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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “That vow enraged Chrysaleon’s mother,” he said. “She plotted to have Menoetius’s mother killed, but again Sorcha triumphed. At least, she may have. Is she alive? I don’t know.”

  Split into two, gold and obsidian. Lion and bull, they are forged.

  Alexiare could no longer tell if he was sitting, lying down, or standing. He seemed to float above his body. He couldn’t see the hearth fire.

  They seem contradiction. Yet their merging forms the most perfect circle.

  “Who is there?” he whispered. “Who speaks to me?”

  Their severing will bind the world together.

  The voice was beautiful, like purest water falling over a cliff, rushing through green ferns, splashing against pebbles. No matter if the words made no sense.

  Now he heard someone he remembered. A handmaid he’d wooed as a young man. She’d helped deliver the infant Menoetius. His eyes were open even as we drew him from his mother, she said, frightened and awed. He saw us, and seemed to recognize us.

  The other midwife noticed too. Making the sign against evil, she told him, He watched us. He understood what we said.

  Alexiare fought to regain control of his mind. “Chrysaleon,” he muttered. “Chrysaleon.” He forced an image of the prince training a stallion, clad in loincloth and leather belt, skin glistening, hair lightened to near white by the summer sun. It worked free of its leather clout to fly wildly as he kicked the mount into a faster gallop.

  “Ah,” Alexiare groaned. His penis swelled until it felt as large as one of the holy stalagmites in the caves on Kaphtor. If only he weren’t wrinkled and grey, insignificant, a slave, beneath the notice of one who could enjoy the pleasures of any body in Mycenae’s kingdom. He still felt young inside, in his mind, able to attract love. It wasn’t fair. If only there was a charm to renew youth. Perhaps Harpalycus and Proitos would discover one.

  “Chrysaleon.” His eyes watered as he struggled to speak without coughing. “I would destroy all of Crete if that would make you love me.”

  The beloved face came closer. Alexiare could almost believe fantasy had become reality. The royal nose dominated like an eagle’s beak. Pale green eyes offered startling contrast to brows of darkest brown. The mouth, firm and expressive, though far too cynical, was close. He ached to touch it.

  “Do you realize? Do you?” he whispered.

  Then it came to him. An idea. The meaning of the vision and the arousal it caused. The possibilities. Crown Prince Chrysaleon resembled his father’s northern ancestors, who were light-skinned, with sun-colored hair and blue, grey or green eyes.

  “Gold Lion,” Alexiare muttered. “Greatly do Cretans revere beauty, especially that which they rarely see. Make the future queen burn for you as I do. Enter her dreams. Make her long for you. She’ll remember, and she’ll keep you from harm.”

  From everything he’d heard of Iphiboë, such a dream would only frighten and disgust her. Yet, caught in his own erotic longings, he could think of nothing else. He would go to the finish with it, and hope his sight proved true. “With my blood I send it on night’s arrows,” he said. “Snare the next queen of Kaphtor. Make her your slave through desire.”

  His body clenched. “Chrysaleon,” he cried, choking, discharging the dream and the spell with his semen.

  Gradually his sight cleared. Merry flames threw shadows against the wall. The intoxicating throb faded, leaving him tired. The cara mushroom brought intensity to the act of love that could make one lose all sense and reason. Priestesses knew this; it was one purpose for cara, and no doubt would be utilized to help the reluctant Princess Iphiboë of Kaphtor couple with a man when the day of her reckoning finally came.

  A stench filled his nostrils, making him want to gag. As he pushed himself upright, he noticed his hands were wet and sticky. He held them up. They were covered with blood, splattered clear to the elbows. Had his wounds reopened?

  Then he saw the puppy. The back and hindquarters lay in the fire, burned beyond recognition. Blood oozed off the dangling tongue that had so recently licked him with love and friendship.

  “Lady Hecate,” he whispered. The cold black eyes of the moon goddess pierced him through the tiny window. He sensed another beside her, staring with malice and triumph.

  Sorcha.

  Tears flooded. He sobbed like a child. He’d made many sacrifices in his life, but never of a beast he’d first befriended. “Take my offering. Help my cause, I beg you.” He pressed his knuckles to his forehead; squeezed his eyes closed, and vomited.

  Chapter Three: Moon of Mead-making

  The moon, plump and gibbous, unmarred by cloud cover, broke free of the eastern peaks and spread a milky glow across Kaphtor’s mountains and valleys. Aridela knelt, raised her arms, and chanted.

  “Alcmene, kaliara labyrinthos,

  Cali-cabal Iakchos

  Calesienda.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Two months past, during the Moon of Fertile Willows, her blood cycles had finally begun. Countless prayers and offerings, answered at last. For years, Rhené had subjected her to examinations and vile concoctions designed to stimulate her womanly parts, but nothing produced any effect other than cramping and nausea.

  Yet, in the Lady’s own time, a full four years later than most girls, Aridela’s body succumbed to the relentless pull of the moon. Yesterday, her mother had granted permission for Aridela to take her place among Kaphtor’s women. In four months, at the new planting season, she would join the others in the grove rites. She would walk among the oaks and lie with a male of her choosing.

  Now she could concentrate on her other long-cherished desire. “Athene my Mother,” she said, “let me again enter the bullring. I ask you here, on the summit of your most hallowed mountain, where my voice rises without hindrance. Grant me this, Mother. I swear you will not see me fail again.”

  Shivers trailed across the back of her neck. She cupped her hands so the moon appeared to float on her fingertips like an opalescent bead.

  “Give me this, Holy Mother. I vow to bring you glory.” She kept her voice low, knowing if anyone overheard, the lectures and punishment would be severe.

  Iphiboë, Themiste, Selene, Queen Helice and eight priestesses emerged from the nearby wood. They formed a circle around the bonfire, and Aridela, with one last look of entreaty at the moon, joined them.

  Themiste lifted a narrow-throated jug, formed from the thinnest clay, painted with bright red whorls. She chanted a blessing and handed it to the younger princess.

  Aridela kept her eyes downcast, fearful the oracle could read her secret desires. She’d long known not to underestimate Themiste’s powers.

  This year, when wheat and barley seed was sprinkled into the moist furrows of the earth, the grapes were crushed and the apple crop collected, she would join in the festival of fertility. Her friends had dressed up and gone off into the night for years while she remained in her bedchamber like a baby, for Helice continued to forbid it, every year, with the excuse that Aridela’s body wasn’t yet ready, and no amount of tears or pleading moved her.

  Carmanor’s name drifted through her mind as it always did when she thought of the sowing festival. Tonight especially, for this was the same clearing to which she’d brought him so he could commune with Athene. Such agonies of anxiety and frustration had she suffered when that handsome warrior’s son from the mainland put his arm around white-haired Selene and disappeared through the palace gates. Like herself, Selene was an insignificant younger child, but she received the respect of a woman and enjoyed the freedom to do womanly things as she wished. Aridela would have given her birthright to accompany Carmanor the night of the sowing festival six years ago. But with the passage of years his face had grown indistinct and she’d fallen in love with another. Lycus, Kaphtor’s premiere bull leaper.

  Lately he’d begun returning her glances, and even went out of his way to speak to her. Last night, his greeting outside the feasting hall had se
emed flirtatious. She hoped so, for she meant to talk him into helping her sneak into the bullring again. Perhaps they might even perform the bull dance together.

  Yet even if she did dance with a bull, even if she and Lycus loved each other in the oak grove, no true glory would be offered. She would still be sent into seclusion in the caves and would only be allowed to emerge for festivals and state occasions.

  There had to be more. Every fiber of her skin, every breath and pulse beat, told her so. If she was locked away in the shrines, how could she avert the carnage and assaults in the dreams Athene sent? The dreams were warnings, she was certain of it, with commands woven through. She, not Themiste, had spoken the prophecy that became popular legend. Yet Themiste often voiced worry over Aridela’s inability to use the laurel leaves or cara mushroom without becoming violently ill.

  Helice beckoned. Aridela tipped the jug, pouring wine combined with drops of blood, that which was called kaliara, into a silver bowl.

  The queen used the mixture to trace an upturned crescent moon on Iphiboë’s forehead. “With the life-giving blood of women are you consecrated,” she said. “Twenty-four years ago, you were born from my union with Valos, who accepted three golden apples and lay his life upon the sacrificial altar. Now he resides beyond the north wind, in Hesperia’s everlasting orchard of green. If we follow Goddess Athene’s design, we will one day join him there.”

  “Please the Lady,” the rest chorused.

  “As our Goddess is threefold, so are women. Your maidenhood is set to pass, for you’ve resolved to enter the oak grove with your sisters. You will soon enter the phase of the mother.”

  “Please the Lady,” Iphiboë whispered.

  Those were the first words Aridela had heard her sister utter since they’d left the palace. Yesterday, though, Iphiboë had confided her fears.

  “You’re lucky to be the youngest, Aridela,” she’d said. “At least you have a chance for peace in your life.”

  “You mean a chance to avoid men,” Aridela returned. “I wish I could be in your place. Men don’t frighten me.”

  Iphiboë rubbed her temples. Her narrow, fragile shoulders slumped. “Whatever man wins the Games earns the right to claim me.” Her eyes were huge, apprehensive.

  “No one would dare harm you.”

  “What if I bear a child?”

  Iphiboë saw a woman die while giving birth a few years ago and never forgot it. The idea of coupling with a male was too brutish for her as well. She probably believed men mated as mindlessly as bulls. If the chosen consort were an invisible spirit who met her in a grotto and conducted a communion of souls, Iphiboë would no doubt embrace her obligations with more enthusiasm. For Kaphtor’s heir, one foot rested in the ether of fantasy; the other, though anchored to this life by duty, shrank and shriveled as though thrust in snow.

  If only she, Aridela, Shàrihéid, euan Velchanos Calesienda, daughter of the Calesienda, were the oldest. Goddess would grant her numerous children and Kaphtor would grow ever stronger. “It would be a singular blessing,” she’d said aloud, unable to stifle a note of petulance.

  Iphiboë cringed. “But who will he be? What will he do?”

  “By Velchanos, you make me tired. He’ll do what men do best. Why have you insisted on this? Mother said you didn’t have to go into the grove. The very idea of it makes you sick. Now she’s devised a special night just for you, at your demand. We’ll all be humiliated if you change your mind.”

  Again… hung in the air unsaid.

  Her sister’s mouth tightened. “The people will never truly accept me unless I fulfill the rite. Besides, sooner or later, I have to lie with a man. I’d better accustom myself to it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And Mother….” Iphiboë’s voice broke. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Don’t let that concern you. She’ll get well.” Aridela spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. Their mother had gradually become more and more tired. Some days she could hardly rise from her bed. The flesh under her eyes was fragile and dark and she’d lost weight. The healer, Rhené, was dosing her with different remedies, but none seemed to do much. Although she hadn’t said so openly, everyone believed it was because of this lingering malaise that Helice had made the decision to put Iphiboë on the throne.

  Iphiboë brushed at her tears. “How has she done it? Man after man. Did she love them?”

  “Of course. She loved them all,” Aridela said.

  “Swineherds, smelly farmers. They leer at me. I see their evil intent.”

  “If Athene wishes to make a swineherd consort of Kaphtor and father of your royal daughter, at that moment he will be no swineherd but Goddess Athene’s chosen one.”

  “Oh, Aridela. Aren’t you ever afraid of anything?”

  Peering into the night sky at the summit of Mount Juktas, the three-pillared shrine hidden in the wood behind her and women chanting on either side, Aridela breathed in musky incense and fire smoke and remembered Iphiboë’s half-admiring, half-envious question.

  Did she fear anything? Yes. Being cheated of her desires and resolves. Life must be drawn close and savored. Iphiboë carried fear enough for them both. Yet here the timid girl stood, consecrated blood on her brow, receiving the queen’s blessing. The purpose of this sanctification was to strengthen her, to mystically prepare her for her night in the grove. But Aridela knew it wouldn’t work.

  Helice drew three bold vertical lines under Iphiboë’s eyes. “May Athene bring us glory for another thousand years,” she said.

  The priestesses, one well advanced in pregnancy, crowded around the fire and passed a bowl filled with Kaphtor’s potent wine and crushed cara, which had steamed in a cauldron for several hours to increase its power. Sea-faring traders introduced the mushroom long ago from faraway lands by way of the Black Sea. The proper dosage gifted those who chewed it with visions, and wasn’t so dangerous as laurel leaves and serpent venom, which could bring divine madness, sometimes death.

  Each sipped the potion. They held hands and waited.

  Aridela closed her eyes as her flesh shivered with wave upon wave of sensation. She imagined cascades of ivy sprouting from her scalp. Standing as still as she could, as still as the marble statue of the god Velchanos, she savored the earthy stimulation that increased with each breath. Her blood pulsed. Her hair tumbled river-swift, twining through the grass, splashing over the edge of the precipice. A murmur rose in her head, earth voices calling, singing from blades of grass, from stones, from the soil and the nearby wood. Laughter tumbled as uncontrollably as the riotous bubbling of a mountain waterfall.

  “The moon grows larger,” one of the priestesses, her voice catching, cried through the silence. She pointed into the sky. “She comes to us.”

  Another priestess grabbed Iphiboë and kissed her. “Velchanos compels me. You please him, my princess,” she said. They clutched each other, both giggling.

  Helice smiled indulgently.

  The moon ascended higher, into a sky crowded with stars. The brightest of them, known as Dala, settled close beneath it, like a child with its mother. Crete’s stargazers claimed this alignment wouldn’t occur again for centuries. Themiste believed this embrace of the moon and star offered powerful blessings, and was doubly profound because it occurred only one night after the honey gathering.

  The earth slowed. Each beat of Aridela’s heart echoed. Lady Athene was close. She brought answers.

  Selene threw more wood on the fire and coaxed it into a high blaze. She and Iphiboë adorned each other with necklaces of ivy and hyacinth blossoms. They danced to the beat of drums, reeds, flutes, and clapping. The others joined, singing the ballads of birth, growth, aging, death, and renewed birth. Aridela closed her eyes, reveling in explosions of crimson stars and circles floating across black space.

  Firelight glanced off Helice’s silver crescent crown. Raising her arms, she spoke, meeting the eyes of each woman in turn.

  “Look upon the creamy egg of night,”
she said. “Remember the creation of our world. Athene, she who comes from herself alone, relation to none but Gaia, lifted her hand. Behold, foamy Sea and starry Sky did form. Out of the potent north wind Our Lady created Makanga, father serpent who sheds and renews his skin. Velchanos, beautiful god and divine son, came from this union. Athene carved the people of the old world from Makanga’s teeth and charged them to honor her and her first consort. In the finest of love’s awakenings, Athene took Velchanos as her lover and gave birth to Niachero, of the star Iakchos. Mounted on wings of flame, Niachero drew our wondrous island up from beneath the waves. She landed on Ida and from there beckoned, attracting our people with her bright fire. This is where we were taught her mother’s secrets of tin and copper, of forming clay, the grafting of olives and the art of weaving. Niachero bade us construct our civilization, and as she left, she set a holy lamp in the night sky to remind us of her mother, white, eternal Goddess. Athene gave her son to fructify the olive and barley with his sacred blood. As she knew he would, as with all living things, Velchanos’s death made its circle into rebirth and resurrection, bringing warmth, growth, and rain. In continuation of this blessed gift, our bull-kings take his title, Zagreus. They give their earthly lives as he did, for a brief moment in time, and are restored to eternal life, eternal glory.”

  The dancing and laughter grew ever wilder until all were exhausted and the fire again subsided into embers.

  Time to rest, to dream the dreams of moonlight.

  “Bless us, Mother, shepherd of the stars,” Helice said. “Bring divine revelations. Gift us with knowledge. Grant us answers to life’s secrets. Show us what we can achieve.”