“I could have told your mother what you did in the cave with Chrysaleon, but I didn’t,” he said. “I kept your secret.”
But he didn’t know. He came into the cave after their joining, after they’d risen and dressed. Aridela peered into his eyes steadily. When his gaze dropped she knew he was casting bait, trying to trick her into making confessions.
He said, “If you were Crete’s heir and I the winner of the Games, it would be a matter of love rather than conquest.”
“Chrysaleon may have come here with that in mind, I cannot say, but he vowed to honor our ways—”
“Has he professed love? Or does he speak of lust— possession? There’s a difference.” Harpalycus’s hands slid to her upper arms; he tried to draw her forward, bending closer as though to kiss her.
Aridela’s spine pressed against the back of the bench. She shoved him in the chest, keeping hold of the knife in one fist.
Her resistance didn’t stop him. He grabbed her wrists in his uninjured left hand, clamping both in a grip like a shackle and forcing her to drop the knife. His other arm shot around her neck; at the same time he threw his left leg over her lap to hold her down. Even with the limitations of a shattered hand, he held her immobile. She couldn’t kick him, strike him with her fists, or flee.
Selene’s warnings echoed. Even a small man could best you, if it came to a battle of physical strength alone. You must be quick-witted, and learn other ways to triumph.
Harpalycus leaned into her, his kiss a bruising assault. When she wrenched her face free, he laughed; he pressed his arm closer around her throat, choking her until her ears hummed and she saw a glitter of stars. Triumphant conquest gleamed in his eyes.
Lowering his face to her chest, he tore her gown with his teeth, giving her the helpless, terrified sensation of prey in the fangs of a predator. Part of her observed this with unemotional interest; she understood why Chrysaleon resorted to fracturing this man’s hand in the wrestling. He must have seen no other way.
She felt a minute relaxation in the grip on her wrists as his concentration veered to tearing her gown and biting her. Twisting one hand free, she smashed the flat of her palm against his ear. His head reared backward, giving her the opening she needed to slam her fist into his nose.
Blood spurted. He fell away, cursing. She drilled her knee into his groin. He grunted, gasped, and hunched over.
Her little cutting knife lay next to her on the bench. Seizing its handle, she sank the blade into the base of his neck where it met the shoulder, as deeply as it would go, which wasn’t far.
He jumped to his feet and staggered, clapping his wounded hand to his neck as though stung by a bee. Yanking the knife out, he threw it on the ground and swiped at the blood gushing from his nose and over his lips. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and stood still but for heavy breathing and the reflexive, furious clenching of his good hand.
She stood. He’d thrown the knife between them but she hesitated, hoping she’d done enough to force his respect.
Rage manifested in his tightly pressed lips and harsh breathing. His jaw muscles worked. Aridela heard his teeth grind. A trickle of blood seeped from the neck wound she’d inflicted.
They stared at each other. When he spoke at last, his voice was surprisingly calm, though hoarse. “Come now, my lady,” he said. “I punished you for what you did to me, and now you’ve punished me in return. Let us speak truth. I’ve sampled a few of Chrysaleon’s women. They vow I’m the better lover. Mycenae’s prince need never know.”
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Oh, but he will know. I will tell him, and together we will watch you being put to death for laying hands upon me in such a manner.”
A cynical smile accompanied Harpalycus’s sigh. “I’ll swear you gave yourself to me, asked me to leave those marks on you. Here, that may be no crime, but the laws in Mycenae are clear. Even if Chrysaleon has doubts, he could never ignore such an insult, not without jeopardizing his position, and he would never willingly share a female with me.” He glanced at her ripped gown and his eyelids dropped over his eyes. “In my land, women are put to death for lying with men other than their husbands, even if they’re forced, for duplicity poisons every woman’s heart. All of Argolis knows this.”
Aridela struggled to control the unbearable urge to pummel his face into mush.
Harpalycus swiped again at the blood on his face but he appeared calm, serene, as though they enjoyed the most innocent of pastimes. The only betrayal of anger or pain was the continued clenching of his jaw. She took what pleasure she could from the splatter of blood marring his face and the front of his tunic, and the swelling, which was turning his eyes to puffy slits. He would have to make up some story to explain these injuries to his men.
Clarity washed through her anger. The mainland was different from Kaphtor. Perhaps their differences ran too deeply for any true understanding, much less the rapport for which she longed.
She didn’t know Chrysaleon so well that she could disregard Harpalycus’s threat, much as she might like to. “I won’t tell Prince Chrysaleon what you’ve done,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t spoil his first days as bull-king, or slow his healing with insignificant accusations.”
She couldn’t confide in her mother either, for Helice would never be stopped from exacting vengeance upon Harpalycus, no matter what it cost, and Harpalycus would make sure his poison found its way to Chrysaleon.
“Wise,” he said. He took a step closer, lifting his good hand toward her hair, but she knocked it away with a feral hiss.
His jaw clenched; his lips tightened, but when he spoke, he kept his voice even. “All my life, I’ve watched Mycenae hoard the best of everything. Kingdoms pay tribute, merchants offer the richest gifts, while my kingdom languishes. Always I’m forced to make do with dregs. My father even gave him Iros. That’s why I came here. Crete was the one thing I meant to win for myself, for my own honor. But again, Chrysaleon stole what should be mine.”
“What should be yours? We rule the sea and lived in luxury when your people hardly knew how to speak. My mother will hear what you truly think of us after all your fawning and false compliments.”
“You mistake me,” he said, bowing in a humble fashion she knew better than to believe. “I only meant I wanted to win the Games, to become Crete’s consort and year-king. Forgive my ill-considered words. Chrysaleon makes me speak rashly. He and I have a long, unpleasant history.”
Her resolve didn’t fade. She might not have the courage to reveal Harpalycus’s attack, but nothing would stop her from warning Helice about his true motives concerning the Games.
“I can lay offerings at your feet, my lady, which would surely amaze you, and recompense you many times over for the pain I’ve caused.” The swelling and blood clogging his nose made him sound congested and somewhat foolish, yet still he made no move to leave. “I’ve uncovered secrets known only to the gods, secrets I’ll share with those I trust. It’s too soon to tell you more— your doubts are plain. But when you forego your resistance, you’ll understand the honor I offer to you above all women.”
Aridela could stand no more. She backed away. He made no effort to stop her. When she’d put enough distance between them, she turned and fled through a side door into the palace.
Her throat felt raw and sore. Her mouth tasted of blood and she couldn’t stop shaking. Sharp red wheals and bite impressions marred her breasts. Images of his attack echoed through shock and disbelief as she stumbled through lesser-used passages. No human had ever deliberately threatened or injured her, except for Selene, perhaps, in the course of training designed to make her stronger. She’d heard of such things, but only rarely, and those crimes were punished in the harshest manner. By the time she reached her chamber, her long-held, comfortable trust in the world had faltered. In one brief encounter, Harpalycus injured far more than her flesh, which would heal in a few days. He’d replaced her pampered, never-tested courage with baffled uncert
ainty.
* * * *
Many people visited Chrysaleon as he lay in bed fighting off infections and blood loss. But the one he wanted to see never came.
Adoration was showered upon him. He was Kaphtor’s strongest, swiftest, most cunning male. He woke from drugged sleep to find women stroking his hair, oiling his skin, caressing his beard and whispering promises of passion such as he’d never known. His nurses chased them away constantly.
When the omens and signs aligned and the moon heralded the proper phase for new beginnings, he would undergo the ceremony making him consort and bull-king. He was glad of any delay, for he felt half-dead, weak as a baby. Surely by the time the moon ripened in the heavens, he would be able to walk again. If not, he was no man at all.
His young male acolytes demanded an explanation of “blood brotherhood” then went about slicing each other’s wrists, swearing eternal love and loyalty. A few died from their clumsy efforts.
“They make me puke,” Menoetius said. “This gaggle of women with no teats.”
To send Xanthus on his way to Hesperia and beg blessings of Athene for the new year, Kaphtor’s priestesses burned incense and made lavish offerings. Helice and the oracle Themiste traveled to Mount Ida’s cave shrine to pour libations of thanks and pray for good harvests.
Tended by the queen’s own healer, Chrysaleon lay in bed, bored, lonely, his pain dulled by infusions of poppy.
Had the earth swallowed Aridela? Why didn’t she come? He longed to ask, but knew it would rouse suspicion.
Iphiboë stammered and blushed and escaped his sickroom as quickly as she could. It was obvious someone forced her to visit.
What happened to Selene’s vision from the mountain? To win Aridela, Chrysaleon raced, suffered, starved, endured grievous wounds and killed the king. These Cretans cheered him, yet what had he achieved? No authority, no Aridela, and the promise of death in one year.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Moon of White Light
Aridela longed to go to Chrysaleon, to sit at his bedside and hold his hand. Plagued with worry, she avidly absorbed news and gossip about him while trying to maintain an air of indifference.
But every time she started toward his chamber, she always turned away. First of all, he was never alone. His admirers thronged in and out of that wing of the palace. But that was only a handy excuse to disguise her true reluctance.
Does he care about me or is it Kaphtor he wants?
What about his wife in Mycenae? Why has he never spoken of her?
Why did he compete? Will he go to his death for Kaphtor?
Harpalycus had left a poison in her mind as well as marks on her flesh. Though she possessed jewelry and tunics that would cover the bruises on her wrists and teeth imprints on her breasts, she still feared their presence being somehow detected. What if Harpalycus fulfilled his threat to tell Chrysaleon lies? What if Chrysaleon believed him? It might even be worse if Chrysaleon didn’t believe. In his weakened state, if he left his bed to confront Harpalycus and exact vengeance, he could be killed.
For the first time in her life, fear of an unpredictable outcome stopped her from acting. She decided instead to visit Lycus, and after picking a cluster of fresh flowers and fragrant herbs, went along to his chamber. As she reached for the latch on the door, she heard the hated voice of Harpalycus on the other side.
“If you’ve told me the truth,” he was saying, “then everything will happen as you wish. There’s no need for such questions. Your beloved princess will come to no harm.”
Aridela recoiled. Pulses pounding, heart racing, she slipped into a nearby chamber.
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. “Rest, my friend. Regain your strength,” he said then tramped away.
When he’d gone, she went in, closing the door behind her. “Lycus?” she said softly.
He stared at her, no sign of pleasure in his eyes. She approached the bed, placing her basket next to him. “I found these this morning, still struggling to bloom, even in this heat.”
A scruff of beard covered his jaw. His skin bore an unhealthy sheen of sweat. He’d lost weight; his cheeks were sunken and colorless. His hand crept over the edge of the basket and fingered the blooms but other than that, he seemed not to notice them.
She sat on the bed and clasped his cold hand. “Lycus,” she said.
“Why did you do it? You. The prince of Mycenae. The favor you showed him, and still do. Why?” He snatched his hand from hers.
“Who told you? Was it Harpalycus? Why was he here? Believe nothing he says. He wants to cause trouble.”
Lycus sneered at her. “You told me yourself with the way you fawn over him. I know he’s taken what you once nearly gave me.”
“What you speak of is mine, to give as I wish. Yet you talk as though you have some claim to it. Yes, I went with Iphiboë on the night of her dedication. She begged me to. I told no one where we were going and we hid in a cave far from the palace, yet Chrysaleon found us.” She added slowly, “There can be no doubt he was guided to me by our Lady.” Her heart swelled, with awe and amazement as well as longing. She felt her face flush.
“You weren’t supposed to lie with any man, so don’t tell me he was ‘guided.’ Does Themiste know? Does your mother?” He laughed. “I can see by your face you’ve made no confessions. And what if you grow fat with child? You won’t be able to keep your secret then, will you?”
They stared at each other. “Lycus,” she said, “you’re a bull leaper. Why did you enter the Games?”
“I couldn’t bear him winning. I can see his mind. He’ll kill Iphiboë. Poison her, maybe. Then you’ll be brought to the palace and married to him. He’ll abduct you. Send you to the mainland and make you his slave. Kaphtor will lose both princesses and fall into ruin.”
“Why do you say this? What has he done? Why does everyone distrust him?”
He grabbed her forearm, surprisingly strong for how weak he appeared. “How can you not see it? He brings destruction. Has his rape made you stupid?”
She jerked free and jumped off the bed. “I would know if he intended to trick us. I’ve searched his face and listened to his words.” She balled her hands into fists. “You’ve forgotten the other foreigner who won our Games and became bull-king. Damasen. My father. No doubt many distrusted his motives, but every act he made was honorable, including his willing death.”
“They aren’t all like him.” Lycus stretched out one arm. He beckoned and she warily returned to his side. He grasped her hand. “Everything was clear and simple before this barbarian came. I was working out ways to see you after you went into the shrines. I wouldn’t let you wither away down there.” He drew her closer. She sat on the edge of the bed and he caressed her fingers as he gazed into her face. “Go to the shrines. When I’m better, when I can walk, I’ll come to you. We’ll forget all of this. I beg you.” His voice rose, for she was shaking her head.
“No,” she said.
“You have no choice. It’s Themiste’s decision. The barbarian will marry Iphiboë. I see you have desire for him. But he’ll die in a year. It’s best you go away.”
“You just said he would kill Iphiboë and overthrow our sacrifice. Now you tell me he’ll die. You design speeches to achieve your goals.” She pulled her hands free and stood.
A tremor ran through his jaw. “You think you’re different? You’ll say and do whatever you can. Perhaps you will poison Iphiboë.”
Stiff with white-hot rage, Aridela could only stare, teeth gritted, hands clenched.
“Get out,” Lycus said. “We’ll see what happens. We’ll see who triumphs.”
She backed to the door and opened it.
He pressed his hand against the wrapping on his wound. “We— will— see.” He broke off, gasping, and fell back. Blood soaked the bandage.
“Rhené,” Aridela shouted. “Rhené!”
The healer appeared at the end of the corridor. Seeing Aridela’s expression, she dropped the cup she held and came run
ning.
* * * *
“My lord.”
Chrysaleon turned to see who spoke and almost tripped over the stick Menoetius had clandestinely provided to help him hobble around his bedchamber.
Queen Helice stood in the doorway, her surprise evidenced by raised brows and open mouth.
Heat rose in his face. “I’m grateful it’s you, my lady, and not the healer.” He tried to bow and nearly fell again when he put weight on the injured leg.
“Please, my lord, do sit down.” The queen crossed the room, seized his good arm, and guided him to the bed with a firm grip. “Rhené doesn’t know you’re testing your leg?”
“No,” he said, dropping onto the bed.
Helice propped his stick against the wall and tilted her head. “But you think it’s better?”
“The stitching is strong. It doesn’t bleed now, even when I put weight on it.”
Satisfaction passed over her face as she sat at the end of the bed. “Rhené has extraordinary healing gifts. But it’s just seven days since you were wounded. You must follow her orders, my lord, if you want to recover quickly.”
“She’s overprotective.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, Queen Helice. I’m grateful for all she’s done. But I’m rotting away in this bed. If I have to spend another night here I may kill someone.”
“Perhaps one more night, if I ask it?” She smiled disarmingly.
He didn’t know what to say. Her eyes sparkled in a way that suggested mischief, and by Poseidon’s mares, he hoped so. He’d hobbled around the chamber with the aid of a stick whenever Rhené wasn’t around, but staring over the terrace toward the mountains in the west caused an itch of impatience that couldn’t be soothed by reason or poppy. No wounded warrior in Mycenae was ever coddled so much.
She rose, that mysterious smile still flitting about her lips. “We’ve determined the best day for your union to my daughter, but first, a formal announcement must be made. I would like to have you brought to the throne room, Prince Chrysaleon. Promise me you won’t insist on walking.”
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 36
