In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “And she has Selene’s beautiful white skin.” Themiste squeezed Aridela’s hand.

  “Her mother and father live on in her,” Aridela said.

  Themiste gasped as another pain struck. The labor quickened and there was no more time for idle talk. Moving the friends aside, Rhené and her midwives spoke words of power as the baby’s head crowned. A frowning, angry red face appeared between Themiste’s legs.

  Pulling the newborn free, Rhené cut the umbilical cord with a sickle-shaped knife and sang the blessing. Themiste fell back, gasping and scarlet. Perspiration glistened on her forehead, darkening the tattoo, and dampened the fine auburn hair at her temples.

  “A girl,” Neoma said, laughing.

  Aridela cleaned the infant with cloths soaked in warm scented water.

  Two priestesses carried torches, lit at shrine fires, twice around the crying child to shield her from evil spirits.

  “Look.” Aridela brought her to her mother. “See how lovely she is!”

  Themiste’s smile was weak, trembling.

  “We’ll call her Pasithea.”

  “Beautiful,” Themiste whispered. She nodded her approval. “‘Beautiful to all.’ It’s a good name.”

  Alexiare entered his master’s bedchamber. Chrysaleon sat at his table, hunched over an empty cup. A dagger lay beside his motionless hand. The slave cleared his throat, fighting off fond exasperation.

  “Themiste has borne you a daughter, my lord.”

  The Zagreus’s face revealed nothing— no pleasure, no dismay.

  “The mother recovers and your child is healthy. Comely, from what I hear. The queen named her Pasithea.”

  Chrysaleon turned his gaze to the hearth fire. “Themiste never speaks to me unless she is forced.”

  “The queen believes in you, my lord, and no one dares refute her. Other than Minos Themiste, perhaps, the whole island believes in you, adores you in fact.”

  Chrysaleon made his opinion clear with a snort. “Are you so certain about what Aridela believes? Something is different.” He stood, carelessly scraping his chair over the swallows and cuttlefish inlaid in the floor tiles. “Though we never say his name, my brother lies between us every night. She spoke of him only once— to give me his message.”

  “Message, my lord? You told me of no message.”

  “He wanted me to know he remembered the lioness, and his debt to me.” A strange, almost desperate expression passed across his face, at odds with his laugh. “Before he died, he believed he owed me. Since then, I’ve had dreams that tell me otherwise.”

  “Sir, you did the only thing you could. Menoetius understood. He knew your fate was to live, to be a great king.” Alexiare came closer. “It’s every vassal’s duty to die for his liege.”

  “It wasn’t me he died for. It was her. You saw how the mob was acting. And why didn’t he tell Aridela this baby was mine? He hated me— he wanted me declared a traitor. All he had to do was reveal that secret. Both Themiste and I would have been condemned.”

  Giving one of his customary shrugs, Alexiare said, “What makes you think so? The queen did not believe him when he and Selene told her you meant to thwart the sacrifice. It would have been his word against Themiste’s, and she has quite obviously chosen to keep your secret.”

  Chrysaleon frowned at his slave. “Was it worth it? Before she disappeared, Selene longed to see me slaughtered. Themiste has been forever changed. My blood brother lies dead at my hand.” His voice lowered. “I can no longer tell what Aridela thinks. She shares nothing; her eyes give as much away as a moonless night. I am left with the memory of the way she embraced Menoetius the night of the battle, like a lover. Bastard of Idómeneus— he feels more alive to me than ever.” Smashing his fist against the surface of the table, his voice turned almost as hoarse as his slave’s. “I want to go back to Mycenae and leave this god-cursed country behind.”

  After many days of chilly rain and gloomy skies, the sun finally emerged. Though it was humid, the unseasonable warmth was intoxicating. Themiste suggested she and Aridela take the baby and sail to the little isle of Dia just north of Kaphtor, where none but goats, birds, and a few shepherds lived.

  They beached without incident. Leaving the sailors with the boat, they walked inland, Aridela carrying a basket of bread, honey, cheese, and a jar of wine, and Themiste holding Pasithea.

  Themiste protested that she felt strong, and was tired of her confinement, so they climbed a hill overlooking the south-facing bay. From its summit they could make out the hazy coastline of Kaphtor and even hints of the Ida mountains. They settled on the ground and Aridela fed Themiste cheese as the new mother nursed her child.

  “I haven’t told you where Selene and I put the tablets last summer,” Themiste said.

  “I thought you wanted to keep it a secret.” Aridela poured a little wine into a clay cup.

  “Not from you.” Themiste accepted the offered cup. “We talked about several places— Mount Juktas, Mount Ida, Mount Dikti— even Velchanos’s cave. But we went farther, to the Araden mountains.”

  At this, Aridela almost dropped the second cup she was filling. Her gaze shot to the oracle’s.

  Themiste gave a brief nod. “Yes, it’s far, but I sensed it was where Selene wanted to go. You’ve already guessed. We went to your cave, yours and Menoetius’s.”

  “Oh,” Aridela said faintly. Yours and Menoetius’s.

  Themiste set down her cup and clasped Aridela’s hand. “I’ve wanted to tell you, but you never seem to be alone. That’s why I asked you to come here today.”

  The cozy fire pit, the comfortable pallet, the sense of security, and the discerning gaze of her scarred guardian ran through Aridela’s mind. Loss speared so acutely it was nearly unbearable, and she heard herself draw in a sharp breath.

  You’ll tether me like a goat? That is your image of victory?

  I will have victory, Aridela.

  Themiste was watching her much like Menoetius used to, with eyes that seemed to see every secret. “We put the tablets in the back,” she said, “where it’s dark and narrow. We had to crawl. Even if someone finds the cave, I think the tablets will be safe.”

  Aridela worked to maintain a stoic expression.

  “Everything was still there,” Themiste said. “The pallet where you slept, the pit that kept you warm. Bowls. Cloth. Even that log he brought in. I confess I laughed as I imagined him binding you, and how you’ve told me you responded.”

  Tears burned despite Aridela’s efforts to stop them. She blinked, but knew the perceptive oracle had seen.

  Themiste squeezed her hand. “The air had a wild, clean taste. It renewed and strengthened me. I haven’t felt so well in a long time.”

  “Really?” Aridela said.

  Themiste nodded. “I sensed I was following the Lady’s wishes. Truthfully, I felt I was putting the tablets in a holy place. Selene had the same sensation. We spoke of you, and of Menoetius. She said there was something divine between you.”

  Trying to recover a semblance of calm, Aridela gave all her concentration to pulling apart a hunk of cheese.

  “You loved Asterion, our Beast of the labyrinth.”

  “Star of the labyrinth,” Aridela whispered.

  Out in the bay, three dolphins leaped from the water as though trying to reach the sun. Light glittered against the spray and their wet bodies.

  “I believe he watches over you,” Themiste said.

  For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world, and nothing will ever part us.

  Aridela’s throat worked as she fought the urge to crush her face against her knees and yield to grief-stricken howls.

  “He had substance,” was all she said.

  Aridela fell into the habit of summoning Themiste and Neoma on the days her queenly duties didn’t demand attention. The three spent endless time playing with the children of their hearts, the one who might someday be queen and her sister in spirit,
Xanthe, who gave sweet memories of her mother and father. When Aridela made faces to spark their laughter, she felt some of the joy from before Harpalycus return.

  Several days after they sailed to the isle of Dia, Themiste brought her daughter to Aridela’s chamber for a visit. Pasithea had fallen asleep, one tiny fist clenched against her mother’s smooth bare skin.

  Aridela was preparing for a bath. “Sit with me,” she said. “We’ll talk of the old days.”

  They passed Chrysaleon on the way to the bath chamber. Aridela noticed how Themiste glanced at the consort then quickly away. Neither spoke.

  When Aridela was soaking in perfumed water, she said, “I understand why Selene hated Chrysaleon. Yet I feel within you an ill will too. Why do you never speak to the Zagreus? He is your mate as well as mine. You could invite him to your bed, unless of course you wish to remain untouched for custom’s sake.”

  “I have no desire to lie with him.” Themiste’s tone was suppressed yet oddly forceful. “And he should remain as constant to you as you have been to him.”

  The tension and distaste in the reply left Aridela briefly speechless. She managed to nod and agree. “Yes, he should.” She frowned, and sought to explain. “My bond with Chrysaleon is more than physical,” she said haltingly. “It was created by the Goddess, and transcends mortal concerns and jealousies.”

  Themiste seemed to understand. “You think of the night on Mount Juktas, when Velchanos wore Chrysaleon’s face.” She rested her cheek against the fine black curls on her daughter’s head and was quiet for some time. “Lately I feel a great worry and anxiety,” she said finally. “I sense something is coming, something that will change us. I’ve seen things, in vision, that I haven’t shared, with you or anyone, but I woke today convinced you should know of them.”

  Aridela waited as her maid massaged her scalp.

  Themiste’s face darkened. When she did speak, her voice trembled faintly. “I have seen men with beards, Achaeans, holding sway over us with lists and taxes. Kaphtor’s people starve as the best of what they’ve grown is taken to enrich mainland storehouses. I have seen our sacred word, cabal, lose its meaning and become something different, something unholy and dangerous. But this is the least. In vision, I see men pulling down the statue of Velchanos and throwing it into the sea, our mountain shrines demolished, the sacred bulls stolen by the mainland god, Poseidon.” Her voice lowered and she lifted her gaze, her anguish unhidden. A single tear trailed down her cheek. “I have seen sacrifices… of children, Aridela.”

  Aridela sat up straight in the steaming water. She forced herself to keep silent, though she wanted to cry out denials, shout promises that she would never allow such things to happen.

  “Labyrinthos lies in ruins,” Themiste said, “buried in drifting sand until even the memory of it is lost.” She drew in a shaky breath. “In one of my visions, my title was stolen and given to a male. They laughed and kept it, and called themselves Minos for all time. Whenever I look upon your consort, these visions manifest, and I am fearful.”

  Themiste appeared so distraught Aridela didn’t know what to do. Finally, she reached out a wet hand. The oracle hesitated then clasped it.

  “In this I have joined you,” Aridela said. “Not with vision, but dreams. More and more of late they come to me. I wake sickened with misgivings. I, too, have seen our ancient rites discarded, the Goddess forgotten. More than forgotten— betrayed. Just last night, Minos, I dreamed the mainlanders’ sky-god, this Zeus, gathered an unholy strength right here, on Kaphtor. Our honey made him invincible. He murdered or subjugated all the other gods. Once I dreamed he ate Velchanos, and Velchanos was no more. I have dreamed that our people forget Kaphtor’s history, that they come to believe Zeus gave birth to Goddess Athene.” She laughed. It held no humor, but still she attempted to lighten the heavy subject, and wondered if she really sought to vanquish her own fears. “Doesn’t that prove how foolish dreams can be? Even babies know Athene’s name meaning. ‘I have come from myself.’ No matter how many warriors sprout upon the rocks of Argolis, no matter how they try to change the truth, truth can never be changed.”

  Themiste’s stare was fixed. “Your dreams aren’t foolish. Goddess sends them as warning. She wants us to prevent this from happening. But how?”

  Aridela had no answer, and could only shake her head.

  Her handmaid added a mixture of grapeseed, scented with Aridela’s favorite musk oil, to the bathwater. Seductive scent infused the entire room. Themiste entertained Pasithea by swinging her gently and dipping her plump feet into the water. The baby laughed, giving voice to simple delight. Even the oracle smiled, though she still seemed disturbed and sad.

  Aridela considered what Themiste described. It was defeat she saw in the oracle’s shadowed eyes and slumped shoulders, more so than sadness. The weight of vision and fears for what might come was a heavy burden for anyone to carry. Themiste hadn’t escaped that burden. In fact, she suffered more than most, and it was beginning to show. For the first time Aridela noticed the threads of gray in her hair, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth and across her forehead.

  Themiste had changed since the miracle that formed a child in her womb. She seldom smiled or laughed. She was often distracted, away in some secret place she shared with no one.

  Aridela knew that she, too, bore no resemblance to the spoiled girl she’d been before the Mycenaean brothers came to Kaphtor. Any shred of innocence left to her after Harpalycus’s brutality had died with Menoetius in the barley field. Not even the gradual reemergence of sunlight or disappearance of the hateful ash could return her to what she’d once been. Only two could make Aridela forget, for short spaces of time, how everything had altered from light to dark. Her two treasured children, black-haired Pasithea and lovely Xanthe, although the pleasure Xanthe gave was bittersweet, thanks to a blue, straightforward gaze that was uncommonly like her father’s, and fragile, blue-veined skin so reminiscent of her mother’s.

  Aridela asked her handmaid to fetch wine, and when she’d gone, said quietly, “Menoetius shared something with me before he died. I think you should hear it. It might give you ease, and hope.”

  Themiste waited, her luminous eyes still haunted.

  “He, too, had visions and dreams. For years, he had a dream where he was confronted by a lion. He knew he must fight the lion in order to protect me from some awful thing— he wasn’t sure what. Whenever he had this dream, he heard these words— ‘What seems the end is only the beginning.’ He was puzzled by it, until he was confined in the labyrinth.”

  She paused for so long that Themiste gently prompted her. “What happened to him there?”

  “He heard and saw the Lady as though she stood before him. He said she glowed like a star. She showed him many things— much of which he didn’t tell me— and she repeated that promise. There, in the silence and solitude of the labyrinth, his long-abandoned devotion to her returned. He was transformed, ready to submit, no matter what it might cost him. He understood that no matter how it seemed, whatever happened, it was not the end. He told me about this, I think because he believed we would be reunited. It’s given me comfort since the night he offered his life to Kaphtor. I believe it too. Somehow… I know I will see him again. Somewhere.”

  The handmaid returned with a pitcher of wine and two bowls.

  Themiste wiped away her tears. “Thank you for telling me, Aridela.” She looked down at her baby, who laughed and grasped her finger. “Perhaps we haven’t given our Mistress enough trust. It could be that we simply cannot see as far as she does.”

  In the other room, Chrysaleon called to one of his men in a rough, impatient voice. Themiste startled. Her head turned sharply and she stiffened. She only relaxed when it again grew quiet and it was clear Chrysaleon had gone away.

  Aridela tried to dismiss a creeping conviction that Chrysaleon had something to do with the profound changes in Themiste. The oracle said the very sight of him caused her fear, but Aridela ignored it,
as she did anything that seemed critical of her consort. Besides, the way Themiste said it suggested all Achaeans frightened her, not just Chrysaleon.

  There was no denying Kaphtor’s recovery was due overwhelmingly to the Zagreus. Ships again entered Kaphtor’s harbors, perhaps not as many as in days of old, but such things took time— time Kaphtor wouldn’t have been granted without the impenetrable shield provided by Chrysaleon’s presence. As High King over the mainland citadels, Chrysaleon cowed those bloodthirsty warriors and kept them from invading. How could Themiste fear the man who contributed so much to their recovery? It was unfair and cruel.

  Though she would never betray Chrysaleon by speaking of it to anyone, Aridela knew how tortured he was by what he’d done to his brother. She doubted if even the favored slave, Alexiare, knew. Six months had passed, yet he still woke nearly every night, crying out, sweating. She held him and soothed him and he clung to her almost desperately. In his sleep he whispered his dead brother’s name, sometimes cursing, sometimes asking forgiveness.

  Themiste seemed lost in thought. Aridela’s own mind wandered backward as it often did, to the mead-making festival and the oracle’s frightening prediction. You will suffer, she’d said. As you are betrayed, so you will in turn betray those who put their faith in you.

  Had her consort plotted to avert his death and lengthen his reign? With months to consider the skillful way he’d beguiled them, she knew he had. But his motive remained a question. Had he used Kaphtor’s best interests as an excuse, mouthing words with no intent but to save himself? Selene and Menoetius swore it was so. Now Menoetius was dead and Selene, her beloved friend, vanished. Every time Aridela held their orphaned child, loss and grief reopened old wounds in her heart.

  She still didn’t fully understand why he’d insisted on Menoetius as his cabal, and when awake, Chrysaleon placed a wall so high and thick around any mention of his brother that she despaired of ever receiving an answer. The only thing that made any sense was that he somehow knew, though their bond was frayed and damaged, Menoetius would do what no other man would: fall in line and offer himself in his brother’s stead.