Selene rose. She took the papyrus from Themiste’s hands and laid it on the table. “How old is this one?” she asked, to distract her.
Themiste swallowed and clasped her hands together tightly. “It was composed as many years ago as there are fish in the sea.”
Awe gave way to creeping fear. Different women, from vastly different ages. Every one experienced similar visions. They saw the same catastrophe and made parallel warnings. This was more than Selene could grasp. She tried to rub warmth into Themiste’s hands. “What can I say? I’m no seer. I cannot help you.”
“I didn’t expect you to solve the riddle. I simply needed to share the burden.”
A thought occurred to Selene. She bit her lip, afraid to speak it, but she knew she must. “Minos, our oracles have prophesied these events for time beyond what I can fathom. Why do you think you can change any of it? I think that no matter what you do, everything will unfold as the Immortals have planned it. You cannot thwart them.”
Themiste released a weary sigh. Her shoulders drooped. The blue crescent tattoo on her forehead stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin and her eyes were haunted. “But why am I given this knowledge, if nothing can be done? No, I don’t believe it. The prophecies have formed, like an infant in the womb of its mother. Now, in the time of Aridela, the child of lightning, they are giving birth. They show but one possible path. My task is to find a way onto another.” Her fine brows lowered, shadowing her eyes. “But I don’t know how, and my ignorance may bring doom to us all.”
Chapter Eleven: Moon of Field Poppies
“You’re my sister. Can’t I count on you, at least? I’ll die if I have to spend another day in this room.”
Iphiboë set her needlework on the table. “Stop pestering me, Aridela. You brought this on yourself.”
“I want to see the sun.” Aridela threw herself onto her bed, burying her face in soft wool.
“Rhené says you should remain quiet. If you run about in your usual manner the wound could break open. And what about the dizziness, the fainting? It’s no surprise she’s worried.”
“I have no memory of the feast, or of speaking this prophecy. I’m not sick. That’s all I know.”
Iphiboë picked up a footstool and placed it before the loom. “Keep your hands busy. Perhaps Mother will relent if she sees you accomplishing something.”
“I wish I were as old as you. Then I could do whatever I want.”
“When you’re my age, you’ll be living in the cave shrines with Minos Themiste. Priestesses are watched over as carefully as princesses— you even more so.”
“I wish I were a commoner.”
“I wish you were Mother’s first-born. You could be queen and I could be Themiste’s acolyte.”
Aridela sat up and faced her sister, distracted from her own troubles by that familiar tone. “You think of the sowing.”
The tremor in Iphiboë’s shoulders served as answer.
Perhaps logic would make a difference. “Why are you so convinced the man who finds you will be horrible?” Aridela asked. “Is there not an equal chance he will be young, handsome, and you’ll fall happily in love?”
“When has chance ever allied itself to me?” Iphiboë sank onto the stool. “Every other woman who enters the oak grove can choose her partner. I alone am bound to accept any man, young, old, sick, well, stranger or friend, so that all can say Athene made the choice.”
“If I were going, I would hide so well no one could find me but a god. Velchanos himself.”
Iphiboë managed a brief smile. “Velchanos wouldn’t want to find me. Do you think I don’t see things as they are? Men never notice me unless I’m covered in gold and on display for some event. I prefer it that way. I know I’m ugly.”
“You’re not ugly.” Aridela leaped off the bed. “Stop saying that.”
“I have to fulfill the rites. I’ve put it off too long. Mother’s council might rope me to the ground this time.”
“They— they wouldn’t—”
“Oh, put your eyes back in your head. I didn’t mean it. But they are sending Selene with me. She takes her orders from Mother.”
“Selene loves you.”
“It’s you Selene loves, Aridela. If you wanted no man to find you, she would cast spells and guard you with swords of fire.”
“Well, don’t do it. You say you have to, but that isn’t true. No one will force you. It may be written that a queen can’t refuse any man who finds her, but you know they’ve always made their secret arrangements. And whatever you say, I know Selene would gladly arrange something for you. If you’re bold enough, you can make things happen to suit your own pleasure.”
“Boldness and I are unacquainted.” Iphiboë stared at the floor. “And I cannot bear Mother’s disappointment.”
Aridela stifled a sigh. As usual, Iphiboë refused to take any risks. Determined to believe the rites would be terrifying, she would no doubt bring her worst imaginings to fruition. Aridela opened her mouth, meaning to ask if there was not someone, anyone, who Iphiboë admired, but let the question go. She knew the answer already.
It was far more pleasant to think of her rescuer, the Mycenaean boy from the mainland, where lions roamed, and boars, and battles raged, and too many kings who were crowded into too small a space quarreled over petty kingdoms. Carmanor, of the pale skin and straight dark hair like a fall of water. It wasn’t quite as black as Aridela’s would be, were it allowed to grow, but the rich shade of oak wood. And those eyes. Surely her mind, in fever, embellished that hue, bluer than the dark seas surrounding Kaphtor. Bluer than the sky at the summit of Mount Ida. Blue, the most lovely of all shades crafted by Gaia, mother earth.
At her mother’s invitation, he and his father had moved into the palace. Perhaps he was exploring. He might be outside her chamber this very moment.
But when she ran to the door and threw it open, the only face to greet her was dour old Halia’s, who’d been ordered on pain of torture to prevent any more escapes.
She shuffled to the balcony and leaned on the rail, moaning. Carmanor fell ill at the feast just as she did, with sudden dizziness, faintness, and a fever. Like her, the illness soon vanished, the difference being that when he recovered, he could do as he wished while she remained confined to her chamber. After the many ordeals he’d suffered at their hands, he’d probably arranged for passage home with vows never to return.
Pain and fever left her memories so jumbled she couldn’t recall his face clearly. If she concentrated, she could dredge up vague images of the day they brought him to her chamber, when they’d decided he wasn’t guilty of trying to harm her and in fact had saved her life. He’d been grave that day. Solemn. He’d even seemed unhappy, which made sense, as he’d been brought to her room in shackles, uncertain whether he would live until the disappearance of the old moon.
There must have been a moment or two where he was sorry he’d hauled her out of the shrine at all.
She giggled.
Iphiboë looked up from her stitchery. “A moment ago you were sobbing. Now you laugh?” She shook her head. “How I wish I could return to the thoughtless innocence of childhood.”
Aridela nearly spat out a sarcastic retort but managed to refrain. Iphiboë couldn’t help her nature. It must have seeped into her through her father’s blood. She possessed other aspects, however, which shyness kept her from sharing with anyone but her sister. Iphiboë was quietly romantic, idealistic, devout and, in her own way, passionate. Only Aridela knew that Iphiboë dreamed of doing something no one else could do, which would make her name live on after her death, something that would make everyone’s doubts about her vanish forever. Aridela loved her sister, frailties included. “If I could, I would attend the rites in your place,” she said. She would have said anything to reassure Iphiboë at that moment.
Iphiboë’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Aridela.” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Now. You say you want to see this boy Carmanor. Perhaps we ca
n find a way.”
* * * *
Aridela’s balcony table boasted fish and fruit, soft barley cakes with sesame, bowls of honey, mint water and mulled cider pressed from the latest crop of apples. The morning was fresh, ripe with breezes carrying hints of the sea and the sweet scent of apples, which pervaded the island this time of year.
Dressed in blue linen set off by a belt of hammered silver disks and armbands, Aridela’s final touch was the heavy scarab amulet an Egyptian ambassador had given her, molded from carnelian and quartz. Though overbearing for her small bone structure, it was an impressive piece, and she’d long wanted an occasion to wear it.
If only she could curl and braid her hair like Selene’s, but every child’s head, including the heads of princesses, was shaved until the age of twelve. She made the best of things by weaving tiny silver links through her topknot.
Glancing into the courtyard, her concentration faltered at the sight of her bloody handprints on the pillar at the entrance to the shrine. No one had yet washed them off. A flurry of scuffling and voices broke off somber memories. She rearranged the pot of herbs and dittany and walked into her chamber to find Halia greeting Carmanor.
She held out her hand. “Thank you for having breakfast with me.”
Those eyes of his were as extraordinary as she’d remembered. No trick of light or invention of fever, they seemed lit from behind, like crystals held up to the sun. She found it hard to look at anything else, especially when he smiled.
The maids withdrew to their needlework, leaving Aridela and her guest to enjoy relative privacy. Aridela’s mouth went dry as old bones, so she poured them both mint-flavored water as they sat down. Heat radiated through her flesh. Resisting the urge to fan herself, she instead lifted her chin and spoke the first thing that popped into her mind.
“Why were you in the shrine that day? I thought mainlanders followed sky gods now.”
His smile faded. Aridela glimpsed something flash through his eyes. Instinct wanted to name it grief, but she couldn’t be sure.
“No,” he said. “Many worship Athene above any other, even there.” He paused then added as he picked up his bowl, “I’ve long wished to pray to her on Crete, her true home. I hoped she might speak to me, and I… think she did.” He glanced at Aridela, blushing.
Was he trying to say she was Athene’s message to him? Tears pricked the back of Aridela’s eyelids, and waves of compassion shivered down her spine. He felt as she did about Mistress Athene. His tone, his stance, his expression, all betrayed it. Here was one, finally, who might truly understand her.
It had long been rumored that Princess Aridela and the Great Goddess shared an eerily intimate relationship. Aridela had been told that when she was little, she’d been overheard on occasion speaking to an invisible companion she called “Mother.” Though she had no conscious memory of such things, Aridela did feel Athene’s presence. Sometimes, if the mood and shadows were right, she felt the caress of diaphanous fingers on her cheek. She never shared such revelations with anyone, though. It was a private, holy, secret thing— and everyone would think her demented.
“She does speak clearly here,” Aridela said. “She speaks in the water, and from trees. I can show you.”
His eyes revealed an instant of undisguised hope. “You’re most kind. Everyone on Kaphtor is as courteous as its fame avows. But are you well enough?”
She fidgeted. The place she mentioned was sacred; the uninitiated were seldom allowed there. It made things worse that he respectfully called the island ‘Kaphtor’ rather than ‘Crete,’ as most foreigners did. Now she’d have to take him. “Yes,” she said. It wasn’t quite true, but almost. “I’m well, and tired of being cooped up.”
He rescued her again, this time from guilt by changing the subject. “Your home is wondrous. Are there truly as many rooms as there are stars in the heavens?”
Only he erred in his efforts to master the language, and the question came out as, “Are there truly as many rooms as tuna in the heavens?”
Tension and shyness fled with Aridela’s laughter.
* * * *
“If you prefer,” Aridela said, “We can talk in your language. I learned it long ago, along with the language of the Phrygians and the Egyptians.” Stop, she thought. You’re boasting.
But Menoetius’s expression didn’t change. “I like speaking in yours. It helps me learn. Soon I’ll make no mistakes and you’ll have to laugh at someone else. I’m getting better, aren’t I?”
“Yes.” She grinned. “Much.”
They climbed the path up the rocky flank of Mount Juktas. Aridela was pleased to see her companion didn’t get breathless like so many of the pampered ambassadors.
“You won’t be disappointed. I’ve come here since I was little, and I always feel the Lady’s presence.”
“You’re still little.” Her companion grinned at her scowl. “Why does that make you angry? There’s no shame in being young. Surely you won’t have so much freedom when you’re older. In my country, princesses never go adventuring. A princess there would never be left alone long enough to sneak into the bullring and get herself gored.”
Aridela didn’t understand. It wasn’t as though they were alone. Following discreetly at the queen’s insistence were ten maids, including Selene, and two serving men. She wouldn’t call this freedom.
But as they topped the last incline, other thoughts faded beneath anticipation and excitement. “We’re almost there,” she said.
The temple, tucked into the natural ridges on the edge of a cliff, circled a cave entrance. It was constructed of matched blocks of limestone topped with pairs of bull’s horns, ibex carved from marble, and doves in flight. Bronze poles towered above the roof to draw down the god’s potent lightning.
They couldn’t enter as Carmanor wasn’t initiated, but Aridela left a basket of offerings with one of the priestesses who came out to greet them.
“The old temple wasn’t so nice as this,” she said as they continued along the path toward the wood. “When I was born, fire destroyed it.”
Carmanor’s interested glance was gratifying and made her feel important. “Yes,” she said, “moments after I was born it was struck by lightning. But the Lady showed Themiste that we must rebuild. We made it quite fine, didn’t we? There’s a statue of her son inside. This whole mountain is dedicated to him. To Velchanos, the god of lightning.” She held up her left arm. “See? I have this scar from that night. They say Velchanos used his lightning to mark me.”
She expected him to be surprised, maybe awed, but he merely nodded.
“Your brother told me,” he said, adding, “It does look like a pair of bull’s horns.”
They stepped into a primordial oak forest, where the sky narrowed down to gnarled, interwoven branches supporting a canopy of fluttering green. Carmanor peered from side to side, his expression transfixed.
Her efforts to persuade Queen Helice to allow the excursion, her promises that Carmanor wouldn’t defile their holy places, had been worth the trouble.
Beyond the wood lay the place she most wanted him to see. A suspended cliff where one could look over an enormous swath of island, spread out like an ocean of green with towering violet mountains to the east and west.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Wait.” Aridela grabbed his hand and pulled him along the edge of the creek. Sunlight filtered jewel-like, blinding then vanishing, through the leafy ceiling. Just within the far edge of the wood next to the path they came upon another statue of Velchanos. Constructed of marble, the naked likeness was larger than a mortal man and stood upon a pedestal to make him even more imposing. In one hand he held a clutch of arrows, and a bow hung off his shoulder. Serpents twined over his wrists and forearms, and thick curls caressed his head. He faced east, to the rising sun.
Aridela knelt and touched the god’s bare toes. She gazed up into the impassive face, struck by an uncommon likeness to the boy standing next to her.
&nb
sp; “What is it?” Carmanor asked as she turned from Velchanos to him and back again.
Too shy to point it out, she mumbled, “Nothing,” and stood, gesturing to him to follow.
They crossed a flat grassy expanse to the edge of land.
For the first time Aridela didn’t drink in the beauty before her. She kept her gaze locked on her new friend, wanting to measure his response.
He sat on the ground and she joined him. Wind blew against their faces, offering scents of rosemary and oregano. Their vantage point provided views of cypress and pine clamoring in unhindered tangles of green up the mountain’s ridges, and the fertile valley spread out to the north. Dust clouds muted Knossos, but Labyrinthos’s higher stories pierced the haze. Its signature red pillars gleamed in the sunlight.
He asked, his voice hushed, “Does anyone else come here?”
“Oh yes. This is one of our most holy places. You must never speak of it. I got special permission to bring you. The uninitiated fear this place, and a few have been put to death for spying on the sacred rites. But don’t worry. My mother likes you. She can see, as I do, that you respect our ways.”
He faced her at last. “My lady, could I be alone?”
Sensing what was in his heart filled her with gratification, and she noted his respectful use of a woman’s title. She jumped to her feet. “Only tell me first. Can you feel her? The Goddess?”
“Yes.” He didn’t smile or frown, but there was a suggestion of deep, possibly rare, contentment.
Chapter Twelve: Moon of Field Poppies
The serving men killed and skinned an ibex while the maids built two fires, one for Carmanor and Aridela, and the other for the attendants. An offering was made of the thighs, the rest divided and roasted. Wood smoke and thyme saturated the air.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 9