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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “It wouldn’t seem so,” Aridela couldn’t help from observing, “if she was enslaved.”

  Again that brief biting of the lips. “Rumor claims she allowed herself to be caught to serve her own purpose. Alexiare believes it. My father cared for her. That and his acknowledgement of me, his raising of me like a trueborn son, are outrages my brother will never forgive.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Yes.” His shoulder muscles flexed as he stabbed the end of his stick deeper into the dirt.

  “Is he younger than you? Older? Why isn’t he with you?”

  “You interrogate me as though I were still your prisoner.”

  “If you would open your mouth and speak, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

  He laughed. “Are you hungry? Hand me that knife.”

  Amid brusque curses and the impatient shaking of burnt fingers, Carmanor sliced off a crackly-skinned chunk of meat, pillowed it on a leaf, and handed it to her. She licked at the edges, waiting for it to cool. Carmanor wolfed his own as though he’d starved for days. She left him in peace for a few minutes but had no intention of dropping their conversation. Just as she formed a new inquiry, Carmanor offered an answer to one of her earlier questions.

  “My brother isn’t with me because our father ordered us separated. He was weary of the fighting.”

  “You don’t get along?” she asked, thinking of Iphiboë.

  “He’s spoiled.” Carmanor tilted his chin at her. “You show more restraint, little princess, and he’s barely half a breath younger than I.”

  “Half a breath?” She accepted another chunk of meat.

  “His mother and mine gave birth at almost the same moment, but he is trueborn. I am the son of a slave.”

  “Oh.” Aridela saw how resentment might form from the slave and the wife giving birth to the same man’s sons, at the same time. Things were different on the mainland.

  Her mind darted down another path. “What is it he’ll never forgive? That your father cared about your mother?”

  She knew from his nearly imperceptible sigh that her questions made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t change the subject.

  “My mother was a slave, but my father loved her,” he said. “He loved her courage, her contempt, her pride. He married my brother’s mother for the riches she brought, the bloodline, and fertile lands on Seriphos.”

  She thought his gaze strangely intent.

  “My mother has married many men,” she said. “Not because she loved them, but because they triumphed in the Games and won the right to become her consort and bull-king.” Except for my father, she thought. Her hands clenched. She did love him.

  “I know little about your customs.”

  “In the land of our ancestors, the new year began in winter. The king gave his life at the winter solstice and his chosen brother gave his in summer—at every seventh moon. Those lands weren’t as fertile as Kaphtor; two offerings were necessary to please the Goddess and ensure good harvests. We continued the twice-yearly sacrifice after my forebears settled here because it was our way, but in the time of my mother’s mother’s mother, the queen loved one bull-king so much that she wanted more time. She was bold, and changed things to suit herself. Now our kings live a full year and the Games are held only in summer, at the rise of the star Iakchos.” Aridela kept to herself how much she revered that particular queen, not because of the changing of the rite, but because of the queen’s boldness.

  Carmanor’s noncommittal grunt conveyed a disagreeable judgment.

  “No one is forced to compete,” she said. “Men seek this honor. For one year, the champion is Goddess-adored. His old name is forgotten and he becomes ‘Zagreus, bull-king of Kaphtor.’ By freely giving his life, the king transforms into a god. We have a saying: The god is a bull on earth.”

  “I can think of no man in my country who would seek such a death.” A lopsided smile conveyed sarcasm. “Much energy is expended prolonging our small existence and fighting to make others serve us and die in our stead.”

  “Lady Athene plants in our kings the desire to offer their lives. At the hottest, driest part of the year, when the crops languish, he gives his blood to the thirsty earth. Because of this, the rains come; everything is reborn, as is he, in Athene’s paradise. Through the year we celebrate him. He’s holier than any other. Any child he makes, with the queen or one of her surrogates, is royalty. Even a slave can be king on Kaphtor, if he’s the strongest. His fight, to win the Games, to lie with the queen, to give his blood to the earth, is what makes our country invincible. Isn’t Kaphtor the richest land you’ve ever visited?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, but his expression remained critical.

  She longed to gain his approval and struggled to evoke the poetry in their beliefs. “Athene is the fire-flame of life. She gives us passion, art, and meaning. She and her son, Velchanos, introduced the first sacrifice. It was her gift and renews us. The bull-king alone of all people achieves union with her. He’s elevated above any other. His title, Zagreus, means ‘Restored to Life.’ He is himself divine and the earthly embodiment of her son. This is why our men are so willing to become Zagreus of Kaphtor.”

  He made no comment, but looked at her as though considering, and she felt he wavered on the knife-edge of understanding. “Velchanos was the first to spill his blood in our fields. Yet he rose again, and with his rising, all life renewed and ripened. Some bull-kings have claimed he walked with them in the labyrinth, showing them what turn to take, helping them overcome their fear, giving them strength in their singular battle. Our customs weave our lives together with the seasons of the earth, the cycles of the moon, growth, death, and regrowth.” She paused for breath, dimly realizing she’d clamped her hand around his wrist. “‘Our brave year-king gives everything he has,’” she said quietly. “‘Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance earn glory unimaginable.’ The high priestess, Themiste, composed this when she was a child. It’s become our most sacred dedication.”

  He shook his head then smiled; his expression transformed, sending twin sensations of joy and breathlessness flooding through her. “You amaze me,” he said. “I was told you possess wisdom beyond your age, and I see it. You almost make me believe your sacrifice a worthy way to die.”

  Aridela basked in a heated glow of pleasure, yet nervous embarrassment tinged the edges. She rushed to change the subject, stammering, “I have a sister. She’s frightened of everything. She worries so much, sometimes her hair falls out.”

  Carmanor helped himself to another hunk of meat. “So the gods have cursed us both with flawed kinsfolk.”

  Aridela laughed so hard she almost spit out her last bite to keep from choking. “Will you stay for the sowing of the grain?” she asked, concentrating on licking grease from her fingers so he wouldn’t discern the importance of his answer.

  “Alexiare says it’s a night for merrymaking. I suppose we’ll stay if the queen allows it.”

  He didn’t seem to care much, and she was glad. But how could she be expected to tolerate her new friend going off into the night to lie with whatever girl took his fancy? She was too young to go; she would be locked away, guarded by her nurse, who, due to the reprimands after Aridela’s last escape, would now be far more difficult to trick.

  It was unendurable to be so much younger than he.

  For one moment, she allowed a vivid mental picture of herself and Carmanor together beneath the oaks. They held hands. They talked and laughed throughout the night, and he shared his secrets. He leaned close and kissed her cheek. By night’s end she knew him as well as she knew Iphiboë.

  It was delicious, frightening and nauseating all at the same time.

  When Menoetius returned to his chambers, he found Alexiare still awake, busy brushing dirt from tunics and polishing his master’s armbands.

  “Was your day pleasant?” his
slave asked. He poured Menoetius a bowl of watered wine.

  Menoetius merely shrugged before downing the drink in one thirsty gulp.

  Alexiare’s head tilted. “My lord?”

  Menoetius set down the bowl and raked a hand through his hair. “These lies. I’m weary of hearing myself called ‘Carmanor.’ The princess and her mother have given me their trust, but I’m lying to them. They deserve better.”

  Alexiare returned the discarded bowl to its place by the pitcher. “The truth might land you back in the queen’s prisons. I fear it’s too late to be honest.”

  “I told her you’re not my father.” Menoetius dropped onto the bed, one of the finest and softest he’d ever lain upon, its delicate wool coverlet decorated with bright embroidery.

  Alexiare stared at his young charge, his dismay undisguised. “Was that wise?”

  “I told her I lied to save myself from her mother’s punishment. She believed me.”

  “But you didn’t tell her—”

  “No. She doesn’t know the truth.” Menoetius rose and paced to the arch leading to the terrace. He stared into the darkness of the warm courtyard, redolent with sage. “I want to go home. I want to forget ever coming to this place.”

  “I thought you happy, now that you’re the queen’s honored guest. There’s hardly been enough time to learn anything about Crete’s defenses.”

  “My bones are rattling. I feel I’m going to burst.”

  “No ships are leaving, my lord, until after the festival of the sowing.”

  “I don’t want my father to succeed. I don’t want Crete overthrown.”

  A hesitant knock on the door saved the slave from having to respond to this treasonous statement. Alexiare opened it and bowed low. He spoke a formal greeting and stepped back to admit their visitor.

  Menoetius recognized the woman. He’d first seen her in the throne room during his interrogation, and later at the feast, sitting with Alexiare. Earlier today she’d served as one of the princess’s retinue. One couldn’t help noticing her, as her features bore such a marked contrast to her fellow islanders. She was taller than most Cretans, her skin paler, her hair a most attractive shade of frothy cream.

  He walked toward her, not missing her blush as she glanced at him. For the first time, he came close enough to note the greenish sea-blue of her eyes. She had an unconsciously spare and graceful way of moving, which made him think of the rare white panthers bards sang of sometimes.

  “My lord Carmanor,” she said, and smiled.

  Her smile told him he didn’t have to spend this night alone. It offered promises that she could make him forget his anger, guilt, and the princess Aridela, if only for a little while.

  He hesitated, then returned the smile and bowed.

  Sing to me,” Aridela beseeched her mockingbird.

  It tilted its head and opened its beak, but made no sound. Aridela unlatched the cage door and offered a bribe of tasty seeds.

  “Come, poppet,” Halia called from within the bedchamber.

  Aridela scowled. The nurse’s quavering voice was a reminder of her forced confinement, designed to keep her safe from the now-riotous grain festival.

  Throughout the day, on every furrowed plain across the island, priests and priestesses scattered wheat, spelt and barley seed. This was done somberly, with prayers, the blowing of conch shells, and sacrifices of pigs, goats and bulls. The queen and her daughters trod the fields as well, strewing soft seed and sprinkling consecrated water. Across Kaphtor, prayers and offerings begged earthy Gaia for another fruitful year.

  At the descent of twilight, priests lit bonfires on the mountain summits and outside the towns while priestesses ladled out bowls of wine and mead, and offered the traditional blessing: May the land wax as the moon above. The day’s heat dissipated and the air turned dewy-violet. Cheers greeted the glowing half-orb as it lifted, white and luminous as gypsum, above a sparkling sea.

  Queen Helice and her latest consort initiated the fertility of the land by coupling on the newly sown plain. Accompanied by flutes and drums, the queen and her lover lay upon silk tapestries, surrounded by chanting priestesses in white robes, tethered snow-white bulls with gilded hooves and horns, and wide-mouthed casks of water that captured the moon’s reflection.

  At the conclusion of this holy spectacle, just when Aridela forgot her fate, Halia the nurse clasped her charge’s forearm and led her back to her stifling bedchamber.

  The worst part was she wouldn’t have cared if she’d never met Carmanor of the indigo eyes. She had no interest in the rite until he changed the way she saw everything. Even now, she didn’t want to spend the night with him in the usual fashion, using their bodies to draw moisture from the earth and immerse the land with fertility. She only wanted to talk, about Athene, Carmanor’s rocky homeland, his fey mother, or anything else that struck their fancies. If he went into the night paired off with some female or other, he would probably fall in love, and she knew well enough that he would then have no more time for her.

  It made no sense to Aridela that she must be locked away like a baby when her sister, weak, fearful Iphiboë, was encouraged to accompany the other revelers.

  Aridela scattered the seeds on the floor of the cage when she heard an outburst of drunken laughter from below. She peered over the balcony rail, watching priestesses light torches around the perimeter of the palace.

  “Where are you, princess?” Halia called again. “I have honeycombs and fresh bread.”

  “Honey isn’t all that matters,” Aridela muttered, yet in fairness to Halia, honey had enjoyed considerable importance not so long ago. She sighed and rested her arms on the rail. Faint drumbeats pulsed, interspersed with the sound of women’s voices raised in chant. Her mother and the Zagreus must be returning from the fields. She pictured the procession, their hands lifted, their heads and feet bare to encourage unity with the fertile soil of Mother Earth.

  The image sparked an idea in Aridela’s mind. She studied the layout of her balcony and the wall beneath, looking for indentations where she could find purchase with her toes. She would slip down the wall like a gecko then run to the terrace above the south gate. With any luck, she could at least wave to Carmanor as he went off into the night.

  She walked into her chamber, manufacturing a docile expression.

  “There you are,” the nurse crooned. “Come. I saw you at the feast. You ate almost nothing.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “In a few years it’ll be you drawing the eyes of young men. Every one will vie to be the one you meet in the grove.”

  Aridela resented the amusement in her nurse’s eyes and could no longer temper her scowl. “I don’t care about drawing the eyes of young men. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep.”

  The old woman tucked Aridela in, making clucking sounds no doubt meant to be soothing. “Shall I tell the story of how you came to be known as Shàrihéid, Daughter of the Calesienda? Of how Lord Velchanos entered the body of your earthly father on the night the crops were sown? In a few years, you’ll join the other women as they awaken the god from within Mother Earth and pull down the wonders of the moon. All Kaphtor anticipates that time. It will be the completion of a long-awaited circle.”

  Aridela recognized the ploy. Calesienda was one of the Sacred Son’s names, and ‘Daughter of the Calesienda’ was her favorite of the many designations assigned to her throughout the years, although her mother called it peasant gossip. Halia no doubt thought retelling the story, like honey, would distract her sulky charge.

  Aridela usually loved hearing how her mother went forth to celebrate the grape harvest and grain sowing and ended up lying with a god. Sometimes Halia grew poetic in her descriptions. Seven white swans lifted the queen and carried her to a bower filled with asphodel, vines heavy with fragrant grapes, white myrtle, and perfumed roses. They deposited her on a purple-dyed fleece and Velchanos, naked, bathed in moonlight, stepped out of a waterfall. There, on the fleece, under the moon and sta
rs, as doves flitted and sang, he made love to the queen of Kaphtor.

  Though it was tempting, Aridela gritted her teeth and kicked off the sheet. Why could Halia never remember how much she hated the suffocating feel of cloth around her neck? “I only want to sleep. Can’t you leave me be?”

  It took the woman forever to settle on her pallet. Every time Aridela started to rise, her nurse groaned, turned or sighed.

  At last, reassured by grating snores, Aridela slipped from bed, not bothering to change out of her nightdress. Carefully cracking the chamber door open, she wasn’t surprised to see two guards in the corridor. No matter. She crossed to the other side of the chamber and swung over the balcony rail, biting her lip when her scabbed gore wound pulled tight, warning her with a stab of pain. She shimmied down the support pillar, her bare feet finding purchase among imperfections in the wood, and leaped onto the tiles of the lower story.

  She raced as quickly as the awakened throb of the wound allowed. Through deserted corridors, up broad steps, she finally crept onto a colonnaded terrace above the south gate where Carmanor had promised to wait. “Come to that spot,” he’d said, pointing. “You can wave me off for good luck.” Gravely, he’d added, “I won’t go without your blessing.”

  She leaned over the edge.

  All was quiet. She saw nothing in the faltering torchlight but leftover decorations, an overturned stool, and a cat licking wine from a discarded bowl. Halia ruined everything by taking so long to fall asleep. Carmanor had abandoned the palace for a mossy bed among leafy oaks. Now she would wonder all night who he’d taken with him.

  She pushed away from the rail, but paused when she heard a woman’s laugh. At the edge of the circle of light below, shadows separated, turning into a man and woman. The man blew into an aris, playing a dancing song so lively that Aridela smiled in spite of her disappointment. The woman lifted her arms above her head as she dipped and twirled, enticing him with her body.