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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  The woman danced closer to her partner. She leaned in and kissed him. He stopped playing, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her into darkness beyond the torchlight’s illumination.

  Curse the sleepless Halia. Aridela wouldn’t see Carmanor until morning, or more likely, late afternoon. The priestesses had finished their rites; the palace and townsfolk were busy celebrating the festival in the holy way, paired into couples. She sensed the excitement and passion coursing through the breeze, sinking into the ground, urging the rebirth of Velchanos and drawing down the moon.

  A door grated shut, renewing her interest. Four figures appeared. One male draped an arm across his female partner’s shoulders. The other man held his companion’s elbow.

  The male holding the woman’s elbow resembled Carmanor, but she couldn’t be certain. His dark curtain of hair made it plausible. But almost every man on Kaphtor possessed long dark hair. It was only the natural, uncrimped way it fell that offered the suggestion. Cretan males loved crimping and curling their hair. Carmanor was no doubt beneath the oaks, the cypresses, or maybe among the olive groves, and getting her hopes up would only make her angrier.

  The first man stumbled and the other jumped to his aid. One of the women giggled. As the rescuer grabbed his friend’s arm, a nearby torch illuminated his face.

  Light played across defined cheekbones, nose and jaw. Aridela blinked several times and squinted. Yes, it was Carmanor.

  The other man laughed. He stretched his arms out in an awkward, drunken attempt to regain his balance. His female friend clasped his shoulders. They swayed; both would fall any moment, but neither seemed to care.

  Aridela knew that laugh. Carmanor’s male companion was Isandros, her own half brother. He’d bragged for days about all the women he would lie with tonight.

  Lifting a wineskin, he squirted a stream of liquid into the woman’s mouth. Half of it ran over her chin and splattered onto her thin white tunic.

  Carmanor returned to his female companion and clasped her elbow again, the gesture so protective and considerate that it brought a burn of tears to Aridela’s eyes. This was unbearable. She was Aridela, princess of Kaphtor. That woman, standing so close to the object of her love, was nobody, with him simply because she was older and enjoyed the freedom to do as she wished.

  He’d brought her out of the shrine and stopped the threads of her life from unraveling. He worshipped Athene as she did. It was clear the Goddess wanted them to be together. Longing arched her up on tiptoe; she pressed against the rail. “Carmanor,” she called, blushes scorching her cheeks, her voice faltering.

  Isandros lowered the wineskin and peered comically in every direction. Carmanor’s gaze, however, shot toward the terrace.

  “Carmanor.” She willed him to find her in the shadows, knowing her white nightdress would act like a banner.

  His female companion, also looking up, pushed back the hood covering her hair.

  Selene.

  Aridela scrambled away from the rail, shrieking silent denials. But there was no mistake. Carmanor’s female companion was her dearest friend, the exotic white-haired Phrygian.

  Six years ago, when Selene was brought to Kaphtor, she’d dismissed Aridela as too puny and fragile to be trained, which infuriated the four-year-old. Aridela set out to win over the woman and eventually, Selene fell victim to Aridela’s tenacity and sometimes-reckless courage. Selene now believed Goddess Athene had deliberately brought her to Kaphtor and aligned her with the princesses. She claimed she had dreams that promised a divine purpose.

  “Are you there, lady Aridela?” Carmanor called.

  “Aridela,” Isandros shouted. “Where are you? How much longer will you keep us waiting here?”

  She shrank farther into the shadows. She couldn’t bear to see the intimacy between her friend and the man to whom she’d given her heart.

  Silence. Then, “We imagined it, or she has run off,” she heard Isandros say. “Let’s go.”

  “Not yet,” Carmanor said.

  Selene said, “I promised to stay with Iphiboë tonight. She’s waiting for us. If Aridela was there, she’s gone now.”

  “Yes, or playing some baby’s game,” Isandros said, deliberately loud.

  Silence again. Aridela waited, holding her breath. Nothing. They must have gone.

  As she gathered courage to peer over the balustrade, she heard Carmanor’s voice call softly, “Goodnight to you, princess, if you’re there. Sleep well.”

  Aridela peeked over the rail. There was no sign now of Carmanor or Selene, only Selene’s pale robe, left on a bench. They’d gone off into the night. But Isandros and his companion still stood below. Worse, Isandros was staring straight at her. He gave a lopsided wave. “There you are.” Craning his neck nearly made him lose his balance again.

  If Carmanor heard and returned, she’d be forced to make careless pleasantries, which she’d never been any good at. “Shhh,” she hissed, motioning for his silence.

  He shook his head as though emerging from underwater. “Aridela?” he asked, with a note of bewilderment.

  Mother, I beg you. Stop him before he ruins everything. Aridela backed away from the rail, hoping her half brother would forget he’d seen her and return his attention to the girl.

  After a moment or two she peered over the edge again.

  The tiles were empty.

  Tears obscured the courtyard. She’d never felt so abused by life. It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned Goddess Athene’s wisdom. For as long as she could remember, she’d known she would make a better queen than her sister, but the accident of being born second destined her to life as a common priestess, buried in the sacred caves. Now her perfect partner, he who adored the Lady as much as she, the only living male she would ever love, had abandoned her for Selene.

  Athene, my Mother, why do you punish me?

  The cat crept out of hiding. It jumped onto the bench and sniffed at Selene’s crumpled robe then turned and looked up at Aridela with a questioning meow.

  She pushed away from the rail and trudged back to her chamber.

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

  Carmanor’s regard was so grave and handsome it nearly brought tears to Aridela’s eyes.

  He knew the future. It was a gift from his seeress mother. He knew how much they would suffer, and he wanted to reassure her. He would always be there. Not only at her side but also in her, of her.

  Carmanor, she returned. Don’t go with her. Don’t leave me.

  Yet his face liquefied until nothing remained but a glitter of violet-blue light where his eyes had been.

  Aridela sat up with a start. She’d been dreaming. There it came again, the noise that woke her. Outside in the corridor, she heard murmuring and laughter.

  The light of a faint, rosy dawn stained her walls. The festival was over.

  Aridela jumped out of bed and ran, flinging open her door.

  Women paced by, their eyes tired, hair disheveled. Love bruises marred more than a few necks.

  “Iphiboë,” Aridela cried.

  Selene supported the elder princess. Iphiboë’s face was streaked with tears and screwed into an unhappy grimace.

  The other women glanced at her as they passed. Their expressions varied from confusion to amusement, disdain to pity.

  “Aridela.” Iphiboë stopped in the middle of the corridor, shuddering.

  “Come inside.” Aridela grabbed her sister’s arm, knowing, as Iphiboë should have, that a royal princess must never display such weakness. “Nurse, a posset.”

  Iphiboë sank into the chair by Aridela’s balcony and accepted a goblet of spicy cider; hopefully it contained a few drops of poppy. Aridela stood back, frightened.

  “Did someone hurt you?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Selene knelt by Iphiboë’s chair. “No one hurt her, Aridela. She’s tired. The night was long.”

&
nbsp; “Yet you looked rested.” Aridela spoke more sharply than she intended.

  Selene shrugged.

  “Horrible.” Iphiboë shivered and scraped at her arms. “Aridela, you don’t know….”

  “Now, now.” Old Halia opened a pot and rubbed unguent into Iphiboë’s temples. The pungency of marigold and mint drifted through the room. “It’s over, my lady. All over.”

  Iphiboë shook her head. “If only I could live in the mountain shrines and commune with Goddess Athene. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Why did I have to be the firstborn? Why wasn’t it you, Aridela?” She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair.

  Selene motioned to Aridela. They stepped onto the balcony, leaving Halia to comfort Iphiboë with soothing pastes and soft words.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She didn’t lie with a man,” Selene said. “One tried. I picked him myself. I chose him because he’s gentle and harmless. But as soon as he touched her hand—only to kiss it—she claimed she couldn’t breathe and started crying. How will Iphiboë rule this land? I mean no disrespect, but she fears everything. What will happen when your sister is queen?”

  “She doesn’t have to dedicate her girdle.” Aridela tried to sound confident. “It’s only a custom. There’s more to being a queen than lying with a man in the grove rites.”

  “But there’s no hiding how fearful she is of them. Besides, dedicating her girdle may be custom, but a queen must lie with the consort when the grain is planted, and after as well. That’s his right.”

  Aridela had no answer. What would Helice do when she learned of this? Too many people witnessed Iphiboë’s hysteria, and that could be far more destructive than refusing to lie with a man. If only Iphiboë would handle her situation differently. With enough wit and strength, she could change every tradition to suit herself. Other queens had done so.

  Would Kaphtor descend into ruin when Iphiboë took the throne? Would the Kindred Kings on the mainland smell her fear and attack, bringing war and subjugation at last to a land familiar with nothing but pride and power?

  Aridela glanced into the bedchamber at her sister, unconsciously making the sign against evil.

  Carmanor and his slave were returning to Mycenae.

  Though it was early, the sun already struck the undulating wooden pier with ferocious intensity. Aridela stood smack in the middle, selfishly keeping Carmanor by her side though he should have boarded his ship by now. Busy men pushed past with irritated glances.

  She’d bitten her lips every time she started to cry. Now they felt sore and swollen. She tried to smile but feared it resembled a grimace.

  “See Alexiare?” Carmanor pointed toward the ship, heavily laden with trade goods, merchants and travelers.

  The old man waved from the prow.

  “He wants me to come aboard.” Carmanor looked down at her and grinned. “Will you take care of yourself? Promise you’ll stay out of the bullring.”

  She shrugged, not trusting her voice.

  His grin widened, upturned more on one side than the other. Shallow lines deepened into fans at the outer corners of his eyes. When he was older, they would become a permanent part of his facial canvas. They almost were already. “What would have happened if I hadn’t gone into the shrine that morning? I think you would have died. Doesn’t that mean your life now belongs to me?”

  Yes leaped to the tip of her tongue. She clamped her teeth together to keep from shouting it. Yes, Carmanor, I am yours and you are mine.

  “We’ll spend time together again next time I come to Crete.”

  “When?”

  “Who knows? Your island holds many fascinations.”

  She wanted to believe his lingering smile meant she was one of the fascinations, but after grilling Selene, she knew her friend spent the entire Festival night with him. She’d referred to Carmanor as “my barbarian.” Her husky voice and faraway gaze intimated pleasures Aridela couldn’t truly imagine, having never experienced them.

  It would be impossible to compete with Selene’s unique gifts, but by the ageless gray eyes of the Lady, she would try.

  “I know how you must miss your mother,” she said. “I’ve known the same grief.”

  His gaze turned quizzical and he tilted his head.

  “My father, Damasen. I lost him,” she paused for emphasis, “before I could speak or walk.”

  “Did you?” he answered, his voice soft. And, softer yet, “Damasen.”

  “He designed this for my mother.” She pulled a chain from beneath the neckline of her tunic. At the end dangled a flat silver charm, circular in shape, inscribed with two crescents cupping a round bead of blue lapis. Short wavy lines, like those decorating many of the walls and ceilings in the palace, intersected the moons. “It represents our labyrinth, where we go to the center of things to face our truths and be reborn.” She pointed to the blue bead. “The moons, waning and waxing, and the star, symbolize our garden paradise, where bull-kings reside.”

  “It shines like no silverwork I’ve ever seen.”

  “Damasen promised my mother they would be reunited someday.”

  She waited until his gaze lifted and her next words held his full attention. “My mother’s deepest love was given to my father, only my father, though she cares for every consort, as her duty demands.”

  A shadow passed over the sun, darkening his indigo irises. “You’ll be a great priestess someday,” he said. “Like my mother.”

  “Sorcha.”

  His smile was slow and sweet, cocooning them in intimacy.

  “Promise,” she said without thinking then said it again before she could lose her courage. “Promise.”

  It was all there, just behind her teeth, wanting to escape. Promise we will love each other. But she pressed her lips together and swallowed, afraid of being unworthy, if for no other reason than she was a baby to him.

  A frown formed between his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver.

  She saw his answer. She felt it as truly as if he said the words out loud.

  Forever.

  “My lord.” Alexiare stalked up the wharf. “Did you not see me? The ship will leave without us.”

  Bowing, the old man added, “Greetings, my lady.” As he straightened and scrutinized her, his gaze sharpened. She fancied he saw what she tried so hard to hide.

  Selene had mentioned his damaged voice. It was as rusty as an old bronze knife corroded in salt water. She nearly coughed.

  “Farewell, Princess Aridela,” Carmanor said. “You’ve made my visit one I’ll always remember. And we’ll see each other again. I swear it. Come now. Must you look so sad, my little sister?”

  Apparently, she’d fooled no one in her attempt to hide her emotions. “Goodbye, my brother,” she replied. Gathering her courage, she rose on her toes and placed her hands on his shoulders.

  He obligingly lowered his head so she could kiss his cheeks. His scent surrounded her, rich as honey. The breath of the Goddess.

  Giving her a brief hug, he stepped back.

  She watched the two walk down the quay.

  “Don’t break your promise,” she whispered.

  Chrysaleon, King Idómeneus of Mycenae’s eldest trueborn son, thrust his arms over his head, stretched, and released a gusty yawn. Night breezes floated from the surrounding mountain peaks and tickled the back of his neck, turning his thoughts to the woman in his bed.

  Considered the most beautiful female in Mycenae, she aroused every male from awestruck boys to cynical old men, and was the cherished, overprotected daughter of a general who imprudently treated Chrysaleon with dismissive condescension.

  She would make many irksome protests if he woke her—assuming he could get back to his chamber before dawn.

  He and his bastard brother stood on the rough, unfinished summit of the new rampart wall, an engineering feat that would eventually surround the entire citadel and strike awe into all who saw it.

  From this vantage point, Mycenae
’s far reaches lay disguised in darkness. Lightning made play with the distant mutter of thunder as a summer storm moved away, leaving diminishing sprinkles. Pools of rainwater reflected sputtering torchlight.

  A rash of goose bumps lifted across Chrysaleon’s arms. His father’s palace possessed any number of rooms with well-laid hearths and comfortable chairs. Yet for some incomprehensible reason, he and Menoetius had been ordered to wait outside in the damp like chastised boys.

  A king’s whim couldn’t be ignored or defied, even by his own sons.

  The breeze puffed at his brother’s cloak, sliding the lush fur off one shoulder and rippling down its length. Chrysaleon squinted, imagining it draped across his own shoulders, soft against his flesh, how it would draw the covetous regard of everyone who saw it. He caught himself reaching out to touch it and pulled his hand back. He wouldn’t give Menoetius such satisfaction.

  Snowy white, accented with symmetrical black stripes, it was like nothing ever seen in Mycenae or any of its provinces. Menoetius received this gift from a woman who named the beast a tiger. She claimed those who lived on the rocky plains of Argolis could only dream the distance between the tiger’s homeland and theirs.

  The concubine of a wealthy merchant-trader, she took a considerable risk when she stole the pelt from her master and presented it to the king’s bastard in an attempt to lure him to her bed. Menoetius’s indifference toward women seemed to entice ever more inventive efforts to win his bitter, lifeless heart.

  He’d seen it happen again and again, yet Chrysaleon still found it baffling. Nothing about his brother should attract a woman. First of all, Menoetius sheared his hair when he was named captain of the king’s royal guard, and now kept it short like a common soldier. Threads of gray at his temples and distinct creases around his eyes and mouth made him look years older than his brother and their companions. Secondly, there were the scars. The worst one disfigured the left side of his face like a fat slivered moon, slicing through his brow to the corner of his mouth, the result of a lioness’s canine. It had only just missed gouging out his eye. Chrysaleon thought it revolting, but who could understand a woman’s mind? Chancy, unpredictable creatures, they were good for two things, pleasure, in the thick of night, and sons.