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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “And put them to death,” Iphiboë said. “It seems wrong somehow.” Fleeting guilt passed through her eyes at Selene’s shock, but she went on stubbornly. “The people are told my purpose is great, but never has Potnia given me signs as she has my sister.” She broke off to gaze at Aridela and Neoma, who were laughing as they tussled and splashed each other. “Lightning didn’t strike anything when I was born. Lady Athene sent no visions or prophecies about me. If Themiste sees a successful reign in the smoke and entrails, she hasn’t told me. You know as well as I that Aridela would make the better queen.” Tears filled her eyes and one trailed over her cheek. “All Kaphtor knows it.”

  “They want to believe in you.” Selene kissed the tear, tasting the salt of it. “Show them how strong you are. Wasn’t it Minos Charmion who named you Iphiboë, ‘Strength of oxen?’ She saw it in vision. These things do not come about by happenstance.”

  Ah, the way Iphiboë gazed at her, with such ardency. Her brows wrinkled as she examined Selene’s words. Iphiboë wanted to be brave and wise, loved by everyone in the same way as Aridela. Somehow, Selene vowed, she would help her achieve that, now that she heard the longing in her voice, saw the despair on her face.

  But she must be careful in her choice of words so the poor girl wouldn’t be overwhelmed.

  “How do I do that?” Iphiboë asked.

  “We’ll find a way.” The faint yet singular snap of a twig sent Selene’s attention to the trees lining the bank. “Did you hear something?”

  Iphiboë followed her gaze. “Many creatures live in the forest.”

  “True, yet…. Is someone there?” she called.

  Her voice echoed. Silence followed, as though even birds and insects paused to listen.

  “I’m imagining things.” Selene pulled Iphiboë toward the bank. “Put these troubles from your mind. Only Immortals see the future. Have we not honored Potnia in every way? Tomorrow will come, and the day after. I will stand with you. I’ll be there, at your side, as will Aridela. We love you. We’ll never leave you to make even the smallest decision alone.”

  Iphiboë rewarded her with a tremulous smile.

  They climbed out of the pool, shivering. Neoma continued to swim with the hound, splashing her in the face, laughing when the dog growled and snapped at the water.

  Evening fell. Aridela built a fire. They roasted a hare and begged Selene for stories.

  “When I was little,” Selene said, “my kin traveled to yearly festivals on the strand by the sea.”

  All three turned eager faces to her.

  “The tribes came together. We built bonfires and feasted on game and fruit. We shot targets with our arrows. The fittest among us stood upon our horses’ backs and leaped from one to another while they galloped in the sand. I miss horses.”

  Her audience made sympathetic noises. Horses came but rarely to Kaphtor, and were always taken away again. The people of Kaphtor preferred to get about by litter.

  “Many brought wild animals they’d caught and tamed.”

  “Yours was a falcon.” Aridela leaned forward, fondling her dog’s silky long ears. The firelight made her eyes shine. “Tell us how it became your friend and killed game for you.”

  “When I found her, her foot was broken.” There was a glow about the child. Aridela could never know how much it hurt Selene to speak of that green, fertile land on the shores of the Black Sea. Yet underneath the pain, Selene felt such fierce love course through her that she realized it was worth the price of leaving. She belonged here, with this wild, moon-blessed girl. Sometimes she exaggerated her stories to prolong that expression of entrancement.

  “No, tell us about lovemaking,” Neoma asked with a giggle. “About men.”

  Selene smiled. “There was a village of farmers not far from our home. At the rites of spring, or whenever our tribe needed babies, we visited them on the night of the full moon. We lay with the strongest. I remember my first. He was tall, his shoulders wide from his labors. The first time I took part in the rites was the year I left my home to come to you. He was gentle, and smelled sweet as new-cut hay. Many wanted him so we couldn’t linger, but as I left, he spoke his name in my ear. ‘I am Polygonus,’ he said, ‘and I will remember you.’”

  Iphiboë’s dark eyes were fixed on her.

  “I’ve never forgotten him,” Selene added.

  Aridela’s dog scrambled to its feet. Ears cocked, it stared into the forest.

  “What is it, Taya?” Aridela asked.

  The hound, with a gruff bark, leaped forward, its form ghostly as it vanished into the trees. They heard another bark as the dog gave chase to some beast.

  “She’ll return when she tires of running,” Aridela said.

  “What of sex?” Neoma giggled again. “Tell them what it feels like. They’re always pestering me about it. I’ve told them it’s indescribable, and someday they’ll know for themselves.”

  Neoma was silly, a troublemaker. Selene often wanted to wring her neck. She sensed Aridela’s annoyance, though the princess made no comment. Neoma acted superior about everything she experienced before her cousins, who were far more sheltered. She’d first entered the grove rite four years ago, and gleefully lorded it over Aridela at every opportunity.

  But the important thing right now was Iphiboë. “Oh, yes,” she said. “With the proper male, lovemaking is wondrous.” It can be a nightmare with a clumsy or selfish lout. May the Lady spare you that, Iphiboë.

  “And the birthing?” Neoma asked.

  Phrygia’s birthing customs would only reawaken Iphiboë’s dread. “It’s late,” Selene said. “Time to rest.”

  “No,” Neoma and Aridela cried in unison.

  “You think I’ve forgotten?” Iphiboë said. “I’ve heard your stories before.”

  Selene replied, “Our women give birth with courage. Those who die are honored as heroes.”

  “Any who cry out from pain are dishonored, their babies put to death,” Iphiboë said in an accusatory tone.

  Aridela peered at her sister, frowning. “What’s wrong with you? Selene’s customs are not ours. When you have a child, you may scream as much as you wish. Bring down the pillars of Labyrinthos if you want.”

  Iphiboë bit her lip and turned her back to them, yanking a fleece over her head and pulling it tight under her chin.

  Aridela poked at the fire with a stick. It flared, illuminating tiny flames in her eyes. “Selene, on the night we go out with Iphiboë….”

  “Yes?” Selene prompted when she didn’t continue.

  “I’ll meet you at the entrance to the tunnels. Do you know where I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “From there we can go wherever we want without being seen. I believe Potnia wants us to go into the Cave of Velchanos. Three times I’ve dreamed this in the last month.”

  Iphiboë pulled the fleece off her head.

  “That’s too far to walk,” Selene said, “but I could bring a cart.” She tilted her head as she pictured it. “Only a male guided by Athene would even think to look there, so far from the palace.” She paused. “Do you agree, Iphiboë? Shall we go to the Cave of Velchanos? Perhaps there, we will meet the destinies woven for us before we were born.”

  “I think the three of you are crazy,” Neoma said, pompous as usual. “No man will ever wander so far in the night, not when there are willing women right outside the walls of the palace. And those caves are sacred. You know how men fear such places. You’ll spend the whole night alone and bored, the queen will be angry and disappointed, and Iphiboë still won’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s a terrible idea.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Aridela said, “but if the night grows old and no one comes, we can return early enough to find a man for Iphiboë in the oak grove.”

  Iphiboë covered her head with the fleece again.

  The fire mesmerized them into meditative silence. Neoma fell asleep. Iphiboë lay wrapped in her blanket, staring at the flames. Selene pondered her duty
, Iphiboë’s problem, and this land she loved. Shadows crept closer, eating up the ground as the fire subsided into a quiet crimson eye. Night breezes pricked the tree branches and rustled the leaves.

  You’re the same the world over, Mother Athene, no matter what title people use. On the mainland you rule with white-armed Hera, Mistress of the Games; here you’re Eleuthia of the Fertile Womb, Dictynna holding the Nets of Plenty, and Lady Britomartis of the Wild Beasts. You’re Potnia and Gorgopis, She of Many Names, whose face shines in the moon. In my homeland you are Mâ, the Mountain Mother. You bring the dew and the sun, and you see all that will happen. If only Iphiboë would trust you. What man will you send her? Please make him kind.

  The waning moon, still gibbous, left speckles of ivory upon the leaves of the oaks. Selene touched the miniature silver dagger hanging at her throat, a parting gift from her mother and the only memento from her childhood. “Twelve years have passed since I last stood upon the soil of my homeland,” she murmured, “yet I clearly remember the day Kaphtor’s royal messenger landed. Your mother’s envoy gave us gifts of precious metal and praised our tribe as she recounted stories she’d heard of the strength and courage of our warriors. Would our queen, my mother, consider sending someone she trusted as a teacher for Iphiboë, Kaphtor’s princess? This woman would be treated with honor and respect. My mother chose me, fifth of her seven daughters. Royal, yes, which Queen Helice would expect, but unnecessary.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing in not acrid campfire smoke but the sweet scent of pine forests in her native land.

  “You’re necessary to us.” Aridela clasped Selene’s hand.

  “Yes.” Iphiboë grabbed her other hand.

  The hound returned; a hare dangled from its bloody jaws. It flopped down on the far side of the fire and nosed its trophy.

  “You took the best side, selfish Taya, away from the smoke.” Aridela said. The dog merely glanced at her before returning its attention to the dead hare.

  There was a faint hum. Something like insect wings brushed Selene’s cheekbone. The surrounding trees seemed to bend toward her, speaking into her ear in ticklish vine-like whispers. Her spine shivered and hairs rose on the nape of her neck.

  When Aridela is blinded to truth, then will she need you, Selene of Phrygia. Guard and protect her when she takes the throne of Kaphtor, no matter which paths she chooses, for she follows the will of her Mother. Her role in this world must not be thwarted.

  Selene leaped to her feet, seizing her bow and an arrow from the ground. She searched the shadows as she lifted the bow and notched the arrow.

  Taya, whining, crouched low; its hackles lifted. Backing up several steps, it turned and ran off, tail between its legs.

  Aridela whispered, “What is it?”

  Neoma rolled over, sighing, but didn’t wake.

  “I’m not sure,” Selene said.

  Iphiboë peered in every direction, keeping her blanket close around her head as though it could protect her.

  Aridela stood, bringing her bow with her. “You heard something?” She, too, notched an arrow.

  “A voice, telling me to guard you.” Selene methodically pointed her arrow in each direction. The back of her neck shivered; she felt as though they were being watched.

  “From what?” Aridela asked.

  “I don’t know,” Selene said impatiently. “‘Protect Aridela,’ this voice said, ‘when she takes the throne of Kaphtor.’”

  “Who said this?” Aridela kept her voice low. “Did you fall asleep? Was it a dream?”

  “No. It was the grass. The air. The trees.”

  Aridela stared at her.

  A premonition touched the back of Selene’s neck, bringing her around, bow lifted and ready, before she realized what startled her.

  Iphiboë.

  Humiliation grimaced the princess’s face. The shock of betrayal. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her fleece, and fled into the darkness after the dog as Selene cursed herself for the words she’d so thoughtlessly uttered, and ran after her.

  The nearby firelight reflected something in Menoetius’s eyes that Chrysaleon had never before seen. Such confusion—no, pain—demanded Chrysaleon’s wary regard and pulled his attention away from the tableau. He stared at his brother, trying to decipher something he wasn’t even certain he’d glimpsed.

  Menoetius turned toward Chrysaleon; obscuring shadows fell over his eyes and the fancy disappeared.

  Motioning with a jerk of his head, Chrysaleon crawled through the undergrowth, silent as a hunting jackal, not stopping until they’d gone a safe distance from the women and the fire in the forest clearing.

  “Did you hear?” he asked.

  “I heard it the same as you,” Menoetius said. “Now let’s get farther away before the wind changes and that dog catches our scent.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Iphiboë?”

  Chrysaleon snorted. “Helice’s youngest daughter. Aridela. The future queen.”

  “You’re confused. Iphiboë is heir to the throne.”

  They looked at each other, yet now, in the deep darkness beneath the trees, Chrysaleon could read nothing of what his brother might be thinking. “You heard the other woman,” he said.

  “She was dreaming. Did you hear the trees speak?” Sarcasm roughened his words.

  Chrysaleon recalled that Menoetius met both Iphiboë and Aridela six years ago. But what did that matter? Six years ago, Aridela was a child.

  Now she was a woman. A woman, if he’d understood the conversation right, who’d never yet lain with a man. His penis stiffened. It suffered no qualms or shyness. It wanted what it wanted, and possessed a special appetite for parthenoi. Virgins.

  After discovering the women swimming at the pool, he and Menoetius had followed, watching, listening. It hadn’t been easy, especially with the dog. But with Menoetius’s tracking skills, they’d remained undetected.

  Chrysaleon would never admit such callow weakness to his half brother, but as the day progressed, he’d felt himself being pulled into a snare that tightened with every step. It took him awhile to realize the source was Aridela. He’d hardly glanced at the females accompanying her.

  Hearing the other woman say now that some unknown event would make her Crete’s queen strengthened his desire to almost inexorable need.

  “The Goddess had a hand in this.” He gripped Menoetius’s wrist. “They’ve devised this special rite. We’ve come just in time for it, and now we’ve overheard their secret plans. No one else knows them. It’s surely an omen, which we would be fools to ignore. Divine Athene wants us to find the princesses. All we need do is discover where this cave is, and what night they’ll be in it. Then we’ll be ready.”

  Menoetius jerked free. “Is that what you think we came here for? To ravish the Cretan princesses? You promised your father you would keep your head down. And what of Lady Iros… your wife? If anyone goes into that cave, it has to be me. That was the agreement we made with the king; I risk my life, you don’t risk yours. What difference does it make anyway, who lies with them, or why, or when? We’re here to stop Harpalycus, and I don’t see how coupling with the queen’s daughter in some cave can help us do that.”

  “The first man to lie with the future queen will have power over her like no other,” Chrysaleon said. He knew his words were unconvincing. Menoetius suspected another motive. But how could he explain, when he didn’t understand himself? He only knew, in the most basic, instinctive way, that he wanted that girl. He must feel her beneath him, succumbing to him. It was hard not to go back to the clearing right now and force the issue. It might almost be worth the arrows in his back. “I search for ways to achieve my father’s dream. We must be ready for any possibility, and I feel the strength of this one. Who knows? Queens might secretly arrange who wins the Games. Do you underestimate my ability to charm?”

  Menoetius’s breath came hard and furious. “Are you saying you plan to compete?”

  “We need a
n edge over Harpalycus.”

  “And you think bedding Iphiboë will give you that.”

  The prince paused. Softly but clearly, he said, “Not Iphiboë. The future queen.”

  Chrysaleon stepped away and looked up through murmuring leaves toward the serenely floating moon. “I will compete,” he said. The strength of his desire almost choked him; his hands clenched. “And I will win.” He glanced back toward the clearing. Firelight glanced off tree bark like a beacon. “I will win you, Aridela, and with you, Crete.”

  Aridela crossed her balcony to lean on the balustrade. The acrid smoke of burning laurel leaves told her the priestesses were preparing their concoctions for the coming festivities. Faintly, she heard the chant of prayers, asking blessings for her sister.

  In seven days, an unknown man would kill the bull-king. This man would take the dead king’s place and assume his role for one year, while the fallen consort would achieve immortality and live forever at Goddess Athene’s side.

  In seven days, Iphiboë, eldest princess of Kaphtor, would step upon the queen’s dais and accept the crown, ready or not, for Helice couldn’t be swayed from the stubborn course she’d chosen.

  But tonight, Iphiboë faced what would be for her a more arduous task. Tonight she would go out among the olive groves and dedicate her womb through sex with a man.

  Rainbow pigments spilled across a background of indigo as the sun lifted in the east. To the south, a thundercloud, darkest purple splotched with yellow, resembled a fat baby’s cheeks smeared with wild berries. There was even the hint of a pursed mouth in the center, and eyes squeezed shut. It reminded Aridela of a day, long ago, when she and Iphiboë found a patch of blackberries beside a mountain creek and stuffed themselves. Their lips and fingers were purple for days.

  She missed those carefree times.

  “Lady Mother,” she said, lifting a bowl of wine in both hands, “give my sister the strength to fulfill her duty tonight.”

  Just before the ringing of the prayer bells, she’d dreamed. Aridela was accustomed to intense, often horrifying dreams, but this seemed more mysterious than frightening. In it, one wrist was manacled. She stood in a dark circular space smelling of damp wood and cool night air. A lion roared in the distance; she feared it hunted her, but no matter how hard she pulled and twisted, she couldn’t free her hand.