In the Moon of Asterion

by Rebecca Lochlann

  The memory of Menoetius carrying her from the underground shrine when she was ten remained amazingly clear and vivid. She remembered peering into his face, struck by his vivid indigo eyes. He raced in dreamlike slowness up the steps, shouting for help. Even then she’d believed him no mere mortal. She often caught herself conjuring the days in the mountain cave where the stalactites glittered. He’d done so much more than protect her from Harpalycus. He returned to her the desire to live, then gave his own life for her sake. It was unendurable that she’d broken her promise to take care of Selene and the baby. He’d asked so little of her. When Chrysaleon happened upon her at such times, she was forced to disguise floods of anger and put on a false smile. Sometimes she couldn’t manage it, and simply had to walk away from him, which always caused an argument.

  All those months leading up to the king-sacrifice, she had wept, prayed, and imagined how to avert it. Had she acquiesced too easily, too quickly, when Chrysaleon offered a way? This pervasive sense of guilt suggested she had much to answer for.

  As she sipped wine, the maid smoothed her tangles with an ivory comb.

  It is glory and power Chrysaleon loves, Menoetius whispered. You’re his means to achieve it.

  You carry a traitor’s child. Selene now, her voice mingling with her dead lover’s.

  Too many questions. Too much doubt. Aridela was weary of forcing herself to defend what could very well be a lie. In the privacy of her mind, she admitted that since the rise of Iakchos, her single-minded loyalty to Chrysaleon had gradually shifted. Now it seemed to consist of obligation, tinged with suspicion, and the uncomfortable sensation that she’d been deceived. You see only what you want to see, her wise mother had once said. By allowing herself to be blinded, Aridela had played a part in the death of Menoetius, in the desolation of Themiste, in the disappearance of Selene, and in the duping of the people of Kaphtor. Her mother had said something else that day. Damasen’s most loving gift to me was his refusal to allow me to change things. It showed his love more than any other act could. She’d added, somberly, When Iakchos rises, that is when Chrysaleon’s truth will emerge.

  Since the initiation of taxes, Aridela had begun to notice a change in the people’s manner. Once so adoring of Chrysaleon, they no longer bombarded him with flowers and praise. Now they observed him in silence when he left the palace, which he did less and less, and he’d replaced all his Cretan serving men with Mycenaeans.

  She pushed away nagging guilt and uneasiness. This recovery was hard. But so had been the Destruction. Chrysaleon promised the taxes were temporary and would be discarded as soon as the coffers were replenished. It made sense, and the council had given him their enthusiastic approval.

  Menoetius’s eyes held an expression of profound sadness. Even now, when my blood calls you, still you blind yourself.

  Aridela rose from the bath abruptly, turning her face so Themiste wouldn’t see her anguish. The maid wrapped her up and briskly toweled the excess water from her hair.

  If there was any way to do so, she wanted to comfort Themiste. “From the beginning of the world,” she said, “kings have spilled their life-giving blood for the good of the people. Nothing can stop the great sacrifice. Think of the bounty Chrysaleon will release upon Kaphtor when he at last descends into the labyrinth— many times more, I think, than any king who lived but a year. His gift will be eight times stronger, for he absorbs the strength and purity of each bull-king who dies in his place.”

  “Perhaps.” Themiste’s voice lacked inflection. “I cannot tell. The Lady no longer speaks to me. I see nothing in the entrails. All I am given are these visions of warning, these offerings of curses, death, and endings.”

  Alarmed, Aridela tried again. “She showed you the highest possible favor by placing a holy child into your womb. Surely Goddess Athene loves you more than any other mortal. You are Minos— Moon-Being. Her holy oracle.”

  Themiste’s face blanched, as it did every time Athene’s singular favor was mentioned. “No, Aridela. You speak from ignorance.” Pasithea began to cry. Themiste looked down, frowning, as though puzzled by the sight of this infant on her lap. “I’m giving Pasithea my title,” she said. “I no longer want it. Let it go to the next generation, with prayers that they will take better care of what they’ve been given than I have done.”

  Aridela started to protest, but stopped when she noticed how interested the maidservant was in their conversation. “Leave us,” she said impatiently. “I will comb my own hair.” The maid bowed and backed, a bit reluctantly, from the room.

  She knelt by Themiste’s stool. “You told me you’re afraid of Chrysaleon. I am too, at times.”

  Themiste couldn’t hide her surprise.

  “It’s true.” Aridela took Themiste’s hand. It was so cold. She rubbed it— even blew gently on the oracle’s fingers in an attempt to warm them. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Chrysaleon will live for eight years as my consort, but the labyrinth will claim him. I swear it to you. There is no escape from Goddess Athene, not for any of us.”

  When Iakchos rises, that is when Chrysaleon’s truth will emerge. Aridela’s skin rose into goose bumps. Helice had made true prophecy that day.

  As she and Themiste gazed into each other’s eyes, she allowed herself to feel what she’d denied and suppressed every day and night since that day in the apple grove, when Chrysaleon called her whore, the insult he knew would hurt her the most, and suggested she’d willingly given herself to Harpalycus.

  Relief.

  In the Moon of mead-making, after the wild pear trees bloomed, Chrysaleon brought his daughter home from Mycenae.

  Aridela, Themiste, and Xanthe, alerted by the lookouts, were waiting for them on the pier. Xanthe clutched a new black kitten. Gusty sea-winds played with their skirts, and Aridela had to repeatedly pull her hair out of her eyes.

  Rising on her toes, Xanthe waved at her best friend. The kitten gave an anxious meow.

  Pasithea, standing beside Chrysaleon on the ship, leaned out and returned the wave. Her unbound hair flew wildly about her head. It would be a chore to untangle. Aridela wondered, as she had numerous times, why she’d allowed Chrysaleon to talk her into abandoning Kaphtor’s custom of shaving children’s heads until they were twelve.

  Two long months had passed since last she had seen father and daughter. The returning child looked taller, older than her six and a half years.

  Aridela noticed a dark-headed man on Pasithea’s other side. From this distance he bore an uncanny resemblance to Menoetius. She drew in a sharp breath and glanced at Themiste, fearful of her thoughts betraying her, but the oracle was talking to Xanthe and hadn’t noticed anything.

  Tears stung her eyes as she was swept back in memory to Menoetius’s silence and frowns, which for months she had assumed were signs of censure. She remembered how he would lower his face and raise his shoulder in an unconscious attempt to hide his disfigurement.

  Yes, she wept with joy at the return of Chrysaleon and Pasithea, and with sorrow for the other, for Asterion, the man who, to this day, was praised in song and art.

  No wonder Queen Helice grew so weary that murder at the hands of Harpalycus became a welcome escape.

  “She looks older,” Themiste said. “And lovely, Aridela. I’ve missed her so.”

  Aridela could only nod as emotion flooded.

  Pasithea jumped from the tender and ran to them on her short strong legs, crying, “I am going to marry Gelanor!”

  Aridela met Chrysaleon’s sheepish grin as Pasithea threw her arms around her mother’s waist, nearly pitching her over.

  “What is this?” Aridela asked, laughing. “You know you must wed the strongest male who wins the Games for you. You’re no peasant, to choose a husband.”

  “I will be Gelanor’s wife.” The child’s lower lip pursed into a familiar pout. “I shall never marry anyone if I cannot marry Gelanor. You changed the customs to suit you, Mother. I will too.”

  “Where did she get suc
h an idea?” Aridela leveled an accusing stare at Chrysaleon.

  He shrugged. “Blame Gelanor. He did nothing but spoil her with trinkets, food, pets— anything she wanted. They were never apart but for sleeping.”

  “I love Gelanor,” Pasithea said.

  The queen peered into her daughter’s eyes. They were greener than usual just now, due to a fierce gleam, strongly reminiscent of Chrysaleon’s when he felt thwarted. The two were uncannily alike. In truth, Velchanos must have made it so, to encourage Aridela to take the child for her own and name the Mycenaean king her father.

  “I’ll consider it,” she said at last, not wanting to argue so soon after being reunited.

  “I love you.” With another hug, Pasithea struggled free of Aridela’s embrace. She hugged Themiste with the same exuberance, saying, “Are you well, Themiste-mother? Wait till I show you the jewels and gifts I got.” Then she seized Xanthe’s hand. Together they ran chattering up to the litters, tugging Themiste along with them. The kitten escaped and all three leaped after it, laughing.

  “Chrysaleon,” Aridela murmured, smiling. A two-month separation made her notice things she paid no attention to in their day-to-day lives. The lines burned into his face by the sun were deeper than she remembered, and his abdomen not as flat as when they’d begun their tempestuous affair in the Cave of Velchanos, eight years past. Sunlight reflected off a few strands of silver at his temples, and his mane of tawny hair seemed to have lost some of its brightness. He still retained his strength, however; he picked her up in his arms without any obvious effort and swung her in a circle.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “And I you. Oh, put me down….” Aridela staggered and pressed a hand to her forehead as the hills and beach spun crazily.

  “What’s wrong, my love?”

  “I’ve been keeping a secret. I have conceived at last, Chrysaleon.”

  Startled pleasure flamed across his face. He scooped her into his arms again and carried her to the waiting litter. “It’s been so long,” he said. “I confess I’d given up.” Then he added bluntly, “I want a son.”

  “I have my daughter.” She kissed his mouth and cheeks. “I shall make offerings and ask for a son.”

  “Chrysaleon….” The voice came from behind them. He turned.

  “Gelanor,” he said. “I’ve just discovered the queen is carrying my child.”

  Aridela hadn’t seen Gelanor in seven years. He’d grown taller than Chrysaleon. He had the same green eyes, but hair as black, thick, and curly as Pasithea’s.

  As she stared at him, Aridela couldn’t help thinking this man and her daughter could have sprung from the same womb, they looked so much alike.

  “This is happy news.” He stepped forward, grinning, and kissed her on both cheeks. His voice was deeper than she remembered. When he smiled, his teeth flashed like ivory in a face of bronze, and faint lines crinkled around his eyes. She recalled Chrysaleon telling her that he was her age, which would make him twenty-four, a man now in every way and an assured, imposing ruler. All hint of naivety was gone.

  Pasithea ran back to them and threw herself into Gelanor’s arms so forcefully he took several hasty steps backward to avoid falling.

  He laughed and perched her on his hip as naturally as if he was accustomed to her spending all her time there.

  “Gelanor, you truly are ‘Laughter’ in mortal form,” Aridela said. “Chrysaleon, do you remember telling me his name meaning? Isn’t there a goddess of mirth on the mainland? She must have blessed you when you were born. Chrysaleon— please. You’re hurting me.”

  He set her carefully on her feet with an apology.

  “You look strange,” she said. “Is it sea-sickness?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Why is Alexiare not here?”

  “He’s fallen ill.”

  “You sent no word.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, and neither did he. His eyes are worse. I’m sorry to tell you he’s blind. And some disease makes it painful to breathe. He cannot hold food and wastes away.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Of course.” Aridela turned, clapping for the litter-bearers.

  Chrysaleon hurried to his slave.

  When he entered the chamber, the smell struck him, instantly bringing back the night Idómeneus died. He paused to compose his features.

  “Old man,” he said, approaching the bed. “You’re neglecting your chores.”

  Alexiare turned his head slowly to face his master. The strange cloudy film that had accumulated over his eyes during the last few years had thickened during Chrysaleon’s absence. Chrysaleon could tell by the way his slave didn’t look directly into his eyes that Aridela hadn’t been wrong. He was blind.

  “Alexiare.” Chrysaleon knelt beside the bed.

  “Don’t fret, my lord, I beg you. I’ve had a long life. Too long, some might say, and I would agree.” His voice, always gravelly, had degenerated further, into barely comprehensible wheezing.

  “What do you need?”

  “Water, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Chrysaleon held the cup to his lips.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to return,” Alexiare whispered. “There are things I need to tell you— before it’s too late.”

  “What things?”

  “I have seen the Goddess. All these years I thought she didn’t exist.”

  “You’ve been dreaming.”

  “No, my lord. I’ve angered her, brought her wrath not only on myself, but you.”

  “You haven’t done anything that cannot be remedied by a few prayers and the sacrifice of a goat.”

  Kaphtor’s royal healer, chosen by Rhené just before she died, entered from one of the side doors, accompanied by a maidservant with a bowl of clean water. She pressed a cloth to Alexiare’s lips as he coughed, long, painful expulsions that brought up blood. Exhausted, he fell back.

  “He should rest,” the woman said, inclining her head. Chrysaleon could never remember her name.

  “I’ll return later,” Chrysaleon said to his slave, “and I expect you to be on your feet.”

  Alexiare’s pet warbler sang as Chrysaleon left. Its voice was sweet yet lonely, sparking a strange sense of foreboding.

  He pondered as he strode through the corridors to the feasting hall. When Aridela mentioned Gelanor’s name meaning at the pier, something had coalesced in his mind. Never before had he connected Themiste’s prophecy to his brother. Yet now it seemed obvious.

  The youthful sun will marry the ancient moon. He who laughs will lie with she who is beautiful to men.

  He wanted to hear what Alexiare thought, but the old man was too weak, too feverish. It sounded as though he’d become anxious as well, by what awaited him on the other side of life. He must have forgotten how much they’d accomplished, and without any sign of anger from Potnia Athene.

  A year after Menoetius gave his blood to the crops, the council met to decide the future of the sacrifice. Surprising everyone, Chrysaleon most of all, they followed the precedent he set. Chrysaleon could only wonder how much Aridela influenced their decision, for she never revealed what was said in those secretive council meetings.

  The augurers and star readers drew up their charts and examined the portents, searching out the next perfect configuration of the sun and moon. They concluded that in order for Chrysaleon to achieve the prophesied great year, his reign would have to start over. His first year as king, the year of the Destruction, was discarded, and the counting began anew with the death of Menoetius.

  A young Cretan won the Games that year, on the holy day lying out of time between the old year and the new. Nineteen years old, with long black hair and a lean, graceful dancer’s build, he ruled at Aridela’s side for one day, the first day of the new year, just as Menoetius had done. He was feasted and praised, and he coupled with her that night. Under the burning glow of Iakchos, Chrysaleon emerged from the tombs to slay him with the ancient sickle of bone. The youth�
��s body was torn by the priestesses, his blood sprinkled through the groves and barley, his manhood fed to the ocean, and Chrysaleon began his second year as bull-king.

  Every year since, Chrysaleon spent one day and most of a night in the Cretan tombs, listening to the sighs of the dead while envisioning Aridela and her winning consort lying together. Every year he wondered if she would grow heavy with another man’s spawn. But it had never happened… as far as he knew.

  He’d slain six youths so far, men who suffered violent death so he could remain alive and absorb their sanctity.

  Time slipped past so quickly. In less than a month the seventh cabal would die, and Chrysaleon would begin his last year as Zagreus and bull-king. In one brief year, he would again face his own death when the sun and moon came into rare coincidence.

  Rule until the sun and moon shift into perfect alignment, the oracle Daphoenissa had decreed. Then you will die, Lion of Mycenae.

  She herself was dead— killed by a Spartan warrior who didn’t appreciate one of her auguries.

  Chrysaleon entered the feasting hall and returned Aridela’s smile even as he squinted in an effort to hide his tumultuous thoughts.

  He would blast Daphoenissa’s prediction into splinters. Nothing could stop him. Chrysaleon would fly upon the wings of his moera as he had upon the death-gryphon’s back, and triumph over all those who plotted to destroy him.

  At the welcoming feast, as Pasithea entertained them with her adventures at Mycenae, she played with Gelanor’s fingers in a familiar, possessive fashion. It was hard to believe this outgoing, sophisticated child hadn’t yet seen the rise of Iakchos seven times.

  After the bard finished his tale, she leaned toward Gelanor, saying, “I want to give you a gift.” With great ceremony and flourish, she climbed up onto her chair, sending her bright gaze and winning smile around the hall. Lifting her arms to gain everyone’s attention, she made her announcement. “Prince Gelanor,” she said, “when you become my husband, you will have my title. You will be Minos of Kaphtor.”