In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “I pray for a daughter. She will be everything to me, as I was to my mother. Everything. She will be my heart and heir.”

  Alexiare cleared his throat behind them. “The litter is ready, my lord.”

  “Shall we go to our chamber?” Chrysaleon brought her fingers to his mouth.

  Her eyes grew dark and her cheeks filled with color in the way he’d remembered and missed.

  “Yes.”

  Chrysaleon leaned against a wall outside the palace. He pressed his fist against the irritating tic beneath his eye and tried to coax some morsel of strength from his limbs. If the wall weren’t there to hold him up, he might sprawl on his face.

  Being with her after so long was almost like drowning.

  “My lord?” Alexiare’s mouth curved in a knowing smile as he held out a leather flask.

  “Why are we stopping? It’s cold.” Chrysaleon took the flask and drank. Honey and spices flavored the mead. A few sips warmed him, numbed him, and made him even sleepier.

  “Someone is coming to lead the way. Apparently we cannot hope to find Themiste’s chambers on our own.”

  Chrysaleon took another swig then forced himself to stop. He wanted more, but for the task at hand, he needed to be clear-headed.

  “Where does the queen think you’ve gone?” Alexiare asked.

  “Out to inspect the land. She hardly woke when I told her, and asked no questions.”

  Alexiare nodded.

  The sky lightened to an endless expanse of silver. Alexiare stamped his feet and rubbed his hands together.

  “Go over it again, old man,” Chrysaleon said. “Repeat the oracle’s words.”

  Though he’d done so numerous times, Alexiare’s damaged voice held no hint of impatience. “Sir, the lady prophesied that the king who would break his vow must lie with ‘the moon upon the earth,’ one whose womb is holy.”

  The two had gone over and over these words on the voyage to Kaphtor. “You’re certain this means Themiste.”

  “Her womb is consecrated, belonging solely to her Mistress. She possesses as much, if not more, power than the queen. Daphoenissa promised that from this womb one shall be born who will change ancient rituals.”

  Chrysaleon felt his blood heat, which helped make him more alert. It could be the mead, but more likely it was the idea of bedding Kaphtor’s high priestess. He’d wanted to taste that flesh ever since his death-dream. The fact that he’d just come from a sleepless night of sex with Aridela made no difference.

  His next thought cooled the ardor. “Does it mean something will happen to the child Aridela carries? Why else must I make another with Themiste?”

  “It may simply mean the oracle’s child will achieve your wishes. Queen Aridela may bear a child to you as well, my lord. I hope so.”

  “And the last part?”

  “I wish we could be more sure of that. ‘Slay the Lady’s Earth Bull,’ Daphoenissa said. “But while you are Kaphtor’s consort, you are the Lady’s Earth Bull. She seems to be saying you must kill yourself to win more time.” He shrugged. “In this, I feel I am failing you—” Alexiare remained quiet awhile then said, hesitantly, “Your father told me he was quite certain Menoetius would cause you harm, if nothing was done to prevent it.”

  Again he fell into silence. Chrysaleon had another sip of mead and let him think. Menoetius. What could his bastard brother have to do with all this? The oracle had said nothing about him, and Chrysaleon had far too willingly put Idómeneus’s words of warning out of his mind. He much preferred overthrowing Crete in some way that wouldn’t hurt his position or his wife’s affections, if a way could be found.

  Finally, the old man returned from his ruminations with a sigh. “For the present, we should follow the only course that makes sense— striving to achieve both your desires and your father’s.” He pulled on his earlobe then rubbed his chin. “I think I have the beginnings of an idea.”

  A robed figure emerged from beneath an archway and paused, looking around.

  “What is it?” Chrysaleon said. “Be quick.”

  “Ask Themiste for another year. Tell her you’ve been cheated of yours. She’ll refuse. Then ask for a smaller boon, one she can more easily grant— to pick your own cabal. If she agrees, tell her you choose Menoetius. I’ll explain later.”

  Chrysaleon nodded. The figure had spotted them and was approaching. He straightened, planting his feet firmly. “I will do this,” he said, “if I can. But Themiste’s vows are sacred to her, and she isn’t gullible. I don’t see how—”

  Alexiare clasped Chrysaleon’s arm and spoke into his ear. “Minos. That is Themiste’s secret title. It’s forbidden for you to say or even know. It means ‘Moon-Being.’ That’s how I knew Daphoenissa was speaking of her. I wasn’t sure I should tell you— there are heavy curses attached to women’s mysteries.” With a sideways, sardonic smile, he released Chrysaleon and stepped back. “If any living man can cause the high priestess to stray from her vows, it is you.” He sobered. “Use her secrets to your advantage, but be careful.”

  Their guide lifted her hood, revealing a young, solemn face. From her height, build and features, Chrysaleon decided she couldn’t be more than twelve.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  They fell in behind her. Moon-Being. This proved they were following the right path. His slave’s oblique warning notwithstanding, Chrysaleon felt, clear into his bones, that he must make this plan happen, even if he had to rape the woman.

  They walked along the palace’s west wall. Greedy vendors, harried craftsmen, builders and architects, clerks and messengers, would soon crowd its precincts. Right now it lay empty and silent but for a lone raven that sidled away from them, and a disinterested slave sweeping the flagstones. Presently they came to an inconspicuous portal between two pillars. Their guide opened it and stepped through.

  Many of the labyrinthine corridors beneath the palace were still buried in rubble. Those under the eastern precincts might never be usable. But much had been done to improve the west side. Chrysaleon lost track of their direction as they followed the girl through narrow maze-like hallways, lit by intermittent wall sconces. In places, rough wood beams temporarily supported the ceilings. Every now and then the creak and groan of weakened, damaged wood broke the silence. Dust lay thick and heavy. Their steps made it billow, which in turn made his nose itch. Nothing looked familiar. He could only hope as they went on that the Goddess wouldn’t bring Labyrinthos crashing down on their heads and put an end to his plots against her.

  The dim tunnels brought back his fight with Lycus for the kingship. It seemed eons ago, almost as though it had happened to someone else, except for those times when the healed-over thigh wound ached or he noticed the white scar on his forearm.

  At last they stopped at a plain wooden door.

  Their young guide held up her hand. “Wait here,” she said, and slipped inside.

  Soon Themiste herself opened the door. Near darkness prevented Chrysaleon from guessing what she might think about this unexpected visit.

  “Zagreus.”

  He knelt.

  “Why do you kneel to me?” she asked. “Are we not old friends?” She held out her hands. He took them, rose, and didn’t let go.

  “Yes.” He looked into her face. “I hope so.”

  “Come in. I’m anxious to hear about the mainland.”

  At her glance, Alexiare bowed and backed away. “I will wait, my lady,” he said.

  The room Chrysaleon entered was large but austere, and appeared to be under construction. Flickering cressets sent shadows dancing across unadorned walls and crates. Chrysaleon surreptitiously examined his surroundings as he followed the oracle and their guide. Themiste gave him a faint smile and the barest inclination of her head, motioning him to wait as she went off with the girl.

  The only thing of note was a rectangular pit in the center of the room, which he knew Themiste used to give the monthly oracles. He could just make out frescoes painted on its wall
s, displaying the Goddess in a few of her Cretan guises. He saw Dictynna, who gave favor to fishermen, Britomartis of the wild things, Eleuthia the pregnant mother, and Athene the benevolent gift-giver, holding what looked like an olive branch in one hand and oak leaves in the other. Dominating the other paintings at one end of the pit was her most ancient guise, as White Goddess, lady of the moon. Brightly painted tripods held lit braziers, bathing the pit in a soft glow. On the northern ledge, three wooden staffs rose, the tallest in the center, each topped with the double axe and doves, crafted in what appeared to be solid gold. Amidst all this beautiful artwork lay a jumble of pots, brushes, and sponges, indicating the paintings were new. The room smelled of paint, plaster, clay, and straw.

  At the far end of the chamber, Themiste kissed her young attendant on both cheeks. The girl bowed and left through an arched opening.

  A black snake slithered across the floor and disappeared into the shadows, reminding him of the serpent in the labyrinth on the night he’d fought the battle to become Crete’s king.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” Themiste said as she returned. “Your father was a wise and gracious man. These last terrible months have been difficult for us all. I grieve with you. He will always be remembered for his aid in our most desperate time. Who knows where we would be now without it?”

  “He was a great king.” Suddenly nervous, Chrysaleon wiped his palms on his tunic. Alexiare’s words echoed. Moon-Being. Heavy curses attached to women’s mysteries. Use her secrets to achieve your desires, but be careful.

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth. He fancied she was nervous too, and wondered why. Then she smiled. “Tell me of this curse you fear,” she said, guiding him by the elbow to an embroidered curtain hanging over another doorway. Pulling it aside, she led him into what must be her private chamber. It was smaller than the other, warmer and well lit, with chairs, a table, and a center hearth. In one corner, almost beyond the circle of light, lay a great bed robed in purple.

  Chrysaleon watched smoke from the fire being sucked up somehow through a square hole in the ceiling, leaving virtually none in the chamber to sting their eyes. All of Labyrinthos was crammed with pipes, breezeways, and ingenious methods of increasing the comfort of the inhabitants. The structure truly was an awe-inspiring achievement.

  He and Alexiare had planned the lie carefully. They’d gone over it again and again until Chrysaleon could recite it without pause. More sure of himself now, he spoke without hesitation. “When the Kindred Kings attended my father’s funeral games, one who would steal my place came also. He was my father’s son from a liaison with a princess of Gla. He thought himself of better blood than me, since my mother came from Seriphos and was not pure Achaean.”

  “What blood did she carry?”

  “She was part Cretan,” Chrysaleon said. “Have I not spoken of her?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “She was a priestess, before my father took her away.”

  “I see.” Her eyes widened so briefly he almost missed it. “Perhaps that is why you so easily adapted to our ways.” She sat in one of the chairs at the hearth fire, and he took the other.

  “During the troubles you called me Chrysaleon,” he said. “What has changed?”

  She blinked and concentrated her gaze on the flames. “You’ve become Kaphtor’s hero as well as royal consort to the queen. Now you’re High King in your own right, of Mycenae, the mainland’s most powerful citadel.” Color rose through her face like embers consuming pale wood. “Chrysaleon.” Her voice stumbled, and her fingers knotted together on her lap.

  He pushed away gnawing fear at his trickery, hoping Alexiare was right in his interpretation of Daphoenissa’s prophecies. He didn’t like to think what vengeance the Goddess of this land could take upon him, and tried not to remember the night of searing wind and blizzards of ash.

  “The boy had a following,” he said. “He won several tourneys— archery, the foot-race, and the javelin-throw. I watched him, but I wanted peace, and let his braying arrogance go by me. There has been too much death and war in my life of late.”

  “Yes.” She seemed absorbed in his tale, and nodded.

  “He mistook my patience for weakness or fear. One evening at supper in the hall, he stood before the Kindred and challenged me for the throne. I had to fight him. We did so in the citadel precincts with all the kings watching. I killed him, and was cleansed of the death at the shrine of Poseidon.”

  “Then why….” Her face displayed puzzlement and concern.

  He leaned closer. “I still feel it,” he said, striking his chest with a fist. “Guilt lives in me over his death. He was a boy, the same age as Aridela. As my brother, Gelanor.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  His lie was working. Her brown eyes, so large and lustrous, were eloquent in their sympathy. “Can you free me of it, Themiste?” he asked.

  She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened. “We will go to the sanctuary of children. I will cleanse you at the altar myself. Have you not told Aridela of this? Why do you come to me in secret?”

  He lowered his head. “The shame….”

  “He made a man’s challenge.” She touched his forearm and left her hand there, warm against his flesh. “He would have killed you and stolen your rightful kingdom. You had no choice. Rulers must defend their own.”

  Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it. “You have the wisdom of an old woman, my lady, for one so young and beautiful.”

  Her fingers trembled. He looked into her eyes steadily.

  “Wine, before we go.” She pulled her hand free, rose, and retreated to a cabinet where she collected a matched pair of engraved cups.

  He made sure to touch her as she handed him one. She looked at the pitcher, the fire, the shadows. Everywhere but at his face and her bed.

  Somehow, the Spartan oracle had known. She had spoken true prophecy. Rape would not be necessary. One thing Chrysaleon knew was how to tell a woman wanted him.

  He also knew how to play the game of seduction with hesitant virgins. They sat before the fire, sipping a mixture she professed to enjoy, of wine and honey. He refilled her cup twice while regaling her with stories from the feast of his kingship, anecdotes of the Kindred Kings who came to Mycenae as his guests, of the gifts they brought and the lion and boar hunts. She relaxed. Her smiles grew frequent, even charming as she described the day Rhené told Aridela she’d conceived.

  Chrysaleon more somberly related how little damage the mainland suffered. “There,” he said, “no ships were lost. The country of my birth remains strong while Crete struggles.”

  At her frown, he added, “You’re in more danger than you know.”

  Those glorious eyes widened again. He saw fear and anger. “Another invasion,” she said quietly.

  “I can keep you safe, my lady. I have intimate knowledge of the Kindred.”

  “You will advise us?”

  “I will share all I know. Every one of my Mycenaean warriors will be yours to command.”

  She smiled her relief and he continued. “I ask but one favor in return. Much of my year as sacred king is gone. Grant me another. You need me to live another year, lady. Only I can control the Kindred until Crete regains strength.”

  She blinked and returned her gaze to the fire. He cursed himself for being too blunt, too swift in his demands. He didn’t possess the gift of spinning smooth lies without planning them out first.

  As he tried to construct a way out of his mistake, she spoke. “You’re right,” she said, bringing her gaze, rife with compassion, back to his. “You have been cheated by events you could not control. I would give you what you ask.” Her brow puckered. “Gladly, I would. But, my lord, I cannot, for the same reason you ask it. Everyone was cheated. There has been too much death and destruction. Our land withers. Aridela uses what riches are left in trade for grain. Can you not imagine the rage our Lady would level upon us if we abandoned the vow? This sacrifice above all others must take place. The people
are already talking of how it will complete our supplications for forgiveness. I dare not change or stop it.”

  He looked down at his wine cup, putting on a convincing frown of disappointment.

  Softly, she said, “I am sorry,” and again touched his arm.

  “Grant me this then,” he said. “Let me choose my own cabal.”

  “I cannot do that either,” she said, now guilt-stricken as well as sympathetic. “The Games must be played. How else can the next bull-king be chosen? He must win his place through strength and cunning, as you did.”

  Defeated, Chrysaleon could only wonder how Alexiare would have handled this, how his slave’s ability to weave words might have turned it all to his advantage.

  He swallowed some wine. It was far too sweet. Honey belonged in mead, not wine.

  A log fell, sparking, causing Themiste’s eyes to narrow against the flare of light. Finally, she said, “My lord, I feel churlish refusing you anything, after all you’ve done for us. It seems to me it’s the sacrifice that cannot be ignored. It also strikes me that no one is in any mood for Games. Why do you want to choose your own cabal? And who is it?”

  “Menoetius,” he said. “If I cannot pick the manner or day of my death, at least I would like to choose the one who spills my blood. I want the last face I see to be that of my brother. And I know that of all men, I can trust Aridela to him.”

  Her eyes sparkled with tears as she nodded. “Did he agree, my lord? We no longer force men to compete. His heart must be willing.”

  “He knows,” Chrysaleon said. As his lies piled higher, he could only hope their weight wouldn’t bring his brittle obelisk crashing down. “I spoke to him about it last night. He cares as much as I do about Kaphtor, and has given his allegiance wholly to the queen.” He hadn’t even seen Menoetius since his return from Mycenae, but she couldn’t know that.

  What was Alexiare plotting? At this point, Chrysaleon could only follow his slave’s instruction and hope the purpose would become clear.

  “I may be able to grant your request,” Themiste said. “Of course I must speak to the council about it. As long as Menoetius is willing, there might be a way.”