honeycomb and bread, still hot.”

  Aridela bit her lip. She felt hateful. Who wouldn’t, waking full of energy then halted by pain, and orders to stay in bed? She wanted to say something that would make her nurse feel bad too. She wanted everybody to be unhappy. But this was her fault, and everyone had been very kind. Her mother hadn’t even shouted at her. So she refrained.

  A sudden rustle next to her ear made her jump, but it was only Io, the Most Holy Minos’s asp, which she often petted and played with. It lay coiled on the reed pillow. “Were you worried about me?” She stroked its head with one finger, careful to make no precipitous moves, as she’d been taught.

  “Poppet?” Halia picked up something from the foot of the bed. Her confused expression turned to concern.

  “What?”

  Halia lowered her hands to display the object resting on her palms.

  It was a dagger.

  Chapter Six: Moon of Field Poppies

  Menoetius squatted on hard-packed earth and tried to ignore the dank chill of the underground. Back in Helice’s labyrinthine prisons, he had only his thoughts and his fellow captive, Isandros, to keep him from losing heart.

  His misadventures on Crete hadn’t harmed his dedication to the Lady of the Wild Things, though his father would undoubtedly wish it so. Alexiare was partly to blame. It was he who’d nurtured Menoetius and his brother on endless stories of gods and goddesses, but especially Athene, of the gifts she gave and mighty punishments she dealt.

  Fascination with the grey-eyed goddess had thrived in secret within him for as long as he could remember. It affected the way he saw everything. No other deity could claim to have given mortals as many gifts. She it was who taught the art of combining copper with tin, how to weave cloth, and the mysteries of olive cultivation. Without those three skills, surely all humans would have died out long ago.

  When he was thirteen, Menoetius journeyed alone into the mountains and offered her his life. He cut his hair and burned it along with the tender thighs of a fawn and his most valuable possession, a gold armband belonging to his mother.

  My father wants to supplant you, Lady. If he and his followers have their way, your ageless history will be wiped out.

  Were it not for the native farmers and fishermen entrenched on the plains of Argolis long before his people descended from the north, his father would have succeeded by now. But the king was finding his desire difficult to attain. These people had revered Athene for time beyond reckoning, alongside powerful Hera, the grain-mother Demeter, and dreaded, dark Hecate. Shrines and grottoes dotted the land from Boeae to Thasos, from Troy to Rhodes. Menoetius’s father and his minions bore hatred toward these infinite deities, and worked to diminish them. They employed many methods, from changing the words of the old songs to raids and slaughter. Menoetius suspected the source of this malice was nothing more than jealousy, but he shied away from judging the man who had given him so much.

  How could they not rejoice in the fact that Athene brought a finer layer to their petty, dusty lives? Here on Crete, he felt she might reveal herself if he knew which shadow to examine.

  One of the guards in the corridor shifted position. The butt of his spear scraped against a flagstone, drawing Menoetius out of his reveries. Compared to the last cell in which he’d been confined, this one was pure luxury, for it contained a single flat-topped tripod that held a cracked amphora of water and platter of food. Three small hanging lamps offered dim illumination. Menoetius took all this as a positive sign. Queen Helice must suspect he’d told her the truth.

  Isandros was fourteen and a peacock. He still wore the crimson loincloth and fancy studded belt he’d had on the day of the goring, and nothing else but smudged kohl around his eyes and twin armbands. He’d fastidiously clubbed his hair back earlier when the guards brought them some moldy cheese, fruit and olives, but had eaten sparingly, explaining in a tone of disdain that he was a bull dancer; his life depended on being swift and light.

  Menoetius hardly recognized the boy who wept and begged for his life the day Aridela was gored. Isandros was now supremely confident he would be pardoned. He claimed he’d had a dream promising it, and ex
plained how much trust his people put in dreams.

  Menoetius had agreed. It was the same in his country.

  “Tell me about your sister,” he said, hoping to pass time. Isandros crouched nearby, slicing into a pomegranate with a small knife. He dropped pith and skin into a clay bowl painted with ivy, vines and sheaves of wheat— a pretty reminder of the comforts above. Soon after Menoetius was dragged down to his latest prison, Isandros bluntly asked if he’d meant to harm Aridela; after listening to his explanation, absorbing every inflection with a cold stare, he said he believed him.

  “She’s my half sister.” Isandros managed with a glance to convey conceit. “My father was Damasen, the queen’s fourth consort.” He paused to fling a strand of loosened hair behind his shoulder. “Before his death, people called him Aridela’s father too, though many believe her half divine, a mortal child sired by Velchanos.”

  “Is she?”

  “She is specially blessed, under Lady Athene’s protection.”

  “And a god’s child?”

  The boy pointed the knife at him. “On the night she was born, a giant bolt of lightning struck our holy mountain, though it was not raining and the skies were starry. Many thought it a bad omen, especially after a mark appeared on Aridela’s wrist. The midwife said the baby woke crying at the same time the lightning struck the shrine and set it on fire. The midwife picked her up and saw a burn on the inside of her left wrist, shaped like a bull’s horns. She swears to this day it wasn’t there when she drew Aridela from her mother. The augurs examined it and declared the lightning a spill of the holy son’s divine seed, and the destruction of the shrine a sacrifice to honor the birth.”

  Menoetius pictured the terrifying strike of lightning. The newborn crying out. The midwife discovering the burn. A faint shiver crept down his spine but he managed to say without inflection, “Is that so?”