In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Voiceless torment and wave after wave of love so powerful she could no longer fight it swelled through her. She reached out and placed two fingers over his mouth.

  Never blinking or taking his gaze from hers, he kissed her fingertips then the pulse in her wrist, lingering on the burn mark.

  Aridela swayed closer and he brought her in, circling her waist. She nestled her face against his throat and curled her arms around his neck, drawing him closer yet. His pulse beat, strong and rapid, upon her cheek.

  He put his hand under her chin and drew her face to his. He kissed her feverishly, holding her as though he feared she would vanish.

  All will, all memory of anything outside the labyrinth abandoned her. She returned his kisses, asked for more, and wept against his flesh.

  “Carmanor,” she whispered, tracing the rim of his ear. “The first I ever loved. My barbarian, so mysterious and fascinating. Menoetius, my angry defender, who offered his life for my sake. Asterion, who carries me to the heavens and turns me into a star.”

  He picked her up off the floor, pressing his face against the junction of shoulder to throat.

  “You are my heart,” she said. She didn’t say I cannot live without you. But every fiber of her being vibrated with it. She shivered, and he tightened his hold. She felt him tremble.

  After some lost length of time, he placed her back upon her feet and spoke again. “The Goddess said something else to me that day. She said, ‘the sea claims final possession.’” He frowned, squinting again. “Do you know what it means?”

  “That is an old saying among my people.” Aridela smoothed his hair and brought his face down for another kiss. “It just means that once something descends into the sea, it’s gone forever.”

  “Does Athene want me to disappear?”

  She could tell he was contemplating. “No, no, Menoetius.”

  He looked away from her. Aridela gripped his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I will overturn this. You won’t die. I won’t let them do it. I admit I was confused before— I didn’t know what I was meant to do, how to satisfy everyone, but now, I—”

  He was shaking his head. “If you try to stop it, you could be condemned.”

  “I am their queen.”

  “Chrysaleon would be very angry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t control us!”

  Something was different. He was no longer joined to her. He was removing himself, though he hadn’t let go of her waist. She sensed it.

  “Sometimes I let the lamps go out and I live in darkness,” he said, almost meditatively. “There is no sound but the drip of water and the squeak of rats. I have seen… things, in the dark.”

  “What things, my love?”

  “The Lady,” he whispered. “She comes to me, her face as bright as the moon. She tells me, ‘What seems the end is only the beginning.’ It gives me strength.”

  “Goddess Athene speaks to you? She shows herself? What else does she say?”

  “I can’t tell you everything. I don’t understand it all… yet.” He shook his head as though dislodging something from his mind. “This is what I wanted to tell you, without Selene knowing. I was wrong to try to turn you against Chrysaleon.”

  “You believe he is innocent? This is wonderful. I will go to him and tell him. I’ll tell the council. Everything will be as it was. But you cannot be his cabal. I will not bear it—”

  “No.”

  Aridela read what was on his face. All hope died in her throat. She felt as though a knife had been thrust into her soul.

  “I cannot explain,” he said. “But you must do nothing.”

  “If I do nothing, you will die,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps that is what your Goddess wants. Perhaps she wants Chrysaleon to triumph. If so, you should prepare yourself.”

  “I told you before. No man can defy his destiny.” The words came from far away, as though called from Mount Ida’s snowy summit. Chills burrowed into her skin, then a wave of heat and nausea.

  Menoetius’s eyes were all she could see. They adored. They gave a love as endless as the land of dreams. But the Lady’s eyes were there too, full of warning.

  Numbness crept from her toes to her ears, drowning out everything but the rhythmic sound of her heart, and the quieter, rapid beat of her baby’s. She didn’t hear Selene come back into the room, but there she was, frowning into her face, her voice echoing as she said, “I promised to respect your wishes. But there’s more at stake than love or loyalty.” Softly, she added, “You carry a traitor’s child.”

  Aridela’s abdomen knotted. She heard herself gasp. Menoetius caught her as stabbing pain doubled her over and her legs gave out. He picked her up as he had that long-gone day in the shrine, and again the night he carried her to freedom from Harpalycus. He cradled her against his chest.

  “Carmanor,” she whispered, before ripping cramps cut off her ability to speak, and forced a miserable groan. Hot, sticky moisture flooded between her legs. “Something is wrong.” Perhaps Selene had leveled a curse upon her— upon her child.

  “She’s bleeding,” Selene cried, and called to the guards.

  Menoetius held her close, bringing back the sense of comfort and safety only he seemed able to give. She felt his heartbeat now, mingling with her own and the baby’s.

  Selene’s promise came from a distance. “Don’t worry, Aridela. We’ll take care of you.”

  Aridela rolled from side to side, seeking escape from pain. Hands held her down.

  “Chrysaleon?”

  “I’m here. Where else would I be?”

  The healer held a cup to her lips, ordering her to drink. A cool wet cloth was placed on her forehead.

  She drifted into uneasy sleep.

  She remembered how the guards had struggled to open the heavy oak door, but for her, it moved effortlessly, at the touch of a finger. No longer squeaky, it flowed in soundless invitation.

  “Asterion,” she whispered. The chamber was not so well lit as last time. There was but one lamp now, giving off a faint glow that only intensified the weight of darkness.

  Again, she heard rustling beyond her vision. This time, instead of fear, she felt a thrill of anticipation.

  The Beast loped into the circle of light. Incredibly huge, he smelled pungent, musky, like the wild aurochs they captured for the ring. He nuzzled the palm of her hand. She stroked his face, clasped his heavy horns, and kissed his forehead, where a gold rosette glowed.

  He prodded her with his snout until he had her trapped against the wall of the chamber. There he kept her, between his implacable enormous head and the immovable wall, snuffling at her stomach as though he could smell the baby. He backed up, snorting angrily, swinging his head from side to side. His eyes were white-rimmed; she sensed the danger and covered her abdomen, afraid, but then divine Athene transformed him, and he who pressed against her was a man.

  Anything could happen in the place of dreams, where no boundaries existed.

  He was Menoetius, her lover, but somewhere inside him lived the bull, Asterion. He was a most virile and potent beast.

  He was irresistible.

  Chrysaleon was slumped on the floor beside her bed, asleep, his head and one arm resting on the quilt, his fingers twined loosely through hers.

  Aridela stroked his hair with her free hand. The people of Mycenae claimed their god Poseidon ruled the waves and weather and caused thunderclouds to boil when angered. In this state between sleep and waking, she imagined Chrysaleon as Poseidon, the Tamer of Horses, he who sent raging sea-storms to sink ships. The mainland’s warlike god had emerged from his palace beneath the waves to mate with her, Kaphtor’s queen, Goddess-of-Life-in-Death, daughter of Velchanos.

  Far better to weave fantasies than face the sense of fallow emptiness she felt where her baby should be.

  Chrysaleon’s eyes opened, creating yet another dreamy vision, of sun-struck seawater.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered.

 
His smile was weary. “Whatever you have done, or not done, I forgive. And you. Will you forgive me, though we both know you shouldn’t?”

  “Yes,” she said, and her resentment sluiced away.

  He met her gaze steadily. There was nothing but guilt and sorrow there, no secrets, none of these schemes Menoetius claimed he was constructing. Menoetius was wrong.

  “What happened to me?” she asked.

  He caught her other hand. “The healing-woman couldn’t keep the babe inside you.”

  “She has died?”

  “The next will live. Crete has the finest of everything, does it not? So it must have our child.”

  He climbed onto the bed and held her as she wept. Selene’s warnings and Menoetius’s claims shrieked through her mind. Had Athene killed her child as punishment for the crimes of her consort?

  She saw her grief reflected in his face. No, it couldn’t be. Chrysaleon was a noble man. He couldn’t plot against her. Menoetius was blinded by jealousy. She would never justify his allegations by asking Chrysaleon about them.

  Two new moons have passed. I did not bleed.

  I have searched for answers in vision, in the entrails and logs, but all I receive is silence. Should I admit my crime? If I do, everyone will know I betrayed my holy vows.

  I’m afraid. Yes, my Mother, afraid to die, but more than that I fear my confession will send Kaphtor into another uproar, more confusion, renewed chaos. Our land is weakened. Any admission I make can only bring more harm.

  I say such things then accuse myself of making childish defenses to escape a just punishment.

  After the defeat of Harpalycus the Butcher, Aridela confided that she will take no man to her bed but Chrysaleon until he dies. She puts his customs above ours. How can I admit what I’ve done? One look in my eyes would tell her how I would defy everything, even her trust, to lie with him again. Would she not feel betrayed by both of us? He has made it clear to her that he will never forgive her intimacies with any other man, yet he lay with me twice.

  Such is the barbarian way.

  At last I understand the powers of lust that drive men and women. I feel those drives deep in the center of my being. “Run to him,” my body cries. “Beg him to touch you.” These are the thoughts controlling my nights, my days, my very breathing.

  I investigated what herbs to take. I acquired them and mixed the potion that would kill this child. I held it to my lips.

  Yet I could not drink.

  Its presence threatens my position with the people— my very life. Every day my moera slips further from my control.

  Yet something presses against my mouth like an invisible hand. A dark inner voice tells me, “No. Do not.” I fear it is my own longing to hold his child in my arms.

  The council has condemned Menoetius. Chrysaleon’s brother abandoned everything, his loyalty, his homeland, his honor and his life, for love of our queen. I’ve heard he is no longer a man, but a howling, desperate being. The Beast of the labyrinth.

  I understand his pain as I never could before. I pity him. I pity all those resigned to hopeless love.

  Though it will tear apart everything I have ever tried to be, I will keep this secret. Not only for Aridela’s sake, but my own and Kaphtor’s.

  Aridela was alone when she woke, but her handmaid soon arrived to wait upon her. The girl helped her sit up and shared all the gossip she’d missed while trapped in the haze of poppy.

  The council wanted Menoetius put to death immediately. At first this news sent a bolt of fear through Aridela. Had the guards revealed her clandestine visit to the labyrinth? But as the handmaid chattered on, she realized their reason hadn’t changed. They wanted vengeance upon him for attacking the consort in the apple grove. Surprisingly, Chrysaleon was protesting this, but not out of care for his brother. For some reason Aridela didn’t understand, he was adamant that Menoetius serve as his cabal. Yet following that plan would erase the crime Menoetius committed. He would become bull-king, consort, and Aridela’s lover. How could Chrysaleon want that when the idea of them lying with each other in the cave sent him into blindly jealous, raging fury?

  What would happen if Chrysaleon found out his wife was with his brother when she lost her baby? It made her shudder to imagine, and not only for herself. She could easily picture his rage exploding outward to engulf Selene, Menoetius, even the two guards.

  She sent the maid away to fetch bread and honey, and something to help her poppy headache. While she was alone, she took a comb to her hair and pondered. She thought about the village of Natho, and the day Chrysaleon became her consort. She thought of the strange way his face had melded with his brother’s. She remembered her conviction that they were more than they seemed, separated parts of a whole. That mystical interlude brought back the voice that had overtaken her mind and drowned out Themiste’s prayer to the Goddess.

  I have lived many lives since the beginning, and so shalt thou. I have been given many names and many faces. So shalt thou, and thou wilt follow me from reverence and worship into obscurity. In an unbroken line wilt thou return, my daughter. Thou shalt be called Eamhair of the sea, who brings them closer, and Shashi, sacrificed to deify man. Thy names are Caparina, Lilith and the sorrowful Morrigan, who drives them far apart. Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times, far into the veiled future. Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost, and thou too wilt forget me. Suffering and despair shall be thy nourishment. Misery shall poison thy blood. Thou wilt breathe the air of slavery, for as long as thou art blinded. For thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.

  Even after so long, seven months, and so many catastrophes, she recalled every nuance of the prophecy, word for word, including the odd names, and knew that was part of its design. It had burned itself into her memory the same way the scars left by the Destruction had burned into her skin.

  The more she thought about it, the stronger grew her resolve. She would forge forgiveness between the two brothers. Determination blazed so fiercely she suspected it was instruction planted by the Goddess herself. Besides, if she lay in bed doing nothing, grief might defeat her.

  Themiste’s appearance offered a welcome distraction. The oracle came in at Aridela’s invitation and sat by the bed.

  “I longed for this child, Minos,” Aridela said.

  “All Kaphtor mourns with you.” Themiste’s earrings trembled, as did her voice. “I wish I could heal your sorrow. If I could, with some divine power, place Chrysaleon’s child inside you, I would. But you’re only seventeen. Your kaliara has barely flowed a year. Remember how long it took to begin? You will have a healthy child, according to Athene’s plan.” Her words held confidence and she squeezed Aridela’s hand reassuringly, but her smile was shaky. “Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation.”

  “It’s Chrysaleon’s child I want so badly.”

  “There is still time. If not, perhaps his brother can accomplish the goal when he becomes bull-king.”

  “Menoetius….” Aridela shied away from the memory of his stricken face as she’d begun to bleed. “Haven’t you been told? He will be put to a traitor’s death before Iakchos rises.”

  Themiste paused. “I don’t think Menoetius would have harmed his brother. I’ve spoken to the council, and so has the Zagreus, who believes as I do.”

  Aridela’s throat constricted so tightly in her effort to stave off weeping that it hurt to speak. “Perhaps you’re right. But you didn’t see their faces. Such hatred as I hope never again to witness.”

  “There is long-standing hostility there, but something more, as well. I can’t name it, but I feel it must be as deep and enduring as their rivalry.”

  The handmaid carried in a platter of bread and honey, and a drink made of bitter feverfew.


  “Headache?” Themiste asked.

  Aridela nodded as she choked down the brew. “Rhené insists on giving me poppy.” She couldn’t help making a face at the acrid taste of the brew, and took several bites of honey soaked bread to sweeten her tongue. “Themiste,” she said after swallowing the dregs, “I’ve been lying here for days with nothing to do but think. I realized I never told you what happened the day Chrysaleon became my consort and sacred king.”

  “I remember nothing out of the ordinary,” Themiste said. “Until that night.”

  “No one knew of this—” She started to say except for Menoetius, but hesitated, then didn’t. “I should have told you long ago.”

  Themiste leaned closer, nodding her encouragement.

  “We were kneeling by the water. You and Mother were performing the rites. You had just begun the prayer to Athene.” A shiver, caused not by chill but rather a sensation like hot sparks, leaped across Aridela’s skin. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms and shoulders, trying to erase the foreboding that accompanied the memory. “A voice spoke.” She touched her temple. “Inside my mind.”

  Again, the prophecy was there for her. She related it without hesitation.

  When she finished, she was flushed and sweating, and Themiste’s eyes were wide. “That wasn’t all,” she said, fanning her face, and repeated the last part.

  “‘I have split one into two. Mortal men have burned my shrines and pulled down my statues. Their arrogance has upended the holy ways. I decree that men will resurrect me or the earth will die.’”

  Silence lay heavy and oppressive in the chamber. Themiste and the handmaid stared at her.