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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  He lost track of the passage of time. Others would spend these last hours praying or preparing their bodies for the task ahead; he merely stared. He couldn’t fix his mind on anything. The bashing he’d taken from Harpalycus throbbed. The priestess who tended him said his nose was broken, and the passage of three days only intensified the swelling and bruising around his eyes.

  Hunger and thirst made him as irascible as a boar. He felt faint, dizzy. What could be the purpose of forcing them to suffer this way? Was the task itself not grueling enough? He irritably asked this question, but the women, exchanging puzzled glances, replied that he must enter the labyrinth clear-minded, unencumbered by the weight of this world’s base needs and expectations.

  Afternoon fled, leaving a curious yellow haze in the east. This wouldn’t be the first time a man died upon Chrysaleon’s sword. Perhaps his distaste came from knowing the Zagreus would have no weapon. Priestesses called it holy sacrifice, and claimed the king would be reborn in glory. His blood fructified the earth and those who consumed his body would absorb his strength, his divinity. Chrysaleon could hardly credit the disjointed descriptions he’d heard of these mysterious rites.

  He understood the role he was meant to play. These people had no more use for their king, whatever glorious story they wove around his life and death. He must be killed, either by Chrysaleon or Lycus, which freed the others of any blood debt.

  Why ponder the issue? It was a step he must take to reach his goal. He meant to destroy this culture and depose Iphiboë. Many would die for him to succeed, far more than one king. If everything went according to his wishes, Crete’s people would be his slaves and the country would pay heavy tribute to Mycenae.

  Behind him, priestesses and servant-girls knelt in prayer. He heard the words, something about the year-king, but most of it made no sense.

  Rainbows winked through purple clouds. The rain slackened.

  One of the priestesses offered him a crust soaked in honey, and a small cup of mead. He accepted with alacrity, longing for more.

  Soon after he’d swallowed the last of it, his ears began to hum and his hands felt as though weights hung from the tips of his fingers. Though part of his mind remained clear and knew he still leaned against the pavilion’s entrance column, he also seemed to see it from above, the banner on top flapping in wind that felt more reminiscent of winter than high, hot summer.

  Neat rows of vines stretched before him. In the distance lay the blue, misty foothills of Mount Juktas. To the east ranged endless fields of barley, washed clean and reaching up to enjoy this unexpected drink from the sky.

  A group of women circled in a grove of enormous old oaks. He watched them sway to the rhythm of drums. Their heads were monstrous, white-faced and bloody, mouths like black caverns. They tore their hair and doubled over, sobbing.

  He desperately wanted a drink and felt water coursing over his body, but every time he opened his mouth, the water vanished. He fumbled for his sword, but grasped instead the arm of a solemn-faced priestess who bent over him. “Please, my lord,” she said, “we must go now to the labyrinth.”

  Chrysaleon propped himself on his elbows, surprised to discover he lay prostrate in the pavilion’s doorway, rain pelting his head and chest. “What happened?” he asked, so groggy and dizzy he could scarcely form the words. His ribs ached. His nose throbbed. His eyes stung and watered.

  “I thought you fell asleep.”

  He pressed his hands to his temples. The inside of his head pounded like a heartbeat.

  The bread, honey, or the mead. Part or all of it was tainted. They’d tricked him, given him some concoction designed to weaken his resolve.

  “Come.” The white-robed woman pulled his arm until he staggered to his feet. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, trying to force the distracting throb and haziness from his mind while the priestesses painted diagonal stripes across his face with a paste of crushed kerm berries.

  Four men carried him to the palace in a litter. Behind them, like a tail, walked a line of priestesses, all chanting in the same unfamiliar language he’d heard in his dream. The sword rested on his lap, bright double edges freshly honed. He ran his thumb along the blade, transfixed at the sight of blood welling shiny-bright.

  The litter stopped. He descended, uncertainty drawing his belly tight and slowing his footsteps. Crowds of bystanders surrounded them, come to see, and perhaps lay bets on who would emerge from the labyrinth, he or Lycus. Water dripped, somehow sad and plaintive, magnified by whatever infusion he’d consumed. Menoetius pushed through the press and tried to approach, but two armed guards stopped him. Chrysaleon wanted to call out, to tell everyone how the Cretans had tricked him, but he bit his lip and stifled the accusation. Never would he show such weakness in front of Aridela. Besides, he’d been told little of the ordeal he would face. Perhaps the elixir was customary, designed to bring him closer into mystical union with their god.

  Drumbeats pulsed down his spine. He heard a low, humming chant. “Calesienda. Cabal. Cabal.” Chrysaleon recognized that word. It was used at Mycenae as well. There, it meant “brother.”

  “‘Cabal.’ What does that mean?” he asked one of the priestesses. With a polite inclination of her head, she replied, “The killer of the holy king becomes his anointed brother, my lord. He is the king’s cabal.”

  So the meaning was similar here.

  Chrysaleon’s heart slowed to match the menacing drumbeat. His feet felt rooted to the earth in a moist tangle. He couldn’t catch his breath. The sky darkened and a renewed mutter of thunder rumbled through the clouds. Chants echoed.

  The priestess took Chrysaleon’s hand and they moved together through the crowd. Her flesh felt hot against his. She wore a voluminous hooded wool robe, which protected her from the rain. Yet he had only a loincloth, and felt every chilly, needle-sharp drop against his skin. Hunger. Thirst. Cold. The inability to think. He could no longer separate these things.

  He saw another crowd taking a different path, surrounding a lone man. It must be Lycus. He heard the name being chanted.

  Three priestesses joined hands, enclosing him in a circle. “Gorgopis Athene,” they intoned, “take this man deep, and deeper. Reveal the worthiness of his soul. From your womb do they emerge, die by your hand, and rise again. Lady of dew, Queen of beasts. Pull them into your belly and show them what they fear.”

  Men swung the bullroarers, faster and faster, to frighten any evil spirits drawn by impending death.

  The triad led him close to the palace wall. They came to a plain small opening, lit by a torch just inside. Beyond its light, impenetrable blackness.

  One priestess laid her hand against his and pressed something to his palm that felt like a shred of papyrus.

  “From the lady Aridela,” she said.

  “Do you swear,” said the other, “to face your death willingly, consenting to your fate as the Zagreus has consented?”

  He could only nod, his tongue too dry to speak. The image of Aridela’s face, the belief that she would despise him if he changed his mind, stopped up his throat and prevented him from refusing this ordeal.

  The third gestured toward the opening. He was to go in. Gripping his sword, he took a step. Another.

  The first priestess removed the torch from its bracket and backed away. He turned to look at her. She expected him to enter this black hole with no light?

  She made a shooing gesture. He was to go on. Two men approached and pushed the thick wood door shut. The priestess’s eyes glimmered in the flickering light as the door closed. He heard it latch.

  He was locked alone in darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen: Moon of White Light

  Chrysaleon’s blood brother stood just two spear lengths away, staring without expression at the walls of the palace. He hadn’t noticed Aridela, surrounded as she was by chanting white-robed priestesses. She must seem as faceless and formless as they, for she wore the same hooded garb.

  Carmanor.

 
She had adored that beautiful foreign youth, his sleek dark hair, his flawless skin, and most of all those indescribable blue eyes, which she had at first believed were Athene’s.

  Little of that boy remained. Carmanor was now a brutish soldier, a frowning stranger. Even the cloak flowing over his shoulders seemed warlike, with its beautiful yet fiercely bold black and white stripes. It was the fur of some beast she couldn’t imagine; if things were different between them, she would ask if she could touch it, maybe even wrap herself in its luxury for a moment or two.

  Aridela’s gaze faltered. The mesmerizing beauty she recalled so well was gone. Even his name had changed. Menoetius. How had he become what he now was, even as she remained cocooned in the innocence of childhood?

  Something in his eyes told her he still bled in some concealed place.

  Reluctant pity flooded her even as she felt herself shrink away from pain beyond her understanding.

  If only he’d never returned. She could have cherished her perfect memories for the rest of her days.

  Perhaps it was the mead she’d shared with the other priestesses that made her so sad and lethargic. Punctuated by the drip of leftover rain from the palace’s cornices and balconies, everything seemed dismal, stricken by grief.

  I lived. What did it mean? Anger emanated from him like heat from a fire. Gone were the slow, enchanting smiles and that peculiar glow in his eyes, stolen by the unhappy scars a violent fate had forced upon him.

  “He’s beautiful, Aridela.”

  Aridela returned to the wet night with a start. Neoma stood beside her, her face framed by a protective hood.

  Tilting her head at her cousin’s shock, Neoma asked, “What’s wrong?” She peered past Aridela, saw Menoetius, and grinned. “Did you think I meant him? No. I speak of your lover. The prince.”

  “Be quiet.” Aridela looked around to see if anyone overheard. “No one knows. No one can know.”

  “Are you afraid?” Neoma drank from the horn she held, dribbling a little on the front of her robe.

  “Yes.” Tears blurred the torchlight. Aridela accepted the comfort of her cousin’s embrace.

  Neoma kept her voice low. “He’s a man at the height of his strength. Lycus is no match for him. And, by the Lady, he’s magnificent. She would never allow a man such as he to be harmed. She’s drawn to charm and beauty even as we are.”

  Aridela squeezed her eyes closed. Let it please you to protect him, my Mother.

  “Not like that one,” Neoma said, louder.

  Aridela opened her eyes. Her cousin was staring at Menoetius.

  “Look how nobody will even stand close to him. His ugliness is like a wall. How is it that Selene can lie with the likes of that?” She shook her head and gave a deliberate shudder. “I wouldn’t want that touching me. Do you think she snuffs the lamps?”

  She sees something more than we do.

  But it was too much effort to say it aloud. It didn’t make Aridela feel better to hear her own guilty aversion spoken aloud. She didn’t like realizing she wasn’t quite so wise or gentle as her people loved to claim.

  “I could ignore the rest of the scars, but that face turns my belly,” Neoma said. “I wonder what happened?”

  “Chrysaleon told me he was mauled by a lioness protecting her cubs.”

  “Oh— that’s awful.” Neoma shrugged. “No wonder. Death would have been more kind. It’s pitiful—”

  “Don’t say that.” Aridela edged away from her cousin’s arm. “He doesn’t want your pity.”

  “How do you know? He may crave it. Maybe that’s how Selene won him, by speaking words of pity.”

  Biting off a sarcastic retort, Aridela turned away just in time to catch Menoetius staring at her. Torchlight and shadows flickered over the scars, making them appear even worse.

  He walked away, vanishing into the crowd and the night, leaving her to wonder, cringe, and shrink beneath the weight of unfamiliar self-disgust.

  * * * *

  Chrysaleon waited for his eyes to accustom to the dark or for the priestess to take pity and open the door.

  Cold air wafted over him, smelling dank and moldy, like cave air. He fingered the shred of papyrus in his hand. What good was this gift from Aridela? He couldn’t tell what, if anything, was written on it. He nearly threw it down but changed his mind.

  Faint, echoing chants tickled his ears, but he couldn’t determine from where they came. One word, endlessly repeated.

  Gorgopis.

  Those who worshipped Athene at Mycenae spoke this title when they crouched in terror, seeking to placate she who all men face at their death.

  Darkness intensified the effects of whatever he’d eaten. He fought to transcend the disorientation, nauseating vertigo, the sense that he was being watched by something terrifyingly spectral. He couldn’t be sure if the voices he heard were real or fragments of songs concocted in his mind.

  Stretching out his arms, he took one careful step. Another. His knuckles scraped against a rough wall of rock. He continued, not knowing if the path he chose would lead him to the bull-king or disappear under his feet, leaving him to lie, helpless and broken, until he died.

  The chants died away. He heard only his own breath, felt his own shivering.

  Fear consumed him, shredding the new power and confidence he’d come to rely on in recent days.

  He tried to bolster his anger.

  When he’d asked what he was to do here, the priestess replied, “You are to kill the bull-king.”

  “Where will he be?”

  “No one knows that but the Lady.”

  He stopped to rub his arms, stamping to get his blood moving. The next instant he fell still and silent, holding his breath, wondering if that slight sound could be Lycus sneaking up on him.

  Bitter hatred lived in that young bull leaper’s manner. Why?

  His right hand came to an edge on the wall and plunged into empty space. Through careful exploration, Chrysaleon determined he’d arrived at a fork in the path. He could either go straight or turn. He decided to turn.

  After some time he thought he detected faint illumination. He wasn’t sure. Perhaps his mind played tricks. But soon he saw that there was, indeed, a lamp set in a niche carved into a massive pillar. He approached, wary yet eager.

  A dark substance splashed the base and covered the ground. He knew it was blood, poured here to strengthen the supports holding up the palace. His flesh crawled; he felt the dead watching him in this eerie silence, their eyes hidden beyond the lamp glow.

  Remembering the papyrus, he held the paper up to the light. There was but one thing on it. A short wavy line. The ageless symbol of the labyrinth. Similar lines were engraved on Aridela’s necklace.

  Not knowing the significance of the mark or how this could help, he crushed the paper and threw it away.

  It hurt to breathe through his broken nose. Bright explosions of color popped startlingly at the edge of his sight. So many sounds drifted from the dark that he gave up trying to decipher them. He wouldn’t play this Cretan game any longer. He would stay here until the lamp went out. Eventually he would die.

  Carrying the lamp, he crossed to the wall and sat down. He closed his eyes and rested his face against his knees. Shivering took precedence.

  He heard a soft, barely discernible scrape, but refused to open his eyes until he felt something glide across his bare feet. Rising with a shout, he seized his sword.

  It was a serpent. It stared at him, tongue flicking, but didn’t strike, maybe due to the chill. It uncoiled and went off into the dark. Not knowing what else to do, Chrysaleon picked up the lamp and followed.

  They came to a place where the corridors split in three directions. The serpent slid close to the wall of the far right corridor, looked back at Chrysaleon, and curled itself into a neat round cairn.

  The oil in the lamp was nearly gone. At the edge of its circle of light he saw something on the wall next to the snake.

  He crept closer. At the base
, a wavy line was etched into the stone. Straightening, he pressed his fist to his chest, inclined his head, and said, “I thank you, my friend.”

  The snake’s eyes were dark and deep, like Aridela’s.

  His flesh began to simmer with renewed confidence; leaving the serpent behind, he continued along that corridor, holding the lamp close to the wall. He came to another opening that offered two directions. At the base leading to the left was a wavy line. There was nothing on the right.

  The lamp gave a tiny sputter and died.

  Chrysaleon felt the way on his hands and knees, sword gripped in his left hand, his right trailing along the base of the wall searching for more signs. He hoped he understood the meaning of the paper and the serpent’s offering.

  * * * *

  From the Oracle Logs

  Themiste

  Two heroes journey deep within the labyrinth. They seek to kill the Zagreus. He who succeeds will be king and consort to Iphiboë.

  One is a warrior, a prince from Mycenae. The meaning of his name, Chrysaleon, is “Gold Lion.”

  Is he the Gold Lion Aridela prophesied, come to bring our destruction? If so, then who is the black bull he is destined to defeat? Is it the Zagreus, Helice’s consort, or all of Kaphtor?

  I feel the prophecies falling into place. I shall protect Aridela as I have vowed. She will not be betrayed. I won’t allow it. As soon as the new king is crowned, I’ll take her to the safety of the cave shrines. Then I’ll return. I will watch him, doing nothing to put him on guard.

  This I promise to my predecessors and my queen— if this prince intends to bring us under his father’s heel, he will find me a formidable enemy.

  * * * *

  Darkness pressed against him. He heard a sigh. He tightened his grip on the sword.

  You will fail.

  He couldn’t tell if the voice originated in his mind or outside, in the dark. Its lilt was feminine, with a darker quality that struck him as masculine.