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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Lifting his hands in a gesture of helpless bewilderment, Alexiare said, “I can’t answer… I don’t know, my lord.” His voice trailed off then abruptly he straightened and met Chrysaleon’s gaze. “I cannot lie to you, though perhaps I should. You know my mother was a priestess?”

  Chrysaleon nodded.

  “The temple rites were guarded, and the penalty is death to any man, anywhere, who spies on women’s mysteries. But to you I will be truthful. I sneaked out of my bed when I was a boy and watched. I was curious, and careful. After she and I were enslaved, she admitted she knew I was there, and she began including me in her rites. I know a few things, only little things, my lord. Nothing like what we’ve heard coming out of Tiryns.”

  Chrysaleon leaned against the wide stone ledge and crossed his arms. The slave stood before him, trembling, tears running down his weathered cheeks. No doubt he was terrified his master would order his immediate slaughter. True, the revelations were incriminating. But Chrysaleon smiled, recognizing the loyalty it took for Alexiare to make such an admission. And who knew how this could benefit him in the future?

  “Tell no one else of this,” he said.

  Alexiare bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

  Deliberately, Chrysaleon changed the subject. “The king is sending me to Crete’s Games.”

  Wrinkles riddled the old man’s face. His coarse silver hair glimmered as he bowed. “It’s a wonderful pageant and exciting to watch,” he said, following his master’s lead almost eagerly, sliding away from the tender subject of Proitos and women’s earthy abilities. “I say with all modesty that no land is as beautiful as the isle where I spent much of my youth.”

  “You keep up with that country’s gossip. Tell me about the queen’s eldest daughter. Is it true she’s to be crowned?”

  “I’ve heard this, my lord, but I cannot verify it. Iphiboë has long been of age. Alas, every time she attempts to partake in the sacred grove rites, she fails for one reason or another. Queen Helice finally decreed that her daughter wouldn’t follow the custom. Iphiboë suffers from a strong reluctance to lie with a man.”

  “She prefers women?”

  “I believe she is dedicated to matters of a more spiritual than physical nature.”

  “Will she make as good a queen as her mother?”

  Pressing his upper lip between his teeth, Alexiare paused. “She may. It’s early yet.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Most Cretans believe her younger sister better suited.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Princess Aridela. She’s come of age as well, but has spent the last year secluded in the mountain shrines, learning the art of the seer, the craft of divination, and other mysteries unknown to man.”

  “She’ll be a priestess?”

  “Yes, my lord. She could eventually become their oracle, depending on her talents.”

  “So there are two children, no more?”

  “Aridela and Iphiboë are the only surviving daughters. Whatever sons have been born are reared by the queen’s sisters and will inherit enviable futures, but they are not as important.”

  “Whatever man wins these Games, will win Iphiboë and become bull-king?”

  Alexiare’s answer came only after a pause. “If Iphiboë does take the throne. You mean only to watch the spectacle, yes? I beg you, don’t cast your ambitions toward Crete. You weren’t raised with their beliefs. You don’t understand—”

  “Never fear, old man. I’ve promised my father I won’t compete.”

  Alexiare examined the prince before he said, “May Goddess be praised. Would you like me to accompany you? I could be of assistance; I’m familiar with the land and its customs.”

  Laughing, Chrysaleon slapped his servant on the back and sauntered toward the ramp. “But I’m so weary of your constant mothering and dire warnings.” He paused and glanced back. “I believe I can sleep now. Make sure you don’t dawdle up here. Theanô must be home before her father wakes.”

  Bowing, Alexiare murmured, “I hope I never fail you, my lord, in any capacity.”

  Chrysaleon heard the fervency and was pleased.

  * * * *

  Blood not only carried life to every muscle and organ, it held within its crimson depths a power few men comprehended. If reverently offered, it could entice the attention and help of… well, such things were uncertain. Spirits, dreams, visions. Perhaps even deities.

  Grimacing as he slit his forearm, Alexiare made sure every drop of blood he drew seeped into a clay bowl. He was drunk; that was the only way he could summon enough courage to go through with this, to risk drawing the eyes of Immortals and, perhaps, their anger.

  He shied away from thinking of Sorcha. In truth, he was more afraid of her.

  The oracles of Kaphtor often used the blood of bulls to make prophecy. More than a few drops killed ordinary men, yet those blessed ladies were raised on such things. An old saying claimed they could drink everything Mother Gaia drank and suffer no ill effects.

  A plaintive whine disturbed him. He looked up from his task, alert, wary, knowing he could afford no more rumors circulating about his odd habits, and fought to suppress a bout of coughing. It sounded like an animal snuffling at the bottom of the door, no doubt smelling the chunk of mutton he’d filched from the citadel’s kitchens. He got up and cracked the door open, glancing up and down the narrow dirt alley. A whining puppy jumped on his knees. Above and to his right loomed the citadel’s stone rampart, felt more than seen; to the left the alley meandered, lined with workshops invisible in the dark. “Come in, young sir,” he said, stumbling a bit. The animal eagerly complied. With another furtive glance in both directions, Alexiare closed and latched the door. The puppy wagged its tail, tongue lolling, politely ignoring the remains of supper on the rough table.

  “What are you doing on your own in the night?” Alexiare asked. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother still?” He knelt and felt the ribs. It seemed a well-bred dog, its tan coat glossy, its paws big and firm. If it grew into them, it could be a lion hunter. “You’ve interrupted something important,” he said, and rose again. He crossed to the table, picked up the trencher, and set it on the floor. The puppy came forward, sniffed, and settled down, giving a grateful yelp.

  “Were you sent for a reason?” Alexiare sat, pressing a shred of cloth against the stinging wound. “Is it part of the mystery?”

  Eight days had passed since his conversation with Chrysaleon on the bastion overlooking the main gate, days and nights that left him haunted by worry and premonition. “Idómeneus was wrong to agree to this journey,” he said, watching the puppy and scraping the table with the point of his dagger. “No good will come of it. Does he not know his own son? As usual, it’s left to me to mend things.”

  The pup gave him no more than a cursory glance as it gnawed the leg bone.

  On Crete it was summertime; the month they called Moon of Laurel Leaves had given way to the Moon of Mead-making. Every year, at the beginning of this warm, rich month, the Cretans gathered at their beehives. Children, using special shells and clay blowers, blew smoke into the hives, which lulled the bees to sleep. When all grew quiet, the beekeepers harvested the honey, mixed it with water and sealed it into hide sacks, where it was left to ferment for exactly forty days until the rise of the star Iakchos.

  Alexiare knew the gathering of honey was once a serious event, taking place in a frame of somber prayers and sacrifices, but these days, it was an excuse to dance, laugh, and celebrate. The people continued their festivals and merrymaking right up to the day of the Games, when the strongest, bravest men would compete for the title of Zagreus, bull-king of Kaphtor. For forty days and nights everyone would feast, drink mead, hold parades and enjoy all manner of delicacies. Above all, the present bull-king would be honored and spoiled, for he was living his end days.

  He remembered with teary-eyed affection the delight of his years on that isle, the wondrous festivals, the taste of perfectly aged me
ad, swimming in the ocean, gathering wild crocus and stuffing himself with delectable fish and fruit.

  Chrysaleon and his brother meant to board a ship and sail there in two short months. Chrysaleon had vowed to remain invisible, but Alexiare knew better than to believe it. Idómeneus’s son was incapable of keeping his head down when he perceived a challenge; why was the king choosing to ignore fact and history?

  Alexiare’s long flirtation with curiosity was these days tempered with devotion for his handsome young charge. “Curse Proitos,” he said suddenly. “He’ll ruin everything if he isn’t stopped.” But it’s your own fault, he reminded himself. If you hadn’t wanted so much to teach someone the things you know….

  He watched the dog chew at the bone, bit by bit. Not a shred of meat remained.

  Young Proitos showed talent for those facets of life most people couldn’t see, hear, or manipulate. Alexiare, younger then as well, liked the idea of having an acolyte, a son, almost, someone to carry on his hard-earned knowledge. Now Proitos had defected to Tiryns, taking every secret Alexiare ever taught him, and offered his loyalty to Prince Harpalycus, who was arguably Mycenae’s greatest enemy.

  What were he and Harpalycus up to? The rumors suggested that Harpalycus, the prince of Tiryns, and his lackey, Proitos, were delving into deeper, darker alchemy than Alexiare ever found courage enough to attempt. Trying to defeat death. Alexiare snorted, wanting to dismiss it all as folly, but he couldn’t. Not quite.

  “I hope their meddling angers the gods and draws their punishment. If so, good riddance. Chrysaleon will take his father’s throne without interference from Tiryns.”

  The puppy licked the trencher clean then came to Alexiare’s feet, where it gazed up at him, wagging its tail.

  He stroked its smooth beige head, his thoughts turning back to his royal charge, and his commitment to protect him, even from himself. He removed the cloth from the wound he’d made on his forearm. Already it was congealing, as was the blood he’d collected in the bowl. The dog had distracted him from his duty. He’d allowed it; even many cups of strong wine were not enough to wipe out his fear.

  From earliest childhood, Chrysaleon had tempted fate. He ignored his father’s commands more often than not. No matter how many whippings he received, he would leave the high king’s chambers plotting new mischief. Idómeneus could have brought his son to heel, but though he cursed and made terrifying threats of punishment, he never did. It was obvious to everyone, Chrysaleon included, that the king wouldn’t love his son half so much were the lad obedient, and that spurred Chrysaleon on to more outrageous defiance.

  Alexiare recalled a handful of occasions when the prince risked his life in some forbidden escapade. The day his bastard brother was mauled by a lioness, Chrysaleon had earned the somber title of ‘Lion killer,’ and later, the first time he proved himself on the battlefield, people began using his birth-name itself as a title. ‘Gold Lion of Mycenae.’ It was quite gratifying yet worrisome for the way it provoked the prince to headstrong recklessness.

  The pup placed one big paw on Alexiare’s knee and licked his hand. When would he ever again have such an intent ear, an audience so forgiving of his ruined voice? He’d learned his lesson with Proitos. He could never again trust another human to keep his secrets, to share his faith, to know his abilities.

  And he did have secrets. Powerful secrets.

  “I remember the night they were born,” he said softly, rubbing the puppy’s ears. “Menoetius came first by no more than ten breaths. Idómeneus carried him into the hall and lifted him high so everyone could see. ‘I name him Menoetius,’ he shouted. ‘He who defies his fate.’”

  Alexiare giggled. Some sober part of him remained, peering askance at this blubbering, giggling, too-talkative fool. “The king never realized he was being used. He’s ruled by the unpredictable tides of passion. That’s why he’ll be forgotten within a year of his death.”

  The pup whined.

  Alexiare scratched its thickly furred throat and it responded with ecstatic quivering. “It’s true. Idómeneus didn’t pick that name. It was the boy’s mother, Sorcha, from the place she called Ker Ys. Idómeneus thought he’d captured a beautiful young woman and made her his slave; the truth is, she stayed here to accomplish her own goal, and once it was done, she vanished, never to be seen again. She was a sorceress of immense power; she told me of the mystical place where she was trained— Avalon. She claimed she was sent here for the purpose of giving birth to ‘one who would defy his fate.’ Her accent was difficult, but that’s what I remember. She, too, taught me a few things, some of which would condemn me to death were anyone to find out. These Mycenaeans think me a weak, broken old man.” He grinned and smoothed the pup’s wrinkled forehead. “It suits me to let them.”

  He retrieved the trencher from the floor and set it on the table. Taking the bowl that held his blood, he settled beside the round hearth where a small fire burned. The puppy stretched out next to him, placed its chin on its forelegs, and sighed.

  “Brothers begat by one father, cultivated by two mothers.” Alexiare gritted his teeth and again sliced his flesh, this time on the other arm. He held the wound over the bowl and pressed, watching his blood run. He’d drunk so much he hardly felt any pain. “Sorcha told me how she accomplished it. Should I share the tale, or are you too young for such things?”

  The puppy glanced up, whined, and returned to its sleepy contemplation of the flames.

  “She used the holy mushroom, that which priestesses call cara. She dried it, ground it up, and mixed it into the barley cake Idómeneus shared with his queen every evening. Deep in the night, she slipped into their bed and woke them with kisses. Idómeneus bragged about it. He said his queen awakened him desiring love, and that Sorcha joined them; though the queen hated her and wanted her dead, that night she kissed Sorcha, and both women together pleasured him. He laughed about it, and said he wasn’t sure if it was real or the most pleasant and memorable of any dream, yet it was odd how his queen and his favorite slave grew heavy with child at the same time.”

  Alexiare shook his head, grinning. “Idómeneus has no subtlety and he’s far too trusting. I’m a little surprised he’s managed to hold onto his crown. I would tell no one but you this, for I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders. I know you’ll guard my secrets close and safe.”

  The puppy rolled onto its back. Alexiare scratched its chest and received a grateful lick.

  “Young Menoetius has defied his fate.” Alexiare wiped away the remnants of blood he’d drawn from his arms and opened a sandalwood coffer. Scooping up a clump of the pungent, moldy mushroom, so highly prized by oracles, he soaked it in the blood and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, chewing slowly. Soon it would open his mind, make all things possible. “His position nearly equals that of the king’s true heir. I wonder sometimes if anyone else notices how far he’s advanced? This I swear, though Sorcha would be very angry with me if she knew. I won’t allow him to interfere with Chrysaleon’s divine course. Chrysaleon is all that matters.”

  Palpitations fluttered through him. Sorcha would be more than angry. She would seek him out. She would exact a terrible vengeance for his interference. He could only hope she was dead and beyond caring.

  Even if she were, would that stop her? The back of his neck prickled.

  The puppy rested its chin on Alexiare’s knee. Alexiare obligingly scratched under one ear even as he noted how the room was changing. The firelight was brighter, the darkness in the corners deeper. His guts roiled. There was a sound as well, that he hadn’t heard before, an echo, almost like faint song, but he couldn’t make out the words. “There’s something about those boys,” he said as he stared at the flames. “Though they’re separate, they’re also one. The sun and moon of things. The dolphin and water. Yet only one can triumph, I sense that as well. I see it. I’ve thrown my lot in with Chrysaleon, who chafes for an adventure.” Unaccountable grief brought stinging tears to his eyes. “He doesn’
t understand the danger in this one.”

  Faces formed in the fire. If he stared, unblinking, he caught their open mouths and bulging eyes. They called for something. He thought he heard the word blood. Oh, yes, he should have more of that. But he was so sleepy. The faces came faster now, each screaming at him as it melted into the next.

  “Chrysaleon will forget his vow to Idómeneus once the Games begin,” he muttered. “Without his father’s restraining hand, nothing will satisfy him but to compete, to become Kaphtor’s next bull-king. He doesn’t know— he doesn’t know the lengths they go to test those men. He never thinks he can fail, but a man must be nearly immortal to survive Crete’s trials.”

  He fought off a nauseating flow of dizziness. How best to help his lord? And what of Kaphtor, the island he remembered with fondness? To whom did he owe loyalty? These Mycenaean barbarians, or Queen Helice? There was no question. He was Chrysaleon’s. Perhaps if he put his mind to it, he could figure out a way to help one without hurting the other too much.

  There was another reason Alexiare was willing to risk drawing the attention of ghosts. Over the last months he’d sensed a difference in the world; he’d felt it in the blood of the sacrifices, in whispers running beneath currents of air, wavering in shadows. Those with the ability to glimpse other realms had been speaking of it since the winter solstice. Alexiare felt this change in the land especially. Movement. Heat. Disturbance. No, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t put it into words. The sensation was subtle, as though the gods had turned their attention to the earth and were taking greater interest in what their people were getting up to.

  He intoned incantations in the tongue of the priestesses, and tried to focus on the idea of the prince attending the Cretan Games without competing, thus ensuring at least temporary safety for both countries. But his thoughts refused to center. The mushroom played tricks. First Chrysaleon’s face then Menoetius’s floated through his mind then an odd intermingling; his mind displayed in pictures what he’d long known. These two youths were more than they seemed. Chrysaleon’s bronzed flesh and tawny hair melted into his half brother’s paler, scarred, dark-headed image, as though each was no more than different aspects of one man. Alexiare distinctly heard a baby wail, and saw Idómeneus holding up the newborn son just birthed by his slave, breaking with tradition by vowing publicly to raise him with his own royal heirs, who had yet to be born.