Aridela chose a blue doublet and seven-tiered skirt woven with spangled silver and ivory disks. She fingered bowls and pots while one maid painted her eyes; another fitted her with a diadem of silver and lapis lazuli, and her arms with worked silver bands.
“Is something wrong, my lady?” her handmaid asked.
“No.” Aridela twined her fingers to keep them still.
Her cousin Neoma, already dressed, entered the chamber with an airy greeting. She went out to the balcony and climbed the ladder to the roof so she could keep watch for the arriving guests.
Though all of yesterday was quiet so the celebrants could rest and recover, sleep had eluded Aridela. Her mind wouldn’t settle and instead went over and over the events in the cave.
After cleaning Chrysaleon’s wound, she and Selene retrieved Iphiboë from the lower chamber. Her sister listened to the story of how two men entered the cave. Weeping, she repeatedly hugged and thanked Aridela. Chrysaleon carried her to the cart and accompanied them to the palace on his mainland stallion. They encountered no one on the trek home, not even Harpalycus or Selene’s lover.
The sun had cleared the summits of the eastern mountains by the time the foursome returned. Aridela, keeping her hood close around her face, slipped to her bedchamber and into her bed without rousing Themiste or the nurse, though her dog’s welcoming whine made Themiste turn with an unhappy-sounding sigh. Later, Aridela pretended to be asleep when Themiste woke; after the oracle left, she dismissed her nurse so she could wash Chrysaleon’s scent from her skin in peace and privacy.
“Here they are,” Neoma called, interrupting Aridela’s thoughts. “Come see their helmets and shields. And the horses. Aridela, they brought horses and chariots.”
Aridela pushed aside the mirror in her maid’s hand. She ran to the balcony and climbed to the roof, peering across the palace, over the curved bull’s horns rising above the north entrance. A procession of helmeted men approached on the paved road from Amnisos. In front cantered a pair of matched blacks, pulling a gilded chariot that contained two men in white kilts and feather-plumed helmets.
Neoma shaded her eyes with one hand. “They remind me of your mother’s peacocks.” She laughed. “Puffing out their feathers to attract a mate.”
The men did seem to be on display. The driver’s grip on the reins not only caused his lively steeds to fight the bits as they pranced, but made the muscles in his arms and shoulders stand out.
“Could that be Mycenae’s high king?” Neoma asked.
“I can’t tell.”
The chariot disappeared behind the palace walls as it neared the sloped north entrance.
The handmaid came to the bottom of the ladder. “Your escort is here, my lady,” she said.
The royal ladies of Labyrinthos, dressed in colorful gowns and headdresses, chattered and laughed as they accompanied Aridela and her cousin down the wide stone staircase.
Aridela rested her palm against a pillar and squinted into the courtyard. Sunlight glared; heat radiated from the paving stones. The men from the chariot had left their rig outside and entered on foot. Aridela’s mother, aunt, and two royal uncles were welcoming them. One of the men removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he clasped the queen’s hand. The other stood a few steps back, straight and still, faceless in his menacing headgear.
“That cannot be the king of Mycenae,” said Neoma. “He is too young, surely. He must be an ambassador or something.”
Aridela’s aunt Oneaea inclined her head regally as the visitor spoke and saluted her.
Kaphtor’s royal women stepped out from under stone awnings into bright sun, and fanned out around Aridela.
Both men turned. Neoma jerked Aridela’s elbow, making her realize she’d stopped walking.
Memories revived in a wash of sensation as daylight cemented fantasy into reality. The one closest to Helice was her lover. Chrysaleon.
She’d told herself the cave lover was Velchanos. Now it appeared a mortal— a barbarian of Mycenae— had coupled with her in the sacred cave. Yet, rather than disappointment, joy shot like loosed arrows. The dream from Mount Juktas was real. Her lover was real. He’d found her. He’d searched her out. What a strange omen, one she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“This is my younger daughter, Aridela.” Helice beckoned. “My heir and eldest cannot greet you, Prince Chrysaleon. She is injured and bedridden.”
“I regret to hear it,” Chrysaleon replied. “Greetings, Lady Aridela.” His accent was charming, perhaps because the sound of it returned memories of whispered words against her face.
No man will have you but me.
Helice squeezed Aridela’s hand, digging in her nails to remind her of her manners as she announced, “Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, prince of Mycenae.”
The chains on Aridela’s diadem tinkled as she fought for composure. “Wel-welcome, Prince Chrysaleon,” she managed. “All we possess is yours.”
For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.
He saluted her, back straight, solemn-faced, head held with unbending pride. Then one brow lifted and the corner of his lip twitched, subtly, so that only she would see it.
Helice clapped her hands. Her cupbearer brought forth the welcoming bowl, glinting with carvings and jewels. Taking one sip, the queen passed it to Aridela, who drank and passed it to Chrysaleon. His dusty face seemed younger in daylight. His eyes laughed, making her want to grin in return. She fought conflicting urges to run away from him and to draw him away with her.
He accepted the bowl from her. Their fingertips touched.
Softly at first, the air filled with a sound like muffled drumbeats. Instead of dying away, the sound grew louder. The prince’s guard gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it partway from the scabbard as he peered up at the looming walls and balconies surrounding the courtyard. Hundreds of clamoring birds lifted as one from the eaves, diffusing the sky with their bodies.
Sharp, sudden, a deafening crack of thunder rent the air. Several women cried out. A few cringed and covered their heads. Chrysaleon’s men rushed into the courtyard, swords drawn.
“Find Themiste,” Helice told her attendant. Her voice trembled. “Ask for her explanation of this thunder in a clear sky.”
The woman bowed and fled.
“What is it, Queen Helice?” Chrysaleon asked.
“I know not,” she said, “yet it fills me with foreboding.” The queen brought Aridela close in a sheltering embrace. “Sometimes, when the birds rise together like that, soon after, the Earth Bull shakes his great back. Our land quakes and there is much destruction.”
“Goddess is angry?” Neoma moved closer to her mother.
No one replied.
The doves settled again, cooing. Heat wavered above the paving. A nightingale began to sing and the earth remained quiet.
Chrysaleon’s guard crossed to the milling soldiers and herded them from the precincts.
“Until we understand what frightened the birds, let us not cower like children,” Helice said, displaying her renowned calm; Aridela saw only the faintest tremor at the edge of her lips. “My lord, I visited your country when you were a boy. Could you possibly remember?”
Her efforts at banter failed. Chrysaleon’s distraction was obvious in the way he kept glancing toward the palace’s upper stories. The queen, too, lost her usual composure, but before the situation deteriorated further, two priestesses hurried into the courtyard, grave-faced as they bowed and asked her to accompany them.
“Aridela,” she said, “fetch my steward. See that our guests are tended.” Giving Chrysaleon an apology, she motioned to her sister and the two women followed the priestesses.
Aridela returned her gaze to Chrysaleon. She struggled to maintain the impression that she’d never seen him before.
“My mother will want to hear news of your home,” she said, leading the way to the relief of shade under stone overhangs. “Her steward will show you to rooms where you can bathe and rest. Tonight w
e feast, and tomorrow is the bull leaping. You’ve come at our country’s holiest time.”
The inclination of Chrysaleon’s head was every bit as royal as one of Helice’s.
“Here he is,” Aridela said as Helice’s steward approached from an adjoining corridor. “Please, tell him anything you require and he will see to it.”
Aridela hoped neither her attendants nor Chrysaleon would sense how his smile shortened her breathing.
The steward led them away. Aridela’s escort, still frightened and subdued, dispersed while she hurried across the courtyard in search of Helice.
She found her, with Themiste, in the royal family’s private shrine, deep in the earth beneath the palace.
“What happened?” she asked, pressing both fists against her breast in salute to the Lady as Themiste long ago taught her.
“One of the priestesses fell into a fit when the thunder sounded,” the queen said.
“It was Sidero.” Themiste rinsed her hands in a bowl of water held by a serving maid. “Rhené is attending her, but she is near death.”
Sidero, a woman of nearly fifty, was kind to Aridela during her shrine training in the mountains. Once she’d found Aridela weeping, lonely for her mother and sister, for the bustle and excitement of palace life. Sidero sought her out after that, teaching her the qualities and magic of herbs and sharing amusing tales of the shrines. She spent hours retelling the songs and prophecies, giving them a rich vibrancy that made Aridela see them in new ways.
Could it all be connected somehow, the birds rising, the thunder, and poor Sidero now lying ill, just after those two men entered the gates of Labyrinthos?
Helice finished speaking to Themiste then motioned Aridela to follow her. They walked along the underground corridor, following scattered pools of lamplight. “This is of grave concern,” she said. “Does the Goddess send us warning? I was told Sidero spoke in her fit. It could be important. Minos Themiste is going now to investigate. I hope she recovers.”
“Yes, so do I,” Aridela said. “May it please Lady Mother.”
Helice took Aridela’s arm as they climbed the steps leading into daylight. “So the Mycenaean prince has come,” she said. “Why? Has Idómeneus sent him to compete, or is he here merely to observe? My fears of a mainland threat feel justified. And this thunder. Most unsettling.”
“The warriors of Mycenae honor Potnia Athene.” Aridela kept her voice even, though inside, her heart fluttered like a netted bird. A discreet binding had covered the wound on Chrysaleon’s arm. She remembered the dagger buried in his flesh, and how profusely it bled when he’d drawn it out. His companion must have sewn it closed. Questions flooded her mind. How was it healing? What would happen when he came face to face with his attacker, Harpalycus?
“Never forget,” Helice was saying, “she comes second to their horse-god, Poseidon.”
“True, this is no secret, but they have always conducted themselves with regard for our ways. Our people mix with theirs in harmony. Now, perhaps, their high prince wishes to honor us by competing for the kingship. Perhaps it was his intent to arrive after the others. Does it not make him appear more powerful somehow? More confident?”
Helice frowned.
“I agree with your concerns,” Aridela added hastily. “But remember the respect Mycenae has always shown. I told the steward to give the prince and his men fine chambers. I for one don’t think we should risk offending the son of Mycenae’s high king.”
“Your words are wise, Aridela. I will follow your recommendation.” Helice rested a reassuring hand on her daughter’s shoulder, but soon her fingers tightened and she sighed. “I do fear his coming, though, he and his men, with such display. The prince was charming, courteous, but what was he thinking as he drove his chariot across our land?” She gestured at the inlaid tiles and vivid frescoes adorning the cool inner walls of Labyrinthos. “Does he covet Kaphtor as others do?” The queen shook her head and sighed. “I feel changes coming. If only Damasen were here. He understood the minds of these men. He would know if they’re plotting something.”
“I wish he were here, too,” Aridela said. “I would have liked knowing my father.”
“I pray a Cretan male wins the Games. If only I could think of something. If only there were something I could do….”
Aridela touched her mother’s hand. “To take harsh action before circumstances warrant could cause a worse outcome. Trust Athene to guide us, Mother, as she’s always done. Isn’t it better to welcome this prince and show him the honor due his station? No doubt the truth will become clear soon enough.”
Helice’s proud smile was gratifying, but Aridela felt torn in her loyalties and at odds with her soul.
Chapter Sixteen: Moon of White Light
During the reign of Helice’s grandmother, artisans fashioned gardens for the pleasure of those who lived in the palace of Labyrinthos. Lying outside the breakfast hall, the lush foliage filled that room with scent and delighted the eye with color. Potted flowers and fruits mingled with old apple and almond trees, edged by beds of aromatic rosemary, thyme, oregano, and mint. Flagstone paths wound through arbors of hanging blooms, past cascades of jasmine and oleander. Cypress benches invited one to sit and enjoy the tranquility. Many species of birds found refuge in the branches of the trees and leant their singing to the overall appeal; vivid scenes of birds, ivy, lilies and fish decorated the sheltering north and south walls.
Menoetius found the gardens after hours of aimless wandering through deserted palace corridors.
The first pink glow of daylight illuminated the paths. That and the hypnotic scents drew him in.
He was tired. His eyes burned. Though the chamber he’d been given was comfortable, he’d spent the night tossing and turning.
Every time his thoughts turned to Aridela over the years, he pictured that innocent child with the huge black eyes, shaved head and topknot. He remembered how her initial curiosity and gratitude grew into infatuation. She tried to hide it, but he saw. He’d done his best to be tender.
That nearly weightless, bleeding girl he’d carried from the Cretan shrine, though still small-framed, was now a woman, with a woman’s body and rich black hair that when unbound, as it was in the cave, fell to her thighs.
Six years ago she stood on the quay rubbing at her tears as he sailed away from Crete. She’d shared the tale about her father’s death in an effort to bind him to her. He’d thought of it many times, and many more times wondered how the little princess fared.
Yet she showed no sign of recognition, either in the cave or the palace courtyard. Had he changed so much?
He knew the answer.
Seizing a stalk of blooming white allium, he broke it off and kneaded it to mush as his anger expanded.
Chrysaleon used her. Worse, she allowed it. She embraced his violation.
Menoetius stood at Chrysaleon’s side yesterday in the courtyard as the queen welcomed them. When Aridela arrived, her gaze swept over him without pause before settling upon Chrysaleon. That rapt expression she long ago offered to him was now given to the spoiled selfish prince, the ‘Gold Lion of Mycenae,’ a man who never suffered remorse over toying with women, gaining their devotion, and casting them aside when boredom set in.
Why hadn’t he fought harder to keep Chrysaleon away from her? He’d known his brother’s plans. Why did he allow those plans to succeed?
Succumbing to a few shoves and threats, Menoetius went off with Selene like an obedient slave, leaving Chrysaleon to defile Aridela without interruption or hindrance.
You’re weak. A coward. That’s why you allowed him his way.
Never had he hated his face so much, and Chrysaleon’s even more, for being flawless.
You sacrificed her to his lust rather than endure her revulsion.
That was the reason he’d scuttled into the shadows like a beetle from the light.
Chased by the unrelenting barbs of his recriminations, he paced through the garden paths, shoving past bench
es and bushes, upsetting a pot of jasmine, turning his blame on her.
She was nothing to him any longer, nothing but a means to conquer this island. She hadn’t recognized him. It didn’t matter that the cave was dark, or that Harpalycus commanded their attention with his threats, or that in the courtyard, his helmet covered all but his eyes and mouth. She should have recognized him.
He should have prevented that unbearable union. His one chance to protect her, and he’d failed.
You allowed Chrysaleon to take what should have been yours.
Now it never will be.
“It is you. Carmanor. Carmanor?”
Menoetius stopped, startled, thinking for an instant Aridela had come and at last knew him.
But it was the Phrygian woman, Selene, entering the gardens from the eastern gate.
He swallowed to dispel the hard lump of rage in his throat. “Yes,” he said, lifting his chin.
“It was so dark in the cave, but I thought so. I didn’t have a chance to ask because of Harpalycus… then you left to follow him.” She came nearer, staring into his face, her eyes wide. “I’ve missed you, Carmanor. You must tell me how you come to be traveling with Mycenae’s prince.”
He didn’t know what to say, but there didn’t seem to be any need. She pressed against him, laughing, and gave him no chance to speak.
* * * *
To the east and slightly north of the palace, the sloping hill evened into a flat plain. Here stood the bull court of Labyrinthos.
Aridela stared at it from the balcony on the east side of her bedchamber. She watched as eager spectators congregated in the wooden stands.
It was said Crete’s bull leapers made use of mysteries handed down to them through generations. These secret methods transformed a dangerous, earthy craft into delicate poetry as leapers grasped the bull’s wide horns and flew like swallows into the waiting arms of their compatriots.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 27
