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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Iros’s eyes widened. She blushed as she stammered, “M-my lord,” and inclined her head.

  “Come,” Idómeneus shouted. “We’ll feast together.”

  Chrysaleon rose and offered Iros his arm, noticing how pale she’d turned.

  Lycomedes gestured. Two women approached and led her away, the opposite direction of the feasting hall.

  “She’s overtired,” Lycomedes said to Chrysaleon’s questioning glance. “And shy. She’s lived a secluded life. As her husband, you will have the pleasure of molding her into whatever pleases you.”

  His words were enough to send Chrysaleon’s gaze shooting toward Harpalycus. He wasn’t surprised to see a snarl and clenched fists. Whatever Lycomedes planned to accomplish through this betrothal, he did it without his son’s approval.

  “Your upcoming voyage to Crete forced me to hasten things,” Idómeneus said, low enough not to be overheard as they walked toward the mouth-watering scent of roasted pig. “I want you married before you leave, and it would please me if she grows heavy with child while you’re gone. Delays in these matters help nothing, and remember— your sons by Iros can kill Harpalycus and any of his offspring.” He acknowledged the congratulations offered by one of his counselors.

  “I didn’t wish to marry yet,” Chrysaleon returned. “And I surely wouldn’t have chosen her.”

  “That is of no matter to me. You will do as I command. This union with Tiryns and Crete’s overthrow will make us invincible.” He strode away to join a crowd of well-wishers, seizing a gem-studded bowl in his gnarled hands and giving a full-throated laugh.

  Chapter Six: Moon of Mead-making

  Harpalycus….

  The tic beneath Chrysaleon’s left eye sprang to life, as it had done whenever he was tired or angry for as long as memory served.

  Even now, as the king’s guests feasted, laughed, flirted and admired the dancers, Harpalycus made no effort to hide his rage. He leaned against the far wall, flanked by two of Lycomedes’ guards, no doubt ordered to keep the prince of Tiryns from causing a scene.

  Shadowing his master was the scrawny, yellow-skinned Proitos.

  Still smarting at his father’s trickery, Chrysaleon sought to ease his impotent fury. He sauntered over, nodding at the guards’ salutes.

  “Your sister,” he said. “My wife.” He offered a deliberately lecherous grin.

  One of the guards placed a hand on Harpalycus’s forearm. The prince jerked it away. “Perhaps. We shall see.” He swallowed hard and his lips whitened.

  “Lay hands upon me again and you’ll lose your fingers,” Harpalycus said to the guard without so much as glancing at him.

  The guard flushed. “My lord, your father ordered me—”

  “—You haven’t changed,” Chrysaleon said, crossing his arms. “Still a boy in a man’s body.”

  “I don’t fear slaves and commoners, as some men do.”

  The guard’s jaw clenched. He set his gaze upon the opposite wall and fell still as wood.

  “Men find worthy adversaries,” Chrysaleon said.

  The antagonism was a long-simmering thing. Nine years it had festered, since Idómeneus ordered his fourteen-year-old son to attend Harpalycus’s twelfth birthday celebration at the citadel of Tiryns.

  Chrysaleon and a group of boys wanted to see who could throw a spear the farthest. As they passed Harpalycus’s bedchamber, they heard a scream and cries for mercy. Upon entering, Chrysaleon saw Harpalycus whipping a slave who was crouched on the floor.

  He wrenched the whip from Harpalycus’s hand.

  “Give that to me,” Harpalycus shouted, red-faced.

  “What did he do?” Chrysaleon returned.

  Harpalycus’s eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath. “Do you think I must answer to you?” His fists clenched. “This is Tiryns. You are nothing here.”

  King Lycomedes entered just then and overheard his son’s discourteous comments.

  The king blanched and put himself between the two boys. “How dare you speak to Prince Chrysaleon in that manner,” he’d said, staring coldly at Harpalycus. He turned to Chrysaleon. “I ask your forgiveness on behalf of my son, who is too ignorant to ask it for himself. He’ll be punished, you have my vow.”

  “I don’t want him punished.” Chrysaleon damned his bothersome curiosity. He could be outside right now throwing spears. “I only—”

  “I don’t need you to intercede for me.” Harpalycus lunged past his father, his fist flying toward Chrysaleon’s jaw, but Lycomedes tripped him, sending him sprawling.

  “That is where you belong,” Lycomedes shouted. “And that is where you will remain.” He gestured to his serving men. “Take him away.”

  Harpalycus was dragged, screaming curses, from the room.

  Lycomedes bowed in such a servile manner that Chrysaleon’s lip curled. “You’ve honored us by coming here for my son’s birthday celebration. Harpalycus is an ignorant fool.”

  Chrysaleon allowed the other boys to pull him away. Later, at the feast, Lycomedes ordered the guards to bring Harpalycus in while he presented his son’s birthday gift, matched stallions from Thrace, to Chrysaleon, in front of a densely packed hall.

  “I don’t want them,” Chrysaleon said. They were beautiful, but they would only remind him of the boy he hated.

  “He must learn how to treat his betters,” Lycomedes said. “Since he won’t listen to his tutors or to me, perhaps this will make an impression.”

  At that point Chrysaleon lost all patience. “Nevertheless,” he said in his most haughty voice, “I will not take this gift.” He turned his gaze toward Harpalycus. “They aren’t worthy of my father’s stables.”

  Lycomedes inclined his head and dropped the argument. Chrysaleon knew he’d made another enemy.

  Chrysaleon saw Harpalycus once more before he left Tiryns the next day.

  “Prince of Mycenae,” Harpalycus said, speaking low. “Don’t think this is done. One day, you will beg for my mercy, but I never forgive my enemies.”

  “If you think you’re a match for me, then let us fetch swords and have it out.”

  “My father won’t allow me to strike you down in this place. He would have me killed from the walls. Go in peace today, but know there will come another time when there will be no one to protect you. Then we shall see who is a match for whom.”

  Since that moment, Chrysaleon and Harpalycus could barely suffer each other’s presence.

  Now they would be brothers-in-law. In some circumstances, it might be amusing. But Chrysaleon didn’t laugh. He could see the betrothal had only intensified Harpalycus’s hatred.

  “You bait me in your feasting hall, surrounded by your supporters,” Harpalycus said. “The way of a coward.”

  As Chrysaleon clenched his fists to show him his mistake, he saw his father crossing to them swiftly.

  Giving a snort of disgust, Harpalycus shoved past him.

  “This isn’t the time,” he said. “But the day will come. That I promise.” He stalked away, his lackey and the two guards following close behind.

  Proitos glanced back, sneering.

  * * * *

  Chrysaleon kept his distance from Theanô; he saw her tightly controlled fury and knew he’d better give her time to recover her equilibrium. Besides, her father wouldn’t stop pawing at her; he kept a hand clamped to her elbow or shoulder every moment. The most she could do was glance his way from time to time. Later, after the man succumbed to sodden sleep, Chrysaleon would tell her he’d known nothing of Idómeneus’s plans.

  “Chrysaleon.”

  He turned. Menoetius, wearing a garland of grapevines on his head, resisted a woman’s playful tug on his hand. “Now that you’re to be married, you’ll need to know how to defend yourself. Wrestling? At daybreak?”

  Without hesitation, Chrysaleon replied, “In the east training field. Be prepared to nurse your wounds, blood brother.”

  “Bold words. But words prove nothing.” Menoetius smiled at the woma
n.

  As Chrysaleon returned his gaze to Theanô, he heard and inwardly cursed the contemptuous laugh behind him.

  Blood brother. The title recalled the day, six years ago, when he and Menoetius vowed their loyalty and fused the indestructible bond through the mingling of their blood. There was plenty of blood to go around that day, after the lioness shredded the bastard’s flesh from his bones and tried to do the same to the prince. If not for Chrysaleon’s prowess and sharp dagger, Menoetius would be moldering in a grave instead of trying to rile him tonight.

  The day Chrysaleon killed the lioness and saved Menoetius’s life, he’d earned the title of ‘Lion killer.’ It was a feat still commemorated in bard songs.

  Menoetius owed him— it was up to Chrysaleon to determine just how and when to exact whatever payment he deemed worthy.

  Heady thoughts. Nothing gave quite the same pleasure as triumph, glory, and dominion over others.

  * * * *

  “Come here, my lord.” The girl’s voice slurred. Menoetius chose her because she was drunk. He’d rather tolerate the blurry reactions of a sot than those of sober, well-bred ladies, who were either horrified at the extent of his disfigurements or sickeningly fascinated, as though mere breathing made him something more than mortal.

  The girl was a slave and had no right to be sneaking wine when she was supposed to be serving King Idómeneus’s feast-guests. She risked being beaten, even killed, if the wrong person caught her.

  Menoetius had observed her stealing sips from the pitcher she carried. When her state deteriorated to the point of giggling and stumbling, he seized her arm and dragged her from the hall to his bedchamber.

  He didn’t know her story. She might have once worn a crown and ruled a country for all he knew. He didn’t care.

  She lay on his bed, seemingly willing, but she hadn’t yet seen him naked. He stood in the shadows. “Blow out the lamp,” he said.

  Her eyes couldn’t quite focus. “You make me afraid. Aren’t you real? Have you the head of a gryphon, or are you a god? If I look upon you, will my eyes blister and my flesh burst into flame?” She slipped the shoulder of her tunic down, baring one breast. She might be drunk and a slave, but her skin was smooth and her teeth healthy. She must have been well fed and tended at one time.

  “Blow out the lamp,” he repeated, with a note of threat.

  She was too drunk to heed. “No, my lord.” She held out her arms. “Let me see my handsome lover.”

  Handsome? That word had long been denied him. Her casual assumption ignited his anger. He strode to the bed, watching her eyes lower, widen. He threw himself on top of her and ripped her tunic.

  She put her mouth next to his ear. All hint of slurring vanished, she whispered, “The gods will have what they want. Why do you fight it? You cannot win.”

  * * * *

  I can never stay angry with you.

  Those were Theanô’s last words before she drifted to sleep curled against Chrysaleon’s chest. After venting her wrath in tears and the shattering of every piece of pottery in his bedchamber, she’d soothed his needs with enticing, greedy passion. Perhaps, if this was the end result, he should tell his father to betroth him every fortnight.

  A mouse rustled in the corner. Faint shouts and laughter echoed. The dull pounding in Chrysaleon’s head and the way the darkness spun warned him he would suffer tomorrow.

  He closed his eyes. Theanô draped an arm across his belly. The bed was comfortable and she smelled of some enticing flower.

  The scent intensified as he removed her arm and rose. He left the chamber, hoping to find the source. Soon the floor was covered in mossy earth, and he pushed his way through soft blooms. The lazy buzz of bumblebees filled his ears.

  As he rounded a corner not far from the feasting hall, he stopped, startled.

  Grapevines, heavy with fruit, cascaded from the walls. Tucked between were sheaves of barley. A young woman barred his way. Her black hair rippled, long, loose and shining, over bare breasts. Delicate cowrie shells hung from threads on her layered skirts. They clicked softly as she approached him. How had such treasure managed to elude him in his own home?

  She lifted one hand to her throat and extended a necklace or charm of some sort. The silver appeared almost liquid bright against the bronze of her skin.

  See my trinket?

  He stared at the dark blue stone set between a waxing and waning moon. It appeared to pulse, slowly, then faster as she spoke again.

  Artisans fashioned it from a vein of ore on Mount Ida, near the sacred cave. Her voice was a seductive whisper. Some say it comes from a lake of silver on the moon.

  She came closer. His hands rose to her breasts. They were tender, firmly curved. He experienced the odd sense that no man had ever before touched them; that made him want to even more. Her lips felt soft, warm as goose-down. They opened beneath his.

  His groin throbbed. The back of his neck shivered. He lifted his face from hers, meaning to push her against the wall, and so caught the swift-moving gleam from the corner of his eye. With an angry shout, he threw up an arm to ward off the blow.

  Her heavy-lidded languor vanished. She bared her teeth and struggled, aiming her dagger at his heart.

  Your blood renews the land, she cried.

  Renew… renew….

  Chrysaleon sat upright, breathing hard, his muscles tensed. The high narrow window slit formed pale moonlight into a shaft that sliced across the room. Theanô lay drenched in that light, motionless as an ivory statue.

  Only a dream. Yet his hands remembered the firmness of the imaginary woman’s flesh. He still saw his reflection in those enormous eyes, sensed the pulsing of the blue stone in her necklace. She’d had darker skin than a Mycenaean. Dark, like a Cretan.

  Foreboding stabbed. Before he could ward it off, the thought cemented, pulling a shiver from his spine.

  A portent. The dream was a portent… from Crete. From Goddess Athene.

  Chapter Seven: Moon of Mead-making

  The smell of earth and dust tickled Menoetius’s nose. Tawny grass rustled, drowning any other sound. Prickly weeds brushed his cheeks. Holding his breath, he inched forward on his belly, knowing it would do no good. No matter how silently he crept, the lion always knew he was there. Ears peaked, it was always ready, showing its teeth. Waiting.

  Behind the lion stood a gnarled oak tree, soaring so high its apex couldn’t be guessed. Inside the massive hollow trunk a manacle was driven deep in the wood, keeping a woman prisoner.

  Menoetius had to pass the lion to set her free.

  Thou wilt give to her the offering of thy blood.

  The voice, a woman’s, woke Menoetius as it dissipated into the layers of night. His sudden jerk roused the slave. She murmured a protest but instantly returned to sodden sleep. It wasn’t she who spoke.

  The nightmare.

  Menoetius stared into silent green darkness as his heartbeat slowed. Sanity and order returned to his mind. He touched the corner of his left eyebrow, severed by the scar. His fingertip traced the crescent-shaped ridge to his mouth, to the pucker at the edge of his lower lip. Up again, the length of the scar, and down, harder, as though by rubbing it could be obliterated.

  After sex, the slave-woman said, “I’ve heard the gods burn those they love. You must be loved beyond imagination.”

  He’d turned his back to her, feeling her gaze explore his flesh like pricks from a dagger. He didn’t care to know what emotion, if any, the wheals and marks elicited. Six years had exposed him to every imaginable reaction. Terror from children. Pity from old women. Disgust from finicky beauties. Even lust that seemed directed more toward the old wounds than him. His father claimed scars made women hot and wet, for they proved a man’s courage and women always opened their legs for the strongest, most courageous male. From what he’d experienced, the statement held truth.

  Few warriors escaped scarring. Battle wounds were nothing, so long as they didn’t kill you, Idómeneus often remarked. Chrysal
eon displayed his proudly, and the king was untroubled by the ugly welt on his thigh left by a lucky spear thrust, though he cursed it when the weather grew damp. He liked to say scars reminded a man of successful battles, and made his fire-stories more interesting.

  Menoetius never talked about his battle with the lioness. Even right after it happened, he left it to Chrysaleon to tell the tale, to embellish it however he wished.

  The first time he had the dream was the night of the attack, when he lay so close to death he felt it wrap round him, cold, stinking, gelatinous, like rotted fish.

  It assailed him every night from then on, the details changing only a little over the passage of six years. Sometimes he saw more— an enormous serpent coiled around the base of the oak, and cascades of poppies spilling over the lower branches. Large black spiders strung sticky white webs, and crawled over the solid gold apples strewn about the ground.

  Sometimes he woke before the lion tore out his guts. But most of the time, its huge paws hooked him as he tried to run away, turned him, exposing his stomach. Its curved teeth ripped him open, bringing his lifeblood in a sickening fountain against the beast’s jowls.

  There was a man’s face within the lion’s deadly eyes, but Menoetius never received more than a bewildering glimpse, and that obscured by shadow, before the entire ferocious vision would disintegrate, leaving nothing but the memory of a growl evaporating on the air.

  He always looked down, expecting to see his organs spilling from his torn flesh, but there never was a wound. He was whole. Renewed for next time.

  “Itheus,” said the woman next to him.

  Startled, he turned toward her, but she was still asleep, dreaming.

  “Itheus,” she said again, softly, drawn out. Her hand clenched.

  Maybe her father, or a lover from better days.