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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Giving Aridela a quick embrace, he said, “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what I taught you?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’d better. Do you realize what I’m risking? If you get hurt again, nothing will stop the queen from castrating or killing me.” The team he’d put together came in from one of the anterooms and began helping each other prepare.

  Overhead, the cheers intensified. The first team finished their dance. A moment later they tumbled through the doorway, panting, laughing and embracing. When they saw the princess wearing the white loincloth of a bull leaper, surrounded by experienced dancers, they fell silent.

  It was the first time she’d seen Lycus since her night with Chrysaleon.

  “Did you dance well?” she asked.

  “We did, my lady,” one of the boys replied, bowing low.

  Lycus shoved past the others to stand before her, head tilted, his expression puzzled.

  Some declared Lycus would never last. He was considered too brash, impudent, and he took more chances each time he entered the ring. He was one of those mesmerized by the sound of cheering into ever more reckless performances; many said his efforts to become legend would destroy him. Yet this fear was what filled the stands whenever he announced he would dance.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze roaming over the traditional dancing gear she wore.

  “My bull runs next,” Aridela said.

  Lycus grasped her hand and pulled her away from the others.

  “Why?” he asked, low. “Is it for me?” He touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of his index finger.

  It took her a few seconds to understand. He didn’t know everything had changed. She no longer wished for that kind of intimacy with him. Now she burned solely for the foreign prince of Mycenae, he who commanded that no one touch her but he, for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt. But she couldn’t tell him until after the dance. It would be bad luck. “No,” she said. “I want this. It’s for Athene, and me.”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. He bent, gripping her shoulders. She saw he meant to kiss her and pulled away.

  His pleased expression switched to surprise.

  The cheering and stomping shook the room as the crowd demanded the second dance.

  Aridela faced the rest of the bull dancers. “Give me your blessing,” she said, holding out her arms. One by one, the members of the first team knelt before her then rose and kissed her. Lycus approached her last. He knelt like the others, but when he rose and gave her the formal good luck kiss his eyes were frowning and suspicious.

  “Lycus,” she said, “make sure my bull enters the ring before my mother can stop it.”

  He pressed both fists to his chest and bowed his head.

  She paused in the doorway while her team of seven ran ahead. The cheering increased. The spectators pounded the floorboards, making a mighty clamor with their feet. Pennants fluttered. She ran out after her comrades; not until the troupe bowed before the royal lodge and Aridela swept out her arms was she recognized.

  A rippling murmur prefaced a silence so complete that she heard the droning hum of cicadas in the fields.

  Then muttering erupted like a flock of frightened doves from a broken wicket.

  Helice jumped to her feet. Themiste simply stared, a look of such horror upon her face that Aridela shivered.

  But her mother’s rage and Themiste’s terror couldn’t prevent her gaze from moving on.

  Prince Chrysaleon stood as well, his expression half-shocked, half-spellbound. As their eyes met, he drew his dagger and saluted her. The dark-headed guard, Chrysaleon’s blood brother, gripped the rail, white-fisted. His expression seemed pure fury; she wondered why he should care, then a dull thud reverberated and drew her attention.

  Aridela swiveled. Everything slowed to a dreamlike state. Perhaps this was how Themiste felt when she entered her mystical trances.

  The bull trotted forward, blowing hard, lifting his massive head and peering at the confusion. His lyre-shaped horns glinted with gold paint.

  While he got his bearings, she lifted her hands, her face, to the sky.

  “O fierce Bringer of Light and Dark

  One smiting hoof churns seas and mountains

  Head low, he delivers terror

  His horn appoints life or death

  His will follows her will.

  Moon bull, king bull, lord bull

  Dance with me.”

  Isandros rose on the balls of his feet and ran. Neoma and Aridela ran the opposite direction. The bull’s black gaze followed the women. He snorted and pawed the earth.

  “Aridela!” Helice shrieked. “No!”

  The beast charged; Athene in her guise as Britomartis brought the animal straight to her. Aridela lifted onto her toes, buoyed by energy, and danced forward to meet him, pivoting as they came together. Fearless in her trust of the Goddess, she reached out to stroke the side of his face, but miscalculated how far he could extend his horn. It scraped, hard and bruising, against her ribs.

  A tremendous cheer surged from the crowd. “Aridela! Calesienda’s Daughter!” The stamping and screaming increased until the entire ring groaned and trembled.

  The bull’s hot breath surrounded her as he swung his head from side to side. He bellowed and scraped one scarlet-painted hoof through the sand. Before he could charge again, Neoma and another girl, Pyrrha, ran to him and seized his horns, jerking down.

  He flung them both away like gnats. With a short, broken cry, Neoma tumbled then sprawled while the more experienced Pyrrha condensed into a ball and rolled.

  “Curse you,” Aridela said as she knelt beside her fallen cousin, “it isn’t part of my fate that you die trying to keep me from harm.”

  “I’m not hurt.” Neoma sat up, pressing a hand against her side and breathing hard. “Take back that curse.”

  Isandros waved to catch the bull’s attention. He sidled between the bull’s horns until he had the admiring crowd gasping. While the beast centered his attention upon Isandros, Lycus appeared from the underground. He made a leaping handstand and somersault from one side of the broad back to the other, landing gracefully in the sand.

  Cheers reverberated as Aridela helped Neoma to her feet.

  “I take it back,” Aridela said.

  “Did you see the queen’s face?” Neoma began to cry. “If you’re hurt, it will kill her.”

  “If I’m hurt, it will be from trying to save you.” Aridela ran toward the bull. She nodded to Isandros and Lycus; they positioned themselves behind the haunches.

  The bull settled a furious gaze on her and pawed the sand. From the front and both sides, Neoma, Pyrrha, and a bull leaper named Tereus converged. Together they leaped upon the bull’s horns and face, blinding the beast and forcing him to lower his head.

  No time to think. Aridela extended her arms and ran forward. Three of her team grasped her waist and legs and catapulted her over the head, propelling her in an arc that set up a perfect flip. Nothing existed but the bull, whose form guided her like a dance partner. One woman’s face in the crowd froze in Aridela’s consciousness, her finely plucked eyebrows raised, lips open in an astounded ‘O’.

  The roar died away. All she could hear was the slow rush of air, someone’s close, exultant laughter, and the rich pumping beat of her heart. She compressed her arms and legs to her chest, making herself an efficient ball that curved, up and over in a circle.

  Fly. Aim for his back. One with the wind. One with the bull.

  Isandros’s instructions came by rote.

  For an instant she thought she could continue into the sky, free as a swallow. Then came the downward momentum. She was human after all, bound to the earth. With such a broad back, it was easy to land. Extending her legs, she used the balls of her feet to mold to the bull’s warm, stiff-haired haunches as though they’d found their true home. Her toes gripped.

  She sprang again before the beast could bolt,
lifting her arms on either side, for balance and to honor Athene.

  Leap with the grace of a bird, arms outstretched like wings. Glory to you, Dewy Athene.

  Isandros and Lycus caught her at the waist and guided her to the ground.

  It was she who laughed. Such triumph couldn’t be suppressed.

  The sounds of the ring slowly returned. The thud of her heart faded, replaced by the eager cheers of countless admiring onlookers. As Isandros and Lycus steadied her, the shouting exploded into a deafening uproar.

  The dream of her bull leap had come countless times since she was little. She’d always known she would do this. She’d tried when she was ten, and nearly died.

  Only for an instant did she wonder why today was the day of Lady Athene’s choosing.

  Then she let the question go.

  You held me in your hand. Your people will never forget. You didn’t want me to die. You wanted me to listen.

  She ran, holding hands with her comrades, to the churned sand below the royal lodge.

  Another team, using a cow for distraction, managed to guide the bull under the gate and out of the ring.

  “The queen.” Neoma peered up at the lodge, so terrified she could hardly speak.

  Tears streamed from Helice’s eyes. Her skin was white.

  Aridela knelt, pressing both fists to her forehead before the statue of Potnia. Right now she was filled with success. Later, she would beg forgiveness.

  Her flesh prickled and the shouting grew faint. Something drew her gaze away from Potnia and back to the crowd. She looked from one person to the next, her mind repeating the words she spoke when she was ten. In the dream, my leaping the bull does something—something important. It changes something.

  She rose, her gaze searching the crowd, for what, she wasn’t sure. Then she saw the foreigner, the man she’d given herself to in the cave. He stared back at her, a faint smile curving his lips.

  Aridela shivered. Bolts of emotion engulfed her in white halos and hot sparks.

  Men hung over the edge of the wall. Women threw flowers.

  “Calesienda’s daughter! Birthed in lightning!”

  Isandros used all his strength to drag her across the sand and down to the underground chamber.

  “You did it,” he said, his embrace hot and sweaty. “I never expected you to leap the bull. I thought you would only dance. It looked as though you’d done it many times.”

  “You gave good instruction.” Through her ecstasy, Aridela recalled the pain and confusion she’d suffered six years earlier. Now she realized Goddess Athene hadn’t lied or tricked her. Aridela was given a true glimpse of what would happen in the future. She’d simply misjudged the proper time.

  Neoma gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

  Aridela looked down. Dust, sweat and sand caked her flesh. Along the bottom of her ribs lay the shallow gash she’d forgotten. Blood oozed but it was already congealing. The new wound curved the opposite direction of her old scar, making it appear as though waxing and waning moons were carved into her skin.

  Her triumph didn’t diminish. It flowed like a river of embers through her veins. She gave a full, uninhibited laugh. “My bull marked me,” she whispered.

  In the old days, one man, chosen according to the vision of the oracle, competed for the right to become bull-king. There was but a single contest: wrestling to the death. If the current king won, he ruled another year. The challenger, if triumphant, was given the king’s seal ring and all the honor of the station.

  Over the passage of millennia, it was decided that a sacred king must be the swiftest of men, so footraces were added. At some point, the council decreed a bull-king should possess a mind as swift as his feet and as strong as his arms. Thus a third competition developed.

  It took place in the Labyrinth.

  Wind gusted from the south, bringing heavy, gray scudding clouds.

  Sprinting through the slopes in the Cretan countryside, Chrysaleon skirted rows of grapevines, ducked beneath tree-branches, and splashed through streams to prepare his muscles for the footrace.

  He would win. He would ascend Crete’s throne. He would eradicate her ancient ways, and he would have Aridela, not for one year, but for the rest of her life. His confidence built to a blood-steaming peak.

  He’d never felt so strong. The wound Harpalycus inflicted had stiffened his arm only for a day; Menoetius commented on the uncommon speed of its healing. Chrysaleon woke from his night with Aridela filled with this unstoppable energy, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and it hadn’t yet begun to fade. Was this sense of invincibility a gift from Athene, or a blessing from Poseidon?

  Menoetius stepped out from behind the trunk of a massive plane tree as Chrysaleon ran toward it. Unsurprised, Chrysaleon grinned and beckoned, running on.

  “I saw you from the terraces,” Menoetius said. “Why have you come out here without me?”

  “Why not?”

  Menoetius caught Chrysaleon’s arm, jerking him to a stop. “Idómeneus sent me to guard your life. Haven’t you noticed the Cretan warriors? They hate you. Aridela and Iphiboë are always in your company.”

  “Rise from bed earlier, if you wish to protect me so much. The lady Aridela has given me a task, and I won’t disappoint her.”

  “What is that, my lord?”

  “To win. She confessed she wants me to find victory this day.”

  “So you can become her sister’s consort and die in a year?”

  Chrysaleon paused, breathing hard as he stared beyond Menoetius to the regal Ida mountain range. “She doesn’t want me to die. If she were the oldest, our plans would be simple, for she would displace that mountain there to save my life. Is she not magnificent? There was no fear in her face when she bowed to the queen in the bullring. More royal blood runs through a strand of her hair than in the veins of many a king on the Argolid.” His spine tingled. “Did you see her laugh when they threw her onto that bull’s back?”

  “I saw,” Menoetius said. He turned his face away, squinting toward the palace. “I saw it all.”

  “I thought I might have to rescue her from a whipping.” Confidence and anticipation surged like a wave, similar to the warm euphoria created by strong mead, yet it didn’t fade and caused no headaches. “Princess Aridela is the prize to be won today.” Stretching his arms over his head, he added, “From the moment I saw her in that pool I’ve been blind and deaf. Maybe her goddess bewitched me. I didn’t intend to compete in their Games. Even when she asked me to and I promised, I was just saying what she wanted to hear. Then she leaped that bull.” He moved his arms behind his back to stretch his shoulders. “I don’t know if it’s my resolve or Athene’s. I don’t care. I mean to compete, and I won’t fail.”

  Menoetius’s frown made his eyes barely discernible between black lashes. His jaw-muscles clenched.

  “What is it?” Chrysaleon asked. “You bristle like a cat.”

  “I can see these priestesses leading you by the nose to your death. Who will laugh then? Where is your promise to your father, that if one of us had to compete, it would be me?”

  “Aridela deserves a prince, not a bastard, or half a man.”

  Menoetius’s fists tightened and his head reared back.

  “There are worse things than short life with glory.” Chrysaleon rode exultation into a crest of anger. “Old age is for old men. I will inspire bards to sing of me for ten thousand years. I, Chrysaleon of Mycenae, will be the man who conquers mighty Crete. Do you understand? I will blaze like lightning, and you had better not stand in my way.”

  “There’s an old saying that when Crete’s Goddess lies with a man, she beguiles him. She gives him undefeatable strength, but underneath she plants the desire to die for her. Looking at you, I see the truth of it.”

  “Don’t bury me yet.” Chrysaleon bent over, flexing his calves and thighs, reveling in a simmer of omnipotence. “I’ll make Crete a vassal of Mycenae and I’ll marry the princess, the woman of my choosing, even if
I have to go through the other one first. I’ll suffer my death at the god’s calling, but only after I’ve accomplished these things. It will be the greatest triumph any man could desire, and I, my brother, will achieve it. Run with me. I must prepare, and this is the last day I’m allowed to eat. Just the thought makes me ravenous.”

  Two groups, each containing five men, would run the footrace on a crescent-shaped track lined with wild olive branches and saffron dyed rope. The first two of each group to finish would continue to the wrestling and the triumphant contenders of that would descend into the labyrinth, of which there were many rumors and few facts. All Chrysaleon knew was that the men who made it that far must find the king and kill him.

  Cretans eagerly placed wagers. Women, colorful as tropical birds in their finery, sat on tiers of benches, conjecturing on the amorous merits of each competitor. Bystanders jammed the plain to the east of the bullring.

  The queen, at the forefront of a bannered, vine-draped lodge situated near the track’s finish, was surrounded by her consort, Aridela, Iphiboë, Selene, several handmaids, and council members. Chrysaleon noticed Selene sat so close to Aridela their shoulders touched. Jealousy flared as he remembered their intimacy by the mountain fire and the way the woman ordered Aridela from her lover and the cave.

  Helice wore her imposing crescent-moon crown and a skirt laden with disks of hammered gold. Sunlight, glinting through a swiftly moving layer of clouds, lit upon her like flashes on water. Head lifted, she moved with purpose away from the lodge, closer to the competitors and audience so all would hear her words.

  Drawing the Zagreus to her side, she lifted the primordial labrys-axe that served today as her scepter, holding it high so everyone could see. Aridela, Selene and the others bowed their heads.

  “We are brought here by Holy Mother Athene, who is the Way and the Life,” she announced. “Her will determines the strongest, swiftest male, drawing him from the maze in victory to rule at the side of Iphiboë, Princess of Kaphtor. He will be reborn through his trials, and become the blessed horned god, Zagreus. He rises with the ascent of his new father, Iakchos. Together we will drink the honey mead, and he will be consecrated.”