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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Menoetius turned toward Chrysaleon; obscuring shadows fell over his eyes and the fancy disappeared.

  Motioning with a jerk of his head, Chrysaleon crawled through the undergrowth, silent as a hunting jackal, not stopping until they’d gone a safe distance from the women and the fire in the forest clearing.

  “Did you hear?” he asked.

  “I heard it the same as you,” Menoetius said. “Now let’s get farther away before the wind changes and that dog catches our scent.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Iphiboë?”

  Chrysaleon snorted. “Helice’s youngest daughter. Aridela. The future queen.”

  “You’re confused. Iphiboë is heir to the throne.”

  They looked at each other, yet now, in the deep darkness beneath the trees, Chrysaleon could read nothing of what his brother might be thinking. “You heard the other woman,” he said.

  “She was dreaming. Did you hear the trees speak?” Sarcasm roughened his words.

  Chrysaleon recalled that Menoetius met both Iphiboë and Aridela six years ago. But what did that matter? Six years ago, Aridela was a child. Now she was a woman. A woman, if he’d understood the conversation right, who’d never yet lain with a man. His penis stiffened. It suffered no qualms or shyness. It wanted what it wanted, and possessed a special appetite for parthenoi. Virgins.

  After discovering the women swimming at the pool, he and Menoetius had followed, watching, listening. It hadn’t been easy, especially with the dog. But with Menoetius’s tracking skills, they’d remained undetected.

  Chrysaleon would never admit such callow weakness to his half brother, but as the day progressed, he’d felt himself being pulled into a snare that tightened with every step. It took him awhile to realize the source was Aridela. He’d hardly glanced at the females accompanying her.

  Hearing the other woman say now that some unknown event would make her Crete’s queen strengthened his desire to almost inexorable need.

  “The Goddess had a hand in this.” He gripped Menoetius’s wrist. “They’ve devised this special rite. We’ve come just in time for it, and now we’ve overheard their secret plans. No one else knows them. It’s surely an omen, which we would be fools to ignore. Divine Athene wants us to find the princesses. All we need do is discover where this cave is, and what night they’ll be in it. Then we’ll be ready.”

  Menoetius jerked free. “Is that what you think we came here for, to ravish the Cretan princesses? You promised your father you would keep your head down. And what of Lady Iros… your wife? If anyone goes into that cave, it has to be me. That was the agreement we made with the king; I risk my life, you don’t risk yours. What difference does it make anyway, who lies with them, or why, or when? We’re here to stop Harpalycus, and I don’t see how coupling with the queen’s daughter in some cave can help us do that.”

  “The first man to lie with the future queen will have power over her like no other,” Chrysaleon said. He knew his words were unconvincing. Menoetius suspected another motive. But how could he explain, when he didn’t understand himself? He only knew, in the most basic, instinctive way, that he wanted that girl. He must feel her beneath him, succumbing to him. It was hard not to go back to the clearing right now and force the issue. It might almost be worth the arrows in his back. “I search for ways to achieve my father’s dream. We must be ready for any possibility, and I feel the strength of this one. Who knows? Queens might secretly arrange who wins the Games. Do you underestimate my ability to charm?”

  Menoetius’s breath came hard and furious. “Are you saying you plan to compete?”

  “We need an edge over Harpalycus.”

  “And you think bedding Iphiboë will give you that.”

  The prince paused. Softly but clearly, he said, “Not Iphiboë. The future queen.”

  Chrysaleon stepped away and looked up through murmuring leaves toward the serenely floating moon. “I will compete,” he said. The strength of his desire almost choked him; his hands clenched. “And I will win.” He glanced back toward the clearing. Firelight glanced off tree bark like a beacon. “I will win you, Aridela, and with you, Crete.”

  Chapter Eleven: Moon of White Light

  Aridela crossed her balcony to lean on the balustrade. The acrid smoke of burning laurel leaves told her the priestesses were preparing their concoctions for the coming festivities. Faintly, she heard the chant of prayers, asking blessings for her sister.

  In seven days, an unknown man would kill the bull-king. This man would take the dead king’s place and assume his role for one year, while the fallen consort would achieve immortality and live forever at Goddess Athene’s side.

  In seven days, Iphiboë, eldest princess of Kaphtor, would step upon the queen’s dais and accept the crown, ready or not, for Helice couldn’t be swayed from the stubborn course she’d chosen.

  But tonight, Iphiboë faced what would be for her a more arduous task. Tonight she would go out among the olive groves and dedicate her womb through sex with a man.

  Rainbow pigments spilled across a background of indigo as the sun lifted in the east. To the south, a thundercloud, darkest purple splotched with yellow, resembled a fat baby’s cheeks smeared with wild berries. There was even the hint of a pursed mouth in the center, and eyes squeezed shut. It reminded Aridela of a day, long ago, when she and Iphiboë found a patch of blackberries beside a mountain creek and stuffed themselves. Their lips and fingers were purple for days. She missed those carefree times.

  “Lady Mother,” she said, lifting a bowl of wine in both hands, “give my sister the strength to fulfill her duty tonight.”

  Just before the ringing of the prayer bells, she’d dreamed. Aridela was accustomed to intense, often horrifying dreams, but this seemed more mysterious than frightening. In it, one wrist was manacled. She stood in a dark circular space smelling of damp wood and cool night air. A lion roared in the distance; she feared it hunted her, but no matter how hard she pulled and twisted, she couldn’t free her hand.

  The dream continued to affect her after she woke and dressed. She drank a cup of goat’s milk and honey, but her mouth remained as dry as a harvested field and unease lay heavy in her mind.

  Every child knew dreams were a way for gods to speak to mortals, to pass on their wishes or warnings. For as long as she could remember, Aridela had suffered nightmares of flames, burning bodies, destroyed cities, but offsetting that was the recurrent dream of leaping a bull. In it she laughed at a cheering audience, and woke infused with triumph.

  None of her dreams had come true in life. Perhaps they never would. Perhaps she should stop giving them so much importance.

  Aridela dipped her index finger into the wine and made the spiral serpent design. She envisioned the serpents that wound around the forearms of the statue of Velchanos on Mount Juktas. He’d stepped off his stone pedestal and come to her. His hair transformed to rivers of sunlight as he pressed against her. Yet he’d been so sad. Over a month had passed since that night, yet the memory of his ardency and grief hadn’t dimmed. She still wept some nights, quietly, in the solitude of her lonely bed.

  Memories of the god’s sorrow and promise influenced every decision. For days she’d argued with herself. Should she tell Lycus about her plan to accompany Iphiboë? She wanted to, yet she also wanted to leave fate to Athene. “I go to lend Iphiboë my strength,” she whispered, “not to lie with a man. But if the god himself hears my longing and comes to me again….”

  Now she was late for breakfast, yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave the balcony. Her senses heightened as breezes grazed her skin. She closed her eyes, acutely aware of the cooing doves in the roof-gables. Invisible fingers seemed to stroke the nape of her neck and over her shoulders, like the god did on that magical night she couldn’t forget.

  “Isoke?”

  Startled, Aridela almost dropped the offering bowl. Wine sloshed over her hands and splashed on the flagstones as she turned.

  Her mother a
nd sister stood under the arch leading into her bedchamber. Sheer white draperies fluttered around them. “I-I didn’t hear you,” Aridela said.

  Helice wasted no time. “Come in now. I want to speak to you and your sister.”

  Aridela followed them into the chamber. “Is something wrong?” Apprehension spiked at her mother’s somber expression. Iphiboë, Selene, and Neoma knew of Aridela’s plan to sneak out with her sister. Surely they wouldn’t betray her. Even Neoma, who so enjoyed making snide comments and veiled threats, and who loved to compete with her, would never give away such an important secret.

  The queen frowned. Turning to the serving maid, she asked for figs, bread, and honey, and after the woman left, said, “Are you hungry? Let’s eat in here this morning.”

  Aridela and Iphiboë exchanged a glance. Iphiboë looked frightened. Aridela tried to mask her own foreboding. “You’re worried,” she said as they sat at a low table. Sunlight flooded from the carved skylight in the ceiling, illuminating tired lines beneath the queen’s eyes.

  Helice shook her head. “I know Areia Athene has blessed my daughters above other women. Yet even as I swell with pride, I want to weep with sorrow.”

  Two maids entered, laden with dishes. The bread gave off warm aromas of oregano, rosemary, and garlic. Helice said no more until they were gone. Ignoring the food, she clasped Iphiboë’s hand and said, “I am worried, yes. Worried about the days to come. Your life will hold much duty and responsibility, but precious little pleasure, and scarcely any freedom.”

  She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. A gift from the Egyptian pharaoh, it was inlaid with ivory and mahogany, its legs painstakingly scrolled. “Imagine our land overrun by mainland warriors, your queenship stolen. You, Iphiboë, Queen of Kaphtor, enslaved.”

  Iphiboë’s eyes widened and Aridela wondered what her mother meant to accomplish with this sort of talk.

  Helice made no gestures of reassurance. “Impossible, you may think,” she said. “We’re too strong; Divine Athene protects us.” Her voice lowered. “The barbarians long to see our ships splintered, our palaces burned, our crops stolen to feed their own people. They want to rule us. Even as their lips praise our achievements, they make sacrifices and beg their gods for help overthrowing us. That is the only reason they come here now.”

  “What barbarians, Mother?” Aridela asked. “Do armies approach?” She half rose from her cushions, but Helice motioned her back. The queen didn’t reply immediately. Instead she placed bread on both Aridela and Iphiboë’s trenchers, and urged them to eat. Aridela ignored the bread but did have a few grapes. Iphiboë, pale and blinking back tears, only wrung her hands together in her lap.

  The queen’s eyes appeared blank, nearly lifeless. “Who knows what lies out of sight on the sea, or hidden in the coves of other islands?” she said. “So many of these petty kingdoms have sprung up. I confess I dismissed them as unimportant, when I should have studied every battle they waged, every rock they conquered, every beast they offered in sacrifice and what they asked of their gods. The threat to us has grown as they have grown.” She sighed; her tone changed to one of brisk instruction. “Mycenae has the most incentive to attempt an overthrow. Thanks to the Lady that Idómeneus and I are allies. He shows his respect by sending no warriors. Even so, Idómeneus has brought his stronghold to a power I never imagined him attaining. Under our tutelage, mind you. They’ve absorbed all we’ve taught. I’ve seen their jealousy. You can be sure the smaller kingdoms feel the same, perhaps more, because if one of them vanquished us, they might then acquire the means to defeat Mycenae.”

  “They do admire us,” Iphiboë said.

  “They envy us,” Helice said. “The Achaeans take our women for wives and tempt our finest artisans to their citadels. Kaphtor becomes ever more entangled with these foreigners. Is it by chance?”

  “Kaphtor’s location makes us irresistible,” Aridela said.

  “Yes.” The queen gave her an appreciative smile. “You understand. They see us as a valuable prize placed at the center of the best trade paths. Any kingdom that conquers Kaphtor would conquer the sea, which our people long ago made safe for them to sail.”

  “There’s no kingdom in the world capable of defeating us, Mother,” Aridela said proudly.

  Helice smiled again, but it was a wan phantom of the other. In that instant, Aridela saw how colorless her mother was, how thin her face and arms. Everything sagged as though even her skin was too tired to go on.

  “I thought you wanted to speak of my dedication tonight,” Iphiboë said. “But now I see there are more pressing concerns.”

  “A barbarian warrior has come,” Helice said. “Harpalycus, the eldest son of King Lycomedes of Tiryns. He’s announced his intent to enter our Games and fight to become bull-king.” She lifted her cup and sipped milk, blinking against the steam. “It isn’t the way of these men to lay down their lives in service. Such things require a wisdom and faith they don’t possess.” Tears welled as she added, “But for one. Your father, Aridela. Damasen. I don’t forget him. He wasn’t like others of his kind. I suppose in all things there are exceptions. Perhaps this warrior, this Harpalycus, is different too….” She fell silent and stared at the wall as if admiring the cobalt swallows flitting over a bed of scarlet poppies.

  Hoping to soothe her, Aridela said, “What of Carmanor?” Memories of the boy from the mainland had softened with time into blurry tenderness and affection. “His home was Mycenae,” she said. “Remember how he revered Lady Athene, and wished to pray to her in our shrine? Surely he was another exception such as my father.”

  “I have no doubt of it.” This time Helice’s smile brightened her entire face. “He was a devout boy. I hope he’s found happiness and peace.” The lighter moment vanished. She frowned again. “Do I err in stepping off the throne? These kingdoms would never dare conspire against me. It’s you, Iphiboë, they believe they can manipulate, because of your inexperience. They want to test you, to see if you can be defeated.”

  “Then remain Kaphtor’s queen, Mother.” Iphiboë clasped Helice’s hand and kissed it.

  “I won’t allow these greedy warriors to interfere with my plans. You’re going to take the throne, Iphiboë, while I’m strong enough to help you learn all you need to know.”

  It was the closest she’d come to admitting this lingering illness might overcome her.

  Aridela’s throat tightened. Every day for a month she’d made offerings and begged for her mother’s recovery. So far she’d received no reassurances.

  “Poor Iphiboë, my beautiful child,” Helice said. “Your birth condemned you to an existence that will never be your own. You’ve been cheated, and I’m the one who cheated you.”

  “Mother, don’t.” Aridela turned to her sister. “Iphiboë, tell her you’re not afraid.”

  Iphiboë looked away, kneading her fingers. “I’m not afraid,” she said, terror trembling beneath her words. “Whatever man is presented to me, high or lowborn, will rule at my side. I want only to be as much like you as I can be, Mother.”

  The mystical voice Selene insisted she’d heard on Mount Ida claimed Aridela would be queen of Kaphtor. Could she give credence to such an insubstantial thing? The promise was worrisome, for the only way such a thing could happen, barring a precedent-setting decision on the part of the council, would be if Iphiboë died. Aridela wasn’t the only one who would give everything, including her own life, to protect her sister.

  She pushed the whole idea from her mind. It could never be. The cost was too dear.

  Helice stood and embraced them in turn. She hadn’t eaten a single bite. “I wish this season were so far away we didn’t have to consider it,” she said. “We cannot stop any man who resolves to enter the Games. It would be sacrilege. But we will make offerings and ask for one of our own to win. That’s all we can do.”

  * * * *

  Thou hast come for the threshing. I shall make thee sharp, quick, and terrible. Thou wilt be my bull upo
n the earth.

  Menoetius opened his eyes as the familiar voice pulled him out of sleep. Seconds passed while he tried to place where he was and groggily realized his brother was staring at him.

  As he sighed and sat up, pulling his knees to his chest, he remembered. He and Chrysaleon had found the Cave of Velchanos. They awaited the coming of night and the arrival of the princesses. Nearby on the grass lay the masks they would wear. Exquisitely detailed, one was a bull’s head, complete with heavy horns, and the other a lion, crafted with real hair from a lion’s mane. Their host, upon hearing their plan, had sent one of his slaves to Knossos to acquire them. Apparently, such things were common on Crete; thriving workshops created them for the various festivals and rites Cretans loved so much.

  He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but ever since he’d stepped off the ship onto Cretan soil, the old nightmare had escalated, making it impossible to collect more than disconnected moments of exhausted rest. He was tired into his bones, thickheaded, sore and stiff. His last memory was of watching the sun go down behind Mount Ida, trying his best not to think about the fate of the two females he’d left behind six years ago. Aridela. Selene. And others he’d grown attached to. Helice. Iphiboë. The mysterious and beguiling oracle, Themiste. Isandros.

  Why was Chrysaleon staring at him with that unreadable frown?

  Menoetius rested his forehead on his knees and stared between them at the ground. He focused on a single blade of grass, deliberately emptying his mind of feeling and imagination.

  But an emptied mind and heart made it possible for the woman’s dispassionate voice to return.

  Thou hast come for the threshing. I shall make thee sharp, quick, and terrible. Thou wilt be my bull upon the earth.