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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Chrysaleon snorted a laugh. “Harpalycus’s mind is woven from seaweed that has dried to dust.”

  “The slaves spreading these tales didn’t think him mind-sick.” Menoetius flung the tiger pelt off his shoulders impatiently. “They say Proitos was taught the secrets of evil alchemy by a master—one rumored to have learned from Goddess Hecate.”

  “Alexiare,” Chrysaleon said.

  Menoetius said nothing, but his gaze was keen.

  “I’ve never seen such skills in Alexiare. Have you? He was with you six years ago when you sailed to Crete. Surely, if he were this master of evil, as you say, you would have glimpsed something.”

  “Alexiare keeps much hidden.”

  “Father?” Chrysaleon turned to Idómeneus. “You’ve known him longest. You brought his mother here when he was a boy. What say you?”

  Idómeneus chewed his lip awhile before answering. “From the beginning there were tales. Her desire for revenge against those who enslaved her was well known. I watched and listened; I would have used the slightest misstep as an excuse to have her killed, but she never made a misstep.” He paused, frowning, then made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I didn’t forego my bed to conjecture about vengeful women and their cursed blood-roused schemes. Let us return to a subject we can seize in our fists. How can we keep Harpalycus from gaining the advantage in Crete?”

  “There are the Games,” Menoetius said, low.

  “So?” The king rubbed his forehead wearily.

  “The winner becomes king.”

  “King in name, pawn in truth.” Idómeneus stared coldly at his son. “He holds no power and gives his blood to the Lady like a bleating goat.”

  “My idea was half-formed. I’ve overstepped my place.”

  Idómeneus paused. “I want your thoughts, formed or not. Speak.”

  “Harpalycus has no desire to end his life in Crete’s blood sacrifice. His intent is overthrow, both of Crete and Mycenae.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “If a man loyal to you won the Games, he would gain access to Crete’s palaces and weapons, and would command your army, which is far greater than what Tiryns could muster. Why should we not use Harpalycus’s plan to our benefit?”

  “Don’t forget the queen.” Chrysaleon experienced a lively inner thrill at the image of a bloody assault then the triumphant sack and rape of Knossos. His fists clenched as he pictured himself at the head of his father’s battalions, driving his chariot under the massive stone bull’s horns that crowned every entry into their famed palace. Women screaming, men dying—nothing could give a more satisfying sense of invincibility. “If a warrior from Mycenae won the Games, our two Houses would be forever combined, through offspring if nothing else.”

  Idómeneus tapped the haft of his spear against Chrysaleon’s shoulder. “Before celebrating victory and filling the island from end to end with your get, let me remind you of what the winner faces. No king on Crete has ever seen old age. He lives but one year then is murdered at the rise of the summer star Iakchos. There’s scarcely enough time to watch the queen give birth to one child; he cannot have even that if she turns him over to one of her surrogates. Since the beginning of the world, none have escaped this fate.”

  “Those men give themselves to the service of their Goddess,” Menoetius said, a sneer in his voice. “They will never cross her. But what if one of the Kindred won, a warrior unwilling to crawl to his death without a fight? A man, my lord, with Argolis’s most powerful kingdom at his back?”

  Idómeneus stared from Menoetius to Chrysaleon. “Are you suggesting I send my heir to compete in the Cretan Games?”

  “No, Father, of course not. I offer myself.” Menoetius stepped between Chrysaleon and the king.

  Idómeneus laid his hand on Menoetius’s shoulder. “You remind me of your mother.”

  “A woman, my lord?”

  Giving a hearty laugh that scattered the tension, Idómeneus said, “I raised you with my son because I respected your mother above all women. I know the value of your offering.”

  “He honors you, Father.” Chrysaleon stifled a rush of fury at the mention of that bitch and the insult to his own mother, spoken right in front of him. If the slave Sorcha hadn’t bound Idómeneus with her spells, Menoetius would not be here now, trying to steal his brother’s rightful glory. Chrysaleon had long suspected the bastard harbored a lust for distinction as powerful as his own.

  No matter. Menoetius might be Idómeneus’s offspring; he might receive more attention than he deserved, but he could never achieve a future as bright as the get of Idómeneus’s royal queen. He would always be a bastard. Not even Idómeneus could change that.

  He stepped around Menoetius, unobtrusively thrusting his elbow in his brother’s ribs and smiling at the resultant “ooph.”

  “I must be the one,” he said. “I’m the Crown Prince. Only for me will the—”

  “That I will never allow.” Idómeneus’s voice echoed over the rough stones, sending the distant dog into renewed hysteria. “I won’t risk you being sacrificed like an ox. What they do to their bull-king is kept secret, but I’ve heard tales. Their ways are cold and ancient.”

  “My lord,” Menoetius said, “that isn’t the end any of us would desire. My plan is this. We trick the queen and her priestesses without risking your son, your crown, or your alliance with Crete. I’ll go alone. I’ll profess love for Lady Athene, and tell them an oracle’s decree, or a promise to my mother, led me to their Games. The queen has probably forgotten me or would no longer recognize me….” He waved toward his face, acknowledging the unkind changes wrought since the last time he’d seen her. “But even if she does remember, she’ll believe I’ve come to show my devotion to Crete’s ways. She trusted me once, and I never allowed her to suspect the connection between us. Chrysaleon cannot hide his resemblance to you. She would recognize him immediately.” Sending Chrysaleon a snide glance, he pulled his dagger from its sheath and tossed it in the air, catching it again with practiced skill. “If I go alone, she’ll never know you played a part, no matter what happens.”

  Idómeneus turned away, his lips working and his shoulders slowly relaxing. “If the other mainland Houses hear any of this,” he said, “they may send warriors as well. Curse Harpalycus for forcing my hand. I’m as unwilling to risk you as I am Chrysaleon. There must be another way. One of my best warriors. Or I could warn Helice—”

  The dog’s persistent barks disrupted the night. Eddying breezes focused into whirlpools that pulled at skin and hair.

  “You make no sense, Father.” Chrysaleon grabbed Idómeneus’s arm and swung him around, tact and good sense lost in a rush of anger. “‘Warn Helice.’ That’s the worst thing you could do. You want and need Crete, but you’re afraid to take risks. Menoetius and I stand before you, ready to achieve your desire. Do you see King Lycomedes being so fearful? Harpalycus is his heir. Why must I always be shut away in this tomb like a woman?”

  “Enough.” Idómeneus jerked his arm free. “How dare you question me? You will do as I command.” Fists clenched, he stepped closer to Chrysaleon. They glared and snarled, resembling the lions to which each was often compared.

  “There is another way, my lord.” Menoetius placed a restraining hand on the king’s clenched forearm. “Perhaps it would please you better. Since Chrysaleon wants to go so badly, what if he and I sail to Crete without fanfare, as nameless unimportant foreigners, the same that swell their shores every day? Chrysaleon will have his little adventure, and I will enter the Games only if we can ferret out weakness in their defenses. The risk will be small. If Chrysaleon keeps out of sight, we may find a way to succeed. At least we can keep an eye on Harpalycus. If necessary, Chrysaleon can warn the queen, and seal forever her gratitude to Mycenae.”

  Idómeneus’s head lifted and he swallowed, his protuberant larynx visible through his thinning beard. “Helice can’t keep track of everyone,” he muttered. He stepped back, mouth set tight, then, wit
hout warning, raucous laughter exploded from his throat and he gave his son a mighty blow on the chest. “You’re my true get,” he said. “How can I ever be surprised at anything you do?”

  “I follow the lessons you taught.” Chrysaleon inclined his head.

  “Give me your oath.” Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s shoulders, forcing him to return his stare. “You’ll keep your head down? If any competing must be done, Menoetius will do it. Give me your vow, Chrysaleon. You’ll take no risks.”

  “Yes, I swear.”

  Idómeneus’s stare was chilling, penetrating; a moment passed in silence before he turned to his other son. “And you. Only if there’s no other way, and if you’re certain you’ll win?”

  “One can never be certain of triumph in anything, but I’ll do what must be done to keep Harpalycus from winning.”

  “Attend the Games, then. Poseidon be thanked for you, Menoetius. I would suffer the torment of the snake-haired Erinyes without you there to watch Chrysaleon’s back. Keep him out of mischief.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Menoetius replied.

  “Then it’s settled. In two months, you’ll sail to Crete for the rise of the summer star that brings death to the bull-king.”

  As they left the wall, Chrysaleon caught a pointed glance from his father. He thought he understood. Idómeneus would never say it, but he didn’t trust Menoetius to serve his will. That was the true reason he’d agreed to send his heir.

  Chrysaleon couldn’t sleep, even after waking his girl, who was as warm and sleepy as a kitten, though cranky as a boar at being disturbed. Restless, his thoughts circling, he returned to the stone ramparts. The rain clouds had floated away, leaving a clear sky with hints of dawn to the east.

  Crete.

  Powerful sophisticated land, her queens respected by every ruler in the known world. What gave that island such riches and influence? Was it, as many claimed, their White Goddess, who even now threw lacy patterns of moonlight across the rooftops of Mycenae as she prepared to relinquish the sky to her brother, the sun?

  What would Crete’s divine protectress do to avenge an attack on her people?

  “Son of Idómeneus.”

  Chrysaleon’s warrior-trained instincts sent him pivoting, fists raised, before he saw who it was and laughed.

  “Someday I’ll smash your face for sneaking up on me, old man,” he said, lowering his hands.

  “I wasn’t sneaking, my lord,” replied his slave, Alexiare. “Perhaps your thoughts kept you from hearing my approach.” His throat must be hurting, for his reply was no more than the hoarsest rustle.

  “What are you doing up here?”

  “I always rise early, to greet the dawn.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Alexiare shrugged. Chrysaleon deciphered the message with annoyance. Menoetius had said as much. This slave guarded his privacy.

  But he’d faithfully served Idómeneus’s sons since their birth. Though he offered Menoetius unfailing courtesy and obedience, he doted on Chrysaleon, a fact the prince had long recognized and appreciated.

  “Does something trouble you, my lord?” Alexiare asked.

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Sir, you embrace cold stone instead of the lovely Theanô.”

  “I’ve been forced to defend you many times this night.”

  Several times and in quick succession the old man’s eyelids blinked as he absorbed this news. A fit of coughing overtook him.

  “Yes,” Chrysaleon said. “You stand accused of all manner of depravity, not the least of which involves the prince of Tiryns.”

  “Harpalycus?”

  “And who is never far from his side?”

  “Proitos.” Alexiare shrank into himself; his voice grew fainter. “My lord, I apologize—”

  “Yes, yes. I don’t think you’re guilty. Perhaps you should apologize to my father.”

  “I fear that would only make him angrier. I was wrong in my judgment of Proitos; I believed him a worthy neophyte. He betrayed me, my lord, as well as you and your father, when he ran off. I fear he gave not only his allegiance, but far too much knowledge of Mycenae, to Prince Harpalycus.”

  Chrysaleon chewed the inside of his cheek and observed the bent old man. He seemed weak and innocuous, but what if there was something to the rumors that circled around him? “Do you have the ear of the gods, old man?” he asked finally, after a moment of silence while the slave waited for permission to be on his way. “My father and brother think you a disciple of Hecate, bent on mischief. Tell me. Does she speak to you?”

  The old man shook his head decisively. “No Immortal has ever spoken to me, except in dreams, my lord, as they speak to most of us.”

  “Then why does this gossip persist?”

  Lifting his hands in a gesture of helpless bewilderment, Alexiare said, “I can’t answer… I don’t know, my lord.” His voice trailed off then abruptly he straightened and met Chrysaleon’s gaze. “I cannot lie to you, though perhaps I should. You know my mother was a priestess?”

  Chrysaleon nodded.

  “The temple rites were guarded, and the penalty is death to any man, anywhere, who spies on women’s mysteries. But to you I will be truthful. I sneaked out of my bed when I was a boy and watched. I was curious, and careful. After she and I were enslaved, she admitted she knew I was there, and she began including me in her rites. I know a few things, only little things, my lord. Nothing like what we’ve heard coming out of Tiryns.”

  Chrysaleon leaned against the wide stone ledge and crossed his arms. The slave stood before him, trembling, tears running down his weathered cheeks. No doubt he was terrified his master would order his immediate slaughter. True, the revelations were incriminating. But Chrysaleon smiled, recognizing the loyalty it took for Alexiare to make such an admission. And who knew how this could benefit him in the future?

  “Tell no one else of this,” he said.

  Alexiare bowed. “Of course not, my lord.”

  Deliberately, Chrysaleon changed the subject. “The king is sending me to Crete’s Games.”

  Wrinkles riddled the old man’s face. His coarse silver hair glimmered as he bowed. “It’s a wonderful pageant and exciting to watch,” he said, following his master’s lead almost eagerly, sliding away from the tender subject of Proitos and women’s earthy abilities. “I say with all modesty that no land is as beautiful as the isle where I spent much of my youth.”

  “You keep up with that country’s gossip. Tell me about the queen’s eldest daughter. Is it true she’s to be crowned?”

  “I’ve heard this, my lord, but I cannot verify it. Iphiboë has long been of age. Alas, every time she attempts to partake in the sacred grove rites, she fails for one reason or another. Queen Helice finally decreed that her daughter wouldn’t follow the custom. Iphiboë suffers from a strong reluctance to lie with a man.”

  “She prefers women?”

  “I believe she is dedicated to matters of a more spiritual than physical nature.”

  “Will she make as good a queen as her mother?”

  Pressing his upper lip between his teeth, Alexiare paused. “She may. It’s early yet.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “Most Cretans believe her younger sister better suited.”

  “And who is that?”

  “Princess Aridela. She’s come of age as well, but has spent the last year secluded in the mountain shrines, learning the art of the seer, the craft of divination, and other mysteries unknown to man.”

  “She’ll be a priestess?”

  “Yes, my lord. She could eventually become their oracle, depending on her talents.”

  “So there are two children, no more?”

  “Aridela and Iphiboë are the only surviving daughters. Whatever sons have been born are reared by the queen’s sisters and will inherit enviable futures, but they are not as important.”

  “Whatever man wins these Games, will win Iphiboë and become bull-king?”


  Alexiare’s answer came only after a pause. “If Iphiboë does take the throne. You mean only to watch the spectacle, yes? I beg you, don’t cast your ambitions toward Crete. You weren’t raised with their beliefs. You don’t understand—”

  “Never fear, old man. I’ve promised my father I won’t compete.”

  Alexiare examined the prince before he said, “May Goddess be praised. Would you like me to accompany you? I could be of assistance; I’m familiar with the land and its customs.”

  Laughing, Chrysaleon slapped his servant on the back and sauntered toward the ramp. “But I’m so weary of your constant mothering and dire warnings.” He paused and glanced back. “I believe I can sleep now. Make sure you don’t dawdle up here. Theanô must be home before her father wakes.”

  Bowing, Alexiare murmured, “I hope I never fail you, my lord, in any capacity.”

  Chrysaleon heard the fervency and was pleased.

  Blood not only carried life to every muscle and organ, it held within its crimson depths a power few men comprehended. If reverently offered, it could entice the attention and help of… well, such things were uncertain. Spirits, dreams, visions. Perhaps even deities.

  Grimacing as he slit his forearm, Alexiare made sure every drop of blood he drew seeped into a clay bowl. He was drunk; that was the only way he could summon enough courage to go through with this, to risk drawing the eyes of Immortals and, perhaps, their anger.

  He shied away from thinking of Sorcha. In truth, he was more afraid of her.

  The oracles of Kaphtor often used the blood of bulls to make prophecy. More than a few drops killed ordinary men, yet those blessed ladies were raised on such things. An old saying claimed they could drink everything Mother Gaia drank and suffer no ill effects.

  A plaintive whine disturbed him. He looked up from his task, alert, wary, knowing he could afford no more rumors circulating about his odd habits, and fought to suppress a bout of coughing. It sounded like an animal snuffling at the bottom of the door, no doubt smelling the chunk of mutton he’d filched from the citadel’s kitchens. He got up and cracked the door open, glancing up and down the narrow dirt alley. A whining puppy jumped on his knees. Above and to his right loomed the citadel’s stone rampart, felt more than seen; to the left the alley meandered, lined with workshops invisible in the dark. “Come in, young sir,” he said, stumbling a bit, and the animal eagerly complied. With another furtive glance in both directions, Alexiare closed and latched the door. The puppy wagged its tail, tongue lolling, politely ignoring the remains of supper on the rough table.