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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Clean-shaven in the Cretan manner, the bull-king stood next to his queen and stared above everyone’s heads. Eddies of wind blew his long hair out like one of the banners at the corners of the lodge. What was he thinking? Did he hope to thwart his fate? It didn’t seem so. He appeared still and resigned. No doubt men had tried to fool the Games in these goddess-lands since the beginning. Yet one way or another, the earth always received the offering of blood it required.

  Chrysaleon routed an instant of uncertainty. It was his choice to compete. Every man who stood here this day made the choice freely.

  But only Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, would thwart the Goddess and her island’s long history. This craving that set his body on fire promised success.

  Themiste and her priestesses poured the libations. The royals retired to their fancy lodge at the end of the track.

  As Chrysaleon dropped to a crouch, he noticed a young Cretan staring at him. He was somewhat used to this as a foreigner fighting in their Games, but this man’s expression seemed too intent to be mere curiosity. He looked familiar. Ah yes, he was one of the leapers who caught Aridela as she jumped off the bull’s back. This youth was no dandy. He was lean, and would be fast.

  Chrysaleon set his gaze upon the line he would run and tensed for the crack of the rope.

  When the signal came, he leaped forward, carried on the roar from the stands and the power in his limbs. Then he slipped into focused concentration, allowing only one thought. I will take her hand before all these people. He knew he was at the pinnacle of youthful vitality, yet he acknowledged this strange potency and will, which filled him with the force of an invisible sword as he’d watched Aridela leap the bull.

  His lungs pumped air like a bellows. His legs propelled him forward so effortlessly he almost felt he was flying.

  He saw her ahead. She rose. Next to her, Selene rose too, laying her arm across the princess’s shoulders, giving him a smile cold with threat.

  I will take her. Chrysaleon stared back just as coldly. His will expanded. She will forget you as though you never lived. I will cause it to happen.

  His muscles tingled—not in exhaustion but with flowing, fire-like energy. His mind told him he could run for miles—maybe the entire length of the island.

  Aridela leaned over the balustrade, laughing, reaching out to him as he came close. Tears stood in her eyes. She brought his hands to her lips and kissed them.

  Helice, her face dark with anger, jerked her daughter back, speaking close to her ear through tense lips. Iphiboë gazed at one then the other, wide-eyed.

  Chrysaleon turned. He’d left the finish line behind. The other runners stood some distance away, staring as they caught their breath. No one, it seemed, had missed the little tableau.

  He didn’t even know who won.

  He glanced at Aridela again. All sign of pleasure erased from her face, she sat motionless. Helice rested a firm restraining hand on her daughter’s shoulder, pinching so hard her fingertips were white. Selene gave him a bitter sneering stare.

  He walked as casually as he could to the other men, trying to ignore their scowls.

  Menoetius met him. “You left them in your dust, my lord, as though lions chewed your heels.” He didn’t sound happy. No doubt he’d hoped Chrysaleon would be defeated at the outset, so that Idómeneus would never have to know of his son’s defiance.

  A priestess stepped to the edge of the platform and held up a clay tablet listing the winners.

  “Lycus of Kydonia,” she called. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae.”

  “I was not first?” he asked Menoetius.

  “No. First was that man there.” He indicated the winner. It was the young man who stared at him before the race. Lycus was staring again. Before, he’d looked suspicious, puzzled. Now his expression held open rage. When he spoke to the man beside him, his teeth bared as he cocked his chin toward Chrysaleon.

  A true Cretan. The spectators, including the queen, would support him. Lycus of Kydonia was Aridela’s countryman. Perhaps this vague memory of a shared glance when Lycus caught her around the waist in the bullring was imagination. Perhaps not.

  Cheers broke out along the track. “Lycus, Lycus,” the people cried, and a few women swooned, or pretended to. Their maids fluttered fans to revive them.

  The next batch of runners formed at the starting line while members of the first race moved away.

  None of the losers spoke to Chrysaleon, but they observed him with mingled curiosity and hostility. One, a prince and cousin of the queen’s, remarked to his companion, loudly enough for Chrysaleon to hear, “Has he forgotten which princess inherits the throne?”

  Chrysaleon’s teeth gritted.

  A youth, tasseled, jeweled and oiled, approached from the spectator stands. He hesitated, cocking his head to the side as he came closer, then said simply, “I am Aridela’s brother.”

  Chrysaleon inclined his head. “You were in the bullring with her. I am Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, high king of Mycenae.”

  One of the youth’s brows lifted. “My sister shows you marked favor,” he said. “She seems to think you worthier than her own kinsmen.”

  “What is your name, my lord?” Chrysaleon replied.

  “I am Isandros. Aridela and I share the same father.” The young man’s gaze moved from Chrysaleon to Menoetius and traveled over his face. He blinked then frowned. “I feel I’ve seen you before.”

  Chrysaleon glanced at Menoetius, who made no reply and kept his stare leveled on the second group of runners.

  “He is my guard,” Chrysaleon said.

  Isandros’s next action took him by surprise. He seized Menoetius’s arm, forcing him to turn. “Carmanor.”

  Menoetius opened his mouth but said nothing.

  “It is you, isn’t it? You’re changed, but I recognize you. Don’t you remember me? Have you forgotten the time we spent imprisoned together? Did you see Aridela leap the bull? It’s what she’s always wanted. You did see it, didn’t you? It would make her happy to know you saw it.”

  Chrysaleon watched dull color creep through Menoetius’s face. On the night of Iphiboë’s dedication, as they’d waited outside the cave for darkness to fall, Menoetius had fallen asleep. For a time he’d lain as though dead, motionless, hardly breathing, one arm thrown across his face. Then he’d sucked in a deep breath. “Aridela,” he’d whispered, and sighed.

  “Have you seen her? Have you told her you’ve returned?” Isandros didn’t seem to notice that neither foreigner made any response to his chatter. He probably thought they were stupid. “She didn’t mention you when I saw her this morning.”

  “She—I haven’t seen her,” Menoetius said.

  “She might not recognize him.” Chrysaleon kept his gaze pinned on his brother. His hands curled into fists. The tic beneath his eye pulsed. The king’s bastard knew Aridela. Knew her better than he’d let on.

  Isandros hesitated. “A few scars are natural. Our bull dancers show theirs off. They’re quite proud of them.”

  Menoetius backed away.

  “Look,” Isandros said. “The next race is starting.” He glanced at Chrysaleon but asked Menoetius, “You don’t compete?”

  “I’m here to watch the prince’s back, since he will not.”

  “A good thing,” Isandros said after a slight pause. “Many are unhappy with the favor our queen shows the prince of Mycenae. That barbarian-er-foreigner, Harpalycus, mostly. His hatred for you and your kin is ill-concealed.”

  “Thank you for the warning,” Chrysaleon said, keeping his voice soft.

  “When I see Aridela, I’ll tell her—”

  “No,” Menoetius interrupted. “Don’t. Don’t tell her I’m here.”

  The rope cracked. Men streaked over the track. It didn’t take long to see who would win. Dendrites, a prince from Crete’s western city of Tarrha, and Harpalycus of Tiryns.

  Menoetius uttered a vile curse.

  “You fret like a mother,” Chrysaleon said, but in
side, began to prepare for a deadly confrontation.

  Amid the cheering and confusion, Isandros turned to Chrysaleon and said, “Good fortune to you, my lord. Just remember, the farther you go the harder become the trials.”

  “I’ll remember,” Chrysaleon said.

  Isandros cuffed Menoetius on the shoulder and grinned. “I hope I will see you again before you leave. I want to hear the story of your battle. You must be a great warrior, to survive such wounds.”

  Menoetius said nothing, but Chrysaleon saw him swallow. Isandros ran back to his friends in the stands.

  “The men here resemble women,” Chrysaleon said. “No wonder Princess Aridela gave me her heart so quickly, along with her body. It was the easiest conquest I’ve ever had.”

  Because he was looking for it, he caught the almost imperceptible stiffening, the flash and narrowing of his brother’s eyes, the sudden dilation of his nostrils. Ah, now everything made sense. Chrysaleon understood the moodiness, the sullen restlessness, and the unexpected fight his brother put up in the cave.

  “You haven’t yet won.” Menoetius’s lips were white, his words chopped. “The final champion will be the man who puts Zagreus in the ground.”

  “And becomes Zagreus in his stead.” Chrysaleon glanced toward the lodge. The bull-king stared at the field of competitors, his expression unreadable. “It was his choice.”

  “Or the will of the Goddess.”

  The council decided Chrysaleon should wrestle Harpalycus, as they were both foreigners and of similar build. Lycus and Dendrites were fairly matched as well, Dendrites being slightly taller and heavier.

  The people screamed encouragement to Lycus and Dendrites, their Cretan heroes. The men returned waves and grinned at women who professed undying love. Catching a skin someone threw him, Dendrites held it high; scarlet wine streamed into his mouth and over his chin. He exuded confidence; so did Lycus, who also enjoyed an abundance of slavering attention from the females in the stands. When Chrysaleon heard repeated shouts of Bull Dancer, he realized the scars on the man’s torso must be old wounds from the ring.

  The sun came out, throwing a dazzling glow against jewels, polished bronze and bright pennants.

  Harpalycus glared at him but said nothing as his slave rubbed oil over his skin to make him slippery.

  Again the rope cracked. Chrysaleon stepped away from Menoetius, giving his opponent a challenging glare.

  The screaming intensified as Lycus and Dendrites engaged. Dendrites threw Lycus and joined him on the ground. He caught Lycus’s flailing arms and yanked them behind his head. Chrysaleon had heard there were no rules of fair play in this wrestling. Brute force alone, or ruthless trickery, would win the day.

  Harpalycus grinned. “When you lose to me, prince, will you blame the wound I left in you?”

  “You barely broke the skin,” Chrysaleon said.

  “Good. I need no advantage.” As he spoke, he dove into Chrysaleon’s legs, knocking him hard to the ground, trying to crush him, or at least break a few bones.

  People on the sidelines booed.

  Chrysaleon’s hands slipped in the oil on Harpalycus’s skin, yet he managed to flip onto his side and dislodge his foe.

  They rose to a crouch and thrust against each other’s shoulders, grimacing as each tried to unbalance the other. Neither gained advantage, and for some time nothing happened but gasping and pressing. Tendons and veins swelling with effort. A test to see who was strongest.

  Harpalycus overpowered Chrysaleon and threw him backwards. Swinging a leg over his chest to pin him, he pummeled Chrysaleon in the face, using first his knuckles then his balled fists. Chrysaleon, marking an opportunity through the blood in his eyes, grasped Harpalycus’s wrist while it was lifted. Twisting his hip, he cast Harpalycus off and threw him onto his side, rising as he did so.

  Hysterical screams drew Chrysaleon’s gaze to the other opponents. Lycus had the upper hand now. He yanked both of Dendrites’ arms behind him and shoved him chest-first to the ground. Even at that distance, Chrysaleon heard the snap of the man’s neck.

  Harpalycus took advantage of Chrysaleon’s distraction. Grabbing his opponent’s clubbed hair with his free hand, he yanked his head downward. Chrysaleon seized Harpalycus’s hand, pried it off his hair and grasped the fingers, shoving them backward, harder, harder, until he heard Harpalycus groan and felt his desperate attempts to jerk away. Harpalycus’s free hand fisted and beat at him without mercy. He kicked Chrysaleon in the shins, but Chrysaleon turned his back, tucking Harpalycus’s arm under his and against his ribs, and held on.

  The fingers broke first with a gruesome snap, followed by the wrist dislocating. Harpalycus released a scream mixed with a howl. He fell away, his sword hand shattered.

  Chrysaleon straightened, panting, and wiped at the blood on his face.

  Dendrites lay still. Lycus stood over his opponent, bleeding from the nose, mouth, and scalp. He watched Chrysaleon, his lips curled, eyes slitted, fists clenched.

  The shouts and cries from the stands faded. Chrysaleon slowly regained his breath as he fought to calm his bloodlust. Menoetius approached and stood beside him.

  Harpalycus’s slaves placed him on a stretcher and carried him away. Others carried away Dendrites’ lifeless body.

  Head high, Chrysaleon planted his feet on the ground and rested his hands on his hips.

  Muttering replaced silence as people put their heads together. Chrysaleon heard a man say, “Does he understand his fate?”

  Chrysaleon hoped the queen wouldn’t ask that question. It would be difficult to answer with conviction.

  A lone cheer drifted from the crowd. “He won,” a woman cried. “Now we’ll see how he does in the labyrinth.”

  Helice and her retinue approached. The oracle, she who they called “Themiste,” joined them. The gaze she leveled at Chrysaleon was watchful, steady. He found it unnerving, yet at the same time a stab of lust raced through his limbs. The woman’s pale skin, red hair and brown eyes, as large and heavily lashed as a roe deer’s, were stunning. Even Theanô, whose beauty was the stuff of bard song, paled in comparison.

  Aridela appeared carefully impassive, but her entire face seemed to give off a blaze of light.

  Iphiboë, from her litter, stole a glance at him. The hem of Zagreus’s tunic fluttered in the breeze.

  Lycus at last removed his gaze from Chrysaleon and placed it on Aridela.

  There was no time to try and read that expression, for the queen spoke.

  “Chrysaleon of Mycenae,” she said. “I stand before you, uncertain of my duty. Though foreigners have accepted our ways before, none have ever been heir to such a throne as yours. Does your father support this resolve?”

  “The time has come for closer ties between us. My father feels as I do.”

  Helice inclined her head. Turning to the nearby cluster of men and women who looked on, she asked, “What is the council’s wish? Shall Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus of Mycenae, continue?”

  The counselors drew the queen and her daughters away where they could talk without being overheard.

  “You’ve nearly achieved your aims, Gold Lion,” Menoetius said. He spoke low, but Themiste, who lagged behind the others, heard. Her head snapped around. She stared, her bearing one of undisguised shock, almost horror.

  “Why do you call him that?” she said in a shaking voice.

  “It’s his name-meaning,” Menoetius replied warily. “And a term of affection his father and our people use.”

  She examined Chrysaleon from his wind-blown, blood-spattered hair to his dusty sandals.

  Then she walked away and joined the council.

  Chrysaleon and Menoetius exchanged glances. Menoetius shrugged.

  “She wants to bed me,” Chrysaleon said with a crude laugh, trying to hide his unease. That tattoo. The crescent moon. It was like the eye of the Goddess staring into his soul.

  At last, with a deep breath, the queen returned and faced Chrysaleon. “The final t
ask awaits,” she said. “Is it truly your wish, Lycus of Kydonia, Chrysaleon of Mycenae, to be consort in the land of Kaphtor? To offer your life in service to the land and people?”

  “It is,” he said. Lycus, too, made formal assent.

  “Then the rites will be completed.” She held out her hands, palms facing the sky. Upon them rested the labrys, its blades honed in rippled limestone. “This axe has chosen the kings of Kaphtor since we first learned how to read the stars. Whichever one of you this weapon chooses, will be reborn to honor and glory.” She paused, looking at Chrysaleon. “As with the mother, so with the daughter,” she said. “Kaphtor’s council believes a foreign warrior can become one with us. It has happened before.”

  Doubt and reluctance made Chrysaleon’s muscles twitch. Zagreus’s too quiet eyes watched his. In three days, if Chrysaleon succeeded, this man would die on Crete’s holy day of reckoning. Helice’s consort chose a short life with endless glory. He’d known his end from the moment he accepted the challenge. Still, Chrysaleon had to force himself to meet that gaze, so fathomless and difficult to read.

  He would take this man’s life, which was sacred to the Cretans, to achieve his own ends; he would destroy their beliefs and bend their ways to his own. He would make their holy sacrifice meaningless, then he would see to it that it was discarded and forgotten.

  Helice drew Zagreus away. She put her hand against the back of his neck and kissed him.

  Chrysaleon’s flesh prickled. He searched the area. The crowd was dispersing, but for one, who stood some distance away.

  Themiste, their high priestess. She stood still and straight, nearly as tall as he. He knew her role demanded that she never lie with a man. Yet he couldn’t help imagining her writhing beneath him.

  What did that cold stare of hers herald?