The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Go,” the woman said, and kissed her cheek.

  The next instant, she was staring up at Themiste’s tear-stained face; the throb of the wound made her gasp. People crowded so close she couldn’t see the sky beyond them, only a sea of eyes and mouths.

  “Athene wanted me to leap the bull.” Her eyelids felt as heavy as stones. “She promised I would succeed.”

  Themiste was clearly shocked, but she retained enough presence to snap her neck straight and order, “Get back,” in her most commanding voice. Someone stepped between Themiste and the hovering crowd and forced them to move away. Aridela saw a swing of loose white hair at the edge of her vision. It must be her friend, Selene.

  Her strength ebbed. It was difficult to speak. “She promised.”

  Themiste stroked Aridela’s face. Tears caught on her lashes and overflowed. Aridela felt them, drops like the tiniest sprinkles of rain falling on her cheeks.

  Darkness flowed like a tide surge at the edge of her vision. She wanted to close her eyes and let it carry her away.

  Only one question remained. Aridela forced her eyes open. She grabbed Themiste’s arm. “Did she want the bull to kill me? Is that what it means?”

  She waited. She must have an answer. Themiste had never lied to her. She wouldn’t lie now.

  Hands pried her away from the oracle. Themiste sobbed.

  Aridela tried to hold onto Themiste’s wrist, but not a shred of strength remained. “Does she want me to die?”

  The question echoed as the tide rose higher and extinguished the sun.

  Aridela saw nothing now but the all-knowing eyes of Athene, turned toward her; she heard nothing but faint intermittent thunder and her own voice, asking…

  Does she want me to die?

  Menoetius paced from one corner of his cell to the other. Rats scrabbled in the damp, odorous corners. He was exhausted and cold, and had lost track of the passage of time.

  It made no sense. He’d shouted for help as he’d raced up the shrine steps, the limp girl in his arms. If not for him, the Cretan princess would have bled to death. No one would have found her in time.

  Those who condemned him were probably trying to save themselves. After all, someone—perhaps many someones—had kept such a poor watch over the child that she’d managed to leave her bed and stumble alone, unchecked, around the palace precincts.

  Something thumped against the heavy oak door. Menoetius stared through the murk as it opened, the lower edge scraping against earth. Light crept in from two small lamps.

  One man held a wooden yoke balanced across his shoulders; lamps dangled from both ends. The other gripped a sword. Between them stood a familiar figure, sparse hair gleaming white, his morose, lined face revealing nothing. It was his slave.

  “Alexiare.” Menoetius drew in a relieved breath. What had the old man offered in bribes to arrange this? “Am I being released?”

  Both the stoop-shouldered slave and the man with the lamps entered. The one hung his lamps on hooks in the ceiling, throwing a brief curious glance toward the prisoner as he left. The scowling guard, with a derisive snort, closed the door, leaving Menoetius and his slave alone.

  “No, my lord.” Alexiare’s leathery face remained impossible to read even with the addition of light. “In fact, if I may be blunt, you are in true danger of being put to death.”

  Menoetius swallowed a sharp stab of fear. He hadn’t considered that possibility. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days.” Alexiare sighed. “Two days of terror, while I feared they’d already killed you.”

  Long before Menoetius was born, a nobleman struck Alexiare in the throat with the butt of his dagger after catching the slave flirting with his wife. The old man’s voice never recovered. Distinctively hoarse, cracked like the grate of sandal soles upon dusty dry gravel, it worsened with every passing year.

  Two days. Had he said two days?

  “They won’t kill me.” Menoetius resumed pacing. Energy poured like a bonfire through his muscles and could only be subjugated through movement. “I saved her.”

  “It’s the queen who must be convinced.”

  “How is the girl? Is she alive?”

  One of Alexiare’s wiry gray brows lifted, but he didn’t pretend not to know whom Menoetius meant. “She lives. That, I believe, is the only reason you still do.”

  Menoetius stared at the wall. “If I die, who will protect her?”

  Alexiare was clearly puzzled. “Her mother and every other person on this island. Why would you have anything to do with it?”

  “It was no accident.” Menoetius turned the force of his passion toward the slave, demanding, “What made us sail to Crete now? What guided me to Athene’s shrine at the perfect moment to save the life of the princess? You may think it coincidence. I don’t.” He rubbed his arms, for his skin felt as though it might shriek from his bones and shatter against the cell walls like fired clay. Though most in his position would suffer anxiety, even terror, at being imprisoned in the queen of Crete’s cold underground oubliette, accused of foul play against her royal daughter, a strange euphoria consumed his blood.

  Alexiare cleared his throat, something his injury required him to do whenever he spoke. “Your nature is spiritual, my lord, unlike your brother’s. Never were two boys fathered from the same seed so different, eh? But you know this can be easily remedied. We’ll tell the queen who you are. She’ll release you, I’ve no doubt, and weigh you down with gifts to take back to your father.”

  “No.”

  “What?” Bewilderment deepened the lines on Alexiare’s forehead and between his brows.

  Menoetius fought an instinctive recoiling at the sinister aspect created by the uncertain light playing over his slave’s face. Though Alexiare was Ephesian by birth, he’d lived at the citadel of Mycenae in the service of King Idómeneus for more years than Menoetius had drawn breath. Before that, his home was Crete, which made him the perfect companion for this journey. The king trusted the old man. There was no one else, at the moment, Menoetius could rely on, and he knew it.

  Nevertheless, an unproven inner conviction warned that Alexiare kept murky ambitions, and if they were harmless, why keep them secret? “We won’t tell the queen who I am,” he said, trying to sound confident.

  “But isn’t that the surest way to regain your freedom?”

  “It will raise suspicion. The king would never forgive me for that, not with his present plans.”

  “Why, we’ll fashion a tale, my lord. We’ll say your father wanted you to experience other societies as a commoner, to increase your understanding of them. Queen Helice would appreciate that.”

  “I am but one of his countless bastards. I have no claim to his crown and never will. What would be the purpose of such understanding? Helice sees through the lies of men. It’s her gift, and has made her powerful beyond any but the pharaohs of Egypt. I don’t want her to suspect he sent me here, or that I have any connection to him.”

  Alexiare folded his arms across his chest and inclined his head. “You’re wise beyond your youthful years, my lord. I’m ever in amazement. But you know you aren’t merely ‘one of his countless bastards.’ He loves you beyond any but his trueborn children. It would be a mistake to assume the queen of Kaphtor, shrewd as she is, hasn’t been made aware of this through the years. Please, my lord. I advise you to tell the truth. After all, if you refuse to tell her your name, you must make one up. Is that not, in itself, a lie?”

  Menoetius wasn’t nearly as convinced as Alexiare about this “love” the king bore for him, but there was no time to argue, for the door creaked as someone pulled it open. “The lie of a name which makes me nobody will be easy to carry off. Do what I tell you,” he said.

  Two armed guards entered; a third remained in the doorway. The two who approached Menoetius bound his wrists with hemp shackles and shoved him through the door. Alexiare followed as the guards prodded Menoetius up the steps.

  He squinted as they left
the underground and entered the courtyard. Though the sun lay heavy and low in the west, it was still blinding to someone locked in a lightless cell for two days. The guards motioned him between two pillars and along a short corridor where double-headed axes, thrusting between inlaid bull’s horns, decorated the walls at shoulder height.

  The guards led him to a chamber more luxurious than any king’s hall on the mainland, including his father’s. Myrrh-scented smoke drifted, camouflaging the underlying odor of animals. Fabulous patterns painted in a myriad of colors covered the walls; fat crimson pillars supported a high ceiling. Exotic potted plants lined the walls, along with benches, servants waving feathered fans, and onlookers adorned in sheer linen and jewelry. Their sandals rang against beautiful tile work.

  There she sat on her mighty throne.

  Queen Helice wasn’t a complete stranger. If memory served, she’d last visited his father’s citadel about seven years ago. Long before that, before any mortal now living, her ancestors sent diplomatic emissaries and their two societies began to intermingle; nowadays, Mycenaean artisans created jewels, bronze, pottery and weaving that rivaled the crafts made by their teachers on Crete.

  The task charged to him by his father returned with scathing clarity as he stared at the queen. Go there, Idómeneus ordered. Mingle with the Cretans. Discover their weaknesses, their flaws. How can I overpower them? I want that island and there has to be a way.

  This degenerated into another argument as Menoetius demanded to know how his father could consider murdering the queen he treated as a friend, enraging a fearsome goddess, and enslaving a culture more accomplished than his own.

  “Do not question my actions.” Idómeneus’s eyes narrowed dangerously at his bastard son’s insult. “You will obey me. Queen Helice’s influence has touched every known land. She grows ever richer on trade while we cower here among the rocks. She mocks us with her ships, her armies and palaces. Every day I allow it to continue weakens me further in the eyes of those I rule. I, High King over the Kindred Kings, must be the one who conquers her. Crete will be mine.”

  Menoetius shut his mouth. He couldn’t sway the stubborn old man. This journey was a test; Menoetius would either please his father, or infuriate him, again. Who knew what would come of the latter?

  As he followed the guard into the judgment hall, respectfully lowering his gaze but still watching as best he could, he realized if he did survive, he would have nothing but bad news to offer Idómeneus.

  He discerned no hint of softness or mercy on her face. She gazed at him, perfectly still. Her cold shrewd eyes sent shivers into his belly. She would put him to death without hesitation or remorse if she believed he’d tried to harm her daughter; his relationship to the king wouldn’t matter. He’d ignited the chilling wrath of a mother.

  Sweat popped out on the nape of his neck. He fisted his hands to keep them still.

  Invasion of this land would be foolhardy. It would fail. Many would die.

  “The prisoner will speak,” Helice said.

  Everyone of rank, including the royal healer, gathered in the throne room to hear the interrogation of the prisoner.

  Themiste went along to Aridela’s bedchamber through one of the hidden passages. The child’s nurse snored on her pallet at the foot of the bed, but Themiste dismissed her with a glance. She’d laced the woman’s supper with a hint of poppy; even without assistance, the old woman always slept soundly.

  A subtle infusion of poppy had helped put Aridela into a deeper sleep as well. Themiste stepped to the side of the bed and turned the child onto her back. She lifted the dagger she’d brought, gritting her teeth, trying to shut all thought from her mind. Nevertheless, her arm remained rigid; she wept, choking as she struggled to keep silent.

  Did she want me to die? Is that what it means?

  Themiste relived that moment in the courtyard, and the next, which caused doubt to melt and resolve to crystallize.

  A blood-soaked Aridela tugged at Themiste’s necklace, pulling her face closer. With the last of her strength, she whispered, “Death cannot stop the thinara king. He will follow. He will slay me until time is worn out.”

  Why couldn’t she have died in the bullring? The Goddess would have made the choice. The bull would have completed the task. Themiste and everyone else could let the child go with pure, unburdened sorrow, and Themiste wouldn’t be the killing instrument.

  “Yes, my darling child,” Themiste whispered. “Your life must end for the good of us all.”

  Biting her lip, she raised the knife again, aiming for Aridela’s heart.

  Something touched her foot, startling her. It was Io, her black asp. She knelt, holding out her arm so it could twine around her forearm, and stroked its scales, which warmed against her skin. The asp stared fixedly at the bed, flicking its tongue, so Themiste rose and put it next to Aridela. Io coiled and reared, flaring its hood at Themiste with a menacing hiss.

  “You have loved me from birth, called me Mother,” Themiste said. “Now you threaten me?” Confounded, she laid the knife on the coverlet.

  The snake swayed, following the tilt of Themiste’s head. It didn’t strike, but kept its mouth open, fangs bared. Drying her cheeks, Themiste nodded and sighed. “You have my attention.” Slowly, cautiously, she picked up the agitated serpent and carried it back to her underground chamber, leaving the child’s sleep undisturbed.

  Making sure she was alone, Themiste gathered what she needed. She spoke the necessary prayers of protection, chewed the cara mushroom, and drank the serpent venom.

  The visionary tools took effect swiftly and intensely.

  Breathless, trembling, she lay on her bed, placing Io next to her. The shadows deepened. Her mouth and fingertips tingled.

  Themiste didn’t open her eyes, not when her serpent crawled onto her breast and changed, grew heavier, bigger, nor even when a male voice, dark and hoarse, like clouds filled with thunder and rain, spoke close to her ear.

  The child must live, to fulfill the tasks set before her.

  The concoctions threw a wall between Themiste’s lucid mind and the fantastic power of vision. She felt her heart racing, but it was far away, as though happening to someone else. “The prophecies say she heralds our destruction.” Her voice, too, barely penetrated the cloud of divination.

  It’s true. Your world will be carried to the edge of oblivion through her actions.

  “Then why did you stop me?”

  For at the end of oblivion lies hope, and only she can find it.

  Not even the horrifying vision Themiste had experienced on the night Aridela was born, and which had influenced her resolve to slay the child today, had been this palpable. His breath tickled her ear. His hands slipped up her neck and lingered on her jaw.

  “Aridela will betray us?”

  She will betray all people, everywhere, and her Holy Mother, and all she loves, and all who love her.

  Grief washed in agonizing waves as Themiste thought of Aridela’s infectious laugh and fierce loyalty, that boundless courage which carried her into all sorts of precarious situations.

  She felt the unambiguous weight of a man’s stomach and the brush of his hair against her cheek, but feared opening her eyes, for part of her knew still that this was a vision, and looking upon it might break the spell.

  “What would make her do that?” she asked, her voice catching.

  Minos, look at me, the voice said.

  Shaking with dread, Themiste clenched her teeth and opened her eyes, but the face above hers, though grave, was also kind. Every aspect constantly changed. His hair transformed from dark to light as did his skin and eyes, like the astonishing flesh of the cuttlefish. He glowed and flickered; the wreath across his forehead melted from silver into bronze then lapis then obsidian. She gasped as the vision entered her body, not as a mortal lover would, but through her skin, an unimaginable melting and merging. She told herself she was dreaming; it couldn’t be real, yet she wished it were.

  She k
new this man. He was Damasen, Aridela’s dead father, surrounded by an ethereal aura of divinity.

  He pressed his hands to her cheeks, causing a vision within a vision to form. She saw women, hidden in ponderous drapes that allowed no hint of feature. Heads bowed, they performed the menial tasks of slaves. Their homes were dank, filthy rooms that allowed no sunlight. She heard their weeping and felt their hopelessness. The world she saw in the eyes of Damasen was bleak; it blackened her soul, leaving her heavy with despair.

  Betrayal cannot birth from nothing, Damasen said. 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.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Themiste caught at the spark of hope in his words. This calamitous future might be avoided, so long as Aridela wasn’t misled.

  She read his face. Filled with fervor, she cried, “I won’t allow anything to harm her, either in body or spirit.”

  The god’s expression didn’t change. She wanted to strike him, to thwart what his eyes promised, what she couldn’t prevent, no matter what she did.

  You will know when the time comes, he said. Aridela and her sister are as one. Iphiboë must open the path, so Aridela can walk alone into the dark.

  “No. Not alone.”

  Remember. Damasen’s face changed. His eyes lengthened; lashes fell on her cheeks. His nose elongated and his lips thinned. His skin melted into matched gray and black scales. Soon Io lay on her breast, gazing at Themiste in a calm, unblinking way.

  She lay on the bed recovering her senses. Gradually, as she pondered, she was invigorated by energy. She felt free and light. Instead of taking Aridela’s life, she would nurture her. She would prepare the child, and herself, for whatever was to come. She would dedicate herself to averting the terrible future predicted by a dead god-king. Somehow, she would find a way to protect the princess from those who would forsake her.

  She stood, leaving Io on the bed. Crossing to the table, she smoothed a sheet of papyrus and sharpened a reed pen. The interlude with Damasen must be recorded before it could fade, before the venom headache made it too hard to think. And she must hurry. The counselors may have finished questioning the boy by now. She wanted to get to the throne room before any decision was reached.