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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  “It shines like no silverwork I’ve ever seen.”

  “Damasen promised my mother they would be reunited someday.”

  She waited until his gaze lifted and her next words held his full attention. “My mother’s deepest love was given to my father, only my father, though she cares for every consort, as her duty demands.”

  A shadow passed over the sun, darkening his indigo irises. “You’ll be a great priestess someday,” he said. “Like my mother.”

  “Sorcha.”

  His smile was slow and sweet, cocooning them in intimacy.

  “Promise,” she said without thinking then said it again before she could lose her courage. “Promise.”

  It was all there, just behind her teeth, wanting to escape. Promise we will love each other. But she pressed her lips together and swallowed, afraid of being unworthy, if for no other reason than she was a baby to him.

  A frown formed between his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver.

  She saw his answer. She felt it as truly as if he said the words out loud.

  Forever.

  “My lord.” Alexiare stalked up the wharf. “Did you not see me? The ship will leave without us.”

  Bowing, the old man added, “Greetings, my lady.” As he straightened and scrutinized her, his gaze sharpened. She fancied he saw what she tried so hard to hide.

  Selene had mentioned his damaged voice. It was as rusty as an old bronze knife corroded in salt water. She nearly coughed.

  “Farewell, Princess Aridela,” Carmanor said. “You’ve made my visit one I’ll always remember. And we’ll see each other again. I swear it. Come now. Must you look so sad, my little sister?”

  Apparently, she’d fooled no one in her attempt to hide her emotions. “Goodbye, my brother,” she replied. Gathering her courage, she rose on her toes and placed her hands on his shoulders.

  He obligingly lowered his head so she could kiss his cheeks. His scent surrounded her, rich as honey. The breath of the Goddess.

  Giving her a brief hug, he stepped back.

  She watched the two walk down the quay.

  “Don’t break your promise,” she whispered.

  THE BEGINNING

  Chapter One: Moon of Laurel Leaves

  Chrysaleon, King Idómeneus of Mycenae’s eldest trueborn son, thrust his arms over his head, stretched, and released a gusty yawn. Night breezes floated from the surrounding mountain peaks and tickled the back of his neck, turning his thoughts to the woman in his bed.

  Considered the most beautiful female in Mycenae, she aroused every male from awestruck boys to cynical old men, and was the cherished, overprotected daughter of a general who imprudently treated Chrysaleon with dismissive condescension.

  She would make many irksome protests if he woke her— assuming he could get back to his chamber before dawn.

  He and his bastard brother stood on the rough, unfinished summit of the new rampart wall, an engineering feat that would eventually surround the entire citadel and strike awe into all who saw it.

  From this vantage point, Mycenae’s far reaches lay disguised in darkness. Lightning made play with the distant mutter of thunder as a summer storm moved away, leaving diminishing sprinkles. Pools of rainwater reflected sputtering torchlight.

  A rash of goose bumps lifted across Chrysaleon’s arms. His father’s palace possessed any number of rooms with well-laid hearths and comfortable chairs. Yet for some incomprehensible reason, he and Menoetius had been ordered to wait outside in the damp like chastised boys.

  A king’s whim couldn’t be ignored or defied, even by his own sons.

  The breeze puffed at his brother’s cloak, sliding the lush fur off one shoulder and rippling down its length. Chrysaleon squinted, imagining it draped across his own shoulders, soft against his flesh, how it would draw the covetous regard of everyone who saw it. He caught himself reaching out to touch it and pulled his hand back. He wouldn’t give Menoetius such satisfaction.

  Snowy white, accented with symmetrical black stripes, it was like nothing ever seen in Mycenae or any of its provinces. Menoetius received this gift from a woman who named the beast a tiger. She claimed those who lived on the rocky plains of Argolis could only dream the distance between the tiger’s homeland and theirs.

  The concubine of a wealthy merchant-trader, she took a considerable risk when she stole the pelt from her master and presented it to the king’s bastard in an attempt to lure him to her bed. Menoetius’s indifference toward women seemed to entice ever more inventive efforts to win his bitter, lifeless heart.

  He’d seen it happen again and again, yet Chrysaleon still found it baffling. Nothing about his brother should attract a woman. First of all, Menoetius sheared his hair when he was named captain of the king’s royal guard, and now kept it short like a common soldier. Threads of grey at his temples and distinct creases around his eyes and mouth made him look years older than his brother and their companions. Secondly, there were the scars. The worst one disfigured the left side of his face like a fat slivered moon, slicing through his brow to the corner of his mouth, the result of a lioness’s canine. It had only just missed gouging out his eye. Chrysaleon thought it revolting, but who could understand a woman’s mind? Chancy, unpredictable creatures, they were good for two things, pleasure, in the thick of night, and sons.

  Chrysaleon, noble royal prince, heir to the throne of Mycenae, and Menoetius, the lowly, scarred bastard with whom he was forced to share attention, differed in many ways, but this was one of the most obvious. Chrysaleon would always prefer a female’s honed legs to the honed blade of a sword. Already he’d fathered three sons. If the thunder god Poseidon continued to bless him, there would be more. Perhaps in time he would outstrip the king, whose ability and willingness to seed children was legendary.

  Even idle conversation would be better than standing here in silence, thinking of the trophy asleep in his bed. “Did you have a go at King Eurysthenes’s wife?”

  Menoetius merely snorted.

  “She was ready to spread her legs on the king’s dais for you, if you asked. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “What do women see in you? You’re ugly, my brother.”

  Menoetius smiled.

  “And,” Chrysaleon continued, chafed by the bastard’s stoic calm, “you feel nothing for them. Why can’t they see that at least?”

  “How is that different from you?”

  “Our differences are clear when the lamps are lit.”

  There was a slight pause. Chrysaleon laughed and slapped Menoetius between the shoulder blades. “They’ll slaughter you if they ever figure it out. They’ll pluck out your eyes and geld you. They’ll finish off what scraps that beast left.”

  “No doubt.” Menoetius turned his back and stalked across the wide walkway to the edge of the rampart. There he remained, looking down toward the gate, though night made it invisible. Knowing him, he probably imagined an invasion, and how handy this bastion would be for defense. Wind rippled along one side of the fur again, cajoling. How far will you go to have me, Prince?

  If only he would fall off and split his skull open on the rocks beneath.

  Annoyance blackened Chrysaleon’s mind. The restless desire to triumph, to make his name as immortal as a god’s, to wipe out the regard his father carried for lesser offspring, had hounded him as long as he could remember; it only intensified with manhood, like the sting of a maddened horsefly.

  The scrape of wood against stone drew his gaze to the nearer end of the rampart. Finally. The king. He ascended the half-finished ramp and limped toward his sons, leaning on a spear. Wet weather always inflamed the old wound in his thigh. Again, Chrysaleon wondered why his father demanded they meet here, in the rain, at night, on the summit of a dangerous, rubble-strewn wall.

  Menoetius returned to stand at Chrysaleon’s side.

  One lone torch had managed to stay lit through the drizzle; its sputtering flames outlined Idómeneus’s hawk-like nose and glinted against th
e gold of his royal headband. The faint light also lent the king’s hair a false yellowish cast, resurrecting tales of the man whose wild mane and ferocity in battle garnered him the title ‘Mad Lion of Mycenae,’ and which influenced the naming of his successor. The high king’s hair was thin now, paled to wispy grey, but Chrysaleon knew, with no little pride, that whenever his sire gazed upon him, he could be reminded of his own triumphant youth. Chrysaleon had inherited not only the irrepressible tawny hair, but the same unquenchable need for glory. One day, with the support of blue-thundered Poseidon, he would outmatch the deeds of every dead king and warrior immortalized in bard song.

  Chrysaleon cleared his throat to force a courteous tone and suppress impatience. “What is this about, Father?”

  Spear in hand, Idómeneus swept out his arms and peered into the night sky. “On the night of your birth, a great flare of light crossed the heavens. The people believed it a divine omen from Hippos, blessing you and your magnificent future.”

  One of Chrysaleon’s brows lifted. He bit his lip to prevent himself from asking, to which son do you speak? The king frequently proclaimed this message from the gods, yet years ago Chrysaleon overheard a different rumor. It was said Idómeneus grew forgetful; that the long-tailed star blazed through night’s void during the birth of Menoetius, bastard offspring of a troublesome slave, and had vanished by the time Chrysaleon’s head appeared between his mother’s thighs. This gossip was never deliberately repeated to Chrysaleon, but eavesdropping on busy women wasn’t difficult.

  “Kings seldom enjoy true privacy,” Idómeneus said, “and in this, there must be no listening ears. If word reached Crete or her queen, even my counselors….”

  “Whatever you say remains between us, my lord,” Menoetius said. He hadn’t seized his position by having a loose tongue.

  “Crete?” Chrysaleon stifled bored annoyance. Politics. He thought again, with edgy resentment, of the girl in his bed. She always scented her limbs with some sweet unguent that heated his blood and his pleasure.

  “Yes.” Idómeneus’s upper lip rose in a feral smile. “A fat rabbit among hungry wolves. I must be the wolf that consumes her.”

  “Many would call Crete the wolf,” Menoetius said.

  Idómeneus snorted. “Be off if you’ve no stomach for glory. Your brother and I will decide your future.” He waited, nostrils flared, lips tight. His fist, wrapped around the spear, was white-knuckled; he scraped the butt against the stones. Perhaps he would skewer the bastard. Chrysaleon hoped so.

  Menoetius stood his ground, his anger betrayed only by the repeated clench of his jaw and shallow exhalations.

  Much to Chrysaleon’s delight, Idómeneus continued to submerge his bastard son under an avalanche of frustration. “I sent you there six years ago with one simple task— to discover Queen Helice’s weaknesses. You returned with nothing but warnings and evasion. It would have done me as much good to send your sister.”

  “I gave you the truth, my lord. Alexiare was with me and he—”

  “Alexiare.” Idómeneus sneered. “A slave whose loyalty has always been doubtful. He thinks himself one of them.”

  This was anger talking. Chrysaleon knew his father trusted old, dusty-voiced Alexiare. More interesting was what he said about Crete. Chrysaleon hadn’t heard any hint of his father’s desire to overthrow the island for years, not since Menoetius returned from that bungled mission where he’d paraded as “Carmanor,” and nearly got himself executed. The whole affair had sparked a wrath in the king that blazed unabated for a month, until the day Menoetius nearly died in the jaws of a lioness. Grinning triumphantly, Chrysaleon said, “I didn’t know you still wished to depose Helice, Father. If so, I vow I will find a way.”

  Idómeneus shifted his weight from one foot to the other and sighed. When he spoke, he sounded weary and half-ashamed. “If I don’t, another will. We’ll spend eternity in the shadowlands, regretting our inaction.”

  He was silent a few seconds, then he pounded the butt of the spear against the rubble, snarling a wordless fury. “We should have the advantage,” he said, throwing spittle. “Instead, we have no plan, no knowledge of how to defeat her—”

  “My lord—”

  “Don’t give me excuses. You failed me then. I don’t know why I’m talking to you now.”

  Though he enjoyed his brother’s humiliation, Chrysaleon was chilled, and hopes of sex lingered. Whatever this meeting was about, he wanted it done. “Why the secrecy, Father, this meeting in the rain? Has the queen betrayed us?”

  His father shook his head impatiently. “For months I’ve heard rumors, strong rumors, that Helice means to relinquish her throne when their new year begins, and marry the next bull-king to her eldest daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “It isn’t clear,” Idómeneus said. “My spies have heard she’s sick, or weary of the sacrifice. Apparently her daughter is unready to rule. She’s shy and fearful. Maybe Helice hopes to toughen her up.”

  Long years had passed since Chrysaleon had last visited Crete with his father. The eldest daughter was presented to him, but he couldn’t recall any details about her. “Rumors. Rumors mean little. Why does this matter to us?”

  “Opportunity, my son. A crack in their defenses. We cannot let someone else take advantage.” Idómeneus glowered toward the hulking shadow of the palace, and Chrysaleon heard his teeth grate. “The man who captures that island will seize my crown.” Lower, the king added, “And I do not intend to lose my crown.”

  “Who would try? Only Mycenae has enough strength to accomplish such a feat.” Chrysaleon allowed his hereditary arrogance its freedom.

  “Are you so certain of that?” Idómeneus flung out his arm and growled. “Helice’s cities have no defensible walls. Foreigners come and go without restriction. She has the strongest ships, the finest oils, the purest bronze. She trades with uncountable lands and becomes richer with every season. Imagine the power of the king who conquers her. Greed makes men crafty, and there are some, right here, who suffer an uncommon obsession with the idea.”

  “Crete has no need of walls.” Admiration tinged Menoetius’s words.

  Chrysaleon laughed inwardly. Such honesty risked reigniting the king’s displeasure over the inept handling of that long-ago Cretan affair. With any luck, his bastard brother would bury himself in a bottomless abyss of disfavor.

  Yet Idómeneus listened without interruption as Menoetius continued. “I know you don’t want to believe this, Father, but her warships can rout any fleet before they ever reach her shores.”

  Chrysaleon waited for Idómeneus to explode, but the old king merely gave a nod, spiced with a grunt.

  Passion livened Menoetius’s voice as he described the courage of Crete’s warriors and their fighting abilities. He seldom displayed interest in anything other than the training field, and usually refused the more subtle pleasures offered to men of wealth and status. This single-minded ambition had helped him surpass senior men to become captain of the royal guard, an elite squadron sworn to defend the royal family and the citadel. He was the youngest man, at twenty-three, to ever hold such a post. Most impressive of all, Mycenae’s soldiers respected Menoetius. They didn’t believe he’d achieved the position because of favor or kinship to the king.

  This last thought wiped away Chrysaleon’s smug satisfaction. Idómeneus did favor the bastard. He always had, even after the botched Crete mission. Love existed between the two, no matter how furiously they sparred.

  Unclenching his teeth, Chrysaleon interrupted. “I still don’t understand. Why are you so worried? If you think Crete has become weak, your armies are ready.”

  Idómeneus sighed and shook his head. “As we grow in strength, so do others, Tiryns especially.”

  “You think Tiryns plans to invade Crete?”

  “Menoetius has discovered the truth of it.”

  The questioning glance Chrysaleon sent his brother gained him no insight. Menoetius hadn’t discussed his recent journey to
the massive holdings of King Lycomedes, sitting an easy ride south of Mycenae. For the first time, Chrysaleon realized he hadn’t even asked about it; he’d been too distracted by his latest lover.

  “Tell him,” Idómeneus said.

  A crease appeared between Menoetius’s eyes. “I spent three days in Tiryns, hiding who I was, dressed as a peasant. I heard that one of Tiryns’ own has vowed to sail to Crete in two months and compete in their Games.” Menoetius paused. “It’s Prince Harpalycus. If the rumor is true, he has his father’s blessing.”

  Chrysaleon swallowed instantaneous rage. “Ah.” So now they came to the heart of it. Harpalycus, heir to the throne of Tiryns, was the man with an “uncommon obsession.” It was well known fact. “He wouldn’t risk his neck without assurance of success.”

  “If the prince of Tiyrns competes in the Cretan Games and wins,” Menoetius said, “he’ll surround himself with allies and find a way to bring in his father’s forces. He’s a strong, gifted warrior, no matter what else we think of him. There is no reason why he cannot become their next bull-king.”

  “If we suspect this,” Chrysaleon asked, “wouldn’t Helice?”

  Idómeneus turned his head, cleared his throat, and spat loudly. “I don’t know. The only thing I do know is that no Cretan bull-king has ever thwarted his death.”

  “Foreigners compete in their Games,” Menoetius said. “It’s not common but wouldn’t raise undue suspicion.”

  “Helice’s youngest daughter was fathered by a warrior from Gla,” Idómeneus said. “I knew him.”

  “They leave it to Lady Athene,” Menoetius said. “There’s a saying that no one, man or woman, can hide duplicity from her.”

  “Unite with your allies,” Chrysaleon said. “Muster armies from Gla and Pylos. Neither Tiryns nor Helice could withstand so many.” He scratched his chin and swiped rain mist from his coarse beard. “The outcome would be a foregone conclusion.”