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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  The dream continued to affect her after she woke and dressed. She drank a cup of goat’s milk and honey, but her mouth remained as dry as a harvested field and unease lay heavy in her mind.

  Every child knew dreams were a way for gods to speak to mortals, to pass on their wishes or warnings. For as long as she could remember, Aridela had suffered nightmares of flames, burning bodies, destroyed cities, but offsetting that was the recurrent dream of leaping a bull. In it she laughed at a cheering audience, and woke infused with triumph.

  None of her dreams had come true in life. Perhaps they never would. Perhaps she should stop giving them so much importance.

  Aridela dipped her index finger into the wine and made the spiral serpent design. She envisioned the serpents that wound around the forearms of the statue of Velchanos on Mount Juktas. He’d stepped off his stone pedestal and come to her. Nothing can ever part us, he’d promised. His hair transformed to rivers of sunlight as he pressed against her. Yet he’d been so sad. Over a month had passed since that night, yet the memory of his ardency and grief hadn’t dimmed. She still wept most nights, quietly, so Halia wouldn’t hear, in the solitude of her lonely bed.

  Memories of the god’s sorrow and promise influenced every decision. For days she’d argued with herself. Should she tell Lycus about her plan to accompany Iphiboë? She wanted to, yet she also wanted to leave fate to Athene. “I go to lend Iphiboë my strength,” she whispered, “not to lie with a man. But if the god himself hears my longing and comes to me again….”

  Now she was late for breakfast, yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave the balcony. Her senses heightened as breezes grazed her skin. She closed her eyes, acutely aware of the cooing doves in the roof-gables. Invisible fingers seemed to stroke the nape of her neck and over her shoulders, like the god did on that magical night she couldn’t forget.

  “Isoke?”

  Startled, Aridela almost dropped the offering bowl. Wine sloshed over her hands and splashed on the flagstones as she turned.

  Her mother and sister stood under the arch leading into her bedchamber. Sheer white draperies fluttered around them. “I-I didn’t hear you,” Aridela said.

  Helice wasted no time. “Come in now. I want to speak to you and your sister.”

  Aridela followed them into the chamber. “Is something wrong?” Apprehension spiked at her mother’s somber expression. Iphiboë, Selene and Neoma knew of Aridela’s plan to sneak out with her sister. Surely they wouldn’t betray her. Even her cousin Neoma, who so enjoyed making snide comments and veiled threats, and who loved to compete with her, would never give away such an important secret.

  The queen frowned. Turning to the serving maid, she asked for figs, bread and honey, and after the woman left, said, “Are you hungry? Let’s eat in here this morning.”

  Aridela and Iphiboë exchanged a glance. Iphiboë looked frightened. Aridela tried to mask her own foreboding. “You’re worried,” she said as they sat at a low table. Sunlight flooded from the carved skylight in the ceiling, illuminating tired lines beneath the queen’s eyes.

  Helice shook her head. “I know Areia Athene has blessed my daughters above other women. Yet even as I swell with pride, I want to weep with sorrow.”

  Two maids entered, laden with dishes. The bread gave off warm aromas of oregano, rosemary, and garlic. Helice said no more until they were gone. Ignoring the food, she clasped Iphiboë’s hand and said, “I am worried, yes. Worried about the days to come. Your life will hold much duty and responsibility, but precious little pleasure, and scarcely any freedom.”

  She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. A gift from the Egyptian pharaoh, it was inlaid with ivory and mahogany, its legs painstakingly scrolled. “Imagine our land overrun by mainland warriors, your queenship stolen. You, Iphiboë, Queen of Kaphtor, enslaved.”

  Iphiboë’s eyes widened and Aridela wondered what her mother meant to accomplish with this sort of talk.

  Helice made no gestures of reassurance. “Impossible, you may think,” she said. “We’re too strong; Divine Athene protects us.” Her voice lowered. “The barbarians long to see our ships splintered, our palaces burned, our crops stolen to feed their own people. They want to rule us. Even as their lips praise our achievements, they make sacrifices and beg their gods for help overthrowing us. That is the only reason they come here now.”

  “What barbarians, Mother?” Aridela asked. “Do armies approach?” She half rose from her cushions, but Helice motioned her back. The queen didn’t reply immediately. Instead she placed bread on both Aridela and Iphiboë’s trenchers, and urged them to eat. Aridela ignored the bread but did have a few grapes. Iphiboë, pale and blinking back tears, only wrung her hands together in her lap.

  The queen’s eyes appeared blank, nearly lifeless. “Who knows what lies out of sight on the sea, or hidden in the coves of other islands?” she said. “So many of these petty kingdoms have sprung up. I confess I dismissed them as unimportant, when I should have studied every battle they waged, every rock they conquered, every beast they offered in sacrifice and what they asked of their gods. The threat to us has grown as they have grown.” She sighed; her tone changed to one of brisk instruction. “Mycenae has the most incentive to attempt an overthrow. Thanks to the Lady that Idómeneus and I are allies. He shows his respect by sending no warriors. Even so, Idómeneus has brought his stronghold to a power I never imagined him attaining. Under our tutelage, mind you. They’ve absorbed all we’ve taught. I’ve seen their envy. You can be sure the smaller kingdoms feel the same, perhaps more, because if one of them vanquished us, they might then acquire the means to defeat Mycenae.”

  “They do admire us,” Iphiboë said.

  “They envy us,” Helice said. “The Achaeans take our women for wives and tempt our finest artisans to their citadels. Kaphtor becomes ever more entangled with these foreigners. Is it by chance?”

  “Kaphtor’s location makes us irresistible,” Aridela said.

  “Yes.” The queen gave her an appreciative smile. “You understand. They see us as a valuable prize placed at the center of the best trade paths. Any kingdom that conquers Kaphtor would conquer the sea, which our people long ago made safe for them to sail.”

  “There’s no kingdom in the world capable of defeating us, Mother,” Aridela said proudly.

  Helice smiled again, but it was a wan phantom of the other. In that instant, Aridela saw how colorless her mother was, how thin her face and arms. Everything sagged as though even her skin was too tired to go on.

  “I thought you wanted to speak of my dedication tonight,” Iphiboë said. “But now I see there are more pressing concerns.”

  “A barbarian warrior has come,” Helice said. “Harpalycus, the eldest son of King Lycomedes of Tiryns. He’s announced his intent to enter our Games and fight to become bull-king.” She lifted her cup and sipped milk, blinking against the steam. “It isn’t the way of these men to lay down their lives in service. Such things require a wisdom and faith they don’t possess.” Tears welled as she added, “But for one. Your father, Aridela. Damasen. I don’t forget him. He wasn’t like others of his kind. I suppose in all things there are exceptions. Perhaps this warrior, this Harpalycus, is different too….” She fell silent and stared at the wall as if admiring the cobalt swallows flitting over a bed of scarlet poppies.

  Hoping to soothe her, Aridela said, “What of Carmanor?” Memories of the boy from the mainland had softened with time into blurry tenderness and affection. “His home was Mycenae,” she said. “Remember how he revered Lady Athene, and wished to pray to her in our shrine? Surely he was another exception such as my father.”

  “I have no doubt of it.” This time Helice’s smile brightened her entire face. “He was a devout boy. I hope he’s found happiness and peace.” The lighter moment vanished. She frowned again. “Do I err in stepping off the throne? These kingdoms would never dare conspire against me. It’s you, Iphiboë, they believe they can manipulate, because of your inexper
ience. They want to test you, to see if you can be defeated.”

  “Then remain Kaphtor’s queen, Mother.” Iphiboë clasped Helice’s hand and kissed it.

  “I won’t allow these greedy warriors to interfere with my plans. You’re going to take the throne, Iphiboë, while I’m strong enough to help you learn all you need to know.”

  It was the closest she’d come to admitting this lingering illness might overcome her.

  Aridela’s throat tightened. Every day for a month she’d made offerings and begged for her mother’s recovery. So far she’d received no reassurances.

  “Poor Iphiboë, my beautiful child,” Helice said. “Your birth condemned you to an existence that will never be your own. You’ve been cheated, and I’m the one who cheated you.”

  “Mother, don’t.” Aridela turned to her sister. “Iphiboë, tell her you’re not afraid.”

  Iphiboë looked away, kneading her fingers. “I’m not afraid,” she said, terror trembling beneath her words. “Whatever man is presented to me, high or lowborn, will rule at my side. I want only to be as much like you as I can, Mother.”

  The mystical voice Selene insisted she’d heard on Mount Ida claimed Aridela would be queen of Kaphtor. Could she give credence to such an insubstantial thing? The promise was worrisome, for the only way such a thing could happen, barring a precedent-setting decision on the part of the council, would be if Iphiboë died; Aridela wasn’t the only one who would give everything, including her own life, to protect her sister.

  She pushed the whole idea from her mind. It could never be. The cost was too dear.

  Helice stood and embraced them in turn. She hadn’t eaten a single bite. “I wish this season were so far away we didn’t have to consider it,” she said. “We cannot stop any man who resolves to enter the Games. It would be sacrilege. But we will make offerings and ask for one of our own to win. That’s all we can do.”

  Thou hast come for the threshing. I shall make thee sharp, quick, and terrible. Thou wilt be my bull upon the earth.

  Menoetius opened his eyes as the familiar voice pulled him out of sleep. Seconds passed while he tried to place where he was and groggily realized his brother was staring at him.

  As he sighed and sat up, pulling his knees to his chest, he remembered. He and Chrysaleon had found the Cave of Velchanos. They awaited the coming of night and the arrival of the princesses. Nearby on the grass lay the masks they would wear—exquisitely detailed, one was a bull’s head, complete with heavy horns, and the other a lion, crafted with a real lion’s mane. Their host, upon hearing their plan, had sent one of his slaves to Knossos to acquire them. Apparently, such things were common on Crete; thriving workshops created them for the various festivals and rites Cretans loved so much.

  He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but ever since he’d stepped off the ship onto Cretan soil, the old nightmare had escalated, making it impossible to collect more than disconnected moments of exhausted rest. He was tired into his bones, thickheaded, sore and stiff. His last memory was of watching the sun go down behind Mount Ida, trying his best not to think about the fate of the two females he’d left behind six years ago. Aridela. Selene. And others he’d grown attached to. Helice. Iphiboë. The mysterious and beguiling oracle, Themiste. Isandros.

  Why was Chrysaleon staring at him with that unreadable frown?

  Menoetius rested his forehead on his knees and stared between them at the ground. He focused on a single blade of grass, deliberately emptying his mind of feeling and imagination.

  But an emptied mind and heart made it possible for the woman’s dispassionate voice to return.

  Thou hast come for the threshing. I shall make thee sharp, quick, and terrible. Thou wilt be my bull upon the earth.

  Aridela sat next to her sister at the queen’s table; together they watched as people, garbed in their finest linen and jewels, gathered to feast and honor the bull-king.

  Themiste slipped in from a side passage and joined them. She looked pale, but then, she seldom set foot outside her mountain caverns. Selene lounged, deceptively at ease, on Aridela’s left, her white-blonde hair woven with strings of gems in honor of the occasion. Only Aridela saw how closely her friend watched the visitors; only Aridela sensed how ready she was to seize, if the slightest need should arise, one of the swords in the stand by the doorway.

  The queen’s big noisy family entered, laughing among themselves. Sisters, brothers, nephews and nieces crowded their way to the tables. On Helice’s right sat the bull-king, a lithe, comely youth whose name was Xanthus before he won the Games and accepted the traditional title of ‘Zagreus.’ A usually happy, carefree man, he’d grown quieter through these last days of mead making. Now his fingertips whitened against the table’s edge and his restless gaze traveled over the hall without focus. Nor did he seem to pay attention to the amount of wine he swallowed.

  Aridela had seen this expression before on the faces of other bull-kings. She always tried to show them confidence and joy rather than selfish grief. Their heroism was an inspiration. She only wished there was a way to make their last days less terrifying.

  Arranged at tables across the open terrace sat artists, famous ladies, their husbands and lovers, teachers, bull leapers and hopeful competitors. The din of a hundred conversations and laughter rose into the sky, where the sun dropped behind the Ida mountain range, leaving a luscious purple glow in the heavens.

  Lycus sat at the table closest to the queen’s, in a spot that allowed him to send Aridela constant smoldering looks. He’d waylaid her earlier in the corridor, asking, “You’ll stay in your bedchamber tonight?”

  At that instant, inexplicably, Aridela’s ambivalence vanished. She nodded and lied. “Themiste commanded it. I can’t go against her.”

  “Then I won’t go out either,” he returned gallantly, and kissed her hand.

  Athene then, would make the choice. Tonight Aridela would learn if Potnia supported Minos Themiste’s wishes. If Velchanos didn’t come to her in the cave—for she was certain no mortal would find them—she would take it as a sign that she must obey Themiste’s edict and descend forever, untouched, into the shrines.

  She saw her mother unobtrusively yet carefully studying the guests too, but the queen’s face remained unreadable. She hadn’t drunk any wine nor chewed any visionary concoctions. She lightened into easy affection only when she caressed the arm of the Zagreus or fed him the finest morsels from the communal platter.

  Wine made the rounds, along with baked fish, grape leaves stuffed with diced octopus and spices, cheese, breads, and bowls of herb-infused olive oil. Dancers wove between the tables, faces hidden behind feathered masks and sheer veils. Any who wanted it was given a brew of barley water and the cara mushroom, to aid in their visions.

  As the evening progressed, Aridela watched faces flush and eyelids get heavy. Men leaned close to their female companions. One couple kissed in a shadowed corner, their hands wandering. She caught Lycus staring at her and struggled with her desires, but underneath lay the dream from Mount Juktas. She would never forget the god’s face, his mane of wild, honey-hued hair, or the words he’d spoken. If only, if only it could be real.

  Just before the offering, Helice was called away. As soon as she left, the foreigner she had earlier identified as Prince Harpalycus of Tiryns sauntered over and squatted in the narrow space between the two sisters. Warmth from his arm radiated into Aridela’s thigh. Iphiboë blushed. She acquired an expression that made Aridela think of her sister’s whispered nickname, ‘the petrified mouse.’

  He locked a piercing gaze on Iphiboë. “This night brings changes for you, my lady.” He pressed his fist to his chest.

  “I hope to honor those who have faith in me, my lord.” Her voice quivered, as did the hand she extended for a fig. She struck her aunt’s wine bowl, making it teeter.

  Harpalycus’s eyes never wavered. Quietly he asked, “Have you ever known a man?” and ran his index finger along her forearm.

  Ar
idela’s spine stiffened. “Your question is unfit,” she said, since Iphiboë seemed too choked to reply.

  Something glittered in his eyes as he turned toward her. Was it desire for Iphiboë, or the land, as her mother feared? He was handsome, in the fashion of the mainland barbarians. His thick brown beard and unoiled skin were intriguing. His eyes, a pale bluish-gray, were most compelling beneath heavy dark brows, and he possessed an attractive air of arrogant confidence. But something about him made her ill at ease. Her instincts warned her to flee; she gripped the edge of the table to ground herself, refusing to abandon Iphiboë to his attentions.

  Taking a quick gulp of wine, he glanced about the room. “I meant no affront.” His hawk-like gaze dropped to the silver amulet at Aridela’s throat. “It’s true that I….” He trailed off, frowning. “I meant no affront.”

  “I’m not angry, Prince Harpalycus,” Aridela replied. The man, barbarian though he was, possessed enough instinct to avoid offending even the younger daughter. This sense of power was pleasurable. Her skin tingled.

  “Where will Princess Iphiboë go tonight?” he murmured. “Tell me, and I swear neither of you will regret it. I’m the son of a king, and I know how to please a woman.”

  Aridela found herself considering his proposition, though his arrogant reminder of his standing made her want to laugh. If she also told Lycus, then both she and Iphiboë would be assured of handsome lovers. Yet, though the mushroom she’d chewed made everything but love seem unimportant, her ultimate goal remained clear. “That would be blasphemy,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “It would dishonor Athene, who will make whatever choice is most satisfactory to her.”

  Impatience crossed his face. She felt sorry for him; he didn’t understand their ways. Reaching out boldly, she placed her palm on his cheek, intrigued by the wiriness of his beard. He stared, his mouth half-open. She smiled. He didn’t return it, but the coldness seemed to lessen.