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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Must I point out the consequences of such an alliance?” Idómeneus growled.

  Chrysaleon hoped darkness disguised his embarrassment. The other kings would consider themselves entitled to hefty portions of rich Crete if they helped overthrow her. Idómeneus would be forced to share control. Stupid not to think of that. A tickling wind slipped down the back of his neck. He must be wearier than he realized, or this girl was making him soft. Maybe he should send her away, spend his time with the wrestlers and sword masters.

  But he hadn’t yet begun to tire of her.

  Idómeneus leveled a somber gaze on his heir. “Your kingship depends on the decisions we make tonight. Six years ago, Menoetius assured me that any attempt to overthrow Crete would mean our humiliation. Helice was too strong, the island too well protected. But now she’s distracted, if these rumors be true, by her daughter’s weakness and this possible illness. I feel it in my bones; this changeover in power is our opportunity, and we dare not let it pass. Tiryns cannot be allowed a foothold in Crete, no matter how tenuous.”

  Chrysaleon strode to the far edge of the bastion, weaving between piles of tools, rubble and uncut stone. The inexorable strength of the gigantic blocks, fitted one against the next like lovers striving to become one, hummed through his feet. His long heritage surged like wind-blown sparks through his veins as he lifted his head and sent his voice echoing across the valley. “Fortune Favors the Bold!”

  A dog somewhere below erupted into fits of barking.

  His father and brother joined him. Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s forearm with one gnarled hand. “Our motto serves us well,” he said. “We’ll shout it from the rooftops of Knossos and fill their famous water pipes with blood. We will take our supper in their great hall and sing the songs of our fathers over their corpses.”

  He sighed. His shoulders slumped and his brave words evaporated into the clammy air. “We cannot continue as Helice’s allies. Crete is too rich, too lazy. Now is the time for expanding and strengthening the kingdom. Now, with Helice stepping down and that scrawny daughter taking the throne.”

  Chrysaleon scraped a hand through his hair. “I can’t remember. What is this daughter called?”

  Idómeneus’s laugh was coldly sarcastic. “Iphiboë. She wouldn’t attract you, my son. She’s timid, plagued with agues. It hardly seems possible such a meek bird came from the womb of mighty Helice.”

  “Perhaps the father’s blood weakened her,” Menoetius said.

  “Don’t underestimate those men.” Idómeneus managed to sound both admiring and cynical. “Do you think them spineless because they paint their eyes and shave their faces smooth as women?” The king fingered his own beard, once bright blond, now the hue of ashes. “Though they know the end their priestesses design for them, they walk to it willingly, compete for the honor of spilling their blood into the ground.”

  “Senseless,” Menoetius said, “done to preserve the dominion and glory of women.” His voice held scorn, but something else as well. Chrysaleon had heard that restless dissatisfaction more often over the last few years. Menoetius suffered an older man’s bitterness and a veneer to match.

  “You’ve chosen to follow the sun and Poseidon,” Idómeneus said. “He dwells in storm clouds, on mountaintops, not in the sticky bowels of the earth. Here at Mycenae, Lady Athene bows before blue-bearded Earth Shaker; soon she’ll take her rightful place among the women and slaves.”

  A moment of tense silence ensued. Chrysaleon waited for what might happen. Before the clandestine journey to Crete, this subject would cause raging battles between Idómeneus and his bastard son, who spent his youth revering Potnia Athene with the same singular passion he now gave to a mastery of weapons. There was also the problem of Idómeneus’s advisors. Most didn’t share the king’s abhorrence. They chided him about showing more respect to the powerful Goddess of many names. Due to their harping, a stone -carved monument to her greeted every mortal who passed under the gate into Mycenae’s citadel. Four years it took to construct, and hoisting it into place caused much trouble, including the deaths of twelve slaves. Idómeneus detested the thing.

  Chrysaleon watched closely to catch Menoetius’s reaction, as he suspected his father was doing. Nothing happened but a slight frown, which told Chrysaleon all he needed to know.

  The king pushed harder. “I’m pleased you finally put away your childish pledges to her. It’s a sign of your manhood.”

  Menoetius acknowledged the praise with a tilt of the head then changed the subject. “I heard something else at Tiryns. I’m not sure it’s important.”

  “Well?”

  “It concerns Harpalycus and his lackey. Proitos.”

  His half brother’s hesitation and the way he glanced at Chrysaleon gave warning.

  “What about them?” Chrysaleon kept his voice even.

  “I heard, not once or twice but many times, that people are going missing or turning up dead, their bodies mutilated. The whispers claim Prince Harpalycus is murdering them.”

  “You make no sense, brother. Why would he do that?”

  Menoetius sighed. He shook his head slowly. “He’s trying to find a way to achieve life without death.”

  Chrysaleon snorted a laugh. “Harpalycus’s mind is woven from seaweed that has dried to dust.”

  “The slaves spreading these tales didn’t think him mind-sick.” Menoetius flung the tiger pelt off his shoulders impatiently. “They say Proitos was taught the secrets of evil alchemy by a master— one rumored to have learned from Goddess Hecate.”

  “Alexiare,” Chrysaleon said.

  Menoetius said nothing, but his gaze was keen.

  “I’ve never seen such skills in Alexiare. Have you? He was with you six years ago when you sailed to Crete. Surely, if he were this master of evil, as you say, you would have glimpsed something.”

  “Alexiare keeps much hidden.”

  “Father?” Chrysaleon turned to Idómeneus. “You’ve known him longest. You brought his mother here when he was a boy. What say you?”

  Idómeneus chewed his lip awhile before answering. “From the beginning there were tales. Her desire for revenge against those who enslaved her was well known. I watched and listened; I would have used the slightest misstep as an excuse to have her killed, but she never made a misstep.” He paused, frowning, then made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I didn’t forego my bed to conjecture about vengeful women and their cursed blood-roused schemes. Let us return to a subject we can seize in our fists. How can we keep Harpalycus from gaining the advantage on Crete?”

  “There are the Games,” Menoetius said, low.

  “So?” The king rubbed his forehead wearily.

  “The winner becomes king.”

  “King in name, pawn in truth.” Idómeneus stared coldly at his son. “He holds no power and gives his blood to the Lady like a bleating goat.”

  “My idea was half-formed. I’ve overstepped my place.”

  Idómeneus paused. “I want your thoughts, formed or not. Speak.”

  “Harpalycus has no desire to end his life in Crete’s blood sacrifice. His intent is overthrow, both of Crete and Mycenae.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “If a man loyal to you won the Games, he would gain access to Crete’s palaces and weapons, and would command your army, which is far greater than what Tiryns could muster. Why should we not use Harpalycus’s plan to our benefit?”

  “Don’t forget the queen.” Chrysaleon experienced a lively inner thrill at the image of a bloody assault then the triumphant sack and rape of Knossos. His fists clenched as he pictured himself at the head of his father’s battalions, driving his chariot under the massive stone bull’s horns that crowned every entry into their famed palace. Women screaming, men dying— nothing could give a more satisfying sense of invincibility. “If a warrior from Mycenae won the Games, our two Houses would be forever combined, through offspring if nothing else.”

  Idómeneus tapped the haft of hi
s spear against Chrysaleon’s shoulder. “Before celebrating victory and filling the island from end to end with your get, let me remind you of what the winner faces. No king on Crete has ever seen old age. He lives but one year then is murdered at the rise of the summer star Iakchos. There’s scarcely enough time to watch the queen give birth to one child; he cannot have even that if she turns him over to one of her surrogates. Since the beginning of the world, none have escaped this fate.”

  “Those men give themselves to the service of their Goddess,” Menoetius said, a sneer in his voice. “They will never cross her. But what if one of the Kindred won, a warrior unwilling to crawl to his death without a fight? A man, my lord, with Argolis’s most powerful kingdom at his back?”

  Idómeneus stared from Menoetius to Chrysaleon. “Are you suggesting I send my heir to compete in the Cretan Games?”

  “No, Father, of course not. I offer myself.” Menoetius stepped between Chrysaleon and the king.

  Idómeneus laid his hand on Menoetius’s shoulder. “You remind me of your mother.”

  “A woman, my lord?”

  Giving a hearty laugh that scattered the tension, Idómeneus said, “I raised you with my son because I respected your mother above all women. I know the value of your offering.”

  “He honors you, Father.” Chrysaleon stifled a rush of fury at the mention of that bitch and the insult to his own mother, spoken right in front of him. If the slave Sorcha hadn’t bound Idómeneus with her spells, Menoetius would not be here now, trying to steal his brother’s rightful glory. Chrysaleon had long suspected the bastard harbored a lust for distinction as powerful as his own.

  No matter. Menoetius might be Idómeneus’s offspring; he might receive more attention than he deserved, but he could never achieve a future as bright as the get of Idómeneus’s royal queen. He would always be a bastard. Not even Idómeneus could change that.

  He stepped around Menoetius, unobtrusively thrusting his elbow in his brother’s ribs and smiling at the resultant ooph. “I must be the one,” he said. “I’m the Crown Prince. Only for me will the—”

  “That I will never allow.” Idómeneus’s voice echoed over the rough stones, sending the distant dog into renewed hysteria. “I won’t risk you being sacrificed like an ox. What they do to their bull-king is kept secret, but I’ve heard tales. Their ways are cold and ancient.”

  “My lord,” Menoetius said, “that isn’t the end any of us would desire. My plan is this. We trick the queen and her priestesses without risking your son, your crown, or your alliance with Crete. I’ll go alone. I’ll profess love for Lady Athene, and tell them an oracle’s decree, or a promise to my mother, led me to their Games. The queen has probably forgotten me or would no longer recognize me….” He waved toward his face, acknowledging the unkind changes wrought since the last time he’d seen her. “But even if she does remember, she’ll believe I’ve come to show my devotion to Crete’s ways. She trusted me once, and I never allowed her to suspect the connection between us. Chrysaleon cannot hide his resemblance to you. She would recognize him immediately.” Sending Chrysaleon a snide glance, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and tossed it in the air, catching it again with practiced skill. “If I go alone, she’ll never know you played a part, no matter what happens.”

  Idómeneus turned away, his lips working and his shoulders slowly relaxing. “If the other mainland Houses hear any of this,” he said, “they may send warriors as well. Curse Harpalycus for forcing my hand. I’m as unwilling to risk you as I am Chrysaleon. There must be another way. One of my best warriors. Or I could warn Helice—”

  The dog’s persistent barks disrupted the night. Eddying breezes focused into whirlpools that pulled at skin and hair.

  “You make no sense, Father.” Chrysaleon grabbed Idómeneus’s arm and swung him around, tact and good sense lost in a rush of anger. “‘Warn Helice.’ That’s the worst thing you could do. You want and need Crete, but you’re afraid to take risks. Menoetius and I stand before you, ready to achieve your desire. Do you see King Lycomedes being so fearful? Harpalycus is his heir. Why must I always be shut away in this tomb like a woman?”

  “Enough.” Idómeneus jerked his arm free. “How dare you question me? You will do as I command.” Fists clenched, he stepped closer to Chrysaleon. They glared and snarled, resembling the lions to which each was often compared.

  “There is another way, my lord.” Menoetius placed a restraining hand on the king’s clenched forearm. “Perhaps it would please you better. Since Chrysaleon wants to go so badly, what if he and I sail to Crete without fanfare, as nameless unimportant foreigners, the same that swell their shores every day? Chrysaleon will have his little adventure, and I will enter the Games only if we can ferret out weakness in their defenses. The risk will be small. If Chrysaleon is careful, we may find a way to succeed. At least we can keep an eye on Harpalycus, and if necessary, Chrysaleon can warn the queen and seal forever her gratitude to Mycenae.”

  Idómeneus’s head lifted and he swallowed, his protuberant larynx visible through his thinning beard. He stepped back, mouth set tight, then, without warning, raucous laughter exploded from his throat and he gave his son a mighty blow on the chest. “You’re my true get,” he said. “How can I ever be surprised at anything you do?”

  “I follow the lessons you taught.” Chrysaleon inclined his head.

  “Give me your oath.” Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s shoulders, forcing him to return his stare. “You’ll keep your head down? If any competing must be done, Menoetius will do it. Give me your vow, Chrysaleon. You’ll take no risks.”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  Idómeneus’s stare was chilling, penetrating; a moment passed in silence before he turned to his other son. “And you. Only if there’s no other way, and if you’re certain you’ll win?”

  “One can never be certain of triumph in anything, but I’ll do what must be done to keep Harpalycus from winning.”

  “Attend the Games, then. Poseidon be thanked for you, Menoetius. I would suffer the torment of the snake-haired Erinyes without you there to watch Chrysaleon’s back. Keep him out of mischief.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Menoetius replied.

  “Then it’s settled. In two months, you’ll sail to Crete for the rise of the summer star that brings death to the bull-king.”

  As they left the wall, Chrysaleon caught a pointed glance from his father. He thought he understood. Idómeneus would never say it, but he didn’t trust Menoetius to serve his will. That was the true reason he’d agreed to send his heir.

  Chapter Two: Moon of Laurel Leaves

  Chrysaleon couldn’t sleep, even after waking his girl, who was as warm and sleepy as a kitten, though cranky as a boar at being disturbed. Restless, his thoughts circling, he returned to the stone ramparts. The rain clouds had floated away, leaving a clear sky with hints of dawn to the east.

  Crete.

  Powerful sophisticated land, her queens respected by every ruler in the known world. What gave that island such riches and influence? Was it, as many claimed, their White Goddess, who even now threw lacy patterns of moonlight across the rooftops of Mycenae as she prepared to relinquish the sky to her brother, the sun?

  What would Crete’s divine protectress do to avenge an attack on her people?

  “Son of Idómeneus.”

  Chrysaleon’s warrior-trained instincts sent him pivoting, fists raised, before he saw who it was and laughed.

  “Someday I’ll smash your face for sneaking up on me, old man,” he said, lowering his hands.

  “I wasn’t sneaking, my lord,” replied his slave, Alexiare. “Perhaps your thoughts kept you from hearing my approach.” His throat must be hurting, for his reply was no more than the hoarsest rustle.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “I always rise early, to greet the dawn.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Alexiare shrugged. Chrysaleon deciphered the message with annoyance. Menoe
tius had said as much. This slave guarded his privacy.

  But he’d faithfully served Idómeneus’s sons since their birth. Though he offered Menoetius unfailing courtesy and obedience, he doted on Chrysaleon, a fact the prince had long recognized and appreciated.

  “Does something trouble you, my lord?” Alexiare asked.

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Sir, you embrace cold stone instead of the lovely Theanô.”

  “I’ve been forced to defend you many times this night.”

  The old man blinked as he absorbed this news. A fit of coughing overtook him.

  “Yes,” Chrysaleon said. “You stand accused of all manner of depravity, not the least of which involves the prince of Tiryns.”

  “Harpalycus?”

  “And who is never far from his side?”

  “Proitos.” Alexiare shrank into himself; his voice grew fainter. “My lord, I apologize—”

  “Yes, yes. I don’t think you’re guilty. Perhaps you should apologize to my father.”

  “I fear that would only make him angrier. I was wrong in my judgment of Proitos; I believed him a worthy neophyte. He betrayed me, my lord, as well as you and your father, when he ran off. I fear he gave not only his allegiance, but far too much knowledge of Mycenae, to Prince Harpalycus.”

  Chrysaleon chewed the inside of his cheek and observed the bent old man. He seemed weak and innocuous, but what if there was something to the rumors that circled around him? “Do you have the ear of the gods, old man?” he asked finally, after a moment of silence while the slave waited for permission to be on his way. “My father and brother think you a disciple of Hecate, bent on mischief. Tell me. Does she speak to you?”

  The old man shook his head decisively. “No Immortal has ever spoken to me, except in dreams, my lord, as they speak to most of us.”

  “Then why does this gossip persist?”