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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  The child was born.

  A prophecy, written so long ago none living now can imagine such a passage of time, a prophecy dismissed by many before me as an error in sight, is unfolding in my lifetime.

  These people look to me to protect them from the tempestuous wrath of deities. I, Themiste, Minos of Kaphtor, have the burden of using my knowledge to divert evil and danger from our beloved land.

  I’ve been Minos but a few months. My teacher is dead. I am the youngest priestess ever to be given the bull-mask and marked with the oracle’s sign on my forehead. For the first time, I wonder: do I have wisdom enough for this?

  Pelopia’s prophecy continues:

  “This birth will be marked by lightning, which will cause the destruction of a sacred place.”

  This morning Queen Helice gave birth to her second daughter. I myself picked the name: Aridela, which means ‘Utterly Clear.’ Just after the birth, lightning struck the summit of Mount Juktas, shaking our world and leaving a smoking crater where the shrine once stood.

  The people have begged me for reassurance. They know not that I too am afraid; if lightning will strike in the night, without benefit of cloud or rain, how can we guard against it?

  It was hot and breathless in the queen’s chamber, with the midwives, fires and unguents. I stepped onto her balcony for a moment, and so witnessed the event.

  Above me, the sky was black but for the winking of stars.

  A faint hum drew my gaze upward. I saw a flash of crimson and green, so bright it blinded me. Pillars of flame shot up on the mountain and even from where I stood I heard the terrible explosion. Behind me, the midwife cried out. I returned to the chamber to find her holding the baby, exclaiming about a mark on her wrist that appeared to be a fresh angry burn, its shape a perfect miniature replica of the horns of a bull. The midwife swore it wasn’t there before, that it appeared at the same moment she heard the sound of the strike. I admit I cannot remember seeing this mark during the birthing, but the woman could be lying to cover some careless mistake she made.

  Pelopia’s prophecy returned to my mind. For the first time I recognized the value of memorizing it.

  Themiste’s serpent flicked its tongue into her ear. “Stop, Io,” she said, stroking its head. “Let me think.” Yet her concentration was broken. The words she read made no sense. Her neck muscles wilted under the weight of the fancy diadem she’d donned for the feast. Dangling ivory beads clicked softly as she removed it and laid it on the table.

  She rubbed her neck and stretched her shoulders. Though she didn’t feel old, at twenty-seven, this weariness carried a foreshadowing of age. She pictured herself as a bent crone. Every word she uttered would be listened to with respect. People would bow as she passed. Themiste laughed at the fancy as she prepared a stylus. People respected her words now. No one, not even the queen, held more power than she. Her titles were many— Most Holy Minos, Moon-Being, Keeper of the Prophecies, Oracle and High Priestess of Kaphtor. It was unlikely that she would grow old anyway. Oracles incinerated early from close association with the fire of divine beings, and gave over their strenuous responsibilities to younger, stronger women.

  She unfastened each ivory clasp until her hair spilled almost to the floor. Io reared in protest at this suffocating curtain, Themiste’s one secret vanity.

  Why did this day make her wish she could remember her birth name? She concentrated, trying as well to recall the face of her mother, but soon realized she was only postponing her work.

  “I’m tired.” Themiste closed her eyes. Sleep would overtake her if she weren’t careful. She must finish what she started. Then she could rest.

  She remembered writing these words as though she’d done it moments ago.

  I chewed the cara. I drank the wine and breathed the smoke, and let the vision take me. My priestesses could not rouse me until long after the supper gong sounded. At last I gave voice to revelation; Laodámeia chased the others out and recorded my words so I could study them when I regained my senses.

  I haven’t told the queen. Omens speak yet leave unanswered mystery, and I must have more time. Have I done the proper thing, Lady Mother? Did I read the signs as you wished? From the moment of the birth, all Kaphtor has thronged to admire their new royal princess. They exclaim on her fine, delicate skin, a rich mix of olives and pink dittany. Already she watches those about her with quiet eyes, as though she possesses unrealized knowledge.

  Unrealized, perhaps, by mortals. Yet the Goddess showed me, in the smoke, what I fear the baby already knows.

  Terrible changes. Unspeakable horror.

  To give myself time, I told the people of Kaphtor that Athene has blessed our new princess, that the mark burned into her flesh is a sign of good will and alliance. I offered hints that the Lady’s beloved son, Velchanos, had a hand in Aridela’s conception, which makes her a most-holy grove child. In my vision, brilliant light surrounded the infant, leaving me with eerie conviction that my subterfuge held a core of truth. I wept, but the tears came from fervor, not guilt.

  Themiste didn’t read the rest. It was too unsettling. Instead she began inscribing on the clay tablet, carefully recording everything that happened at the feast meant to honor Carmanor and celebrate Aridela’s survival.

  * * * *

  Selene pummeled on Themiste’s door.

  Themiste herself opened it. Selene grabbed her shoulders, seeking comfort from her friend; yet even through the fog of grief she saw that the oracle didn’t look so much disconsolate as thoughtful.

  Themiste stood stiffly, offering nothing more than a pat on the arm.

  Selene released her and wiped her eyes. “We lost Aridela.” It hurt to speak. She couldn’t stifle a fresh flood of tears, no matter how hard she clenched her shoulder muscles or gritted her teeth.

  Themiste shook her head. “No, she lives. Only one died— the woman from Callisti. She who spoke before Aridela fainted.”

  Selene clutched the doorjamb. Her legs felt unsteady. She isn’t dead. “Then… what happened?” she managed.

  Themiste bit her lip. She crossed to a sputtering lamp and poured in a few drops of oil. “Aridela was confounded by vision. She had no venom or poppy, no cara. It came solely at the command of Athene. It’s a warning to us. Even now, the calamity of which it speaks is so near it shadows our horizon.”

  She seemed unnaturally calm, almost reconciled. Apprehension shivered the hair on the back of Selene’s neck.

  “There’s another thing.” Themiste kept her gaze fastened on the far end of the room, where smoke drifted. “When Aridela fell into her trance, I grew queasy. There was a stabbing pain in my head— my eye. It was unbearable.” She touched her temple then dropped her hand back to her side. “The queen and Iphiboë suffered similarly. Whatever affected Aridela and the boy affected us as well, to a lesser extent. Yet the rest at the high table were fine. No one else endured any ailment, and all recovered but for the woman from Callisti. Her companion said she’d long been ill.”

  “I did,” Selene said. “All at once, I was dizzy and sick though I was fine until that moment. I fainted. When I woke, Aridela was gone. I thought her dead.”

  “You, Aridela, the boy, me, Helice, Iphiboë, and the Callisti woman.” Themiste ticked off each name on her fingers. She looked up. “Poison, do you think?”

  “I ate from the same platters as everyone else. The wine I drank came from a common pitcher. I remember the maid carrying it around the room. If it were poison, everyone would be sick.”

  “I, too, am well again, as is Helice. She sent word that the boy is recovering and so is Aridela. Not even spoiled food has such a short-lasting effect.”

  Selene shook her head. “No.”

  “And the thunder. This isn’t the first time we’ve heard thunder when that boy and Aridela were together. Do you remember? The morning he brought her out of the shrine.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I wish I knew.” Themiste took Selene’s hand and pulled
her into the room, shutting the door behind her. “Will you vow never to repeat what I tell you?”

  “Of course. You needn’t ask.” Selene gave the promise without hesitation. She guarded many secrets.

  Themiste led her to a table littered with clay tablets, papyrus sheets, inkpots and pens.

  “Sit.” She pointed to a stool, and Selene obeyed.

  “I trusted you once before,” Themiste said, “when I shared my conviction that Aridela must die.”

  “You think I told someone?”

  “No. I ask you to hear more, if you’re willing.” Without waiting for her answer, Themiste picked up a clay tablet, still damp, and held it out to Selene.

  “I cannot read,” Selene said.

  “Oh, yes.” Themiste took back the tablet. “I forgot.”

  “Read it to me.”

  Themiste nodded and began.

  “Lion of gold from over the sea.

  Destroy the black bull,

  shake the earth free.

  Curse the god,

  crush the fold,

  pull down the stars

  as seers foretold.

  Isle of cloud,

  Moon’s stronghold,

  See your death come

  In spears of gold.”

  “What is it?” Selene asked.

  “At the feast, Aridela fell into a trance. She spoke this in the tongue of the homeland, a language she has never been taught.”

  Filaments of unease pierced the nape of Selene’s neck. “Read it again.”

  Selene asked Themiste to reread the prophecy three times.

  “I fear the reckoning in these words,” Themiste said softly. “I want to divert it, but how? What use am I to Kaphtor, if I am not shown what to do?” She ran her fingertips along the edge of the damp tablet. “What is this ‘lion of gold’? Is it a beast? A man? An army? A pestilence? How will we know it when it comes?”

  Selene succumbed to a spurt of unexpected laughter. At Themiste’s frown, she covered her mouth with one hand, trying to stifle it. “Forgive me,” she said. “But can you imagine the rumors? By now half of Kaphtor has heard that Aridela shot flames from her fingertips— that she took wing and burned as hot as the sun.”

  Themiste’s frown lifted into a faint smile, but it didn’t last. “I’ve grown lazy and overconfident,” she said. “So many years have come and gone in peace and prosperity. None of us know anything else. Even earthshakings are minor annoyances.”

  “Themiste.” Selene grabbed the oracle’s hand. “Please, please, you cannot blame yourself for this. How could you have caused it?”

  Themiste shook her head. “There’s more I want to share with you.” Riffling through the stacks, she eventually found the papyrus she was looking for and read it.

  “A lion and a bull appear in my visions. This lion must bare his throat and consent to his destruction. The bull must consume the lion. The moon and stars will then return to the egg and the bull will repair the egg with his divine seed.”

  Selene lifted her hands to express incomprehension as Themiste leveled her with a pleading gaze. If the oracle of Kaphtor couldn’t decipher these strange words and felt she must look to Selene for guidance, all was lost.

  “I know.” Themiste sighed. “My head aches from trying to see meanings beyond my capabilities. I feel my inexperience. I fear my failure.”

  Her shoulders slumped. Selene looked away, ashamed at her inability to give the comfort Themiste so clearly needed.

  Themiste drew a breath and continued.

  “One more completes the triad. A child will spring from the loins of Velchanos, god of lightning, her celestial brother. Without her, all will fail.”

  Newly invigorated, Selene rose and paced from one end of the table to the other. “Since the night she was born and lightning destroyed the shrine on Mount Juktas, this is what the people call her. Daughter of Velchanos. Is there more?”

  “Yes, my friend, there is so much more. I’ve tried to understand the intent in these prophecies for as long as I can remember. Will you hear the rest?”

  “Yes please,” Selene said eagerly, and Themiste read on.

  “Mortals forsake the Lady. She fights to win back what she has lost, but must give her champions free will: if any of her triad refuses or abandons their calling, every civilization will perish in conflict and fire. If three become two, all the world will be reborn to the bountiful Mistress of Many Names, and the vine will again bear fruit.”

  “We haven’t forsaken her,” Selene said. “We honor the Lady in all we do.”

  “Yes.” Themiste’s expression darkened. “But every trade ship brings new rumors of burned shrines, desecrated statues, the rape of Our Lady’s priestesses. I believe she who wrote this log saw into the future. How long can Kaphtor hold out against the rest of the world? Against these new gods who seem to be everywhere lately, and who lash out so violently?”

  “What are these writings, Minos?” Selene clenched her hands to stem the trembling. She glanced at the mess on the table. If all these tablets and sheets contained similar language, Themiste’s obligations were legion. No surprise oracles died young.

  “Prophecies, handed down from oracle to oracle.” Themiste foraged until she found the next papyrus she wanted. “A Minos called Timandra wrote this one when my grandmother lived.”

  “The child must rise up from the intoxication in which she willingly drowns. If she becomes pure, utterly clear, the thinara king and his disciples will give her their allegiance. If she does not, every living thing will languish and the end will come.”

  Selene rubbed her forehead. Her mind was spinning. “What is the thinara king?”

  “The title given in forgotten times to he who will rule beyond his term and shatter all traditions. On the morning Carmanor carried Aridela from the shrine, she said something to me about the thinara king.” Themiste paused, frowning. “She said it again at the feast, in her delirium. I have never taught her the word. I can’t imagine where she could have heard it.”

  “It says the child must become utterly clear. That is Aridela’s name-meaning. Can there be any doubt this writing speaks of her?”

  “Not in my mind.” Themiste selected another clay tablet, this one old, fragile, the edges pale and crumbling. She handled it with care.

  “He of one father but two mothers will grow to dominion in a foreign land— one split into two, gold and obsidian. The universal egg will crack. All that is sacred will spill and be lost. Lion and bull, they are forged.”

  Selene’s gaze returned to the damp clay tablet holding Aridela’s recent prediction. “Every one of these strikes a similar note. Did Timandra write that too?”

  Themiste shook her head. “This one was Melpomene’s.”

  Selene stared at the tablet. She wanted to touch it, but hesitated. Every native of Kaphtor knew of Melpomene, the seer who predicted the worst earthshaking the island ever experienced, which toppled palaces, shrines and buildings, and left countless numbers dead. Stories of the calamity survived through the generations; children still played on piles of overgrown rubble in the pastures. “But she— she lived so long ago—”

  Themiste returned the tablet to the table. “Yes. This was written, as we tell time, over three hundred years ago. There are logs, my friend, written by oracles, which go back to Kaphtor’s beginnings. This prophecy is mentioned throughout. The gold lion, the bull, a child, the triad. You remember the prophecy I shared with you a year ago— the one about Aridela’s birth. It was the first prophecy I was required to memorize. My teacher would beat me if I got a single word wrong.” She gave a short, bitter laugh.

  “Of course I remember. I said so then, and I say so now. It could refer to no one but Aridela.” Selene returned to the stool, too wrung out to go on standing.

  “Yes, I think so too. I never told you the second part.” She found a papyrus and pulled the lamp closer. “Time has ruined the original, but we oracles keep it preserved.” She began to read.
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  “Should this child survive, she will be made blind and deaf to earthly things. All that seems evil to others will appear innocent to her. She will see only what the Mother wants her to see. This holy child will follow a path of deep shadow to unlock the secrets of the moon.”

  Selene stared at her friend, not knowing what to say.

  “This is what sent me to her bedside with my knife,” Themiste whispered. “It says, ‘Should this child survive.’ The night she was born, lightning speared the sky and burned her. I remembered this prophecy. I was afraid. I knew it was the beginning. I knew Helice had given birth to no ordinary child. The people wanted reassurance. They were afraid, too. I didn’t know what to say, so I lied. I told them she was blessed. Then I came here, seeking answers. I sent myself into vision.”

  She stopped.

  “What, Minos?”

  Tears slipped down Themiste’s cheeks. “I saw our country ravaged, our palaces crumbled, women and Lady Athene herself brought low, forced into servitude. And more. Cataclysms of the earth. Fires, wind, earthshaking and death. I couldn’t tell the queen. She loved her new baby. But that night I decided Aridela must die. I believed her death would avert the curse.” Her voice caught; her shoulders trembled. “It took me ten years to make the attempt. I loved her too. She can be selfish. She is certainly spoiled. She lacks humility. She is impulsive and reckless. She’s never been tested or hurt. Yet I have seen her broken heart at the stillbirth of a lamb, and the tenderness she gives her sister. Her spirit for life makes me feel alive. Aridela is the daughter I could have had if I were allowed to live like other women.”