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

by Rebecca Lochlann

  He turned, trying in vain to pierce the blackness. “Who is it?” he said. “Face me.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll show you how I fail.” He stood, swinging the blade, but it struck only air. His second swing hit stone, causing a deafening clang and shower of sparks.

  You will follow. The voice’s timbre didn’t change.

  “Follow?” He stepped forward, leaving the security of the wall, forgetting that he mustn’t lose track of the wavy lines. “Follow who?”

  But when you ask it, you will have my forgiveness.

  A cold draft whined from the dark. Not far away, a scream broke the silence.

  He found the wall again and crept forward.

  His fingertips explored where stone ended and wood began. He determined he’d found a door.

  He swallowed and pushed it open.

  Chapter Twenty: Moon of White Light

  “So you found your way.”

  Chrysaleon swiveled, lifting his blade. Lycus stood in front of a wall filled with so many lamps he was almost in silhouette. But the Cretan didn’t attack. He waited, arms crossed, leaning against one of the labyrinth’s support pillars.

  It was more than Chrysaleon would have done for him.

  If he’d had a clear head, Chrysaleon would consider his next move, but rage, hunger and thirst sent him leaping recklessly. Frustration blazed like the killing wrath of an angered Poseidon. Here, finally, was something he knew— fighting, swordplay, and an enemy he could see and touch.

  Chrysaleon circled his sword over his head to increase the energy behind the thrust. Lycus deflected it. The blades clanged and scraped as blow after blow was struck and parried. Other than forcing his opponent backward, Chrysaleon made no headway. Fury jarred the inside of his skull like a woman’s shrill screams.

  They paused after the initial onslaught, weapons ready, breathing hard, each trying to size up and unnerve the other.

  “No one thought you would find your way down here,” Lycus said. “We joked about finding your skeleton someday. I’ve had ample opportunity to kill the Zagreus.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Chrysaleon asked.

  The corner of Lycus’s mouth curled. “It pleases me more to kill you… barbarian.”

  “Why?” Chrysaleon watched for an opening even as he dismissed Lycus for a spoiled fop. What chance did he have? He might be able to execute a pretty somersault in the bullring, but that didn’t make him a warrior. It was simply a matter of waiting for the inevitable mistake, which might come more swiftly if the fool could be coaxed into careless bragging.

  “You’ve taken something that was promised to me.”

  Chrysaleon met his antagonist’s gaze. Saw what burned there. “You had more chances than I to take it,” he said.

  Those black, painted eyes narrowed. Knuckles whitened on the sword’s handle. Giving an incoherent yell, Lycus engaged.

  Heftier than Lycus and with at least twice the power in his shoulders and arms, Chrysaleon again pushed the boy backward under a volley of heavy blows.

  They came alongside a pillar. Just as Chrysaleon thought he would crush his enemy’s fading defense, the bull leaper jumped behind it. Chrysaleon lowered his sword. “Hiding won’t save you,” he said with a derisive laugh.

  He caught a flash from the corner of his eye as something flew at him from the side. Too late, he raised his sword. Lycus, grasping the pillar with his arms, used it to propel his body in a horizontal flying arc, using both feet like a battering ram to bash Chrysaleon in the chest. Such a move could only have come from the bullring.

  Thrown hard to the ground, Chrysaleon nearly lost his grip on the sword. Lycus landed upright a few steps away, as gracefully as if he’d jumped off a bull’s back. He pivoted, aiming for Chrysaleon’s belly.

  Scrawny, but there is talent. Chrysaleon staved off the killing thrust with a brutal kick to Lycus’s groin.

  Lycus bent over, moaning, giving Chrysaleon the opportunity to follow up his kick with a fist-blow to the bottom of the chin that drove Lycus’s teeth through his lip.

  The Cretan flew backward. His arms flailed, but he kept hold of his weapon.

  Chrysaleon leaped to his feet. Now he stood above his gasping competitor. In a moment, Lycus would be dead. He lifted his sword. “I’ll think of you,” he said with a smile, “while I enjoy her.”

  Lycus’s thrust, swift as a serpent strike, left a crippling slice in the muscle of Chrysaleon’s outer thigh.

  Chrysaleon staggered away as he fought to remain standing. He looked down, gritting his teeth, hardly able to see through bolts of pain, but reassured. His blood wasn’t spurting. Still, the leg buckled and he dropped to one knee.

  Lycus rose, breathing hard, his lips compressed. “Will you?” He sneered, his return smile marred by blood. He sliced his blade sideways; it sang as it carved the air in a perfect line to separate Chrysaleon’s head from his neck.

  Even as he lifted his weapon to deflect the oncoming edge of Lycus’s sword, Chrysaleon’s mind formed an image of Aridela holding this dandy’s hand.

  In the instant it took Lycus to bring his weapon round again, Chrysaleon jumped up, balancing on his good leg. He leveled a ferocious beating with the flat of his blade, silently cursing the refusal of his wounded leg to follow his commands, but at least it had gone numb, for the moment.

  Lycus’s sword flew across the chamber, striking the wall of lamps. Several shattered and fell. Flames leaped as oil splashed across the floor.

  In the pause that followed, both men worked to calm their breathing. Sweat glistened in the firelight. Lycus sent a desperate glance toward his fallen sword.

  Throwing his own weapon down with a snarl, Chrysaleon grabbed Lycus around the neck and slid behind him, pressing against his back and yoking him in an unbreakable chokehold.

  Lycus clawed at Chrysaleon’s arm, tugging and scratching, but couldn’t dislodge himself. He fell to the ground, yanking Chrysaleon down on top of him, and tried to grasp Chrysaleon’s discarded blade. He was choking, gagging, one moment falling slack and the next fighting with renewed energy.

  Chrysaleon flexed his bicep, pressing the crook of his arm against his rival’s larynx. He was enjoying himself now. He didn’t want to kill Lycus too quickly. Far more gratifying to see him suffer.

  When the blow to his skull came, he fell away, his sight disintegrating into explosions of starbursts. A hot stream of blood cascaded over his cheek.

  Lycus had seized Chrysaleon’s fallen sword and levied it against his head, not only giving him a disorienting blow but carving a gash into his scalp.

  If Lycus could rise, he’d have plenty of time for the kill. But Chrysaleon had choked him into near unconsciousness.

  Enough. This gangly bull leaper was proving too painful a hindrance. Chrysaleon, spitting blood and fighting his way back from darkness, rolled away just in time to avoid being skewered through the belly.

  He continued to roll, coming up on his good leg while snatching Lycus’s sword in his left hand. The grip was so hot from lying in burning oil that his skin seared. Lycus was right behind him, both hands clamped around his sword hilt, aiming for Chrysaleon’s left forearm. Experience prompted Chrysaleon to drop his arm to his side at the last moment, changing Lycus’s aim. The strike, meant to cleave bone, instead only shaved away several layers of flesh and muscle.

  Biting down on a groan as blood gushed from yet another wound, Chrysaleon switched the sword to his right hand as he fell onto his back. Lycus stumbled past him. Chrysaleon smashed the flat of his blade against Lycus’s hand, knocking the weapon free. Rotating his wrist, hanging onto consciousness with gritted, desperate will, he sank the point of his sword into the soft flesh below his opponent’s ribcage.

  It wasn’t the killing blow he wanted, but it put Lycus on the ground and out of the fight. Lycus stiffened and gasped. His eyes opened wide. Chrysaleon held onto his sword hilt as he rose. He would twist the blade as he pulled it out. The internal rupture would
bring certain death, but Chrysaleon meant to pierce the stomach too. Only then would he declare himself the victor. He would take nothing more for granted, after scarcely surviving this defiant youth’s tactical surprises.

  “You should have forced the issue,” he said, “when you had the chance. As I did.”

  Lycus drew in one shallow gasp after another. He stared, unblinking, at Chrysaleon.

  Just as Chrysaleon started to turn the blade, he heard weeping and a soft, insistent drumbeat.

  He looked up. For the first time he noticed another door.

  Instantly forgetting his fallen enemy, he staggered to it and threw it open.

  * * * *

  Thick, irritating smoke blurred Chrysaleon’s sight. His eyes filled with water. He coughed even as he tensed for the next attack.

  Frightening as a child’s nightmare, creatures crept in and out of the smoke, their long white arms extended like twisting tree roots.

  The drumbeat pounded against Chrysaleon’s already throbbing skull.

  Hanging on a trellis in the center of the room was the axe, the sacred king killer with stone blades. Next to that hung a black ram’s fleece, complete with a gold clasp to fasten at the neck. He limped to the trellis and threw the fleece over his shoulders. He seized the axe. The handle was rock smooth, dark, slick from the hands of men who wielded it upon their predecessors for time beyond measure. The blades, indescribably sharp, seemed to suck in the faint light coming from the perimeter of the room.

  “Gorgopis,” the beasts whispered, and lifted their arms in unison. Doors opened on the far side of the chamber. More beasts emerged, walking on two legs like men, but with the heads of bulls, lions, monkeys and ibex. Chrysaleon faced monstrous creatures with snakes undulating around their necks, glowing eyes, bloody mouths. They appeared and disappeared in the ever-thickening smoke, leaving behind soft serpent hisses.

  The smoke itself seemed to whisper. Agraule Athene.

  He staggered one direction then another, intending to slay as many as he could before they overpowered him. But they melted away, leaving behind one desolate figure robed in white.

  He seemed taller than Chrysaleon remembered. The Zagreus hid his face behind his arms.

  Chrysaleon saw something gleam in the king’s hand. He had a weapon of some sort, though it broke Crete’s own laws. Chrysaleon pushed off the ground on his good leg. His muscles trembled. If he didn’t finish Xanthus swiftly, he himself would die. His eyesight was fading, his heart fluttering. It was becoming harder and harder to remain on his feet.

  Zagreus didn’t rush forward to meet his challenge. He turned and tried to flee, but the creatures converged and pushed him back.

  Chrysaleon could barely see anything through the stinging smoke. It seemed as though Helice’s consort was weeping, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Shaking his head, Chrysaleon fought to clear the death-fog from his mind. The chamber walls danced; the air exploded with color as he gasped and stumbled.

  The queen had damaged his mind with some concoction, and armed her lover. In truth, Helice didn’t want a barbarian to win these Games. She was willing to break every law and risk angering the Goddess to achieve her desire.

  Zagreus ran another direction, again away from Chrysaleon, but the wall of creatures stood fast. He clawed at them to no avail.

  The labrys-axe hung like a boulder from Chrysaleon’s arm. Gasping, he brought the weapon up then down again against the back of the king’s neck.

  Blood spurted. Xanthus fell, pulling Chrysaleon down on top of him.

  Gasping, Chrysaleon staggered to his feet, slipping in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. He drew the axe from the king’s flesh and held onto it, blinking, trying to peer through the smoke and intermittent light to his other enemies.

  The drumbeat stopped. For one long moment there was utter silence.

  A woman wearing the face of a white cow stepped from the circle. Her hands, crossed over her breasts, held small ceremonial labrys-axes. She walked to the dead king. She knelt and gently turned him over. The boy’s face was pale, unlined, almost childlike. His brown eyes stared. What Chrysaleon thought was a weapon in the king’s hand he now saw was an apple, fashioned of pure gold. As he watched, it rolled free of the limp fingers.

  Chrysaleon dropped the axe. It struck the earth with a dull thud. Figures, unrecognizable behind their masks, converged on the body. Zagreus’s blank eyes met Chrysaleon’s before they were hidden under the swarm.

  Many others tore their robes. They turned up their faces and scratched at their throats. Some cried the bull-king’s real name, “Xanthus.” Others cried, “Zagreus.” Several ripped off their masks, weeping, screaming.

  A hand clasped his unwounded forearm. He jerked, but he couldn’t have lifted the axe anymore, even to save his own life. A priestess stood beside him, peering into his face.

  He no longer felt his legs. The roar in his ears and thick spackled glaze dulling his sight warned him. Much of his lifeblood had seeped away. He was dying.

  “Come,” the priestess said. “You must emerge, triumphant and reborn.” Her voice echoed.

  “It’s finished?”

  The woman nodded. “You are victorious.”

  No more strength or will remained. Chrysaleon’s knees buckled.

  The king is dead.

  I am king.

  * * * *

  Chrysaleon woke with a start. Perspiration stung his eyes. Yet no dead man stood at the foot of the bed, blood dribbling from his neck, a gaping hole where his genitals used to be.

  Rubbing his eyes with clenched fists, Chrysaleon stared into the thick unbroken blackness of his chamber. For one sickening moment, he thought he was again in the labyrinth.

  Ripping through the fine netting draped around the bed, he forced himself to his feet, staggered to the balcony, and leaned, gasping, on the railing. Beyond the terraces stood rich mansions, olive groves, vineyards, and the famed city of Knossos. All could be called his, until one year from this night, when he would die. Women in masks would tear him to pieces. They would parade his severed genitals in a basket and throw them into the sea. Another bull-king would accept the crown, the glory, and the fate.

  It was his choice, as it is mine.

  Darkness and silence reigned. No fires burned. They’d been extinguished to mourn the death of their king. Soon, when the gongs and triton shells sounded to announce the rising of the great star and the beginning of their new year, the people would rouse from slumber. They would kindle fresh fires to honor the new consort. All grief would be forgotten, except by those closest to the dead king. Sorrow would be replaced with worship, adoration and gratitude.

  As Chrysaleon stood there, the railing holding him up, his heartbeat slowed and his breathing calmed. He took stock. Someone had tended his wounds; they must have used something to dull the pain, for he hardly felt any.

  At some point the rain had stopped. The air was fresh, cool, the soil reborn as he was.

  He heard the faint chant of priestesses. More distantly still, he heard women weeping and the distant haunting drone of triton shells, calling up the star, Iakchos.

  Dizziness descended, making the whole world sway. The Erinyes soared and circled, hissing promises of coming torment. He’d grown up hearing tales of men who, driven insane by the three avenging goddesses and their horde of shrieking followers, would run screaming over a cliff or drive daggers into their own hearts. He leaned against the railing, his muscles knotting. The tic beneath his left eye pulsed wildly.

  The crones spoke. Did one of those masks cover Aridela’s face? Did your lover flay her stepfather’s flesh from his bones and consume it?

  “Tisiphone, Megaera, Alecto.” Too late he remembered it was bad luck to speak their names and draw their attention. “Venerable Ones,” he amended, hoping to disarm their easily roused anger.

  Will she do it to you when your time comes?

  Anger reasserted itself. It was his choice, as it is mine. He pound
ed the rail with his unhurt right fist.

  Hair lifted on the back of his neck. He swiveled, staring into the yawning black hole leading into his bedchamber. The dead watched, waiting to welcome him into their ranks. He trembled as the restless stink of cold graves filled his senses.

  He forced himself to turn around and gaze upward, to the infinite layers, offshoots and clusters of stars in the sky. They blazed in full glory, for there was no moon to outshine them. Then he saw it— Iakchos, burning blue-white, rising above the mountain summits.

  The hollow resonance of triton shells gave way to gongs. Torches flared. Bonfires ignited on the hilltops, on the summit of Juktas and across the seaside cliffs.

  Tendrils of fire surrounded the star, making it flicker. This was a bad sign, heralding pestilence. As the gongs sent haunting reverberations across the city, he stared at Iakchos, gritting his teeth and growling his rage until his throat burned and no more sound could pass.

  “My lord?”

  Chrysaleon recognized Menoetius only by his voice. His brother stood in the doorway, an indistinct shadow.

  “What have I done?” Speaking hoarsely through a throat made raw, Chrysaleon’s eyes watered.

  “You killed the Zagreus,” Menoetius said. “You defied your father’s commands and won the Cretan Games. Unless Helice has you murdered in your sleep, you are now the royal consort and bull-king of this place. You are Zagreus.”

  The way he said it made it sound like a curse; Chrysaleon fancied he heard a note of satisfaction. “The stories are true,” he said. “They tore his flesh like a pride of lions bringing down their prey, with their teeth and hands.”

  “They eat his body, drink his blood, and become part of him. It’s their way of making him, and this land, live forever. The queen called it communion.”

  Menoetius’s calm explanation kindled Chrysaleon’s rage. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Aridela? Why did you keep it a secret?”