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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  He stroked Argo’s soft nose. “The vow I made is unbreakable,” he said. “I’m bound to Chrysaleon over any other, by blood and debt. But what if it comes to a choice between him and Aridela, or Selene? Who do I defend?”

  The horse watched him, quiet and still, free of any such human concerns, and, in Menoetius’s view, fortunate beyond measure.

  Chapter Eight: Moon of Mead-making

  Aridela descended the narrow steps on the east side of the palace. The setting sun graced the sky with color and cloud; she would take this as a sign of approval for what she meant to do. But she must hurry. Her nurse would soon start wondering where she’d gone.

  Lycus had asked her to meet him. She’d agreed.

  Yes, he was a flirt with a reputation as huge as Mount Ida. Every female seemed destined to fall into helpless swoons beneath his invisible power— it didn’t matter if a hundred others had fallen down the same crevasse and met the same fate.

  But Aridela possessed a weapon she hoped would save her from complete surrender. The memory of Velchanos’s promise. Nothing can ever part us.

  Those words would guard her. The god wouldn’t allow any mortal to breach their special bond.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs. No handsome young man waited for her. She wandered onto the clearing outside the palace precincts.

  “Princess.” The voice floated from behind the nearby trellis gate, a stylistic structure formed from the woven branches of grapevines, which framed the entrance to the queen’s arboretum.

  She turned, seeing no one. “Lycus?”

  “Here, my lady,” the bodiless voice replied.

  She was in trouble if the mere sound of his voice caused these surges of excitement.

  But, pushing aside fear, she strolled to the gate and offered her gallant a hesitant smile.

  He seized her hand. “Walk with me,” he said.

  Evening breezes fluttered the leaves overhead, but the sun was sinking too fast. A swallow fluttered, trilling a warning to hurry.

  “Halia will raise an alarm,” she said.

  He’d clubbed back his long hair, no doubt to better show off his smooth chest and shoulders, strong and hard from years of training, gleaming just now from a light rub of oil. Lycus, his talent unrivaled, stood at the summit of the complex pyramid of bull dancers. Two days past he’d deftly avoided being gored by jumping into a lithesome somersault that took him beneath the bull, in between the deadly stomping hooves. He’d emerged on one side, grinning, while the confused beast peered to the other. The royal bard had already fashioned a song about it.

  Lycus wore a simple loincloth and armbands, but the fabric was woven from fine white linen and the bands decorating his wrists were covered with gems. He was probably as wealthy as the queen, and claimed several beautiful villas, which was quite an achievement for a boy born in the poorest circumstances.

  “Then we shouldn’t waste time.” He drew her closer and maneuvered her against the trunk of a plane tree. “Princess,” he said, putting his face close to hers, twining his fingers in her loose hair. “Long have I wanted to be like this. To touch you, like this.”

  Aridela’s heart hadn’t beat so hard since the night of Iphiboë’s moonlit consecration on Mount Juktas. Her legs weakened; her body seemed to slide like a raindrop down the tree trunk.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She made no protest. He lowered his face to her throat and offered slow kisses, tasting her with his tongue.

  Struggling to keep her breathing even, she murmured, “Unseemly,” but her voice caught and he paid no attention. He traced her flesh with his tongue and somehow, before she could stop him, he’d lifted his mouth to hers.

  Something nagged at her. Something she must remember.

  “Aridela,” came a shout from the palace steps. The search was underway.

  But she couldn’t find the strength to stop. She only wanted him to hurry, and helped guide his hands.

  His pelvis pushed against her tunic; she felt his willingness. All they needed to do was lift the barrier of fabric and they would have what they both wanted.

  He buried his face against her neck and bunched the hem of her tunic in his fists.

  “Aridela.”

  Neoma, her cousin. She sounded annoyed. Shocked.

  Lycus stepped away, breathing hard. His expression mirrored how she felt. Why couldn’t Neoma have found them later? Much later?

  “Everyone’s looking for you.” A mischievous grin played at the corners of Neoma’s mouth.

  One of the lions in the queen’s zoo chose that moment to vent an angry roar.

  “Yes, yes,” Aridela said. “As usual.” She stole a glance at her lover. He met it, heavy-eyed. We’ll finish this later, it promised.

  * * * *

  “‘Lion of gold from over the sea.

  Destroy the black bull,

  Shake the earth free.

  Curse the god,

  Crush the fold,

  Pull down the stars

  As seers foretold.

  Isle of cloud,

  Moon’s stronghold,

  See your death come

  In spears of gold.’”

  Old Halia tucked back the draperies at Aridela’s balcony door to encourage the entry of any breeze that might develop, adding, “That is the prophecy, the one you spoke when you were only ten. You used the ancient tongue, which hardly anyone knows, but Themiste understood, as well as one of the council members, who repeated it— others passed it on. By now everyone on Kaphtor knows it as well as we do.” She crossed the room and sat on the bed, giving her charge a benign, partially toothless smile.

  “I wish I could remember.” Aridela frowned; familiar throbbing behind her eyes warned of an impending headache. “I try and try, but….”

  She didn’t need the old woman to recite the legendary prophecy. It was etched permanently into her mind. But she also knew, from many similar discussions, that the subject effectively distracted Halia from other concerns. Trying to decipher the meaning kept her nurse from asking where she’d been and whom she’d been with. It also helped keep Aridela from dwelling on where she’d been and whom she’d been with.

  “You were in a trance. Of course you wouldn’t remember. Even your voice was different, or so I’ve heard. It’s wrong to try, child. Wisdom and insight come to those who can simply be, without effort.”

  “All I remember is feeling sick then waking in my bed.” Aridela chewed on her thumbnail. “And what does it mean?”

  She and Halia had explored the possible meanings of the prophecy numerous times. Halia invariably ended these discussions, as she did now, with a lift of wiry white eyebrows and the tiresome words, “I am a servant, a mortal woman, and uneducated. It’s Themiste you must ask. Only Themiste can interpret such mighty things.”

  “I’ve asked her. She won’t tell me anything. ‘Isle of cloud, Moon’s stronghold,’” Aridela recited. “That must mean Kaphtor.”

  “Perhaps,” Halia said even as she sent a pointed frown toward Aridela’s abused fingernails. “Though Kaphtor has many outposts, and each one is a stronghold of the moon, yes? There is Callisti, Isy, Ios— even Lady Selene’s faraway country.”

  “Every time I try to understand the prophecy, you make it impossible.”

  Bia, Aridela’s sleek black cat, rolled over. The collar it wore, fashioned of fine gold links, flowed like liquid. Green eyes opened. With an inquiring meow it stretched, yawned, and curled up again, reassured by Aridela’s absent stroking. Taya, the white Egyptian hound who slept on the cooler tiles by the balcony, merely opened one eye and offered a thump of the tail.

  “Forgive me, poppet,” Halia said. “It could mean Kaphtor. It’s late, time for sleep. And please, a princess should be above nail-biting.”

  “Tell me again about my birth. If it’s clear in my mind, maybe I’ll dream the answers. Mother Athene will speak into my ear and I’ll remember when I wake. I’ll never have another nightmare.”

 
“May it be so.” Halia loved it when Aridela asked for her versions of events. Extending one gnarled arm in a dramatic sweeping gesture, the old nurse repeated the familiar story. “A strike of lightning, singular in strength and brilliance, ripped the heavens. I myself saw it. It’s no rumor or storyteller’s tale but true fact. It came out of a clear night sky, and was surrounded by streams of green, blue, purple and gold. It struck the summit of holy Mount Juktas. The crater remains to this day. The world trembled and we were afraid— even more so when we learned about the burn that appeared on your wrist at the same moment. It was hard to know what to think. Was Velchanos angry? Had we done something to displease him? But Themiste reassured us. She said it was a sign of your future purpose and a special blessing, a mark of kinship. Everyone knows that Themiste took cara to determine our Holy Mother’s wishes. You’ve heard it all your life. Her vision revealed that Velchanos entered your earthly father during the holy rites. So, my little princess, your blood is partly divine. It is no coincidence the people of Kaphtor call you Shàrihéid euan Velchanos Calesienda— Daughter of the Calesienda.”

  Goose bumps washed across Aridela’s arms and legs. Daughter of the Calesienda. It never failed to delight her, especially now, after the god kissed her on the holy mountain and promised they would spend eternity together.

  But Themiste, even after the vision granted to Aridela on the mountain or the prophecy she spoke, still refused to acknowledge Aridela’s special role in her country’s future, and went so far as to forbid the princess to take part in rites that every other woman, even Iphiboë, was free to enjoy.

  No matter. Aridela would accompany Iphiboë to the grove rites. She’d given much thought and planning to the unfolding of the rite. It had to be unique— no simple wine guzzling and falling into the grass with whomever she happened across. She mustn’t see Lycus alone again now that she knew how easily he manipulated her resolves. Aridela was determined that if the rite brought her first encounter with seduction, it would not be with any mere male.

  She meant to create an opportunity for Velchanos to come to her again, as he’d promised. She would give herself to no one but the god.

  “I know my dreams will be good tonight,” she said. “I feel them waiting for me to fall asleep. Tell me about the night someone tried to kill me, and how Themiste’s serpent saved my life.”

  “No, poppet,” Halia said. She gave her hoarse, cackling laugh, which degenerated into a fit of coughing. “My bones need rest and so do yours. Your mother wants you to attend the visitors from Egypt tomorrow. How would it look if you were sleepy and cranky? Old Halia’s bones would be broken then, wouldn’t they?”

  “My mother wouldn’t harm you for mountains of gold.”

  Halia cackled again and pushed herself, with many grunts and groans, off the edge of the bed. “Sleep now. Remember, Themiste chose your name the night you were born. Everyone knows it came from old prophecy. Your name means ‘Utterly Clear.’ It’s an exalted name, never given to any family member before you.”

  Smoothing the coverlet, Halia added, “Goddess bless your dreams, my poppet,” and backed away to blow out all the lamps but one.

  Thick warm darkness, fragranced of hot oil, descended. Halia groaned as she settled on her pallet at the foot of the princess’s bed, and groaned again as she made herself comfortable.

  Halia couldn’t expect her to fall asleep. Pictures and thoughts raced through Aridela’s mind, leaping from one to the next like frightened ibex chased by balls of flame. Pressure mounted behind her eyelids. Incapacitating headaches had plagued her for years; the only way to ward them off was to relax, let her thoughts go, embrace silence and stillness as Themiste taught. But how could she? One line of prophecy disturbed her more than the others. See your death come in spears of gold. If she couldn’t unveil the meaning of these words, if she failed to live up to the weight of the titles and legends surrounding her, wouldn’t those she loved suffer some calamitous tragedy? She, Aridela, second daughter of Queen Helice, was meant for a unique purpose, whether anyone else recognized it or not. She, not Iphiboë, who would reign someday and who received so much more attention, would determine the fate of the entire island and everyone living on it— perhaps even the fate of the world.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Aridela mouthed her nightly prayer. Mother, give me the answers I seek. Show me the way, divine Goddess; guide my steps.

  No otherworldly voice whispered into her ear. Invisible caresses didn’t smooth the frown from her forehead. Yet a sense of peace trickled into her mind. As she drifted toward sleep, an image formed of the holy shrine, located deep in the earth beneath the palace of Labyrinthos. Not the public triple shrine on the west side of the courtyard, but the private one used only by Themiste and the royal family. In her imagination, Aridela saw the statue of Athene, which was believed to have come with Kaphtor’s first settlers. Carved from mahogany, it was blackened with age, smoke, and polish. The beautiful face turned upward toward her, for she seemed to be floating near the ceiling. Athene granted her a serene smile. Strong, certain conviction flooded Aridela’s being. All would be revealed at the proper time.

  Chapter Nine: Moon of Mead-making

  The ceremony joining Chrysaleon to Iros drew royal guests and curious bystanders from as far as Euboea. His bride was dressed and decorated, painted to mimic a sophisticated woman, though the panic in her eyes could not be camouflaged.

  He’d always imagined his marriage would be to a beautiful heiress, a woman he could show off. There were plenty such, and all had encouraged him. His only desire when he looked at Iros was to send her away with her nurses, but he went through the parades, ceremonies and rituals with shallow, indifferent obedience.

  From dawn into the deepest night, King Idómeneus held games of skill to entertain his guests. Chrysaleon won several tourneys and only briefly wondered if his competitors were toadying favor. Night after night, feasts, dancing, gambling, and songs of valor were presented. It was widely claimed that no celebration in history could compare.

  When it came time for the customary bedding of the bride and Iros’s women led her from the hall, a disturbance erupted at the other end of the room. Harpalycus, who appeared sloppily drunk, was pushed against the wall by two guards. His father, King Lycomedes, looked on impassively. Chrysaleon forgot it as his own intoxicated retinue surrounded him with whoops of encouragement.

  Iros was as reticent and inexperienced as he’d expected, yet he was surprised to discover no barrier to his penetration. It was inconceivable that she’d ever lain with a man. The way she shrank away and wept afterwards convinced him. Some injury must have broken the membrane.

  He awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Do not fear me,” he said. “Here you’ll lead a pleasant life. I’m not selfish or cruel. It could be worse for you, could it not? Your father could have married you to an old man. As my wife, you’ll be queen over all Argolis.”

  She only cried harder.

  Women. He rolled away, wondering where Theanô might be and what she was doing.

  * * * *

  Dolphins leaped alongside the ship, calling to each other. In the distance, Crete’s shoreline and ridge of high mountains glowed in the first rosy light of dawn. Two other ships ranged on either side of Chrysaleon’s, laden with his men, horses, chariots, other passengers, merchants and trade goods. Faint drumbeats and occasional barked orders broke the endless wash of waves and buffet of wind.

  “My lord.” Menoetius spoke the language of the northern steppes as he joined Chrysaleon in the relative privacy of the prow.

  Chrysaleon returned in kind, “No one can hear us.”

  Menoetius kept his head high, hands clasped behind his back. “No one in sight does not mean no one listens.”

  Chrysaleon glanced at the rowers, who were relaxing due to a brisk wind blowing them toward their destination. “They have no interest in us. Two more foreigners mean nothing. If we’d traveled in a fleet of my father’s ships, with full armor and a
thousand horsemen, none of these people would spare us a glance.”

  “If we arrived that way, you’d never stay out of the Games, even if it left Mycenae without a king.”

  The wind drew Chrysaleon’s attention to his bastard brother’s hair. Shaggy but still too short to bind, it blew wildly across his face. He’d stopped having it sheared some months back— after Idómeneus agreed to send them to Crete. Perhaps he simply hoped to blend in better on the island where all men wore their hair long, yet an odd, indefinable suspicion reared in Chrysaleon’s mind.

  The rising sun transformed the cliffs of Crete into massive chunks of gold and amber. “You could always wear the crown in my place,” Chrysaleon said.

  Menoetius squinted and his mouth tensed. “What is that supposed—”

  “Easy, brother. I merely jest.” Chrysaleon punched Menoetius’s shoulder. “With enough men, we could halt the sacrifice no matter how divine. If we enlisted my wife’s father—”

  “Just because Lycomedes gave you his daughter doesn’t mean he’s now your ally. And what of your own loathing for Prince Harpalycus? You might kill each other and leave the high king waging two wars.”

  “True,” Chrysaleon admitted with a laugh. “I could dispatch Harpalycus with no regret.” He combed through his beard with his fingers. “Fortune favors the bold. My grandfather chose that motto for the royal house of Mycenae. What’s happened to the king? Why has he grown so timid?” He gripped the mainstay as the wind picked up and a heavy wave caused the ship to yaw. “To my mind, it’s easy. Win the Games, win the princess, and Mycenae rules Crete. Simple. Bloodless. Maybe even pleasant, if the princess is fair.” His chin lifted in an insolent tilt as his gaze settled on the small-boned, dark-skinned captain who swaggered among the rowers.