Submerged in self-recrimination, trapped by her consort’s hard, accusing gaze, she didn’t hear when someone spoke her name. She only turned because Chrysaleon did.
Menoetius and Selene stood beneath the branches of one of the trees, in shadow from low-hanging apple blossoms. Aridela’s womb clenched fitfully, as though in premonition of labor.
“What do you want?” Chrysaleon spoke curtly.
“To speak to Aridela,” Selene said. “Would you leave us, Zagreus?”
“How did you get past the guards?”
“Aridela,” Menoetius said. “Will you go with us?”
“Has something happened?” Aridela asked.
“Yes,” Selene replied.
“Very well.” Aridela shrugged. “Will it take long? Chrysaleon and I came here to have time alone together.”
As she started toward them, Chrysaleon seized her wrist. “She will not go with you. Say what you came here to say.”
Menoetius’s voice was halting and graveled, but he seemed unsurprised at his brother’s belligerence. “I’ve told Selene the truth.”
Aridela sensed Chrysaleon stiffen. She glanced at him, but discerned nothing beyond impatience at this ill-timed interruption.
“Now I will tell Aridela,” Menoetius added.
“What is it? What’s happened this time?” She wanted to rub her eyes and make the day start over. But such was a child’s wish, and she’d gone past all that long ago.
“Listen to us, Aridela,” Selene said. “Menoetius knows what lives in Chrysaleon’s heart.”
“Consider what you’re doing, brother.” Chrysaleon’s voice held threat.
“You think I haven’t?” Menoetius released a sharp breath.
The two men stared at each other as Aridela looked on, puzzled. Why this, now? She knew already of Mycenae’s plot to find Kaphtor’s weaknesses. Chrysaleon confessed it before the Destruction, and Menoetius confirmed it, albeit reluctantly, when they were hiding in the mountains. This was nothing new. Both had abandoned those ideas. At least that’s what they’d told her. She felt uneasy wondering if there might be something else, perhaps something worse.
“Go on,” Selene said, touching Menoetius’s forearm.
“What is this truth?” Sarcasm weighed Aridela’s words. Her legs felt tired, almost like they might give out. “Please, if it’s so important, tell me and go.”
“Chrysaleon intends to halt the king-sacrifice.” Menoetius shifted his gaze to Aridela. “He will overthrow your traditions and rule as king beyond his year. For his whole life, in fact. He hasn’t given up his plots. He will make Kaphtor a vassal of Mycenae— if you allow it.”
In the instant before they were interrupted, she’d been ready to give Chrysaleon her promise to stop the sacrifice somehow. She felt her head turn, numbly, warily, toward her consort, as the question rose in her mind. Which one is lying?
“Will your jealousy never end?” Chrysaleon said. “Finally, he allows the real beast to show. He has concealed himself for years, but here is his true nature. A coward, a liar. A traitor.”
Aridela’s womb cramped again, suddenly and sharply. She placed quieting, soothing hands over her abdomen. The healer had ordered her to avoid strenuous activity and strong emotions. From the beginning, Rhené had said, your woman’s parts have resisted everything they are supposed to do. Sometimes I’ve thought your body never wanted to grow up.
“No man can defy the fate set by Immortals,” she said to Menoetius, but her voice sounded weak, unconvincing.
Surely Kaphtor had never suffered as ill-omened a queen as she. What did it matter which brother was lying? Her selfish need was the root of all this misery. Now she could add splitting Menoetius and Chrysaleon apart to her list of wrongs.
“Chrysaleon will, if you don’t stop him,” Menoetius said.
Selene left Menoetius’s side and approached Aridela. “Tell her all of it, Menoetius,” she said, then went on to do so herself. “Chrysaleon plots to thwart the midsummer sacrifice.”
“There is hatred in your eyes,” Aridela whispered.
Selene’s lips tightened. “Chrysaleon seeks to fool Kaphtor— you most of all. We don’t know how, only that he will, if no one stops him. The Lady will wreak such a vengeance as we cannot imagine if we do not stop it.” She lowered her voice. Her sea-colored eyes met Aridela’s without guile or guilt, only cold ardency. “Daughter of Velchanos. Athene’s blood runs in you, and the blood of her son. Your duty is to her. Look at Menoetius. You can see for yourself the mark of the Goddess upon his face.” Taking one step closer, she caught at Aridela’s hand. “Chrysaleon is not what he seems. You put all of Kaphtor at risk with your blind loyalty.”
Aridela stared at Selene, then Menoetius, and finally at a thunderous Chrysaleon, whose hand hovered above his dagger.
Selene touched Aridela’s cheek, drawing her attention. “Have I ever lied to you?”
Aridela shook her head.
“I am not lying to you now.”
Chrysaleon shouldered between them roughly and grabbed Aridela’s upper arm. “Malice and envy drives my brother,” he said. “And you’re right— this woman has always hated me. Nothing else could explain these lies, this betrayal. Listen to them— they accuse me of plotting against you. How? They have no proof, no evidence, not even a story to tell. They only want to oust me. Why?”
His gaze returned to Menoetius, who remained, still and silent under the overhanging blossoms of the apple tree.
Selene backed away. She wiped tears from her cheeks and looked at Menoetius.
Aridela, too, studied Menoetius. She felt the air grow still and hot. Rage burned away her contrition. All she’d wanted was one day of peace.
Because she was staring at him, she read his intent before he spoke. She knew what he meant to say.
“Have you told him of us?”
Chrysaleon looked from one to the other. His hand gripped the hilt of his knife. “Told me what?”
Menoetius looked at the knife then met his brother’s gaze. “Do you believe your crimes will vanish if you kill me?”
“You’ve lost all reason.” The muscles in Chrysaleon’s jaw clenched visibly. “You’re neither bull-king nor Cretan. You’re nothing to these people.”
Aridela wanted to turn and run, but it felt as though the Earth Bull’s horns had erupted from the ground and twined around her feet, anchoring her.
Chrysaleon’s eyes widened then, as he and Menoetius stared at each other. “You… and Aridela.” Incredulity passed across his face, then disgust. “You. Of all men.”
Menoetius flushed. “We thought you dead.”
Chrysaleon turned to Aridela, his mouth twisted and white.
“The child I carried was yours or Harpalycus’s,” she said. “I swear it. Menoetius and I never… we never….” The way he looked at her ripped her voice away, leaving her mute.
In my land, women are put to death for lying with men other than their husbands, even if they’re forced. Duplicity poisons every woman’s heart. As Aridela stared at Chrysaleon, those terrible words crept through her mind, words spoken by Harpalycus the Butcher before he’d brought his warriors and invaded, before he made her his slave.
But Chrysaleon did come back to me. He didn’t blame me for what Harpalycus did. Harpalycus lied. Still, a shiver raced down her spine at his expression, which had darkened from the tenderness of earlier into cold, unforgiving blame.
He didn’t believe her. He simply didn’t believe her. Maybe he didn’t even hear her. His head twitched to one side as if trying to escape unbearable thoughts. His hands clenched and unclenched, only to clench again. Abruptly, he turned back to his brother, sneering.
Menoetius’s face remained desperate yet resolved.
Panic swelled like the wave that crushed Kaphtor’s coast. Seeing them stare at each other, hatred palpable, Aridela knew beyond denying that she loved them both. She had never made a true choice, and they knew it, or sensed it.
&nbs
p; Who could predict where this might end? Neither could die here today. Not because of her.
Selene remained silent, watching each of them, her face unreadable. Selene, the one she trusted beyond any other. Yet now she seemed willing, eager even, to spoil her old friend’s hard-won happiness.
“Go with your life, Menoetius,” Aridela said, facing him. “Leave us for your mother’s country, as you said you wanted to do. Give up the idea of being Chrysaleon’s cabal. Go, before more anger is provoked, before too much is said that cannot be unsaid.”
“That time has come and gone,” Chrysaleon said.
She looked at Menoetius, pleading with every shred of ardency she possessed. “Don’t let him believe what isn’t true.”
“Is it not? You and I were joined in every way but one.”
Her protest disintegrated before she could speak it.
“If he does kill me, maybe then you’ll accept what I’ve told you. Chrysaleon doesn’t love you. He wants you, but he doesn’t love you. It is glory and power he loves. You’re his means to achieve it.”
“You act like children!” She stamped her foot against the ground. In the same instant, thunder rumbled from one end of the sky to the other. Somehow, without her noticing, ominous greenish black clouds had formed. The air lost its earlier warmth. Now it held chilled tension and silence, as though all of nature held its breath. The hair on Aridela’s arms lifted in a shiver of terror.
“So be it,” Chrysaleon said, stepping away from her.
She grasped for his hand but he deflected the gesture, catching her instead. He pinned her arms to her sides.
“Now I know my sacrifice would be wasted,” he said, staring into her face almost without recognition. “First Harpalycus, now my own brother. Why would any man give his life for a deceitful whore?”
He thrust her away as he might a slave.
Selene caught her, kept her from falling. “Look how swiftly his love for you dissolves,” she said. “Look how ready he is to believe you faithless. Almost as though he expected it. You have always given him your trust. Your loyalty. Yet he cannot do the same for you.”
Aridela straightened and pulled herself free. “You won’t rest until you’ve destroyed me,” she said. When Selene started to speak, Aridela cut her off. “Say nothing more. I’ve heard all I want to hear from all of you.” She turned her back on Selene and stepped closer to the men, who had drawn their knives and were circling each other warily. “Can you not see?” She lifted her arms in supplication. “You are opposites, yet you are nothing without the other. Menoetius, you are the skin that covers the heart of the apple, the heart that is your brother. You are the spear of lightning after his roar of thunder. You are the ocean battering his cliffs.” She shivered yet felt hot, as though fire was igniting her blood. The Goddess burned within, speaking through her.
Menoetius glanced at her. Chrysaleon kept his attention focused on his rival.
Thunder growled again, followed by lightning that branched across the heavens. “Light and dark,” she whispered. “Joined yet separated— for what purpose? I don’t know.”
Menoetius’s strike was blurringly swift. A chunk of Chrysaleon’s hair floated to the ground and lay like a pool of spilled golden twine.
On the rocky mainland, a king’s power resided in his hair. Aridela stared at it, remembering her tutor’s bored voice. When coming of age, boys dedicate their first beards to Poseidon and pray for courage in battle. The warriors of the mainland believe their strength, their potency, their very invincibility, has its source in their hair. Only common soldiers shear their hair, so it won’t interfere with their eyesight or give their enemies something to grab.
This was the worst of omens.
Still they circled. Chrysaleon’s face remained cold and concentrated. A gust of wind plucked at the fallen strands of hair, separating them, casting them into oblivion.
Perspiration beaded Menoetius’s forehead. He leaped again. The two grappled, striving for the upper hand.
“Goddess, my Mother,” Aridela cried, turning her face to the sky.
End over end the men tumbled, each grasping the dagger-wrist of the other.
Her cry gained the attention of her retinue. They ran forward. The men drew their weapons, but Selene stopped them with an outstretched hand.
“You use her to get what you want,” Menoetius shouted.
Chrysaleon kept his eyes on the blade arcing above his chest. He grimaced and strained. “And you’re a traitor. To me, our father, and your country.”
Their strength was well matched, but Aridela feared the maddened objective she saw on Menoetius’s face. She pictured the blade sinking into Chrysaleon’s heart, his last breath seeping from dying lungs. His final look filled with accusation, with hatred.
This could not happen. Not now, when they were finally together. And if Menoetius succeeded, his own death would be unspeakable— no one could kill the sacred king out of his time. Such a criminal would beg for death long before it was granted.
Mistress. She turned her face toward the dark, rumbling clouds. This cannot be what you want. I beg you, Mother Athene, spare them.
Thick, dazzling bolts of lightning discharged from one greenish-purple fold and shot down to the ground in the west, somewhere in the mountains of Ida.
She shuddered and ran toward the attendants, stumbling on an uneven patch of ground. “Help me, quickly.”
The willow-waisted men, with their lovelocks and kohl-painted eyes, stared askance at the brutish Mycenaeans who were twice their size. They glanced at each other then, together, leaped into the fray, forcibly separating the combatants. It took four men to overpower Menoetius and drag him, cursing, away to the palace.
Rain spattered, dislodging a flurry of white apple blossom. Quiet fell upon the orchard as the remaining attendants stepped away to give their queen privacy.
“Leave us,” Aridela said to Selene. “Unless you want to join your lover in his prison.”
Selene’s pause was infinitesimal before she turned and followed in the wake of Menoetius and his captors.
Aridela took a deep breath and faced Chrysaleon.
Alexiare stepped onto Chrysaleon’s balcony and bowed. “It is done, my lord. Menoetius is confined in the labyrinth, as you ordered.”
Chrysaleon gave his slave a frigid glance before returning his contemplation to the landscape before him. Hearing the bastard’s name was enough to send his simmering rage into renewed, full-blown fire.
“May I stay with you?” the old man asked.
He could manage no more than a noncommittal grunt, but it was apparently enough. Alexiare sat down on a stool and for some time, wisely said nothing while Chrysaleon stared over the terraces and walls, over the tips of the cypress trees and olive groves to the haze of the city, grinding his teeth and lashing himself with the day’s revelations.
In the apple orchard, Aridela attempted to defend her sojourn in the cave with Menoetius. She told him how they wept when Menoetius learned of his half brother’s death. How could they have known Harpalycus was lying? The oppressor held up the mangled, bloody head of a blond-haired warrior and declared it was Crete’s consort. All had believed Chrysaleon was dead.
Nothing she said could penetrate his anger. Not her awkward attempts at describing her loneliness, her despair and desperation, or her adamant claim that she and Menoetius never mated. He knew these for what they were— the weak justifications of someone caught in a lie.
He’d ridiculed her flimsy excuses until her cheeks reddened— with guilt, no doubt. You condemn me for things that did not happen, she shouted. What of you and your Mycenaean wife? Did you see her, did you lie with her when you were at Mycenae?
Ah, here was the truth at last. She was jealous and possessive, like Theanô and all women, everywhere. Iros is dead, he replied coldly.
She seemed startled, and asked, How?
Murdered. He watched for her reaction, certain she would reveal a woman’s true natur
e and be pleased by the demise of a rival. But instead, her face betrayed shock, then sadness. She’d placed her hands over her stomach, and even managed to put a few tears in those eyes of hers. The baby too? she asked.
Her reaction infuriated him. He refused to answer and again called her a whore— a word he knew had no meaning on Crete before the invasion of Harpalycus. Now, thanks to the Butcher, she understood it all too well, and the deliberate scorn in his tone. She’d run off finally, her attendants forming an impenetrable barricade behind her.
When Themiste first told him that Menoetius and Aridela were hidden somewhere in the remote western mountains of Araden, he’d thought the plan a good one. Never once had he suspected betrayal. Aridela was too pampered, too spoiled by luxury and beauty, Menoetius too ugly and bitter, too immersed in ideals of honor and loyalty. Not once in all the days he’d spent journeying there had he considered such a possibility.
Today’s revelations left him wondering if all his beliefs were false. Had she fooled him completely? Had she given herself to Harpalycus as well as his bastard brother? How many other men had she favored by spreading her legs? Lycus, perhaps?
Alexiare finally broke the silence. “My lord, did Menoetius succeed in his attempt to turn the queen against you?”
Reluctantly, Chrysaleon turned his mind away from jealous conjectures. He’d almost forgotten what should have been more important— the accusations Menoetius spoke against him. Accusations that could destroy their plans. “I don’t know. There was an instant. She looked at me. I saw her wondering. The bastard couldn’t have chosen a better time— right after I tried to persuade her to stop the sacrifice. I’d almost succeeded, too. If I’d had just a little longer— but it doesn’t matter. Anything that happens now to thwart the sacrifice will be suspect.”
“Things will be harder, but we will find a way. My mind works on it constantly.”
Twisting the gold ring off his finger, Chrysaleon placed it on his palm and held it out. “Have you seen this seal?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. You use it to stamp the storage jars and regional decrees.”
In the Moon of Asterion Page 10
