But now Kaphtor will decline. Like a lamp run out of oil, our flame will disappear. Other places, other ways, will take ascendance. Other countries will direct what comes, for I saw, too late and too clearly, that Menoetius was the blessed one, Athene’s champion. Not Chrysaleon.
Nephele tells me I fell silent and began to weep. The council members at first were agitated by this, but soon they grew impatient.
My mind soared on the spine of the wind. An irresistible force— I don’t know what else to name it— entered into me and overthrew my will.
The snakes coiled around my neck and wrists. I stretched both hands to the sky. “Anathema,” I cried, the words promising the great offering— and more, words forbidden to write, even here.
Yet it was not I who spoke. Goddess Athene was speaking through me.
“Thou hast murdered my children and sent me into darkness. Thy covenant to me is broken. Until you fulfill your obligation, I will forsake thee.”
Athene has always been with us. She taught us everything we needed to thrive. Athene, my generous, beloved Mistress. I know what we have done. I know why you are angry. I despair that we can ever earn your forgiveness.
There was more, though I cannot decipher the meaning of it. I can only hope some forthcoming Minos, possessing better wisdom, will understand and know what to do.
“An immortal corps will be formed from those who give loyalty. They will bond to her but will not know her, nor will she know them, for she has become the wounded woman, and will walk alone.
“Through the black and barren times, remember that no death is final unless I make it so. Life is a winter tree that seems dead. With warmth and sunlight, it regenerates and blooms, granting beauty and life to all.”
Here, the priestesses stopped writing, because a serving maid ran in screaming and interrupted. I didn’t hear her. The trance pressed too deeply over me. When I recovered, much later, I was told.
Aridela is dead.
After spending the night with his dying slave, Chrysaleon returned to the queen’s chamber, but she wasn’t there. He raised the alarm. Searchers found her at the bottom of a staircase. She must have lost her footing during the earthshaking, and the fall broke her neck.
Following our custom in such rare crises, where the queen-to-be is too young to take command, the council gave me the crescent staff. I am charged with returning order to Kaphtor, though all I want to do is lie on my bed and weep, or flee to my mountain shrine and separate myself from everyone.
My mind travels backward to your childhood, how your brow furrowed as you concentrated in the judgment hall. The way your eyes followed the bull dance, and the many times you slipped past your nurses and caused such uproar.
My heart has died with you.
Nephele sent her mistress an apologetic shrug as she escorted the serving woman into Themiste’s chamber. “This is Gaiane,” she said.
Themiste rubbed the back of her neck. She’d finished a long day with Kaphtor’s council, and wanted to offer comfort to Pasithea and Xanthe, who were taking the queen’s death very hard.
Trying to hide her impatience, she waited for the woman to speak, wondering why a private audience was required.
Gaiane bowed. “Lady,” she said, her voice trembling, “my husband is one of the fishermen who brought you the skeleton from the northern cliffs.”
“Skeleton? What skeleton?” Themiste dropped wearily into the chair at her worktable.
Nephele knelt beside her. “You’ve been so busy, I hadn’t told you yet. A skeleton was discovered off the northern coast. Those who found it brought it for your judgment, not knowing what else they should do.”
“Many skeletons have been unearthed along the coast,” Themiste said to Gaiane, thinking perhaps she didn’t know. “It’s a sad fact. The mountain of water crushed anyone who had the misfortune of being there when it came.”
Gaiane edged closer. “Not stuffed inside a leather sack, with stones packed in to make it sink. My husband and his companions believe it a murder. He insisted I come and tell you what the Mycenaean said, our king’s slave— he who was called Alexiare.”
Themiste sat up straight, her attention captured. “What does he have to do with these bones?”
“When my husband and his men brought the skeleton to Labyrinthos, they showed it to me. Later, when I was sent to make sure the king and his slave were unharmed by the earthshaking, I mentioned it to the Zagreus.”
There was anxiety in her eyes as she leaned closer, bringing the kitchen scents of smoke, saffron and garlic. “I told them what my husband said, that part of the cliffs collapsed and uncovered a skeleton. I told them about the leather sack.”
She paused. Themiste began to think she’d misunderstood Gaiane’s expression. The woman seemed as excited as she was fearful.
“Yes, go on,” she said.
“Alexiare cried out, ‘Selene!’ He became agitated— even wept. Perhaps it is nothing, but my husband wanted you to know.”
She made the quick, winding sign of the serpent on her breast, the age-old gesture showing obedience and respect to Athene.
Selene. Could it be true? Alexiare had been old. Themiste remembered someone once claiming he was near ninety. At any rate, his mind, so close to death, could well have wandered.
She pictured beautiful Selene, and thought back to her sudden, inexplicable disappearance. The never-solved mystery.
Themiste tamped down a rising hope. It would be impossible to identify a skeleton, and difficult to determine the cause of death. But she should go along and look, and make some sort of statement.
“Did you see the Zagreus?” Themiste asked as Nephele came into her chamber.
“His man wouldn’t let me in, my lady, but I caught a glimpse of him. He was sitting by the hearth fire with a cover over his shoulders. He looked pale and ill. I went down to the slave quarters as you asked. Here is what I learned. They are only allowed into the chamber to bring food and remove the chamber pot. They say he hasn’t eaten anything they’ve taken him. Other than those times, the king allows no one near him but the one man, a Mycenaean. The servants told me he won’t be parted from the knife the queen used to kill Harpalycus, that he constantly turns it over in his hands. Some of the slaves suspect he is losing hold of his reason.”
Themiste sighed. She longed to retreat from her obligations as Chrysaleon seemed determined to do, but the needs of the country took precedence over personal grief. “He has to accompany the procession to Aridela’s gravesite, no matter how inconsolable he is. The people expect it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I must prepare Aridela for her journey to Hesperia.” Themiste fought back tears. “It cannot be put off even one more day to make concessions to his suffering. The sarcophagus is ready, the grave dug.”
Nephele lowered her head and wiped at her eyes.
“Come,” Themiste said. “First we’ll go and look at this skeleton. Even if it is a murder, what can be done? I suppose I must say something about it, for I have no doubt that gossipmonger Gaiane has told everyone in the city. Our people love their scandals.”
“Yes, my lady. Could it be Selene?”
Themiste shrugged. “How can we ever know who this person was?” Her initial curiosity had faded. What did it matter, when compared to the inconsolable sorrow of Xanthe and Pasithea, and the Zagreus’s worrisome withdrawal? As certain as she was that Chrysaleon had callously fooled them all in the name of power, it was also obvious he loved Aridela, and was grieving.
They descended into the labyrinth and found the chamber where the bones were being stored. Once the lamps were lit, Themiste took in the scene.
Someone had laid out the skeleton on a large table. She examined it, her nose wrinkling. Most of the skull was gone, leaving only a chunk of the lower jaw and a few teeth. The spine was intact, and one side of the torso— the collarbone, ribs, arm, and hand. The other arm, the legs, and the feet were partially crushed, and all the bones were sore
ly blackened from their time in the mud. This unfortunate must have been submerged for many years, to cause so much breakage and discoloration. Probably since the Destruction.
The leather sack lay on the floor, remarkably preserved, though it smelled quite bad, of seawater and rot. Beside it lay the pile of stones the fishermen claimed were packed inside.
Then she saw what else time and the sea had not destroyed.
Themiste picked up the skeleton’s one remaining hand, eliciting a faint moan from her handmaid, who hung back in the shadows. She worked the ring off the second finger and rubbed away the embedded mud as best she could.
Shivers edged along her flesh as she contemplated the ring then the skull. “I remember when the queen gave her ring to Selene,” she said. “It was when Harpalycus held Kaphtor and Selene sent her to hide in the mountains with Menoetius. Aridela wouldn’t take it back when she returned to Labyrinthos, and Selene never removed it from her finger.”
Nephele came closer, curious despite her fear.
Themiste held out her hand, the ring resting on her palm.
It was the queen’s ring, Aridela’s, depicting the three faces of the Goddess, the maiden, the mother, and the crone.
“Alexiare did know,” Nephele said softly. “But how?”
The two women stared at each other, horrified by the obvious answer.
Who understood Aridela’s heart? Who never betrayed her? Who had the courage to brave her wrath by speaking the truth?
Selene. Always Selene.
It is said that the sea claims final possession, and leaves nothing behind.
The sea claimed our beloved Phrygian warrior seven years ago. It took her into its cold, fathomless embrace only to return her, for some inexplicable reason, on the heels of Aridela’s death.
Why did Selene rise? Does she seek to reveal what really happened?
Our queen, a woman of such promise, refused to see any wrong in her lover. She allowed him first one transgression, then another and another until he stole our land and made it into a likeness of his own.
I did nothing to stop him. My selfish fears took precedence over Kaphtor, over the queen, over even Goddess Athene. I will be punished, of that I am certain.
I have been wrong about many things. But it occurs to me I did not fully misread the signs at Aridela’s birth.
They said she would bring great change to Kaphtor, and she did.
Before purifying Aridela’s remains, I tried once again to understand her by studying the prophecies. The first I read was her recounting of the voice she heard the day she became wife to Chrysaleon.
I read until it blurred before my eyes, and only a word here and there stood out. The name Eamhair, and the sad promise that she would wander alone, in misery and slavery.
As I stared at the tablet and brooded, my eyes locked on one line. “Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost,” it read, “and thou too wilt forget me.”
A memory revived, a sense of recognition. This was not the first time I’d seen this phrase.
I found the papyrus where I recorded the dream I had just before the Destruction, and scanned it until I came to the sentence I wanted.
“She must find her way through seven labyrinths to learn what she must learn.”
I again pulled forward the prophecy from her day of joining to Chrysaleon. “Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times,” it read.
So much was offered to me through the years, yet somehow understanding remained elusive. It hurts my pride to admit I have been as blind as the queen.
Because I failed to see what I should have seen long ago, and took no steps to change it, we have been thrust onto a narrow path, one which leads to an unfathomable future. I sense that up until Aridela’s death, we had a choice, but now our future is set.
It seems to me that the prophecies use seven labyrinths to mean seven lives. Six more names will Aridela bear, although the vision from her day of union to Chrysaleon only gave us five.
Her death here is not her end.
As I realized this, I was filled with a sense of perfect consummation. I knew I had finally woven the missing strands together, and pleased the Lady. I was able to go to Aridela, to wash her body and say goodbye, knowing this farewell would not be final.
“An immortal corps will be formed from those who give loyalty,” Goddess Athene said.
Will I be a part of this corps? I have committed many crimes. I owe Aridela, and our Lady, recompense. I want to atone. I will beg her to let me make amends, to become Aridela’s acolyte in lives still to come.
I think Lady Athene saw all of this long ago, perhaps before any of us were born. I think she knew we would fail, and she set in motion some plan only she understands. Aridela is truly her child, as I’ve always claimed. She is the fulcrum. It is from Aridela that all will evolve. Those who seek her, seek also the Goddess, and a future of hope.
Did our beloved queen lose her balance and fall down the stairs as everyone believes?
I purified her body.
I pried open her stiffened hand.
I found what she gripped at the instant of her death.
Long ago, in vision, a god transformed from the serpent Io into a man— Aridela’s father, Damasen. He said many things to me, things that have puzzled and worried me ever since. He told me that she would betray all who love her, and all she loved. When I protested, he said this:
“Betrayal cannot birth from nothing. It weaves backward and forward, into and out of the thread of life and death, of faith and love, of envy and desire. This future will only come to pass if the child is first deceived by those to whom she gives her trust.”
Seeing what was in her hand, I understood at last what he meant.
Damasen told me that at the end of oblivion lies hope, and only Aridela can find it. Was she killed before she could fulfill her destiny, or is it still to come?
I know what I believe.
“I see three stars, again and again. A triad of stars,” wrote Melpomene in one of her logs. If I am right in my suspicions, only one star is left. He murdered Menoetius and Aridela. Either he or his slave killed Selene.
Themiste stopped writing. She frowned at the papyrus and chewed on the end of her stylus. Then she added a few more lines, glancing every now and then at the clump of hair she’d placed on the table— long, golden hair, with dried blood and bits of skin still attached.
“Nephele,” she called.
“Yes, my lady?” Her maidservant entered from the adjoining chamber.
“Bring me a man,” Themiste said. “One who will do what I ask without question, no matter what it is.”
Nephele inclined her head and went off on her errand. She returned sooner than Themiste expected, a man in tow.
“This is Rusa, my lady,” Nephele said.
Themiste studied him as she rose from her chair. He was a rough-looking fellow of indeterminate age, his body solid, powerfully muscled, his nose badly set from an old break, leaving it crooked and oddly flat. “I have a problem and need help solving it,” she said. “Are you willing to assist me? You will have to subdue someone of importance. You might have to kill him.”
Rusa bowed. “I have killed before, my lady,” he said, “and will do whatever you need, as long as you make it worth my while.”
“Then come with me,” Themiste said.
As they left, Themiste was struck by his pungent odor— the bitter, rather stifling scent of smoldering wood, or ashes. It was somehow familiar.
No matter. The man looked strong and cruel. She could only hope he didn’t turn into a coward when faced with the identity of his prey.
Themiste led Rusa down to the royal family’s private shrine, where she retrieved the stone knife that had killed Menoetius. Strangely, as she held it, instead of dwelling upon what she meant to do, her mind took her back to Harpalycus’s occupation, how he’d overthrown the village of Natho and imprisoned her, Aridela, and Helice in the villa’s underground storerooms. The memory ca
used a cold flutter to race across her skin. Harpalycus had threatened her, yet in the end, he didn’t attack her the way he had Aridela. Too fearful, no doubt, of the wrath and vengeance of the Goddess.
Motioning to her silent companion to follow, she left the shrine. “We will enter his chamber through a secret corridor,” she said as they crossed the courtyard, the stillness of deep night surrounding them. “When the task is finished, you will leave Kaphtor. It’s the only way to keep you safe. You will be taken wherever you wish to go, and given everything you need to thrive.”
He inclined his head. “Who am I killing?”
She hesitated, then took a chance. “The Zagreus,” she said, watching him.
His eyes narrowed and his mouth curved into the faintest of smiles, one that renewed the shiver across her flesh. She was suddenly afraid to go with him, alone, into the passage leading to Aridela’s bedchamber. Again something about the smell of him pricked her memory with sharp warning, but before she could examine the feeling, they came to the staircase and climbed swiftly to the top story. It was too late to go back. She would see this through to the end.
Nephele tidied her mistress’s room. She folded a blanket and blew out two lamps, leaving one flickering on the table. On her way out, she picked up the papyrus Themiste had been working on, thinking she would stack it with the others.
In the Moon of Asterion Page 27
