The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “Mother Athene has blue eyes, not grey as we’ve always thought. Dark, dark blue.” The memories returned in a flood; Aridela remembered the wondrous sensations she’d experienced. “They make all other blues colorless. She held me in her arms. She was strong and warm. I felt happy. Safe.”

  They stared as though she’d sprouted a second nose.

  “She kissed me on the forehead.”

  Helice, when she spoke, sounded uncharacteristically weak. “Kissed you?”

  “Do you remember anything else?” Themiste took the cloth from Aridela’s forehead and stroked her face with it.

  “No. Thank you for not hurting Isandros, Mother. I’ll make offerings and thank Potnia, too.”

  “And I,” Helice said, still weakly, “won’t harm your brother.”

  * * * *

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

  Menoetius clenched his fists. “No,” he shouted. “Leave me to my own fate.”

  “Hey.” A spear-butt prodded him in the ribs. “Wake up. The queen wants to see you.”

  Menoetius’s eyes opened. His muscles tautened and he scrambled to his feet. It took a moment to remember where he was. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Five other guards circled, armed with swords and shields. One shackled his wrists then motioned him to walk.

  Helice had made her decision.

  As they passed Isandros, he gripped Menoetius’s forearm. “Show respect. You have an air about you, like you’re used to being obeyed. Here, it is Queen Helice who is obeyed. You will live or die at her pleasure.”

  “Please, my lord.” The lead guard put out his shield. “Stand back.”

  Chills followed by waves of heat left Menoetius nauseated and dizzy. He couldn’t help thinking he’d hardly begun life. His beard hadn’t yet thickened. Now it would be over. Alexiare would return to Mycenae alone. He would be forced to tell the king his son had been slaughtered on the isle of Crete.

  His father would never allow such an insult to stand. He would declare war, which would lead to invasion and countless deaths. Maybe it would be better to tell Helice who he was.

  Menoetius’s stomach dropped as they marched up the steps of a broad staircase and between pillars into the courtyard. A crowd of people stared at him in silence. He wondered if the Cretans meant to murder him before an audience.

  Shivers erupted on his arms and the back of his neck. He swallowed the urge to defend himself. She would have bled to death on the floor if not for me. It was no use. All he could do was display a courage he didn’t feel.

  The guards turned left, herding him along as they reentered the palace. They escorted him up another set of steps; twelve, he counted, then a landing, a sharp turn, and another eight, another landing, another turn. Higher they climbed; Menoetius couldn’t help noticing how the square center of this staircase captured the rays of the sun and bathed the whole thing in a mellow ivory glow. Without such a design, their ascent would be made in murky darkness even in the middle of the day.

  When they finally stopped climbing and entered a corridor, Menoetius figured they must have reached the topmost story. Frescoes of flitting swallows, high marsh grasses, monkeys, ibex, lilies, and of course, grazing bulls, surrounded them on all sides. Here were hazy mountains with plumes of smoke at their summits, bees rising from carcasses, and peasants holding offerings. They passed painted seas and leaping fish. Even the ceiling of this fantastic place was part of the nature scene, the colors as fresh and bright as if created that morning.

  Admiration almost made him forget his predicament. The guards halted before a set of carved doors. The lead guard struck his shield twice with his sword.

  Menoetius tried to swallow and couldn’t. His mouth felt stuffed with sand.

  “Enter,” said a woman from the other side of the door.

  The guard bent, grasped the handle, and pushed. Both doors swung inward. Soft light washed the chamber. A crowd of men and women stared. One of the guards gave him a push. He stepped into the room.

  “Unshackle him.” Standing at the center of this gathering, Helice was intimidating for such a small figure. Invincibility emanated from her straightforward gaze.

  When the guard finished removing the bonds, Menoetius dropped his hands to his sides and bowed.

  “You are foreign,” she said.

  He lifted his head and tried to breathe.

  “You came to our land, you say, to pray to Our Lady in the place most precious to her.”

  He wished his heartbeat would stop pounding.

  “Because of this, Carmanor of Mycenae, our beloved daughter is alive today. Because of you.”

  He’d nearly forgotten the name he’d invented when he was interrogated. It startled him to hear it spoken.

  “Oh, Mother,” another female said, someone hidden by the crowd. “You’re being cruel.”

  The queen’s face reflected her joy. “Let me just say then, impatient child, that we do not believe in happenstance. Goddess Athene planted the desire in you to journey here. Because you followed your desire, my daughter was saved from certain death.”

  She bowed to him. His jaw slackened.

  She and the people standing around her shuffled to each side, opening a pathway to a large bed swathed in purple.

  Any other time he would have admired the splendor of this bed with its carved posts and overhanging draperies, but his attention riveted on the girl in it, looking so small against the gloriously painted headboard.

  She stared back at him with her enormous eyes and smiled shyly.

  It was the princess herself. The girl he’d saved.

  Aridela.

  Chapter Eight: Moon of Field Poppies

  “Minos.”

  Themiste stopped writing and looked up. Selene stood in the doorway, her hands clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

  “Is something wrong?” Themiste asked.

  “What stopped you? Mother Goddess, why did you not take Aridela’s life?”

  “Come in and close the door.” Themiste rose; habit made her cover the papyrus on which she’d been writing with a block of obsidian, then she gave a wry laugh. It was too late to safeguard the privacy of the Oracle Logs from Selene; the proof stood in front of her, emanating hot rage like the blast from a kiln. “Unless you want me cast out or killed for a crime I didn’t commit,” she added.

  Selene’s lips tightened but she followed Themiste’s direction and entered. “You weren’t the one?”

  A year ago, in a weak moment, Themiste had defied centuries’ old restrictions to share one of the prophecies with the woman standing before her. She’d never feared Selene would betray her trust. There was no torture devised that could accomplish such a thing.

  “It was I, yes, who went there, I who left the knife on her bed.”

  “I should kill you myself.”

  “Oh, you don’t imagine how it was for me.” Themiste retreated from Selene’s intensity and approached the pit at the far edge of the chamber. A scooped-out hole, lined with elaborate mosaic tiles depicting the Goddess in all her guises, it was surrounded with censers, tripods, and a scrolled pillar at either end. Fine curls of smoke drifted from one of the censers, scenting the room with the aroma of sage. She stared at the square of tiles portraying Athene as Dictynna, Goddess of fishermen, as she gathered her thoughts.

  Turning abruptly, she faced her accuser. “I would have taken my own life after, and led her myself into the realms no living mortal knows. I would have placed her hand in the Lady’s, and submitted to whatever punishment she might devise for my crime.”

  Doubt descended. Selene seemed to sense it, for she stepped closer, some of the rage dissipating from her face. “What stopped you?”

  “I can hardly say.” Pictures ran through her mind, of Io the serpent transforming into the likeness of Helice’s long-dead consort, Damasen, of the words freeing her from a dire resolution. But h
ow could she make Selene understand? She had no words to describe that face, so close above hers she could see the variances of color in his eyes. They possessed every imaginable tint, as did his hair, even his skin. She leaned against Selene, closing her eyes.

  “I came so close.” The words scraped against a raw throat. Moon-Beings weren’t supposed to be hesitant, weak, or wrong. “I almost killed her.”

  Selene held her without reserve. This fierce young warrior, possessing arms and thighs as hard as the trunks of oaks, also owned the tenderest of hearts.

  Themiste smelled the faint scent of juniper berry balm used to slow Aridela’s bleeding. Selene must have come straight from the child’s bedchamber.

  It struck her that Helice’s young prisoner bore a subtle likeness to the dead bull-king in her vision. Perhaps that was why she’d advised the queen to treat him well until his intentions were fully known. She’d thought it instinct, but she wasn’t sure.

  Selene clasped Themiste’s hands. “I thank the Lady for whatever it was that changed your mind.”

  “I wish I shared your certainty. I sense I’ve seen only a small portion of what is to come. If death and suffering descends, it will be too late to wish we could go back and do things differently.”

  A frown creasing her forehead, Selene peered at the stacked papyrus on the table. “I’m no priestess or oracle, but I’ll never believe Aridela brings our destruction. She’s specially blessed.”

  “Love clouds your judgment.”

  “Is it any different for you?”

  Themiste gave a shaky smile. “What happened in Aridela’s chamber is a mystery I cannot share, but I swear this. Never again will you have cause to believe I would harm her.”

  * * * *

  As she entered Aridela’s bedchamber later that day, Themiste experienced a thrill of joy.

  The child was sitting; her cat and dog lay on the bed with her, growling and hissing, tails snapping. Aridela laughed as the three wrestled.

  “Themiste,” Aridela cried when she saw her. “Will you make Rhené leave me alone? I want to get up.”

  Themiste sat on the edge of the bed. “You look better.”

  Aridela scowled. “It hurts, but not enough to keep me in bed. My legs are turning to porridge.”

  “I’ll speak to her. Has your mother told you about the feast?”

  “Yes. She promised I might go since I’m better.”

  “We’ll welcome the last of the refugees and celebrate your recovery.” Themiste tucked her lower lip behind her teeth as she considered what to say next. “Aridela, do you remember—”

  Heaving an annoyed sigh, Aridela said, “Can’t everyone stop asking what I remember? It makes my head hurt.”

  “Just one question then, if you will humor me. Do you remember speaking to me that day, after you— when the foreigner brought you out of the shrine?”

  Aridela frowned. She was silent then shook her head. “No.”

  Just “no.” It was unusual for this talkative child to be so reticent. Themiste waited, but Aridela said nothing more, and seemed reluctant to meet Themiste’s gaze. Her attention centered on the cat.

  “You said the Goddess wanted you to leap the bull. That she promised you would succeed.”

  Without lifting her gaze from the cat, Aridela shrugged. “Maybe I had a dream. I don’t remember.”

  Themiste thought of the other thing the child said, and suppressed a shiver. It was hard to keep from blurting it.

  Death cannot stop the thinara king. He will follow. He will slay me until time wears out.

  Who is the thinara king? Themiste longed to ask. Is he here, now? What does it mean?

  Chapter Nine: Moon of Field Poppies

  Selene’s skin was fragranced and soft from the oils in her bathwater, her hair crimped into an elaborate style that would attract much admiration. Her rare, sumptuous white-blonde locks drew rapturous comments wherever she went. Many women believed touching her hair would bring them good luck.

  She wasn’t one to fuss over her appearance, but for this feast she wanted to look as pleasing as she could. It was the foreigner— the barbarian, many called him, though others called him hero. Carmanor, from the rocky mainland.

  Though she’d lived on Kaphtor six years and could truthfully call herself a sister to Iphiboë and Aridela, many still referred to her as foreign. Perhaps that was one reason she felt so drawn to the young visitor who saved Aridela’s life.

  Isandros told her the boy was seventeen, which made him one year younger than she.

  She didn’t know what she wanted. She’d never understood the shadowy art of seduction. But she would like it if his gaze told her he thought her comely.

  An element of pity lay beneath her fascination. There was no mistaking the sadness in this youth’s eyes, discernable even when he smiled. She would like to ease that weight if she could.

  Leaving her chambers, she merged with a group of chattering ladies. They took little notice of her; she was merely one of the princesses’ many tutors, and never made much effort to be friendly.

  Selene kept to the rear of the noisy party as they crossed the courtyard and climbed a set of stairs to a landing, then another, which led to the feasting hall. Disks sewn into the women’s skirts chimed as they walked, a soothing sound mostly lost beneath giggling and gossip. Selene’s stomach growled in response to the wafting aromas of seasoned meat, baked bread, frying fish and olive oil; she realized suddenly she hadn’t eaten all day.

  The women fluttering around her were curled, oiled, and gilded. Their tight bodices made their breasts protrude like proud trophies. Selene felt too tall and muscular next to these fragile flower petals. Such things didn’t usually bother her, but what would Carmanor find pleasing? Would he be drawn to this paint, scent, and delicacy? He came from a rough, uncivilized world, though Kaphtor’s influence softened its edges. Perhaps he would find this tittering and flouncing as ridiculous as she did. She hoped so. It would disappoint her if he didn’t.

  The doors were thrown open, the entry spacious, yet a clot formed as everyone tried to crowd through. When at last she managed to step inside, admiration brought Selene to a halt. Countless lamps left no pockets of darkness and cast a glow over the tapestries on the walls. Low tables, piled with food, surrounded a rectangular space in the center where dancers would soon offer entertainment. Men and women bustled among the guests with carafes of wine and bowls overflowing with cheese and grapes.

  One table was already crowded with high-ranking refugees from the isle of Callisti. Since she’d first heard of the strange events occurring on Kaphtor’s northern outpost, Selene had grown ever more intrigued. What depth of terror would make it worthwhile to abandon a long-standing civilization, to allow it to molder with no one to mark the passing but a few lonely priestesses? Such a thing could never happen on mighty Kaphtor.

  At the north end of the hall, a dais supported a table draped with vines, leaves and flowers. A bull’s face, fashioned of gold and crystal, hung on the wall behind it, reflecting light from hundreds of suspended oil lamps. Mahogany chairs sat ready for Kaphtor’s royalty; the biggest, of course, in the center, for the queen.

  Those chairs were empty at the moment. Queen Helice and her family hadn’t yet arrived.

  “Greetings to you, my lady.”

  Selene looked around, down as well, to meet the gaze of the man next to her. White-haired, his weathered face shiny with sweat— it was hot in this room— the old man’s stooped back barely allowed him to reach her shoulders. The pronounced hoarseness of his voice made her swallow.

  “And to you,” she replied, remembering him; he was the hero’s father, the man who sparked within Carmanor that fateful desire to journey to Kaphtor, thus providing Aridela’s rescue. So she added, “This occasion must be a happy one.”

  “Yes.” His smile stretched into a grin before a cough stifled it. “I feared I would lose my son. I cursed myself for bringing him here, but through the grace of Goddess Ath
ene, he is spared.”

  “We share your happiness. Your son is courageous and… blessed.” Selene, about to say, “handsome,” found the word catching on her tongue. Her cheeks burned; they were so inherently pale she knew it would be hard to miss.

  His gaze sharpened. She brought her fan up to her face. “I hope the evening breezes pick up soon.”

  “Ah, here is the royal family,” he said after a short silence. “The queen asked my son to accompany her.”

  A hush fell as Queen Helice and her entourage, including the young hero, entered the hall through an arch in the northwest corner. She ascended the dais and motioned to Carmanor to take the chair next to her, a special favor indeed. Her consort, Zagreus the bull-king, sat on Carmanor’s right.

  Aridela’s older sister, Iphiboë, came next, timid and uncomfortable as usual. She hated crowds and formal gatherings, especially when attention would be drawn to her, and usually threw up beforehand. She was an attractive woman in the prime of youth and beauty, but Selene had to acknowledge that her face seemed to accent her skittish nature and her lips had a tendency to turn down at the corners. It was said that Iphiboë resembled her dead father more than her mother.

  Selene thought of her as a shadow to vivid Aridela. People tended to forget Iphiboë was in the room when the sisters were together. She faded into invisibility.

  Well aware of these unconscious prejudices, Iphiboë grew up shy and quiet, with a slight stutter. No doubt she’d also heard the oft-spoken declaration that Aridela would make a better queen.

  Knowing how it felt to be an outsider, Selene was especially kind to Aridela’s older sister; consequently she was one of the few people Iphiboë trusted.

  The princess took her seat, leaving an empty chair to the queen’s immediate left.

  Themiste walked in, chatting with the merchant who was accommodating Carmanor and his father. He was swollen with self-importance, being host to the island’s most celebrated hero.