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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “What are you doing on your own in the night?” Alexiare asked. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother still?” He knelt and felt the ribs. It seemed a well-bred dog, its tan coat glossy, its paws big and firm. If it grew into them, it could be a lion hunter. “You’ve interrupted something important,” he said, and rose again. He crossed to the table, picked up the trencher, and set it on the floor. The puppy came forward, sniffed, and settled down, giving a grateful yelp.

  “Were you sent for a reason?” Alexiare sat, pressing a shred of cloth against the stinging wound. “Is it part of the mystery?”

  Eight days had passed since his conversation with Chrysaleon on the bastion overlooking the main gate, days and nights that left him haunted by worry and premonition. “Idómeneus was wrong to agree to this journey,” he said, watching the puppy and scraping the table with the point of his dagger. “No good will come of it. Does he not know his own son? As usual, it’s left to me to mend things.”

  The pup gave him no more than a cursory glance as it gnawed the leg bone.

  On Crete it was summertime; the month they called Moon of Laurel Leaves had given way to the Moon of Mead-making. Every year, at the beginning of this warm, rich month, the Cretans gathered at their beehives. Children, using special shells and clay blowers, blew smoke into the hives, which lulled the bees to sleep. When all grew quiet, the beekeepers harvested the honey, mixed it with water and sealed it into hide sacks, where it was left to ferment for exactly forty days until the rise of the star Iakchos.

  Alexiare knew the gathering of honey was once a serious event, taking place in a frame of somber prayers and sacrifices, but these days, it was an excuse to dance, laugh, and celebrate. The people continued their festivals and merrymaking right up to the day of the Games, when the strongest, bravest men would compete for the title of Zagreus, bull-king of Kaphtor. For forty days and nights everyone would feast, drink mead, hold parades and enjoy all manner of delicacies. Above all, the present bull-king would be honored and spoiled, for he was living his end days.

  He remembered with teary-eyed affection the delight of his years on that isle, the wondrous festivals, the taste of perfectly aged mead, swimming in the ocean, gathering wild crocus and stuffing himself with delectable fish and fruit.

  Chrysaleon and his brother meant to board a ship and sail there in two short months. Chrysaleon had given a vow to keep out of sight, but Alexiare knew better than to believe it. Idómeneus’s son was incapable of keeping his head down when he perceived a challenge; why was the king choosing to ignore fact and history?

  Alexiare’s long flirtation with curiosity was these days tempered with devotion for his handsome young charge. “Curse Proitos,” he said suddenly. “He’ll ruin everything if he isn’t stopped.” But it’s your own fault, he reminded himself. If you hadn’t wanted so much to teach someone the things you know….

  He watched the dog chew at the bone, bit by bit. Not a shred of meat remained.

  Young Proitos showed talent for those facets of life most people couldn’t see, hear, or manipulate. Alexiare, younger then as well, liked the idea of having an acolyte, a son, almost, someone to carry on his hard-earned knowledge. Now Proitos had defected to Tiryns, taking every secret Alexiare ever taught him, and offered his loyalty to Prince Harpalycus, who was arguably Mycenae’s greatest enemy.

  What were he and Harpalycus up to? The rumors suggested that Harpalycus, the prince of Tiryns, and his lackey, Proitos, were delving into deeper, darker alchemy than Alexiare ever found courage enough to attempt. Trying to defeat death. Alexiare snorted, wanting to dismiss it all as folly, but he couldn’t. Not quite.

  “I hope their meddling angers the gods and draws their punishment. If so, good riddance. Chrysaleon will take his father’s throne without interference from Tiryns.”

  The puppy licked the trencher clean then came to Alexiare’s feet, where it gazed up at him, wagging its tail.

  He stroked its smooth beige head, his thoughts turning back to his royal charge, and his commitment to protect him, even from himself. He removed the cloth from the wound he’d made on his forearm. Already it was congealing, as was the blood he’d collected in the bowl. The dog had distracted him from his duty. He’d allowed it; even many cups of strong wine were not enough to wipe out his fear.

  From earliest childhood, Chrysaleon had tempted fate. He ignored his father’s commands more often than not. No matter how many whippings he received, he would leave the high king’s chambers plotting new mischief. Idómeneus could have brought his son to heel, but though he cursed and made terrifying threats of punishment, he never did. It was obvious to everyone, Chrysaleon included, that the king wouldn’t love his son half so much were the lad obedient, and that spurred Chrysaleon on to more outrageous defiance.

  Alexiare recalled a handful of occasions when the prince risked his life in some forbidden escapade. The day his bastard brother was mauled by a lioness, he’d earned the somber title of ‘Lion killer,’ and later, the first time he proved himself on the battlefield, people began using his birth-name itself as a title. ‘Gold Lion of Mycenae.’ It was quite gratifying yet worrisome for the way it provoked the prince to headstrong recklessness.

  The pup placed one big paw on Alexiare’s knee and licked his hand. When would he ever again have such an intent ear, an audience so forgiving of his ruined voice? He’d learned his lesson with Proitos. He could never again trust another human to keep his secrets, to share his faith, to know his abilities.

  And he did have secrets. Powerful secrets.

  “I remember the night they were born,” he said softly, rubbing the puppy’s ears. “Menoetius came first by no more than ten breaths. Idómeneus carried him into the hall and lifted him high so everyone could see. ‘I name him Menoetius,’ he shouted. ‘He who defies his fate.’”

  Alexiare giggled. Some sober part of him remained, peering askance at this blubbering, giggling, too-talkative fool. “The king never realized he was being used. He’s ruled by the unpredictable tides of passion. That’s why he’ll be forgotten within a year of his death.”

  The pup whined.

  Alexiare scratched its thickly furred throat and it responded with ecstatic quivering. “It’s true. Idómeneus didn’t pick that name. It was the boy’s mother, Sorcha, from the place called Ker Ys. Idómeneus thought he’d captured a beautiful young woman and made her his slave; the truth is, she stayed here to accomplish her own goal, and once it was done, she vanished, never to be seen again. She was a sorceress of immense power; she told me of the mystical place where she was trained. Avalon, she called it. She claimed she was sent here for the purpose of giving birth to ‘one who would defy his fate.’ Her accent was difficult, but that’s what I remember. She, too, taught me a few things, some of which would condemn me to death were anyone to find out. These Mycenaeans think me a weak, broken old man.” He grinned and smoothed the pup’s wrinkled forehead. “It suits me to let them.”

  He retrieved the trencher from the floor and set it on the table. Taking the bowl that held his blood, he settled beside the round hearth where a small fire burned. The puppy stretched out next to him, placed its chin on its forelegs, and sighed.

  “Brothers begat by one father, cultivated by two mothers.” Alexiare gritted his teeth and again sliced his flesh, this time on the other arm. He held the wound over the bowl and pressed, watching his blood run. He’d drunk so much he hardly felt any pain. “Sorcha told me how she accomplished it. Should I share the tale, or are you too young for such things?”

  The puppy glanced up, whined, and returned to its sleepy contemplation of the flames.

  “She used the holy mushroom, that which priestesses call cara. She dried it, ground it up, and mixed it into the barley cake Idómeneus shared with his queen every evening. Deep in the night, she slipped into their bed and woke them with kisses. Idómeneus bragged about it. He said his queen awakened him desiring love, and that Sorcha joined them; though the queen hated her and wante
d her dead, that night she kissed Sorcha, and both women together pleasured him. He laughed about it, and said he wasn’t sure if it was real or the most pleasant and memorable of any dream, yet it was odd how his queen and his favorite slave grew heavy with child at the same time.”

  Alexiare shook his head, grinning. “Idómeneus has no subtlety and he’s far too trusting. I’m a little surprised he’s managed to hold onto his crown. I would tell no one but you this, for I’d like to keep my head attached to my shoulders. I know you’ll keep my secrets close and safe.”

  The puppy rolled onto its back. Alexiare scratched its chest and received a grateful lick.

  “Young Menoetius has defied his fate.” Alexiare wiped away the remnants of blood he’d drawn from his arms and opened a sandalwood coffer. Scooping up a clump of the pungent, moldy mushroom, so highly prized by oracles, he soaked it in the blood and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, chewing slowly. Soon it would open his mind, make all things possible. “His position nearly equals that of the king’s true heir. I wonder sometimes if anyone else notices how far he’s advanced? This I swear, though Sorcha would be very angry with me if she knew. I won’t allow him to interfere with Chrysaleon’s divine course. Chrysaleon is all that matters.”

  Palpitations fluttered through him. Sorcha would be more than angry. She would seek him out. She would exact a terrible vengeance for his interference. He could only hope she was dead and beyond caring.

  Even if she were, would that stop her? The back of his neck prickled.

  The puppy rested its chin on Alexiare’s knee. Alexiare obligingly scratched under one ear even as he noted how the room was changing. The firelight was brighter, the darkness in the corners deeper. His guts roiled. There was a sound as well, that he hadn’t heard before, an echo, almost like faint song, but he couldn’t make out the words. “There’s something about those boys,” he said as he stared at the flames. “Though they’re separate, they’re also one. The sun and moon of things. The dolphin and water. Yet only one can triumph, I sense that as well. I see it. I’ve thrown my lot in with Chrysaleon, who chafes for an adventure.” Unaccountable grief brought stinging tears to his eyes. “He doesn’t understand the danger in this one.”

  Faces formed in the fire. If he stared, unblinking, he caught their open mouths and bulging eyes. They called for something. He thought he heard the word blood. Oh, yes, he should have more of that. But he was so sleepy. The faces came faster now, each screaming at him as it melted into the next.

  “Chrysaleon will forget his vow to Idómeneus once the Games begin,” he muttered. “Without his father’s restraining hand, nothing will satisfy him but to compete, to become Kaphtor’s next bull-king. He doesn’t know—he doesn’t know the lengths they go to test those men. He never thinks he can fail, but a man must be nearly immortal to survive Crete’s trials.”

  He fought off a nauseating flow of dizziness. How best to help his lord? And what of Kaphtor, the island he remembered with fondness? To whom did he owe loyalty? These Mycenaean barbarians, or Queen Helice? There was no question. He was Chrysaleon’s. Perhaps if he put his mind to it, he could figure out a way to help one without hurting the other too much.

  There was another reason Alexiare was willing to risk drawing the attention of ghosts. Over the last months he’d sensed a difference in the world; he’d felt it in the blood of the sacrifices, in whispers running beneath currents of air, wavering in shadows. Those with the ability to glimpse other realms had been speaking of it since the winter solstice. Alexiare felt this change in the land especially. Movement. Heat. Disturbance. No, that wasn’t right. He couldn’t put it into words. The sensation was subtle, as though the gods had turned their attention to the earth and were taking greater interest in what their people were getting up to.

  He intoned words in the tongue of the priestesses, and tried to focus on the idea of the prince attending the Cretan Games without competing, thus ensuring at least temporary safety for both countries. But his thoughts refused to center. The mushroom played tricks. First Chrysaleon’s face then Menoetius’s floated through his mind then an odd intermingling; his mind displayed in pictures what he’d long known. These two youths were more than they seemed. Chrysaleon’s bronzed flesh and tawny hair melted into his half brother’s paler, scarred, dark-headed image, as though each was no more than different aspects of one man. Alexiare distinctly heard a baby wail, and saw Idómeneus holding up the newborn son just birthed by his slave, breaking with tradition by vowing publicly to raise him with his own royal heirs, who had yet to be born.

  “That vow enraged Chrysaleon’s mother,” he said. “She plotted to have Menoetius’s mother killed, but again Sorcha triumphed. At least, she may have. Is she alive? I don’t know.”

  Split into two, gold and obsidian. Lion and bull, they are forged.

  Alexiare could no longer tell if he was sitting, lying down, or standing. He seemed to float above his body. He couldn’t see the hearth fire.

  They seem contradiction. Yet their merging forms the most perfect circle.

  “Who is there?” he whispered. “Who speaks to me?”

  Their severing will bind the world together.

  The voice was beautiful, like purest water falling over a cliff, rushing through green ferns, splashing against pebbles. No matter if the words made no sense.

  Now he heard someone he remembered. A handmaid he’d wooed as a young man. She’d helped deliver the infant Menoetius. His eyes were open even as we drew him from his mother, she said, frightened and awed. He saw us, and seemed to recognize us.

  The other midwife noticed too. Making the sign against evil, she told him, He watched us. He understood what we said.

  Alexiare fought to regain control of his mind. “Chrysaleon,” he muttered. “Chrysaleon.” He forced an image of the prince training a stallion, clad in loincloth and leather belt, skin glistening, hair lightened to near white by the summer sun. It worked free of its leather clout to fly wildly as he kicked the mount into a faster gallop.

  “Ah,” Alexiare groaned. His penis swelled until it felt as large as one of the holy stalagmites in the caves on Kaphtor. If only he weren’t wrinkled and gray, insignificant, a slave, beneath the notice of one who could enjoy the pleasures of any body in Mycenae’s kingdom. He still felt young inside, in his mind, able to attract love. It wasn’t fair. If only there was a charm to renew youth. Perhaps Harpalycus and Proitos would discover one.

  “Chrysaleon.” His eyes watered as he struggled to speak without coughing. “I would destroy all of Crete if that would make you love me.”

  The beloved face came closer. Alexiare could almost believe fantasy had become reality. The royal nose dominated like an eagle’s beak. Pale green eyes offered startling contrast to brows of darkest brown. The mouth, firm and expressive, though far too cynical, was close. He ached to touch it.

  “Do you realize? Do you?” he whispered.

  Then it came to him. An idea. The meaning of the vision and the arousal it caused. The possibilities. Crown Prince Chrysaleon resembled his father’s northern ancestors, who were light-skinned, with sun-colored hair and blue, gray or green eyes.

  “Gold Lion,” Alexiare muttered. “Greatly do Cretans revere beauty, especially that which they rarely see. Make the future queen burn for you as I do. Enter her dreams. Make her long for you. She’ll remember, and she’ll keep you from harm.”

  From everything he’d heard of Iphiboë, such a dream would only frighten and disgust her. Yet, caught in his own erotic longings, he could think of nothing else. He would go to the finish with it, and hope his sight proved true. “With my blood I send it on night’s arrows,” he said. “Snare the next queen of Kaphtor. Make her your slave through desire.”

  His body clenched. “Chrysaleon,” he cried, choking, discharging the dream and the spell with his semen.

  Gradually his sight cleared. Merry flames threw shadows against the wall. The intoxicating throb faded, leaving him tired. The cara
mushroom brought intensity to the act of love that could make one lose all sense and reason. Priestesses knew this; it was one purpose for cara, and no doubt would be utilized to help the reluctant Princess Iphiboë of Kaphtor couple with a man when the day of her reckoning finally came.

  A stench filled his nostrils, making him want to gag. As he pushed himself upright, he noticed his hands were wet and sticky. He held them up. They were covered with blood, splattered clear to the elbows. Had his wounds reopened?

  Then he saw the puppy. The back and hindquarters lay in the fire, burned beyond recognition. Blood oozed off the dangling tongue that had so recently licked him with love and friendship.

  “Lady Hecate,” he whispered. The cold black eyes of the moon goddess pierced him through the tiny window. He sensed another beside her, staring with malice and triumph.

  Sorcha.

  Tears flooded. He sobbed like a child. He’d made many sacrifices in his life, but never of a beast he’d first befriended. “Take my offering. Help my cause, I beg you.” He pressed his knuckles to his forehead; squeezed his eyes closed, and vomited.

  The moon, plump and gibbous, unmarred by cloud cover, broke free of the eastern peaks and spread a milky glow across Kaphtor’s mountains and valleys. Aridela knelt, raised her arms, and chanted.

  “Alcmene, kaliara labyrinthos,

  Cali-cabal Iakchos

  Calesienda.”

  She opened her eyes to stare fervently at the moon. “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “Thank you.”