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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Snuggled close under covers of soft embroidered wool, the women drifted to sleep in a circle around the dying fire.

  * * * *

  Go into my child, to she who will be queen. Enter the mother of the future, the Goddess-of-Death-in-Life, and Life-in-Death.

  Aridela sat up. Her blood still hummed with the warmth of cara. A cricket’s late chirping echoed in her ears. Next to her, a priestess gave a small sleepy sigh and rolled over.

  Silence. Moonlight silvered the clearing.

  A beautiful, familiar voice woke her, yet as she examined the open space, her sleeping companions, and the dark edge of the wood, she realized no one was there.

  Another sound brought her gaze back to the clearing’s edge, to the line of trees.

  Again she heard it. The slow grate of stone.

  Something or someone stood there, within the trees, still and white, shaped like a human.

  Oh Athene. What is it?

  Then she saw. At the forest’s boundary, the statue of Velchanos, Athene’s Holy Son,

  …moved.

  Marble scraped as his head swiveled. He stepped from the pedestal. Shadows of moonlight through leaf-ruffles speckled him in arabesque.

  A voice floated through her mind. My love. She pressed her hands to her temples.

  He left the trees and crossed the open space to stand over her, his marble-pale hair spilling over his shoulders, sparks of light glimmering within like miniature stars. Shadows crept across his chiseled face.

  Excitement overran terror as he knelt, stiff-kneed, before her.

  Save me, Aridela. Open your heart.

  Hesitantly, she reached out and touched the cold unyielding cheek. “Calesienda?”

  He leaned closer. Aridela fell back between the sleeping priestesses, even as she wondered if this was a cara dream. The god lay on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his hips; cold stone softened into flesh, warm as a drench of scented oil. His hands gripped her shoulders and his hair, now soft and dark, fell around them, secluding them from the others. How blue, his eyes, fire-lit divinely, from within. They glowed like an iridescent sea.

  “Carmanor,” she murmured through his kisses. “I’ve missed you. Why have you come to me through Velchanos?”

  I wish we could avert what comes, my sister. His mouth traced across her jaw and he spoke into her ear. This I vow: for longer than you can imagine—

  Sound and sensation disintegrated beneath an ear-shattering crack and a flash so blinding and sudden she couldn’t defend herself. Everything blackened then leaped crazily in crimsons and greens before clearing, softening, returning to the cool night and this otherworldly lover who still lay on top of her as though nothing had happened.

  A new voice echoed from the night. Make the future queen burn for you as I do. She will keep you from harm.

  It was the strangest voice she’d ever heard, like gravel being shaken in a clay jar. It made her throat itch.

  She felt the weight of her lover, tasted his flesh and the saltiness of tears on his face, saw the divine spark in his eyes.

  Yet they were no longer blue. Now they were green, as luminous as the rare green marble quarried on the mainland.

  Shadows deepened on either side of his lips as he smiled. —I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us.

  A faint cry interrupted him. “The princess….”

  “Wake up, child,” someone else said, but the voice came from a distance, soft enough to ignore.

  He shook his head; sparks flew, like scattering sunbeams off the surface of a forest pool. He was now more fanciful beast than human lover, like an Egyptian sphinx, a gryphon. No, a lion, with tangled mane, sharp teeth, and the cold eyes of a predator. She never tired of hearing tales of those creatures, and always pestered the mainland ambassadors to tell her more. Her mother kept a mated pair in her zoo outside the palace.

  Believe, no matter how many try to turn you against me.

  She wanted to fill her hands with his bright hair, but her fingers kept rising, pushing through his cheeks as though they were fashioned from mist. “Nothing can ever part us,” she repeated. “I won’t forget. I promise.”

  “Aridela.”

  Her lover evaporated into three anxious female faces. “Why do you disturb me?” she cried.

  The priestesses glanced at each another. Behind their shoulders in the sky, a shadow-smile stretched across the moon’s face, the star beneath like a dimple.

  “You dreamed some vivid thing, isoke,” Helice said. “I feared you were having one of your nightmares. You called out….”

  She sat up, blinking. She lay alone on her bed of wool and pine needles. No god peered down at her.

  Selene touched her shoulder. “You’re with us. You’re safe.”

  “Velchanos came to me.”

  Startled astonishment passed across their faces. Aridela pushed them aside and stood. “From the trees, over there. The statue.” Tremors ran through her as she remembered the feel of his stone body. “It was him,” she said. “Velchanos.” If she could show them, if she could prove it, the council might choose to make her queen. Kaphtor would be saved, and her poor sister could be what she wanted, a priestess. Aridela wheeled and ran to the sharp lip of the precipice.

  “Stop!” Helice and Iphiboë cried together, fright shrilling their voices as dislodged pebbles flew over the edge.

  Aridela stared into the sky. Held up by invisible handmaids, the lopsided moon floated, so close she might reach out and touch it. Dala twinkled just beneath. Together they sent out a vivid glow, casting shadows behind trees, behind her body, behind every blade of grass. In this hallowed setting, Velchanos would appear, she was certain of it. He would declare her his eternal consort.

  It must be our secret. His voice, or breezes rustling through grass?

  Nothing happened. No figure stepped out from the forest.

  Within the dark edge of the trees Aridela saw a white glimmer. She crossed to it slowly, almost afraid.

  Velchanos stood on his pedestal as usual. Head uplifted, he watched the eastern sky, his bow hanging over one shoulder. Serpents twined around his forearms. One white hand clasped a quiver of arrows; the other was raised, fist to forehead.

  Aridela was reminded of the day she and Carmanor stood here admiring the statue. She remembered how the two seemed similar, with the same ardent gaze. She touched the muscled shin, but felt only cool stone. Defeat stabbed, as sharp in its own way as the daggers Selene used to teach her how to fight. “Moonlight transforms every color to white and black,” she said. “I couldn’t have seen green eyes or hair woven of gold. It must have been a dream.”

  Helice slipped her arm around Aridela’s shoulder. “It seems as though Velchanos wanted to share something with you,” she said, her brows furrowing. “I think we can be certain this was a dream of significance.”

  When Aridela was small, Helice often put her to sleep by recounting poems from the motherland in that soft, mesmerizing tone. Even now it reassured her.

  Finally, Themiste spoke. “Athene’s holy son entered your dreams on our last night of ritual,” she said, glancing at Iphiboë. “I expected nothing like this, at least not for you, Aridela. The Goddess has blessed you, as she did when Velchanos burned you with his lightning.”

  Aridela touched her lips. Soft, subtle, the taste of the god’s kiss seemed to linger. The dream was, indeed, a portent. A si—

  “Mother.” Iphiboë broke into Aridela’s reverie. “This is a sign. It must mean the god wants Aridela to go with me into the grove.” She clasped Helice’s wrist. “Aridela will give me the courage I need.”

  “You’ll have Selene—”

  “I want my sister.” Iphiboë’s voice rose. “Please.”

  Helice turned to Themiste. “Minos?”

  “No.” Themiste slashed the air decisively with her hand. “No, I won’t allow it.”

  “But Aridela’s kaliara has started.” Helice�
��s face mirrored Aridela’s confusion. “She’s sixteen, a woman, long past the age most girls enter the grove.”

  “Aridela is mine.” Themiste’s stubborn tone and rigid shoulders made it clear she wouldn’t be swayed. “I have plans for her. She won’t join the grove ceremony, now or ever. Aridela’s womb will be dedicated, as mine was, to Athene alone.”

  What was this? A future as dry and lifeless as sand yawned through Aridela’s mind. Endless prayers. Solitary nights. Such a life would appeal perfectly to Iphiboë, while Iphiboë’s fated future would perfectly suit Aridela.

  No ardent kisses, no love beneath the whispering oaks with Lycus, the handsome bull leaper.

  To each being Athene offered a personal destiny. Aridela had always known, without doubt, hers would be special. This was profoundly wrong.

  “I didn’t realize,” Helice was saying. “But of course it shall be as you wish. Aridela will remain untouched.”

  “No,” Aridela whispered, but no one noticed. No one but Iphiboë, who stared at her, who saw and understood. Iphiboë put her arms around Aridela’s shoulders and pressed her cheek against the side of Aridela’s head.

  “Aridela will remain in her bedchamber when Iphiboë enters the grove,” Helice said. “Selene, you will accompany Iphiboë.”

  Aridela felt Iphiboë’s shiver. Don’t worry, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t. Not with her mother and Minos Themiste watching, listening.

  I’ll go with you, she wanted to shout. But it would be stupid to alert them and give them the chance to make everything impossible. She studied Themiste. The holy oracle’s expression didn’t seem confident. Rather she appeared nervous and upset, and wouldn’t meet Aridela’s gaze.

  Rightly so. Athene didn’t intend for her beloved son’s child to wither in a cave shrine chanting prayers, making endless lists and notes in papyrus logs until she was as old and dry as papyrus herself. Aridela knew this as strongly and surely as she felt Iphiboë’s cheek, wet with tears, pressed against her hair.

  “Everything will be as it should,” she said, and patted Iphiboë’s shoulder.

  Aridela, daughter of the Calesienda. The people gave her that name long ago. It was always spoken with a hint of awe, accompanied with bows and lowered faces.

  She loved Iphiboë, but she loved her country, too. Her destiny would not be thwarted.

  Chapter Four: Moon of Mead-making

  Themiste braced against a strong wind from the north and tried to maintain undistracted thinking against the mesmerizing fascination of waves crashing against the coastline below. The rising sun laid blankets of iridescence across the water’s surface, blackening it in some spots, burnishing it in others.

  By any measure, the night on Mount Juktas with Iphiboë had proven auspicious, yet Themiste struggled against a heavy sense of foreboding, sparked by Aridela’s odd dream.

  Helice’s second daughter and the temple of Labyrinthos had much in common. Many bends led ever deeper. Yet innocent purity would blossom forth when Themiste least expected to see such a thing from this young woman who drew the eye of every passing male. Why had she not been paying attention? Aridela was beginning to return those ardent gazes with her own. The unrelenting progression of nature would force her hand.

  “My lady?”

  Themiste had slipped so deeply into reverie she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. She turned.

  Laodámeia gave her mistress a brief bob of the head before bending to spread a cloth on the ground. She stocked it with a loaf of bread, a knife, a sealed jug of honey, and a flask of wine. “You’re hungry,” she said without looking up. “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning. Come now, I insist, though why we must eat here, on these cliffs that make me dizzy, in the wind, among the ants, I will never understand.”

  Maybe Laodámeia could scatter her unease. The familiar, sometimes rude way the old woman spoke to the Minos of Kaphtor always shocked the other priestesses, but they didn’t know how much Themiste valued the woman’s wisdom and judgment, or how close the two had become over the years. Laodámeia was the only person Themiste trusted to remain with her when she entered the divinatory trances, for Laodámeia’s mouth never opened without good reason. The only other person Themiste knew who could keep a secret as well was the warrior, Selene.

  “You know how wind blows the dust from my thoughts and reveals a clearer path,” she said.

  “I know you think so,” Laodámeia said, and sat on the cloth with a series of pained sighs and grunts. “My bones prefer cushions. It will take four serving men to haul me up from here, like an ox with a broken leg.”

  Themiste sat opposite her servant and accepted the wine flask. Laodámeia dipped a hunk of bread into the honey.

  “I remember your first honey-gathering.” Laodámeia handed the bread to Themiste and tore another. “You were but a few days old. I remember, though it was what— let me think. Thirty-three years ago.”

  Themiste frowned, suspecting Laodámeia’s reminder of her age was deliberate, though with this crusty-tongued woman, one could never tell. It brought to mind her long-neglected duty of choosing a successor. None of the priestesses ever mentioned it, but she knew they wondered why she hadn’t yet named anyone. Some curried favor, hoping to be the chosen one. No doubt she was considered eccentric and selfish to put it off, for none could know when their life-thread might be severed.

  “Now even the babies are grown,” Laodámeia continued, never glancing at her but talking between bites of bread and honey.

  Themiste sipped wine and said nothing.

  “For two years, Princess Iphiboë has made no attempt to take part in the grove rites.” Laodámeia glanced up so briefly Themiste saw just a flash of brown, like a fish darting through shoals. “Has she decided to try again because of the queen’s illness?”

  “Many fear Helice won’t live to see another honey-gathering harvest,” Themiste said.

  “And Iphiboë aches to be respected as much as her mother.” Laodámeia sent Themiste another swift glance. This time Themiste caught the twinkle in her eyes.

  “She’s stubborn in her own way, sensitive, and devout. Iphiboë’s future remains a mystery.” Themiste rubbed her arms, wishing she could erase doubt as easily as the shiver in her flesh. “If Aridela were the oldest—”

  “None of this worry would be needed, eh? Men, young and old, surround our flower seeking to sample her nectar. All would gladly meet her in the grove. Many wish Aridela and Iphiboë could change places, my lady.”

  “I won’t hear of it.” The vehemence underlying the words surprised even Themiste, but Laodámeia’s expression remained bland.

  “Oh no,” the old woman said. “You want Aridela all to yourself. All to yourself.”

  Themiste recoiled, feeling as though the bees they’d recently stolen honey from were stinging her. Laodámeia hadn’t been with them last night on Mount Juktas, yet she’d obviously already heard what transpired there. One of the priestesses, no doubt.

  “Though the laurel leaves and cara make her ill,” Themiste said carefully, “I believe she can become a valuable prophet.”

  “She did speak prophecy once, without any assistance. You’ve never done that, have you?”

  Another bee sting. Themiste’s teeth clenched. “Aridela may possess a power more potent than any I’ve ever experienced. It’s my duty to see if it can be developed.”

  “She will be your successor?”

  Themiste sighed. “I won’t commit myself before I’m ready.”

  “Cautious as always.” Laodámeia laughed, the sound sharp and discordant. A gull, prancing ever closer with an eye on their food, flapped into the sky with a shriek. “Not like your mother. She was as impulsive as our young Aridela.”

  The servant’s words livened a memory of Aridela when she was learning to walk. She’d mastered the art in Themiste’s presence and walked straight to Kaphtor’s oracle, clutching her leg and grinning, proud of her accomplishment and deservedly so, for she mana
ged it at eight months, far younger than most.

  Themiste scooped up a handful of dirt, letting it sift through her fingers as she waited for the burn of anger to subside. Laodámeia laid bare the source of Themiste’s unease— her decision about sequestering Aridela in the shrines. “Say what you want to say.”

  “You wonder if you did the right thing.”

  Themiste had to take a deep breath as uncertainty escalated. “I try to act with wisdom. I examine the signs as I was taught and I study the logs. Yet in this I acted solely on the instinct of the moment.”

  “Now you have doubts. You’ve doubted yourself for a long while.”

  Themiste tried to think of some way to deny this, but finally said, “Yes.”

  “Iphiboë relies on her sister. Aridela’s presence might have given Iphiboë courage enough to complete her goal. But you won’t allow it.”

  “I wanted to,” Themiste said, “but I couldn’t. I cannot send Aridela into the night. I want no man to touch her. For Aridela, I want more.”

  Laodámeia pursed her lips as she ran her fingers around the edge of her cup. Lifting her gaze to Themiste’s, she quoted, without any hesitation:

  “Betrayal weaves backward and forward, into and out of the thread of life and death, of faith and love, of envy and desire. This outcome will only find fruition if the child is first betrayed by those to whom she has given her trust.”

  “Why do you repeat that prophecy?” Themiste asked, wary. “What do you really want to say?”

  “You’re thinking about it. That’s what you were doing when I walked up. Thinking about the prophecies, wondering if any step you choose to take could be the one that harms her.”

  Themiste considered how far she should let this conversation go. Licking honey from her fingertips, she rested her hands in her lap. “If I can protect her from this betrayal, our world will avoid the future Damasen showed me. His words offer a promise. If I can find it, there is a way to change this fate.”