“Come with me, Prince Chrysaleon.”
Dazed with uncertainty, he glanced down. A young woman outfitted in the white robe of a priestess stood next to him. Another similarly clad woman was already leading Lycus away.
He followed her to a pavilion. Inside, women garbed in identical robes waited beside a large bath infused with olive and lavender oils. The first woman undressed him and gestured for him to enter. He sank in, grateful to find the water refreshingly cool, and closed his eyes. The calming scent of lavender surrounded him. His muscles loosened. He was hungry; he’d eaten sparingly this morning. Now he faced three days without food.
The attendants massaged his shoulders and poured water over his hair. One bent so close he felt her breasts rub against the back of his neck and her long hair brush his arm. Her breath tickled his ear and his groin responded. If she didn’t stop, she’d find herself in this bath with him. But no. He must conserve his strength. He stood, splashing water over the sides of the tub. The dagger wound in his left bicep throbbed, along with every bone in his face.
Two of the priestesses oiled and massaged him then dressed him in a gossamer-soft white loincloth.
For the next three days, this pavilion would be his home. He would see or speak to no one but these priestesses. He would not be allowed to eat and would be given only enough water to survive.
In this way, he would be honed for the labyrinth.
Keeping her face lowered, the priestess who brought him to the pavilion placed in his hands a short thrusting sword, good for use in confined spaces, longer than a dagger but not so long as a battle sword. It had a deadly sharp point and double edges, slightly flared, perfect for slashing and cutting. She bowed. “Our brave year-king gives everything he has,” she said. “Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance, earn glory unimaginable.”
Was this the only way to become king? To murder the Zagreus? No, he wouldn’t use that title of death. He’d heard from someone that the man was born with the name Xanthus. To remain on Crete, to be near Aridela and halt the king-sacrifice, he must kill Xanthus. If he didn’t, he would be killed and another man, perhaps Harpalycus, would seize the opportunity.
He’d come too far. He would complete the rites.
The sword, exquisitely balanced, fit his grip as though specially made for him. Some master craftsman had carved the hilt into a stylized likeness of an ibex. In both function and vision, it was a magnificent piece. Nothing he’d ever seen on the mainland could compare.
He brought it up in salute to the priestess.
Go with me, Poseidon, husband to the Goddess. Show them all your everlasting will.
Aridela hated sitting still, intoning prayers. She wanted to feel the wind and smell the sea. She needed to stand on the cliffs, enveloped in salt mist and rainbows. Instead, duties and an unseasonable downpour kept her trapped indoors.
Chrysaleon had triumphed in the initial trials.
Chrysaleon of Mycenae might become Kaphtor’s next bull-king.
Her thoughts droned like the prayers—endless, repetitive circles that defied solutions. Even if he became Iphiboë’s consort, it changed nothing. Aridela would be forced into the mountain shrine with Themiste while Chrysaleon lived at Labyrinthos. She would seldom see him unless Iphiboë decreed that Aridela reside at the palace. To do that, she would have to stand up to Themiste. No one knew better than Aridela how afraid Iphiboë was of Themiste.
Rain thundered on the roof of the royal pavilion like smithy hammers beating an agitated staccato; wind sucked at the edges. A poor omen for such an important event.
A sorrowful setting for the bull-king’s last hours.
Guilt twisted her stomach and monopolized her mind. Thoughtless impulse had prompted her to ask Chrysaleon to compete, though he didn’t belong here. Could she be, in some childish way, trying to relive her mother’s love for the foreigner, Damasen? Whatever the reason, it was selfish. Wrong.
The kneeling crescent of priestesses surrounding her moved from prayers to the traditional benediction.
“Our brave year-king gives everything he has. Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance, earn glory unimaginable.”
Themiste composed this invocation when she was eight years old. She claimed a vision brought it to her. Now every initiate memorized it. The benediction had become the final words marking every bull-king’s descent into the labyrinth and the beginning of his everlasting existence as an immortal god. Some priestesses recited it nightly; devout Sidero, who watched over Aridela during her months in the mountain shrine, used to claim the litany helped her sleep.
Sidero nearly died the day Chrysaleon came to Labyrinthos. Since then, she required the aid of sturdy crutches to help her walk. The right side of her face drooped, and a whitish film obscured her vision. She constantly muttered, “The holy triad,” in an insistent, quavering voice, and seemed to have forgotten who anyone was.
Aridela glanced toward the draperies at the corner of the pavilion, where Zagreus reclined with Helice. The queen and two of her brothers were entertaining him with his favorite music.
Aridela fought back tears. Helice wouldn’t want her consort to see anyone weeping. In these last hours, she expected everyone to distract the bull-king from his fate, and Aridela was in more than enough trouble already after her defiance in the bullring.
Wind blew open the door flap. Aridela’s skin prickled. She couldn’t remember Kaphtor ever being so chilly during the malevolent Moon of White Light. The heat, traditionally intense at this time of the year, generated pestilence and plague. The rise of Iakchos signaled the coming end to drought and suffering. It heralded the onset of renewed moisture and led the people of Kaphtor into the exhilarating month of winemaking. This strange damp and coolness meant that Lycus and Chrysaleon would suffer more, for the labyrinth would be cold and dank as well as dark.
“Aridela?”
Recognizing Selene’s voice, she turned with relief, swiping her tears away. Her smile faded when she saw Chrysaleon’s fearsome guard, Menoetius, flinging rain from his hair as he followed her friend into the pavilion. Lately it seemed the two were always together.
Selene pushed back her hood, frowning as she took in Aridela’s face. She glanced at the corner where the queen and consort reclined then returned her steady, unwanted attention onto Helice’s younger daughter. One of her finely curved brows lifted. “Aridela?”
“It’s nothing.” Aridela tried again to smile, but felt its tremor and gave up. She left the other priestesses and joined her friend, sending Menoetius an embarrassed glance. “For many reasons, my thoughts are heavy.”
Selene looked from one to the other and back again. “He said you didn’t recognize him. Is it true?”
Though it would brand her a coward, Aridela wished she could fall asleep and not wake until this day was over. She sighed. What was Selene going on about?
Selene seized her arm. “You goose. You don’t recognize the boy who saved your life?”
Aridela stared at Selene, thinking she was playing some ill-timed joke. But her friend’s challenging expression sent her gaze shooting to the rain-soaked man who stood in the pavilion’s entryway.
Carmanor was a youth of absolute perfection. Even by the standards of her people, his beauty made him exceptional. The man who stood before her was lined, scarred, bearded.
“I would know Carmanor in the blackest cave,” she said. “I would know him if my eyes were put out.”
“Apparently not.” Selene grinned. She rested her hands on Aridela’s shoulders and squeezed.
Aridela twisted free. “Jests are offensive, especially today. You think I don’t know who this is? Prince Chrysaleon’s personal guard. His blood brother, Menoetius.”
The man remaine
d in the doorway, stiff and still. As she spoke, he dropped his gaze to the ground.
Aridela approached him, frowning. She pressed her hand to his cheek so he would lift his face and look at her. His struggle showed in the whitening of his lips, the flare of his nostrils; she felt his jaw clench tightly underneath her fingers.
The scar was thick and puckered, as though it had proved difficult to suture over the bone, or was closed by an inept healer. It dominated his face. The flesh around it was roughened, red; it split his left eyebrow and tracked dangerously close to his eye.
She remembered the quiet awe Carmanor displayed the day she’d taken him to the cliff to commune with Athene, the way his cheeks had reddened when she made fun of him for choosing a wrong word. She relived his guilty expression when he confessed to lying about his slave.
She’d been childishly certain that Carmanor possessed a face like no other. That he was divinely blessed.
Her throat closed then seemed to drop into her stomach. The brilliant blue of his eyes hadn’t changed. The nose, though it bore a thin white scar across the bridge, was as straight and imposing as she remembered, giving him the bearing of a king.
It was he. Selene hadn’t been lying or joking.
“Carmanor,” she choked out. How could she not have known? It was unforgiveable. She’d been so immersed in her love affair with his prince that she couldn’t recognize the first boy she’d ever loved.
“Aridela,” he said.
She burst into furious weeping, which startled her, and threw her arms around his neck as she sensed, through her own flesh, the agony of the wounds as he received them.
Menoetius breathed the musky scent of her perfume. Her tears wet his jaw and throat. He allowed himself to touch her shoulders, to press his cheek to her hair.
Then he remembered what he now was. He backed away, removing her arms from around his neck, releasing them as though they burned.
Tears magnified her eyes. He thought he saw there the image of Goddess Athene, and behind the Lady paced the lion.
A new phrase, one he’d never before heard in his nightmares, floated through his mind.
What seems the end is only the beginning.
He bit the insides of his cheeks.
Her joy faded into something far more familiar. Confusion, disillusionment, all framed by a frown. Even with effort, she hadn’t recognized him; such was the extent of his disfiguration. It was as bad as he’d always imagined it would be, and Aridela, like all these Cretans, abhorred ugliness.
His hands clenched into fists as the heat of shame ran through his face.
“What happened?” She blinked the tears from her eyes; they coursed over her perfect, flawless cheeks.
He didn’t know what to say. “I lived.” It made no sense, but he left it.
She extended her hand, but at that moment two priestesses approached from outside. They couldn’t enter because Menoetius was blocking the doorway.
He stepped aside.
“The people gather in the grove,” one of the women said. “We have come for Queen Helice and the bull-king.”
Rain gnashed against the teeth of a south wind. A message came to the priestess in the hero’s pavilion to wait.
Growls of thunder drew Chrysaleon to the entrance. Puddles were forming in the dirt. Lightning streaked through the clouds.
He lost track of the passage of time. Others would spend these last hours praying or preparing their bodies for the task ahead; he merely stared. He couldn’t fix his mind on anything. The bashing he’d taken from Harpalycus throbbed. The priestess who tended him said his nose was broken, and the passage of three days only intensified the swelling and bruising around his eyes.
Hunger and thirst made him as irascible as a boar. He felt faint, dizzy. What could be the purpose of forcing them to suffer this way? Was the task itself not grueling enough? He irritably asked this question, but the women, exchanging puzzled glances, replied that he must enter the labyrinth clear-minded, unencumbered by the weight of this world’s base needs and expectations.
Afternoon fled, leaving a curious yellow haze in the east. This wouldn’t be the first time a man died upon Chrysaleon’s sword. Perhaps his distaste came from knowing the Zagreus would have no weapon. Priestesses called it holy sacrifice, and claimed the king would be reborn in glory. His blood fructified the earth and those who consumed his body would absorb his strength, his divinity. Chrysaleon could hardly credit the disjointed descriptions he’d heard of these mysterious rites.
He understood the role he was meant to play. These people had no more use for their king, whatever glorious story they wove around his life and death. He must be killed, either by Chrysaleon or Lycus, which freed the others of any blood debt.
Why ponder the issue? It was a step he must take to reach his goal. He meant to destroy this culture and depose Iphiboë. Many would die for him to succeed, far more than one king. If everything went according to his wishes, Crete’s people would be his slaves and the country would pay heavy tribute to Mycenae.
Behind him, priestesses and servant-girls knelt in prayer. He heard the words, something about the year-king, but most of it made no sense.
Rainbows winked through purple clouds. The rain slackened.
One of the priestesses offered him a crust soaked in honey, and a small cup of mead. He accepted with alacrity, longing for more.
Soon after he’d swallowed the last of it, his ears began to hum and his hands felt as though weights hung from the tips of his fingers. Though part of his mind remained clear and knew he still leaned against the pavilion’s entrance column, he also seemed to see it from above, the banner on top flapping in wind that felt more reminiscent of winter than high, hot summer.
Neat rows of vines stretched before him. In the distance lay the blue, misty foothills of Mount Juktas. To the east ranged endless fields of barley, washed clean and reaching up to enjoy this unexpected drink from the sky.
A group of women circled in a grove of enormous old oaks. He watched them sway to the rhythm of drums. Their heads were monstrous, white-faced and bloody, mouths like black caverns. They tore their hair and doubled over, sobbing.
He desperately wanted a drink and felt water coursing over his body, but every time he opened his mouth, the water vanished. He fumbled for his sword, but grasped instead the arm of a solemn-faced priestess who bent over him. “Please, my lord,” she said, “we must go now to the labyrinth.”
Chrysaleon propped himself on his elbows, surprised to discover he lay prostrate in the pavilion’s doorway, rain pelting his head and chest. “What happened?” he asked, so groggy and dizzy he could scarcely form the words. His ribs ached. His nose throbbed. His eyes stung and watered.
“I thought you fell asleep.”
He pressed his hands to his temples. The inside of his head pounded like a heartbeat.
The bread, honey, or the mead. Part or all of it was tainted. They’d tricked him, given him some concoction designed to weaken his resolve.
“Come.” The white-robed woman pulled his arm until he staggered to his feet. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, trying to force the distracting throb and haziness from his mind while the priestesses painted diagonal stripes across his face with a paste of crushed kerm berries.
Four men carried him to the palace in a litter. Behind them, like a tail, walked a line of priestesses, all chanting in the same unfamiliar language he’d heard in his dream. The sword rested on his lap, bright double edges freshly honed. He ran his thumb along the blade, transfixed at the sight of blood welling shiny-bright.
The litter stopped. He descended, uncertainty drawing his belly tight and slowing his footsteps. Crowds of bystanders surrounded them, come to see, and perhaps lay bets on who would emerge from the labyrinth, he or Lycus. Water dripped, somehow sad and plaintive, magnified by whatever infusion he’d consumed. Menoetius pushed through the press and tried to approach, but two armed guards stopped him. Chrysaleon wanted to call
out, to tell everyone how the Cretans tricked him, but he bit his lip and stifled the accusation. Never would he show such weakness in front of Aridela. Besides, he’d been told little of the ordeal he would face. Perhaps the elixir was customary, designed to bring him closer into mystical union with their god.
Drumbeats pulsed down his spine.
He heard a low, humming chant. “Calesienda. Cabal. Cabal.” Chrysaleon recognized that word. It was used at Mycenae as well. There, it meant “brother.”
“‘Cabal.’ What does that mean?” he asked one of the priestesses.
With a polite inclination of her head, she replied, “The killer of the holy king becomes his anointed brother, my lord. He is the king’s cabal.”
So the meaning was similar here.
Chrysaleon’s heart slowed to match the menacing drumbeat. His feet felt rooted to the earth in a moist tangle. He couldn’t catch his breath. The sky darkened and a renewed mutter of thunder rumbled through the clouds. Chants echoed.
The priestess took Chrysaleon’s hand and they moved together through the crowd. Her flesh felt hot against his. She wore a voluminous hooded wool robe, which protected her from the rain. Yet he had only a loincloth, and felt every chilled, needle-sharp drop against his skin. Hunger. Thirst. Cold. The inability to think. He could no longer separate these things.
He saw another crowd taking a different path, surrounding a lone man. It must be Lycus. He heard the name being chanted.
Three priestesses joined hands, enclosing him in a circle.
“Gorgopis Athene,” they intoned, “take this man deep, and deeper. Reveal the worthiness of his soul. From your womb do they emerge, die by your hand, and rise again. Lady of dew, Queen of beasts. Pull them into your belly and show them what they fear.”
Men swung the bullroarers, faster and faster, to frighten any evil spirits drawn by impending death.
The triad led him close to the palace wall. They came to a plain small opening, lit by a torch just inside. Beyond its light, impenetrable blackness. One priestess laid her hand against his and pressed something to his palm that felt like a shred of papyrus.
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 31