They rose to a crouch and thrust against each other’s shoulders, grimacing as each tried to unbalance the other. Neither gained advantage, and for some time nothing happened but gasping and pressing. Tendons and veins swelling with effort. A test to see who was strongest.
Harpalycus overpowered Chrysaleon and threw him backwards. Swinging a leg over his chest to pin him, he pummeled Chrysaleon in the face, using first his knuckles then his balled fists. Chrysaleon, marking an opportunity through the blood in his eyes, grasped Harpalycus’s wrist while it was lifted. Twisting his hip, he cast Harpalycus off and threw him onto his side, rising as he did so.
Hysterical screams drew Chrysaleon’s gaze to the other opponents. Lycus had the upper hand now. He yanked both of Dendrites’ arms behind him and shoved him chest-first to the ground. Even at that distance, Chrysaleon heard the snap of the man’s neck.
Harpalycus took advantage of Chrysaleon’s distraction. Grabbing his opponent’s clubbed hair with his free hand, he yanked his head downward. Chrysaleon seized Harpalycus’s hand, pried it off his hair and grasped the fingers, shoving them backward, harder, harder, until he heard Harpalycus groan and felt his desperate attempts to jerk away. Harpalycus’s free hand fisted and beat at him without mercy. He kicked Chrysaleon in the shins, but Chrysaleon turned his back, tucking Harpalycus’s arm under his and against his ribs, and held on.
The fingers broke first with a gruesome snap, followed by the wrist dislocating. Harpalycus released a scream mixed with a howl. He fell away, his sword hand shattered.
Chrysaleon straightened, panting, and wiped at the blood on his face.
Dendrites lay still. Lycus stood over his opponent, bleeding from the nose, mouth, and scalp. He watched Chrysaleon, his lips curled, eyes slitted, fists clenched.
The shouts and cries from the stands faded. Chrysaleon slowly regained his breath as he fought to calm his bloodlust. Menoetius approached and stood beside him.
Harpalycus’s slaves placed him on a stretcher and carried him away. Others carried away Dendrites’ lifeless body.
Head high, Chrysaleon planted his feet on the ground and rested his hands on his hips.
Muttering replaced silence as people put their heads together. Chrysaleon heard a man say, “Does he understand his fate?”
Chrysaleon hoped the queen wouldn’t ask that question. It would be difficult to answer with conviction.
A lone cheer drifted from the crowd. “He won,” a woman cried. “Now we’ll see how he does in the labyrinth.”
Helice and her retinue approached. The oracle, she who they called “Themiste,” joined them. The gaze she leveled at Chrysaleon was watchful, steady. He found it unnerving, yet at the same time a stab of lust raced through his limbs. The woman’s pale skin, red hair and brown eyes, as large and heavily lashed as a roe deer’s, were stunning. Even Theanô, whose beauty was the stuff of bard song, paled in comparison.
Aridela appeared carefully impassive, but her face seemed to give off a blaze of light.
Iphiboë, from her litter, stole a glance at him. The hem of Zagreus’s tunic fluttered in the breeze.
Lycus at last removed his gaze from Chrysaleon and placed it on Aridela.
There was no time to try and read that expression, for the queen spoke. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae,” she said. “I stand before you, uncertain of my duty. Though foreigners have accepted our ways before, none have ever been heir to such a throne as yours. Does your father support this resolve?”
“The time has come for closer ties between us. My father feels as I do.”
Helice inclined her head. Turning to the nearby cluster of men and women who looked on, she asked, “What is the council’s wish? Shall Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus of Mycenae, continue?”
The counselors drew the queen and her daughters away where they could talk without being overheard.
“You’ve nearly achieved your aims, Gold Lion,” Menoetius said. He spoke low, but Themiste, who lagged behind the others, heard. Her head snapped around. She stared, her bearing one of undisguised shock, almost horror.
“Why do you call him that?” she said in a shaking voice.
“It’s his name-meaning,” Menoetius replied warily. “And a term of affection his father and our people use.”
She examined Chrysaleon from his windblown, blood-spattered hair to his dusty sandals. Then she walked away and joined the council.
Chrysaleon and Menoetius exchanged glances. Menoetius shrugged. “She wants to bed me,” Chrysaleon said with a crude laugh, trying to hide his unease. That tattoo. The crescent moon. It was like the eye of the Goddess staring into his soul.
At last, with a deep breath, the queen returned and faced Chrysaleon. “The final task awaits,” she said. “Is it truly your wish, Lycus of Kydonia, Chrysaleon of Mycenae, to be consort in the land of Kaphtor? To offer your life in service to the land and people?”
“It is,” he said. Lycus, too, made formal assent.
“Then the rites will be completed.” She held out her hands, palms facing the sky. Upon them rested the labrys, its blades honed in rippled limestone. “This axe has chosen the kings of Kaphtor since we first learned how to read the stars. Whichever one of you this weapon chooses, will be reborn to honor and glory.” She paused, looking at Chrysaleon. “As with the mother, so with the daughter,” she said. “Kaphtor’s council believes a foreign warrior can become one with us. It has happened before.”
Doubt and reluctance made Chrysaleon’s muscles twitch. Zagreus’s too quiet eyes watched his. In three days, if Chrysaleon succeeded, this man would die on Crete’s holy day of reckoning. Helice’s consort chose a short life with endless glory. He’d known his end from the moment he accepted the challenge. Still, Chrysaleon had to force himself to meet that gaze, so fathomless and difficult to read.
He would take this man’s life, which was sacred to the Cretans, to achieve his own ends; he would destroy their beliefs and bend their ways to his own. He would make their holy sacrifice meaningless, then he would see to it that it was discarded and forgotten.
Helice drew Zagreus away. She put her hand against the back of his neck and kissed him.
Chrysaleon’s flesh prickled. He searched the area. The crowd was dispersing, but for one, who stood some distance away.
Themiste, their high priestess. She stood still and straight, nearly as tall as he. He knew her role demanded that she never lie with a man. Yet he couldn’t help imagining her writhing beneath him. What did that cold stare of hers herald?
“Come with me, Prince Chrysaleon.”
Dazed with uncertainty, he glanced down. A young woman outfitted in the white robe of a priestess stood next to him. Another similarly clad woman was already leading Lycus away.
He followed her to a pavilion. Inside, women garbed in identical robes waited beside a large bath infused with olive and lavender oils. The first woman undressed him and gestured for him to enter. He sank in, grateful to find the water refreshingly cool, and closed his eyes. The calming scent of lavender surrounded him. His muscles loosened. He was hungry; he’d eaten sparingly this morning. Now he faced three days without food.
The attendants massaged his shoulders and poured water over his hair. One bent so close he felt her breasts rub against the back of his neck and her long hair brush his arm. Her breath tickled his ear and his groin responded. If she didn’t stop, she’d find herself in this bath with him. But no. He must conserve his strength. He stood, splashing water over the sides of the tub. The dagger wound in his left bicep throbbed, along with every bone in his face.
Two of the priestesses oiled and massaged him then dressed him in a gossamer-soft white loincloth.
For the next three days, this pavilion would be his home. He would see or speak to no one but these priestesses. He would not be allowed to eat and would be given only enough water to survive.
In this way, he would be honed for the labyrinth.
Keeping her face lowered, the priestess who bro
ught him to the pavilion placed in his hands a short thrusting sword, good for use in confined spaces, longer than a dagger but not so long as a battle sword. It had a deadly sharp point and double edges, slightly flared, perfect for slashing and cutting. She bowed. “Our brave year-king gives everything he has,” she said. “Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance, earn glory unimaginable.”
Was this the only way to become king? To murder the Zagreus? No, he wouldn’t use that title of death. He’d heard from someone that the man was born with the name Xanthus. To remain on Crete, to be near Aridela and halt the king-sacrifice, he must kill Xanthus. If he didn’t, he would be killed and another man, perhaps Harpalycus, would seize the opportunity.
He’d come too far. He would complete the rites.
The sword, exquisitely balanced, fit his grip as though specially made for him. Some master craftsman had carved the hilt into a stylized likeness of an ibex. In both function and vision, it was a magnificent piece. Nothing he’d ever seen on the mainland could compare.
He brought it up in salute to the priestess.
Go with me, Poseidon, husband to the Goddess. Show them all your everlasting will.
Chapter Eighteen: Moon of White Light
Aridela hated sitting still, intoning prayers. She wanted to feel the wind and smell the sea. She needed to stand on the cliffs, enveloped in salt mist and rainbows. Instead, duties and an unseasonable downpour kept her trapped indoors.
Chrysaleon had triumphed in the initial trials. Chrysaleon of Mycenae might become Kaphtor’s next bull-king.
Her thoughts droned like the prayers— endless, repetitive circles that defied solutions. Even if he became Iphiboë’s consort, it changed nothing. Aridela would be forced into the mountain shrine with Themiste while Chrysaleon lived at Labyrinthos. She would seldom see him unless Iphiboë decreed that Aridela reside at the palace. To do that, she would have to stand up to Themiste. No one knew better than Aridela how afraid Iphiboë was of Themiste.
Rain thundered on the roof of the royal pavilion like smithy hammers beating an agitated staccato; wind sucked at the edges. A poor omen for such an important event.
A sorrowful setting for the bull-king’s last hours.
Guilt twisted her stomach and monopolized her mind. Thoughtless impulse had prompted her to ask Chrysaleon to compete, though he didn’t belong here. Could she be, in some childish way, trying to relive her mother’s love for the foreigner, Damasen? Whatever the reason, it was selfish. Wrong.
The kneeling crescent of priestesses surrounding her moved from prayers to the traditional benediction.
“Our brave year-king gives everything he has. Does not Velchanos rise after his season of sacrifice? There is never new life without death, no new god without annihilation. Wise men accept their fate, and in the acceptance, earn glory unimaginable.”
Themiste composed this invocation when she was eight years old. She claimed a vision brought it to her. Now every initiate memorized it. The benediction had become the final words marking every bull-king’s descent into the labyrinth and the beginning of his everlasting existence as an immortal god. Some priestesses recited it nightly; devout Sidero, who watched over Aridela during her months in the mountain shrine, used to claim the litany helped her sleep.
Sidero nearly died the day Chrysaleon came to Labyrinthos. Since then, she required the aid of sturdy crutches to help her walk. The right side of her face drooped, and a whitish film obscured her vision. She constantly muttered, “The holy triad,” in an insistent, quavering voice, and seemed to have forgotten who anyone was.
Aridela glanced toward the draperies at the corner of the pavilion, where Zagreus reclined with Helice. The queen and two of her brothers were entertaining him with his favorite music.
Aridela fought back tears. Helice wouldn’t want her consort to see anyone weeping. In these last hours, she expected everyone to distract the bull-king from his fate, and Aridela was in more than enough trouble already after her defiance in the bullring.
Wind blew open the door flap. Aridela’s skin prickled. She couldn’t remember Kaphtor ever being so chilly during the malevolent Moon of White Light. The heat, traditionally intense at this time of the year, generated pestilence and plague. The rise of Iakchos signaled the coming end to drought and suffering. It heralded the onset of renewed moisture and led the people of Kaphtor into the exhilarating month of winemaking. This strange damp and coolness meant that Lycus and Chrysaleon would suffer more, for the labyrinth would be cold and dank as well as dark.
“Aridela?”
Recognizing Selene’s voice, she turned with relief, swiping her tears away. Her smile faded when she saw Chrysaleon’s fearsome guard, Menoetius, flinging rain from his hair as he followed her friend into the pavilion. Lately it seemed the two were always together.
Selene pushed back her hood, frowning as she took in Aridela’s face. She glanced at the corner where the queen and consort reclined then returned her steady, unwanted attention onto Helice’s younger daughter. One of her finely curved brows lifted. “Aridela?”
“It’s nothing.” Aridela tried again to smile, but felt its tremor and gave up. She left the other priestesses and joined her friend, sending Menoetius an embarrassed glance. “For many reasons, my thoughts are heavy.”
Selene looked from one to the other and back again. “He said you didn’t recognize him. Is it true?”
Though it would brand her a coward, Aridela wished she could fall asleep and not wake until this day was over. She sighed. What was Selene going on about?
Selene seized her arm. “You goose. You don’t recognize the boy who saved your life?”
Aridela stared at Selene, thinking she was playing some ill-timed joke. But her friend’s challenging expression sent her gaze shooting to the rain-soaked man who stood in the pavilion’s entryway.
Carmanor was a youth of absolute perfection. Even by the standards of her people, his beauty had made him exceptional. The man who stood before her was lined, scarred, bearded.
“I would know Carmanor in the blackest cave,” she said. “I would know him if my eyes were put out.”
“Apparently not.” Selene grinned. She rested her hands on Aridela’s shoulders and squeezed.
Aridela twisted free. “Jests are offensive, especially today. You think I don’t know who this is? Prince Chrysaleon’s personal guard. His blood brother, Menoetius.”
The man remained in the doorway, stiff and still. As she spoke, he dropped his gaze to the ground.
Aridela approached him, frowning. She pressed her hand to his cheek so he would lift his face and look at her. His struggle showed in the whitening of his lips, the flare of his nostrils; she felt his jaw clench underneath her fingers.
The scar was thick and puckered, as though it had proved difficult to suture over the bone, or was closed by an inept healer. It dominated his face. The flesh around it was roughened, red; it split his left eyebrow and tracked dangerously close to his eye.
She remembered the quiet awe Carmanor displayed the day she’d taken him to the cliff to commune with Athene, the way his cheeks had reddened when she made fun of him for choosing a wrong word. She relived his guilty expression when he confessed to lying about his slave.
She’d been childishly certain that Carmanor possessed a face like no other. That he was divinely blessed.
Her throat closed then seemed to drop into her stomach. The brilliant blue of his eyes hadn’t changed. The nose, though it bore a thin white scar across the bridge, was as straight and imposing as she remembered, giving him the bearing of a king.
It was he. Selene hadn’t been lying or joking.
“Carmanor,” she choked out. How could she not have known? It was unforgiveable. She’d been so immersed in her love affair with his prince that she couldn’t recognize the first boy she’d ever loved.
; “Aridela,” he said.
She burst into furious weeping, which startled her, and threw her arms around his neck as she sensed, through her own flesh, the agony of the wounds as he received them.
* * * *
Menoetius breathed the musky scent of her perfume. Her tears wet his jaw and throat. He allowed himself to touch her shoulders, to press his cheek to her hair.
Then he remembered what he now was. He backed away, removing her arms from around his neck, releasing them as though they burned.
Tears magnified her eyes. He thought he saw there the image of Goddess Athene, and behind the Lady paced the lion.
A new phrase, one he’d never before heard in his nightmares, floated through his mind.
What seems the end is only the beginning.
He bit the insides of his cheeks.
Her joy faded into something far more familiar. Confusion, disillusionment, all framed by a frown. Even with effort, she hadn’t recognized him; such was the extent of his disfiguration. It was as bad as he’d always imagined it would be, and Aridela, like all these Cretans, abhorred ugliness.
His hands clenched into fists as the heat of shame ran through his face.
“What happened?” She blinked the tears from her eyes; they coursed over her perfect, flawless cheeks.
He didn’t know what to say. “I lived.” It made no sense, but he left it.
She extended her hand, but at that moment two priestesses approached from outside. They couldn’t enter because Menoetius was blocking the doorway.
“The people gather in the grove,” one of the women said. “We have come for Queen Helice and the bull-king.”
* * * *
Rain gnashed against the teeth of a south wind. A message came to the priestess in the hero’s pavilion to wait.
Growls of thunder drew Chrysaleon to the entrance. Puddles were forming in the dirt. Lightning streaked through the clouds.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 31