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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Something passed over him; she felt more than saw the change. The ornament lay draped across his fingertips, yet he stared at her face, his body suddenly so still he didn’t even appear to breathe. His eyes, darkened by the ever-spreading shadows of evening, widened. Then his lashes fell, hiding his thoughts.

  “My lord?” she asked.

  “Just before we sailed,” he said, his voice husky, “I had a dream. A woman showed me her necklace, a necklace, I vow, exactly like this. She said it knew its birth in a lake of silver.”

  Their surroundings faded from her awareness as they stared at each other. She spoke on sudden impulse. “Do you intend to fight in our Games?”

  He frowned but did not answer.

  She continued, knowing it was wrong yet tempted beyond control. “The men who compete are filled with the god’s holy fire. They go without food or water for three days in preparation. It can be cold in the labyrinth at night. Many are so weak from wounds they’ve suffered, they collapse trying to achieve their goal. Your task wouldn’t be easy, but….” She placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and clench of his jaw. “If you carry the day and become my sister’s consort, you will stay on Kaphtor. I want you to stay, Chrysaleon of Mycenae.”

  On his other side, Iphiboë turned at last to stare at them.

  “Then nothing will stop me,” he said.

  Aridela swallowed a mouthful of wine as she fought to control both horror and desire. Her reckless request condemned him to death if he triumphed. He could die during the competition. Yet how else could he stay? He was a prince and heir to a mighty throne. Unless he won, his obligations would force him to leave. She would never see him again.

  Guilt warred with longing. She wanted this foreign prince to be hers, not Iphiboë’s, not anyone else’s. Athene’s unknowable will brought him to the cave to lie with her, yet their stations and duties would keep them apart. If he won the Games he would become Iphiboë’s consort and give his life in the sacrifice. If he lost, he must return to his own country to rule after his father.

  And no matter where his fortune carried him, she would serve the rest of her days as priestess or oracle in Themiste’s mountain shrine, a place utterly forbidden to any men other than castrated priests.

  What if he did win? He might try to change Kaphtor’s ways. Who here could claim to see the truth in this man’s heart? She didn’t know him; just because Damasen and Carmanor were noble didn’t mean Chrysaleon was.

  News from the wider world outside Kaphtor whispered its warning beneath confusion and infatuation. The trade ships that docked in Kaphtor’s harbors brought ever more disturbing tales, of temples up and down the coast around Troy and Ephesus being sacked and burned. Of holy women being raped and enslaved, forced to serve whatever god the conquering warriors wished to install. Gone was the honor they’d always received as representatives of the star-clad Mother. Gone too were the sacred zonahs from the Hebrew lands. The traditional seven days of prostitution performed by brides in faraway Babylon was nearly unheard of now. From time before memory, children born to temple maidens in Chrysaleon’s own country had received exceptional reverence. More recently they’d become known as bastards, and bastardy carried such disgrace among the Kindred Kings that many of these children were abused or murdered outright.

  Everything, everywhere, seemed to be violently changing.

  But, she consoled herself, Kaphtor and its colonies remained steadfast to Goddess Athene. ‘I have come from myself’ was the meaning of her name. She bore the title, ‘Great Virgin,’ as well, making it clear she was beyond the control of any male. Kaphtor, the land these men called Crete, would forever belong to her. There was no culture, army, civilization or god strong enough to destroy that.

  Aridela felt through every fiber the intimate nearness of this man, this foreigner, who was her lover. Yet, like a shroud over enthrallment, images of decimated shrines, murdered priestesses, and shattered holy statues pressed on her heart.

  She turned her face again toward Mount Ida. Tell me your wishes, Mistress. Send me a sign.

  Helice climbed the steps and sat upon her throne. Aridela worked to restore calm and kept her gaze on the ring as the final torches slipped into place.

  Velchanos, wearing the guise of this Mycenaean, had stepped from his pedestal to lie with her. There must be a reason.

  Together we bring forth a new world.

  “Aridela?” The queen touched her daughter’s forearm. “You’re quiet.”

  Recognizing her chance, Aridela said, “My head hurts. Allow me to retire, Mother.”

  Chrysaleon’s expression seemed to convey more than concern or disappointment, but she couldn’t be sure. Did he struggle with the same guilty conflict as she?

  “Of course, isoke,” Helice said. “I’ll send for your litter.”

  “I’ll walk. Neoma will come with me.”

  Below them, the first team ran through the gate and into the ring. The people rose to their feet with a thunderous cheer. Helice and her daughters acknowledged their salute.

  “No one will notice if I go now,” Aridela said.

  “Have Rhené mix you a sleeping balm,” Helice said. “There’s been too much excitement over the last days, and worry over your sister.”

  Neoma reluctantly told her new suitor farewell. She and Aridela crept through the crowd and ran down the ramp to the back of the ring, to the underground chamber where dancers prepared. It was empty; the servants and guards must have gone above to watch. From overhead came the thud of stomping feet and clapping hands. More faintly drifted the music of lyres, drums, and the breathy aulos.

  Aridela pulled off her diadem and jewelry. She unfastened her belt, dropping the skirts to the ground while Neoma tied her hair back with a thong and gave her the leather wristbands. She put them on and Neoma tightened them, weaving leather strapping in a crosshatch pattern. Aridela flexed her fists; the bands would strengthen and protect her wrists when she made her somersault over the bull’s back.

  Isandros, Aridela’s second conspirator, entered through a side door. His eyes were lavishly painted; his arms glittered with gold bands. A bright crimson loincloth draped his hips, designed to draw the bull’s attention. For almost two entire seasons, Isandros had danced with bulls, suffering only one shallow gash on his thigh. People were beginning to compare him to the revered Lycus.

  Giving Aridela a quick embrace, he said, “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what I taught you?”

  “Everything.”

  “You’d better. Do you realize what I’m risking? If you get hurt again, nothing will stop the queen from castrating or killing me.” The team he’d put together came in from one of the anterooms and began helping each other prepare.

  Overhead, the cheers intensified. The first team finished their dance. A moment later they tumbled through the doorway, panting, laughing and embracing. When they saw the princess wearing the white loincloth of a bull leaper, surrounded by experienced dancers, they fell silent.

  It was the first time she’d seen Lycus since her night with Chrysaleon. “Did you dance well?” she asked.

  “We did, my lady,” one of the boys replied, bowing low.

  Lycus shoved past the others to stand before her, head tilted, his expression puzzled.

  Some declared Lycus would never last. He was considered too brash, impudent, and he took more chances each time he entered the ring. He was one of those mesmerized by the sound of cheering into ever more reckless performances; many said his efforts to become legend would destroy him. Yet this fear was what filled the stands whenever he announced he would dance.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze roaming over the traditional dancing gear she wore.

  “My bull runs next,” Aridela said.

  Lycus grasped her hand and pulled her away from the others. “Why?” he asked, low. “Is it for me?” He touched the corner of her mouth with the tip of his index finger.


  It took her a few seconds to understand. He didn’t know everything had changed. She no longer wished for that kind of intimacy with him. Now she burned solely for the foreign prince of Mycenae, he who commanded that no one touch her but he, for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt. But she couldn’t tell him until after the dance. It would be bad luck. “No,” she said. “I want this. It’s for Athene, and me.”

  His gaze lingered on her mouth. He bent, gripping her shoulders. She saw he meant to kiss her and pulled away.

  His pleased expression switched to surprise.

  The cheering and stomping shook the room as the crowd demanded the second dance.

  Aridela faced the rest of the bull dancers. “Give me your blessing,” she said, holding out her arms. One by one, the members of the first team knelt before her then rose and kissed her. Lycus approached her last. He knelt like the others, but when he rose and gave her the formal good luck kiss his eyes were frowning and suspicious.

  “Lycus,” she said, “make sure my bull enters the ring before my mother can stop it.”

  He pressed both fists to his chest and bowed his head.

  She paused in the doorway while her team of seven ran ahead. The cheering increased. The spectators pounded the floorboards, making a mighty clamor with their feet. Pennants fluttered. She ran out after her comrades; not until the troupe bowed before the royal lodge and Aridela swept out her arms was she recognized.

  A rippling murmur prefaced a silence so complete that she heard the droning hum of cicadas in the fields.

  Then muttering erupted like a flock of frightened doves from a broken wicket.

  Helice jumped to her feet. Themiste simply stared, a look of such horror upon her face that Aridela shivered.

  But her mother’s rage and Themiste’s terror couldn’t prevent her gaze from moving on.

  Prince Chrysaleon stood as well, his expression half-shocked, half-spellbound. As their eyes met, he drew his dagger and saluted her. The dark-headed guard, Chrysaleon’s blood brother, gripped the rail, white-fisted. His expression seemed pure fury; she wondered why he should care, then a dull thud reverberated and drew her attention.

  Aridela swiveled. Everything slowed to a dreamlike state. Perhaps this was how Themiste felt when she entered her mystical trances.

  The bull trotted forward, blowing hard, lifting his massive head and peering at the confusion. His lyre-shaped horns glinted with gold paint.

  While he got his bearings, she lifted her hands, her face, to the sky.

  “O fierce Bringer of Light and Dark

  One smiting hoof churns seas and mountains

  Head low, he delivers terror

  His horn appoints life or death

  His will follows her will.

  Moon bull, king bull, lord bull

  Dance with me.”

  Isandros rose on the balls of his feet and ran. Neoma and Aridela ran the opposite direction. The bull’s black gaze followed the women. He snorted and pawed the earth.

  “Aridela!” Helice shrieked. “No!”

  The beast charged; Athene in her guise as Britomartis brought the animal straight to her. Aridela lifted onto her toes, buoyed by energy, and danced forward to meet him, pivoting as they came together. Fearless in her trust of the Goddess, she reached out to stroke the side of his face, but miscalculated how far he could extend his horn. It scraped, hard and bruising, against her ribs.

  A tremendous cheer surged from the crowd. “Aridela! Calesienda’s Daughter!” The stamping and screaming increased until the entire ring groaned and trembled.

  The bull’s hot breath surrounded her as he swung his head from side to side. He bellowed and scraped one scarlet-painted hoof through the sand. Before he could charge again, Neoma and another girl, Pyrrha, ran to him and seized his horns, jerking down.

  He flung them both away like gnats. With a short, broken cry, Neoma tumbled then sprawled while the more experienced Pyrrha condensed into a ball and rolled.

  “Curse you,” Aridela said as she knelt beside her fallen cousin, “it isn’t part of my fate that you die trying to keep me from harm.”

  “I’m not hurt.” Neoma sat up, pressing a hand against her side and breathing hard. “Take back that curse.”

  Isandros waved to catch the bull’s attention. He sidled between the bull’s horns until he had the admiring crowd gasping. While the beast centered his attention upon Isandros, Lycus appeared from the underground. He made a leaping handstand and somersault from one side of the broad back to the other, landing gracefully in the sand.

  Cheers reverberated as Aridela helped Neoma to her feet.

  “I take it back,” Aridela said.

  “Did you see the queen’s face?” Neoma began to cry. “If you’re hurt, it will kill her.”

  “If I’m hurt, it will be from trying to save you.” Aridela ran toward the bull. She nodded to Isandros and Lycus; they positioned themselves behind the haunches.

  The bull settled a furious gaze on her and pawed the sand. From the front and both sides, Neoma, Pyrrha, and a bull leaper named Tereus converged. Together they leaped upon the bull’s horns and face, blinding the beast and forcing him to lower his head.

  No time to think. Aridela extended her arms and ran forward. Three of her team grasped her waist and legs and catapulted her over the head, propelling her in an arc that set up a perfect flip. Nothing existed but the bull, whose form guided her like a dance partner. One woman’s face in the crowd froze in Aridela’s consciousness, her finely plucked eyebrows raised, lips open in an astounded ‘O’.

  The roar died away. All she could hear was the slow rush of air, someone’s close, exultant laughter, and the rich pumping beat of her heart. She compressed her arms and legs to her chest, making herself an efficient ball that curved, up and over in a circle.

  Fly. Aim for his back. One with the wind. One with the bull.

  Isandros’s instructions came by rote.

  For an instant she thought she could continue into the sky, free as a swallow. Then came the downward momentum. She was human after all, bound to the earth. With such a broad back, it was easy to land. Extending her legs, she used the balls of her feet to mold to the bull’s warm, stiff-haired haunches as though they’d found their true home. Her toes gripped.

  She sprang again before the beast could bolt, lifting her arms on either side, for balance and to honor Athene.

  Leap with the grace of a bird, arms outstretched like wings. Glory to you, Dewy Athene.

  Isandros and Lycus caught her at the waist and guided her to the ground.

  It was she who laughed. Such triumph couldn’t be suppressed.

  The sounds of the ring slowly returned. The thud of her heart faded, replaced by the eager cheers of countless admiring onlookers. As Isandros and Lycus steadied her, the shouting exploded into a deafening uproar.

  The dream of her bull leap had come countless times since she was little. She’d always known she would do this. She’d tried when she was ten, and nearly died.

  Only for an instant did she wonder why today was the day of Lady Athene’s choosing.

  Then she let the question go.

  You held me in your hand. Your people will never forget. You didn’t want me to die. You wanted me to listen.

  She ran, holding hands with her comrades, to the churned sand below the royal lodge.

  Another team, using a cow for distraction, managed to guide the bull under the gate and out of the ring.

  “The queen.” Neoma peered up at the lodge, so terrified she could hardly speak.

  Tears streamed from Helice’s eyes. Her skin was white.

  Aridela knelt, pressing both fists to her forehead before the statue of Potnia. Right now she was filled with success. Later, she would beg forgiveness.

  Her flesh prickled and the shouting grew faint. Something drew her gaze away from Potnia and back to the crowd. She looked from one person to the next, her mind repeating the words she spoke when she was ten. In the
dream, my leaping the bull does something— something important. It changes something.

  She rose, her gaze searching the crowd, for what, she wasn’t sure. Then she saw the foreigner, the man she’d given herself to in the cave. He stared back at her, a faint smile curving his lips.

  Aridela shivered. Bolts of emotion engulfed her in white halos and hot sparks.

  Men hung over the edge of the wall. Women threw flowers.

  “Calesienda’s daughter! Birthed in lightning!”

  Isandros used all his strength to drag her across the sand and down to the underground chamber.

  “You did it,” he said, his embrace hot and sweaty. “I never expected you to leap the bull. I thought you would only dance. It looked as though you’d done it many times.”

  “You gave good instruction.” Through her ecstasy, Aridela recalled the pain and confusion she’d suffered six years earlier. Now she realized Goddess Athene hadn’t lied or tricked her. Aridela was given a true glimpse of what would happen in the future. She’d simply misjudged the proper time.

  Neoma gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

  Aridela looked down. Dust, sweat and sand caked her flesh. Along the bottom of her ribs lay the shallow gash she’d forgotten. Blood oozed but it was already congealing. The new wound curved the opposite direction of her old scar, making it appear as though waxing and waning moons were carved into her skin.

  Her triumph didn’t diminish. It flowed like a river of embers through her veins. She gave a full, uninhibited laugh. “My bull marked me,” she whispered.

  Chapter Seventeen: Moon of White Light

  In the old days, one man, chosen according to the vision of the oracle, competed for the right to become bull-king. There was but a single contest: wrestling to the death. If the current king won, he ruled another year. The challenger, if triumphant, was given the king’s seal ring and all the honor of the station.