Aridela could stand no more. She backed away. He made no effort to stop her. When she’d put enough distance between them, she turned and fled through a side door into the palace.
Her throat felt raw and sore. Her mouth tasted of blood and she couldn’t stop shaking. Sharp red wheals and bite impressions marred her breasts. Images of his attack echoed through shock and disbelief as she stumbled through lesser-used passages. No human had ever deliberately threatened or injured her, except for Selene, perhaps, in the course of training designed to make her stronger. She’d heard of such things, but only rarely, and those crimes were punished in the harshest manner. By the time she reached her chamber, her long-held, comfortable trust in the world had faltered. In one brief encounter, Harpalycus injured far more than her flesh, which would heal in a few days. He’d replaced her pampered, never-tested courage with baffled uncertainty.
Many people visited Chrysaleon as he lay in bed fighting off infections and blood loss. But the one he wanted to see never came.
Adoration was showered upon him. He was Kaphtor’s strongest, swiftest, most cunning male. He woke from drugged sleep to find women stroking his hair, oiling his skin, caressing his beard and whispering promises of passion such as he’d never known. His nurses chased them away constantly.
When the omens and signs aligned and the moon heralded the proper phase for new beginnings, he would undergo the ceremony making him consort and bull-king. He was glad of any delay, for he felt half-dead, weak as a baby. Surely by the time the moon ripened in the heavens, he would be able to walk again. If not, he was no man at all.
His young male acolytes demanded an explanation of “blood brotherhood” then went about slicing each other’s wrists, swearing eternal love and loyalty. A few died from their clumsy efforts.
“They make me puke,” Menoetius said. “This gaggle of women with no teats.”
To send Xanthus on his way to Hesperia and beg blessings of Athene for the new year, Kaphtor’s priestesses burned incense and made lavish offerings. Helice and the oracle Themiste traveled to Mount Ida’s cave shrine to pour libations of thanks and pray for good harvests.
Tended by the queen’s own healer, Chrysaleon lay in bed, bored, lonely, his pain dulled by infusions of poppy.
Had the earth swallowed Aridela? Why didn’t she come? He longed to ask, but knew it would rouse suspicion.
Iphiboë stammered and blushed and escaped his sickroom as quickly as she could. It was obvious someone forced her to visit.
What happened to Selene’s vision from the mountain? To win Aridela, Chrysaleon raced, suffered, starved, endured grievous wounds and killed the king. These Cretans cheered him, yet what had he achieved? No authority, no Aridela, and the promise of death in one year.
Aridela longed to go to Chrysaleon, to sit at his bedside and hold his hand. Plagued with worry, she avidly absorbed news and gossip about him while trying to maintain an air of indifference.
But every time she started toward his chamber, she always turned away. First of all, he was never alone. His admirers thronged in and out of that wing of the palace. But that was only a handy excuse to disguise her true reluctance.
Does he care about me or is it Kaphtor he wants?
What about his wife in Mycenae? Why has he never spoken of her?
Why did he compete? Will he go to his death for Kaphtor?
Harpalycus left a poison in her mind as well as marks on her flesh. Though she possessed jewelry and tunics that would cover the bruises on her wrists and teeth imprints on her breasts, she still feared their presence being somehow detected. What if Harpalycus fulfilled his threat to tell Chrysaleon lies? What if Chrysaleon believed him? It might even be worse if Chrysaleon didn’t believe. In his weakened state, if he left his bed to confront Harpalycus and exact vengeance, he could be killed.
For the first time in her life, fear of an unpredictable outcome stopped her from acting. She decided instead to visit Lycus, and after picking a cluster of fresh flowers and fragrant herbs, went along to his chamber. As she reached for the latch on the door, she heard the hated voice of Harpalycus on the other side.
“If you’ve told me the truth,” he was saying, “then everything will happen as you wish. There’s no need for such questions. Your beloved princess will come to no harm.”
Aridela recoiled. Pulses pounding, heart racing, she slipped into a nearby chamber.
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor. “Rest, my friend. Regain your strength,” he said then tramped away.
When he’d gone, she went in, closing the door behind her. “Lycus?” she said softly.
He stared at her, no sign of pleasure in his eyes. She approached the bed, placing her basket next to him. “I found these this morning, still struggling to bloom, even in this heat.”
A scruff of beard covered his jaw. His skin bore an unhealthy sheen of sweat. He’d lost weight; his cheeks were sunken and colorless. His hand crept over the edge of the basket and fingered the blooms but other than that, he seemed not to notice them.
She sat on the bed and clasped his cold hand. “Lycus,” she said.
“Why did you do it? You. The prince of Mycenae. The favor you showed him, and still do. Why?” He snatched his hand from hers.
“Who told you? Was it Harpalycus? Why was he here? Believe nothing he says. He wants to cause trouble.”
Lycus sneered at her. “You told me yourself with the way you fawn over him. I know he’s taken what you once nearly gave me.”
“What you speak of is mine, to give as I wish. Yet you talk as though you have some claim to it. Yes, I went with Iphiboë on the night of her dedication. She begged me to. I told no one where we were going and we hid in a cave far from the palace, yet Chrysaleon found us.” She added slowly, “There can be no doubt he was guided to me by our Lady.” Her heart swelled, with awe and amazement as well as longing. She felt her face flush.
“You weren’t supposed to lie with any man, so don’t tell me he was ‘guided.’ Does Themiste know? Does your mother?” He laughed. “I can see by your face you’ve made no confessions. And what if you grow fat with child? You won’t be able to keep your secret then, will you?”
They stared at each other. “Lycus,” she said, “you’re a bull leaper. Why did you enter the Games?”
“I couldn’t bear him winning. I can see his mind. He’ll kill Iphiboë. Poison her, maybe. Then you’ll be brought to the palace and married to him. He’ll abduct you. Send you to the mainland and make you his slave. Kaphtor will lose both princesses and fall into ruin.”
“Why do you say this? What has he done? Why does everyone distrust him?”
He grabbed her forearm, surprisingly strong for how weak he appeared. “How can you not see it? He brings destruction. Has his rape made you stupid?”
She jerked free and jumped off the bed. “I would know if he intended to trick us. I’ve searched his face and listened to his words.” She balled her hands into fists. “You’ve forgotten the other foreigner who won our Games and became bull-king. Damasen. My father. No doubt many distrusted his motives, but every act he made was honorable, including his willing death.”
“They aren’t all like him.” Lycus stretched out one arm. He beckoned and she warily returned to his side. He grasped her hand. “Everything was clear and simple before this barbarian came. I was working out ways to see you after you went into the shrines. I wouldn’t let you wither away down there.” He drew her closer. She sat on the edge of the bed and he caressed her fingers as he gazed into her face. “Go to the shrines. When I’m better, when I can walk, I’ll come to you. We’ll forget all of this. I beg you.” His voice rose, for she was shaking her head.
“No,” she said.
“You have no choice. It’s Themiste’s decision. The barbarian will marry Iphiboë. I see you have desire for him. But he’ll die in a year. It’s best you go away.”
“You just said he would kill Iphiboë and overthrow our sacrifice. Now you te
ll me he’ll die. You design speeches to achieve your goals.” She pulled her hands free and stood.
A tremor ran through his jaw. “You think you’re different? You’ll say and do whatever you can. Perhaps you will poison Iphiboë.”
Stiff with white-hot rage, Aridela could only stare, teeth gritted, hands clenched.
“Get out,” Lycus said. “We’ll see what happens. We’ll see who triumphs.”
She backed to the door and opened it.
He pressed his hand against the wrapping on his wound. “We—will—see.” He broke off, gasping, and fell back. Blood soaked the bandage.
“Rhené,” Aridela shouted. “Rhené!”
The healer appeared at the end of the corridor. Seeing Aridela’s expression, she dropped the cup she held and came running.
“My lord.”
Chrysaleon turned to see who spoke and almost tripped over the stick Menoetius had clandestinely provided to help him hobble around his bedchamber.
Queen Helice stood in the doorway, her surprise evidenced by raised brows and open mouth.
Heat rose in his face. “I’m grateful it’s you, my lady, not the healer.” He tried to bow and nearly fell again when he put weight on the injured leg.
“Please, my lord, do sit down.” The queen crossed the room, seized his good arm, and guided him to the bed with a firm grip. “Rhené doesn’t know you’re testing your leg?”
“No,” he said, dropping onto the bed.
Helice propped his stick against the wall and tilted her head. “But you think it’s better?”
“The stitching is strong. It doesn’t bleed now, even when I put weight on it.”
Satisfaction passed over her face as she sat at the end of the bed. “Rhené has extraordinary healing gifts. But it’s just seven days since you were wounded. You must follow her orders, my lord, if you want to recover quickly.”
“She’s overprotective.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, Queen Helice. I’m grateful for all she’s done. But I’m rotting away in this bed. If I have to spend another night here I may kill someone.”
“Perhaps one more night, if I ask it?” She smiled disarmingly.
He didn’t know what to say. Her eyes sparkled in a way that suggested mischief, and by Poseidon’s mares, he hoped so. He’d hobbled around the chamber with the aid of a stick whenever Rhené wasn’t around, but staring over the terrace toward the mountains in the west caused an itch of impatience that couldn’t be soothed by reason or poppy. No wounded warrior in Mycenae was ever coddled so much.
She rose, that mysterious smile still flitting about her lips. “We’ve determined the best day for your union to my daughter, but first, a formal announcement must be made. I would like to have you brought to the throne room, Prince Chrysaleon. Promise me you won’t insist on walking.”
“Of course, my lady, whatever you wish.” His head spun, a lingering effect of the poppy, and he hated it. He felt dull and stupid.
But she seemed not to notice. “I also wanted to tell you Prince Harpalycus left us this morning.”
“Left….”
“Yes, my lord. On his own ship, bound for the mainland.”
Chrysaleon’s relief diminished at the queen’s next words. “The prince said something in anger to my daughter that worried her. How well do you know him, my lord? He told Aridela he wanted to win Kaphtor for himself. He accused you of stealing our island from him, as if you were in some kind of competition. When Aridela confronted him, he recanted, claiming he misspoke because of the bad history between the two of you.”
Chrysaleon didn’t need a clear head to split Harpalycus’s words to their core of truth. He hesitated. If he told Helice he was aware of Harpalycus’s true motives, she might begin to suspect him, as well.
“Do you know of a mainland threat to us, Zagreus?” Helice no doubt used the title on purpose, to remind him where his loyalties now lay.
He must word a careful reply, something she would believe. “Harpalycus spoke the truth about our bad blood,” he said. “We’ve long hated each other. I know of no threat to Kaphtor, my lady. Harpalycus often says and does things when drunk or angry that bode ill for his future rule.”
She watched his face, taking in every inflection and movement as she considered. “I’ve seen these rages. They control him beyond all reason. With your assurance, I will take this no farther. But I admit, my lord, it pleases me to never see him again.”
He worked to create an expression of understanding and sincerity.
She asked a few more questions about his injuries then sent in two handmaids to bathe and dress him in kingly garb. Shortly after, four young men appeared. They assisted him into a cushioned litter and brought him in due course to the throne room.
Right away he saw Menoetius among the other bystanders not far from the queen’s dais. His brother’s arms were crossed, his head tilted, frustration and anger chiseling a dark frown on his face.
Helice stood before her throne, her daughter Iphiboë on her right. Their redheaded oracle, Themiste, held Aridela’s hand on the queen’s left. Behind this foursome, two boys circulated the air with enormous feathered fans.
Seeing Aridela, at last, was like an infusion of undiluted wine. Dizziness swept through his head, leaving him blinded by sparkles of light, deafened by humming in his ears. He doubted whether he could stand long enough to hear whatever the queen wanted to say, but, gritting his teeth, he allowed the litter-bearers to help him from the litter then motioned them away.
Smiling her approval, Helice said, “Prince Chrysaleon, our oracle and stargazers have determined the most auspicious time for new beginnings. It occurs in eight days, the first full moon of the new year. I worried whether you would be strong enough to attend your own coronation, but seeing you earlier reassured me. So, my lord, eight days from today, you and Iphiboë will marry with all the proper rites and ceremonies. As the moon gifts us with new strength, Iphiboë will ascend the throne with you by her side. Are you prepared, prince of Mycenae, to honor our customs? To give up your homeland and title and become bull-king on Kaphtor for the span of one year?”
Her eyes, so gentle before, now felt like daggers as they stared into his. He could scarcely believe they were still giving him a choice.
“I am.” He swallowed. He hoped his words weren’t slurred. The hum made her voice echo, and no amount of blinking helped his blurry eyesight. Moreover, his mind refused to work; Rhené told him the blow to his head caused these symptoms.
“Then, when you have offered thirteen sacrifices, at the midsummer sowing a year from now, you will meet your cabal in the labyrinth.”
Chrysaleon felt the eyes of every person in the room appraising him.
Fearing he might choke for lack of air, he drew in a deep breath and fought to steady his mind and body. There was that word again. He stalled. “I fear my understanding of your language is limited, my lady. Cabal?”
“Someone should have explained.” Helice sent an irritated glance toward her counselors, who muttered among themselves. “You were the cabal of Xanthus. The man who makes you ready for the sowing is yours. He is your sacred brother, and will serve as bull-king after you.”
Brother. On Crete, the word held twin meanings. His cabal, or brother, was also his killer.
Idómeneus’s face formed in his mind. His brother, Gelanor. His sister, Bateia. His lover, Theanô. His pampered, spoiled life. What had he done? His gaze shot to Menoetius again, who stared back, wholly expressionless but for the repeated clench of his jaw.
Old defiance and resentment flared. “I am prepared,” he heard himself say.
Menoetius’s nostrils flared. He shook his head.
Helice stepped off the dais and embraced him, giving him a kiss on each cheek. “Son and lover of Athene,” she said. “You will be adored and honored. Paradise will welcome you, and you will be cloaked in glory.”
His muscles strained. He wanted to jerk away from those calm eyes, gazing with trust and affectio
n into his. He feared she might glimpse Poseidon laughing at her.
Helice beckoned to Iphiboë. Assisted by an attendant, the princess limped forward.
She looked as uncomfortable as he felt. In fact, she looked as if she might faint.
But she didn’t. Hints of Helice glimmered within her, in the same high cheekbones, gently slanted eyes, and firm, straight brows. If, somehow, Iphiboë could be taught confidence, she might indeed make a fine queen, though if things went his way, she would never have the chance.
Placing her daughter’s hand in his, Helice covered them with her own. “Athene herself unites these two,” she said. “On pain of death, let no living person oppose it.”
Iphiboë’s fingers trembled. She glanced into his eyes then away. She made him uncomfortable and reminded him of Iros. He’d almost forgotten his Mycenaean wife during his time here.
He needed to see Aridela, she who leaped, laughing, over the back of a wild aurochs. He scanned the dais until he found her. Woman of innate courage, of strength, of radiance. Absurd fate made Iphiboë the eldest. A dog could see Aridela would make the better leader. Now he’d agreed to months of torturous longing for one woman while spending his nights with this milksop whose hand shrank within his like a frightened sea anemone.
Helice said something, but this maddening impasse into which he’d flung himself, coupled with the sight of Aridela’s face, made him deaf to everything.
“Excuse me, my lady?” he said with a stammer.
“Phaistos, my lord,” she repeated. “You need distraction, I think, different scenery. Until the day of your anointing, would you care to visit Phaistos, my summer palace in the south? Sea breezes find their way inland at this time of year, making it cooler there.”
His first thought was a resounding no. He’d finally glimpsed his lover’s face, and after longing for her every moment for seven endless days, he couldn’t be sent away, losing any possibility of seeing her again before his formal entrapment to Iphiboë.
As he tried to construct polite words of refusal, Helice added, “Iphiboë wishes to go into seclusion, to meditate and prepare. But my youngest daughter could show you the sights of our southern coast. I understand a wild bull is to be captured for the ring; you might enjoy watching how this is done.”
The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 36