Menoetius’s head reared back a little, but he quickly recovered. “I was masquerading as a poor commoner. Alexiare believed it could become dangerous to the king. He advised me never to speak of it. Anyway, I don’t know her; I met her briefly, by accident.”
It felt good, switching helpless fury over his fate onto his brother. “One of the priestesses told me how Carmanor saved her life. Don’t lie to me.”
“I happened to be in the shrine when she came in and fainted,” Menoetius said with an impatient shrug. “I carried her out. That’s all. And,” he added, “I don’t answer to you, my brother.”
There was a long moment of silence, broken by the deep, slow peals of the gongs and awestruck chanting.
Chrysaleon managed to cover the space between them, dragging his wounded leg. He grasped the neck of Menoetius’s tunic. “I curse the Lady. I won’t rest until I’ve ended the king-sacrifice and made these people our slaves.”
“Then, my lord, you will achieve the recognition you have always sought, and you may allay the king’s anger at your disobedience.”
Chrysaleon stepped back. The foreboding he’d refused to acknowledge increased as he met Menoetius’s emotionless stare. Feeling something wet, he looked down. A dark spot expanded across his thigh. He’d broken the wound open. His limbs quivered; he was overwhelmed by a sense that nothing he’d experienced was real. Reaching out, he clasped his brother’s shoulder, fearing he would drop to the ground if he didn’t.
“My lord Zagreus.”
A pale-faced priestess stood there, ghost-like in the dark. Chrysaleon froze. She must have overheard them. She would now go to the queen, and he would be summarily executed.
But— “I have come to lead you to the celebration in the city,” was all she said. “The people want to honor you as their hero and king.”
Chapter Twenty-One: Moon of White Light
Watery shafts of sunlight, creeping in from the open terrace, threw a vivid field of lilies, butterflies and a single cobalt blue monkey into relief.
Menoetius found no comfort in the peaceful images on Selene’s chamber wall, any more than he had in the city, watching a pale, weak Chrysaleon showered with honors. Hoping to find his lover, he’d slipped away as soon as the crowd monopolized Chrysaleon’s attention.
What would happen when Idómeneus found out his son and heir had defied his orders and entered the Cretan Games? He might lay siege to this island. He might kill his own son as well as many others, only to regret it later.
Menoetius acknowledged a gnawing sense of guilt. He’d promised Idómeneus he wouldn’t let Chrysaleon do anything rash. Yet he hadn’t tried that hard to stop the prince from competing.
Why? Simple, tired resentment? A desire to drive a wedge between Chrysaleon and Idómeneus? Or because some part of him wanted Chrysaleon to die?
Chrysaleon competed on a whim born from lust. Now he woke in the night tormented by nightmares of the man he’d killed. He’d angered the Erinyes and drawn their cold embrace. Fool. He deserved to be driven mad.
Yesterday, after the Cretans locked his brother in the labyrinth, Menoetius returned to the chamber he shared with Selene, but the night passed in solitude. Throughout the slow passage of time, his longing for her increased to a mental and physical ache. He needed her unique comfort. When Selene looked into his face, he saw no hint of mirrored ugliness. She was a gift to be cherished, and he did; she was the only woman he could ever remember loving without fear. If it weren’t for the persistent need to protect Aridela, he could give himself to Selene and uncomplicated happiness.
At last, he’d abandoned the lonely chamber, intending to see if Chrysaleon had died from his wounds. Discovering his brother out of bed and standing on a balcony, bleeding, hoarse, weakened, but still able to vent his outrage at all the wrongs perpetrated on him forced Menoetius to face his secret, unacknowledged hopes.
Selene’s chamber remained empty, its silence somehow chilling. He couldn’t help but wonder if she lay somewhere glutted on the blood of the bull-king.
What of Aridela? Had she also torn the Zagreus’s flesh from his bones?
Spewing curses, Menoetius left the chamber. He wandered the palace corridors, making his way toward the gardens outside the queen’s breakfast hall. Perhaps there, he would find a measure of relief.
He came to a large, open chamber. From behind a fat pillar, he watched three young women, dressed in sleeveless white gowns with purple-dyed edges, sitting on a parapet wall, laughing as they watched the antics of a white cat and a monkey. The monkey, sporting a gem-crusted collar, chattered as it seized a handful of walnuts from a bowl and threw them at the hissing cat.
He recognized one of the women. She was Neoma, Aridela’s cousin, the spoiled brat who thought him deaf as well as ugly.
“I must join the family,” she said to her companions. “Will you watch over my little friend?” They assured her they would as she rose, patted the cat on its head, and hurried away.
Once she’d gone, he entered. The remaining women inclined their heads courteously, which almost, but not quite, disguised their delicate expressions of revulsion. One, who could be no more than twelve or thirteen, stared at him with naked fear.
He was so accustomed to these reactions that he hardly noticed. But he did wonder, as he returned their formal greetings, if these demure females had last night ripped their king’s flesh with teeth and nails.
“I seek the lady Selene,” he said.
“She and the royal family have gone to the grotto to be purified,” one of the women told him. Her long gold earrings clinked as she again bowed her head.
“Where is that?”
She gestured to the south. “Near the summit of the holy mountain, my lord.”
He thanked them and climbed steps to the spacious west terrace, passing fragrant pots of jasmine without a second glance. He peered over the wall. Far in the distance on the road leading to Mount Juktas, he saw a line of litters draped with bright cloth.
He resolved to follow and observe their rite. He’d spent years learning how to track silently, unseen. He would use those talents to avoid being spotted by the guards. Not giving himself a chance to reconsider, he leaped down the stairs and sprinted from the palace, glad for any task to distract his mind.
* * * *
Aridela stepped out of her litter, breathing the scent of fragrant oleander and feeling the softness of ivy leaves strewn beneath her bare feet. She ascended the path to a shady bower, where maids opened pots of unguents and laid out linens. At the far end of the pool, a waterfall splashed through ferns and, catching at sunlight, glittered like handfuls of stars thrown down by a god. Themiste had already entered. She lay submerged to her neck. Her eyes were closed; her head rested on a reed pillow placed on the bank, near the statue of the Lady holding a doeling. Assisted by handmaids, Helice was just stepping in, followed by Selene.
After the ritual cleansing, they would set their gifts upon the altar. Then they could rest, cloistered beneath green myrtle boughs, listening to the doves, before returning to the palace.
Aridela noted with alarm how haggard her mother looked. Her skin was sallow; the dark circles under her eyes seemed deeper than before.
“Are you well, isoke?” the queen asked. Even her voice sounded ill.
“But for a headache.” One of the maids undressed her and carried her gown away. Aridela descended into the water, shivering though the day was sultry, and sank down beside her mother. A priestess poured consecrated water over her hair and murmured words of renewal.
She was glad she hadn’t taken part in the more violent interlude of the sacrifice. Instead, she and several of the other younger priestesses sprinkled Xanthus’s blood throughout the lowest regions of the labyrinth. His mystical strength would join that of other kings in protecting the palace.
“Did you use bee-balm?” Selene asked.
“Halia rubbed some on my forehead before we left.”
Helice put her arm aro
und Aridela’s shoulders. “The laurel, no doubt, disagreed with you.”
“Themiste says women who suffer no ill-effects from chewing the leaves are born to be oracles.”
“Your future will be glorious, Aridela. I’ve never doubted that.” Helice stroked her daughter’s hair.
Aridela suppressed the urge to say petulantly, Iphiboë’s future will be glorious. I will be buried in the mountain caves and forgotten.
The only singular thing allowed to the cave priestesses was a lone handprint on the shrine wall, cast in red ochre dye. There were thousands such on the walls; the oldest had flaked away.
Someday, her handprint would disappear too, long after all memory of her vanished.
But she kept silent, not wanting to worsen her mother’s mood and knowing she wouldn’t feel so resentful if she weren’t exhausted and in pain.
She glanced toward Themiste, who lay apart from the others. The oracle stared back, prompting shivers in Aridela’s spine. Could the Minos of Kaphtor read what she was thinking from across the pool? Oracles routinely learned the method, called subliquara, of seeing another’s thoughts, but she and Aridela hadn’t played the mind-game since Aridela was little. Irritation buried her fear. Couldn’t she have privacy in her own mind, at least?
“Our heroes were gravely wounded in the labyrinth,” Helice said. “Rhené struggled all night to keep them alive.”
“If it were anyone else, they’d be dead,” Selene said in her blunt way. “I saw Lycus this morning; if Rhené saves him, it will be at the Lady’s will. But the Mycenaean’s wounds are less severe. She believes our new bull-king will survive and become Iphiboë’s consort, much as she may wish it otherwise.”
Aridela bit her lip. Part of her longed to shout all of it— the night of passion, the perfect symmetry between Chrysaleon and herself. But no good could come of such revelations.
“Selene told me Prince Chrysaleon’s guard is Carmanor.” Helice’s face livened as she turned toward Selene. “Did you tell Aridela?”
“She knows,” Selene said.
“I didn’t recognize him,” Helice said. “I’m sorry for that. I should have. Today must be given entirely to Chrysaleon, but soon, I want to spend time with our young friend. Perhaps he would share supper with us. Why didn’t you tell me this if you knew, Aridela?”
“I only realized it yesterday.” Aridela felt the burn of Selene’s accusing stare. “He’s changed. I didn’t recognize him, either.”
“All the more reason for us to welcome him as he deserves,” Helice said. “Fate has treated him unkindly; we must try to improve his lot. He’s acquired an imposing position as personal guard to the high king’s son. I always felt there was something of consequence about Carmanor. Idómeneus must have sensed this as well.”
“Many cannot see beyond his scars,” Selene said, “but I don’t notice them.”
Aridela struggled with guilt and odd pangs of something she couldn’t name. She kept her face turned away from Themiste and Selene, pretending to be absorbed by the waterfall. The intimacy between Selene and Carmanor irritated her now as much as it had when she was ten years old, which made no sense at all. She was in love with Chrysaleon, and the changes wrought in Carmanor were… disturbing.
Neoma, delicate little Phanaë, and their mother, Oneaea, descended the path and entered the pool, murmuring subdued greetings as the priestesses performed their ritual cleansings.
Helice’s moment of energy faded. “Nothing purifies my pain.” She rested her head on a pillow as a handmaid ladled water gently over her hair and shoulders. Tears trailed from her eyes. “It would have pleased me to spend the rest of my life with Xanthus. I know it’s selfish to say such things, but queens on Kaphtor forego much.” She wearily made the sign against evil, to prevent angering the spirit of Xanthus and forcing him to return for vengeance or mischief.
“I remember one day when he, Iphiboë and I chased butterflies near the bullring,” Aridela said. “They were unafraid, and rested on the backs of his hands, on his shoulders, even on top of his head. They seemed to think him a flower filled with nectar.”
Helice straightened, her dark eyes beginning to sparkle. “He appreciated simple things. Though he knew his life would be short, he cared only for bettering Kaphtor. He was an honorable bull-king.”
“My father was a good man, too,” Aridela said.
“You know he was.” Helice’s brief pleasure disappeared into a frown. “Don’t… don’t speak of him today.”
“Forgive me, Mother.” Aridela wished she could take back the words. It seemed everything she said or did lately was wrong.
“I saw Sidero as we left the palace,” Neoma broke in. “Does she always have to be assisted now?”
“Yes,” Helice said. “Her legs no longer support her.”
“She keeps repeating those words,” Aridela said, unsettled by the memory of the woman’s blank white stare. “What does it mean?”
“‘The holy triad.’” Helice shook her head. “I know not, but it meant something to Themiste.” She turned her gaze toward the oracle. “Can you tell us, Minos?”
“It has to do with old prophecy, my lady. Not something to be spoken of lightly, in the presence of so many. I don’t feel I’ve determined the full meaning anyway.”
The others accepted this excuse and spoke of other things, but Aridela, glancing toward the oracle, was again disturbed by the way Themiste stared, so intently, back at her.
Iphiboë, her brow graced with a green and white garland of myrtle woven around a circlet of gold, approached from the path. She walked on her own, though she did lean upon the arm of her handmaid.
The maid removed Iphiboë’s gown and the binding around the knee. Iphiboë entered the water, saying, “Rhené told me there are minerals in this mud that will help the ache.”
“May it be so,” Helice said.
“It’s still swollen,” Aridela said. Bruising extended from the knee like tendrils of black-blue vines.
“Yes, but Rhené thinks it will heal faster if I walk on it a bit. She has me bending it several times a day.” She floated to her mother and sister, sighing. “Mother, I heard one of Prince Harpalycus’s slaves is fighting with a farmer from Tamara, right in the palace courtyard. Apparently, wagers are being placed.”
“Did someone break this up?” Alarm sharpened Helice’s voice.
Iphiboë said she didn’t know.
“I won’t tolerate impropriety in the Mistress’s temple.” Helice beckoned to the maids and waded toward the shallow end of the pool.
“Send someone else,” Aridela said. “You’re tired. You don’t have to take care of everything.”
“No, I will attend to this. Both of you stay here and rest. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Themiste said. The maids dried the two women. As soon as they were dressed, they hurried away.
Aridela rubbed her eyes. “Mother is ready for you to be queen, Iphiboë.”
“Xanthus was kind.” Iphiboë’s voice quavered.
“He made the great sacrifice for the good of Kaphtor, for all of us. Where would we be without it?” Yet Aridela couldn’t stifle a sigh. Why did the land require so much blood? It was endlessly thirsty and accepted only the blood of the finest men. Prophecy stated that one day, a man would be born who would become Kaphtor’s greatest ruler. His arrival would herald the end of the sacrifices. Kaphtor’s common language called this man the Great-Year-King; in the archaic tongue now spoken only by priestesses, he was known as the Thinara King.
Aridela wished this event would happen soon, but it seemed unlikely. The prophecy had existed for thousands of years without any sign of coming true.
“When we take the bull-king into our bodies, he becomes part of us,” Selene said in the calm, accepting manner of her people. “He looks out from our eyes; his heart beats as one with ours. Everyone loved Xanthus. Now he lives with Athene and her son. Xanthus’s earthly days were filled with glory and he has achiev
ed everlasting paradise. He brought life to his people, peace to the earth. We’ll see his resurrection in the new crops that feed the next generation. What more could any man want than to become a god on the day of his death?”
“He’ll never be forgotten.” Aridela made the required motions against evil even as she thought again, with regret, of her own father, Damasen.
* * * *
Menoetius squatted above the pool, concealed by oleanders and myrtle shrubs.
He’ll never be forgotten.
If Chrysaleon failed to end the king-sacrifice, he would be slain like his predecessor when the heat again called up Iakchos. He, too, would be reborn in the Lady’s magical paradise and pronounced a god. Chrysaleon. The idea was laughable.
The back of Menoetius’s neck prickled.
A halo, caused by the sun reflecting off the water, surrounded Crete’s younger princess as she stepped from the pool. Water dripped off the ends of her black hair and trailed over the curve of her buttocks, leaving a wet sheen and a hint of rainbows.
Thou wilt give to her the offering of thy blood.
He was so mesmerized he barely heard the faint whisper flit through his mind. A handmaid wrapped her in a fine-woven linen robe, drawing out her hair from beneath.
Though her body was now a woman’s, he glimpsed the innocence he remembered in the way quick laughter could fade to brooding grief in the time it took her to shake her head.
Looking at her brought back the day he’d carried her out of the shrine. He still recalled how light she was in his arms. How she’d smiled even though she was bleeding to death. Curious, the fierce need to protect that kindled inside him when she lifted her small hand and touched the side of his face.
It is she.
The thought drifted like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight, unbidden, lazily. It was almost lost, dismissed as idle mind chatter, but as he watched her, realization avalanched as intensely as if a spear came from behind and cleaved him in two.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 34