The woman from his nightmare. Bound within an oak tree. Guarded by the lion.
Aridela, daughter of Queen Helice of Crete, was the woman in that incessant, torturous dream.
He fell backward. Salty sweat stung his eyes. What little he’d eaten he retched onto a pile of leaves. Thankfully, the lively waterfall drowned out the sound.
He saw the woman in the oak. This time, she turned her head and stared at him. He shivered as though he lay in drifts of snow; the dream-lion growled.
What seems the end is only the beginning.
Incomprehensible alchemy had seized the child he’d known on Crete, reshaped her into a grown woman, and slipped her into a prophetic dream.
He lay breathless, trembling, blinded in the dazzling presence of immortal revelation.
The scent of damp soil rose around him. A bird pecked at its wing in the branches overhead, the sound so magnified it might be next to his ear. He stared unseeing into the hot blue sky and shivered.
She’s alive. She stands before me. The woman from my dream is real.
In the dream, the lion’s pelt sparked golden pinpoints of light. The oak’s trunk, covered with deep runes, gleamed in rich brown; spots of rust and yellow mold spattered the base. The ivy and poppies draping the branches were darkest green and vibrant orange, fading to palest pink. A silver chalice sat on the ground beside the woman, along with a basket filled with apples of purest bright gold.
She breathes. Her heart beats. She’s alive in this world, the world of men. I can touch her.
A shackle bound the woman’s wrist to the inner wall. She stretched, testing, searching for any means of escape.
He’d never wanted anything so much as to reach her; no desire in his waking life came close. When he was caught in the mystery of the dream, he knew and accepted that he was bound to this woman, as closely as any man could be to a cherished lover or wife.
But he couldn’t get to her. The lion barred his way. One step and it was on him, gouging, ripping, tearing him to pieces.
Six years ago, Aridela was a child. After the lioness tried to eat him alive and the dream commenced, he’d never identified that child with the dream woman in the oak.
Lifting himself on his elbows, he stared at her through the veil of white blooms, marveling at how truth disguised itself until this moment. Such things could only occur at the command of gods. No, not any god. Athene, Mistress of this place. She caused him to see or be blinded at her whim. He knew it as though she stood before him and told him so.
No doubt Aridela’s difficulty recognizing him, even when she looked right into his face, had more to do with Athene’s will than his appearance.
He watched her like a drowning man breaking the surface of water and taking his first lifesaving breath. She peered at the waterfall with the same concentration she displayed in his dream as she ran her hands over the smooth inner walls of her oak prison.
The woman in my dream lives. She stands before me.
A roaring sea tide, running before storm winds, thundered in his ears before another thought intruded.
The lion. The lioness. The woman in his dream, whispering. Thou wilt give to her the offering of thy blood.
Had he? In the claws and teeth of the lioness? Had the Goddess commanded it?
His heart raced. He shied away from the unbearable possibility.
A woman he’d believed carved from imagination had kept him solitary, isolated for six years. He couldn’t even give his whole heart to the lovely Selene; such was the dream-woman’s hold on him. She commanded his single-minded devotion.
Now Athene allowed him to see. She wasn’t a specter. She was alive. He could speak to her. Touch her.
And, if he were honest, covet her. As he stared, lust overtook all notions of the noble champion.
He could leap from his hiding place, send the maids scattering like sparrows. He could rape her right there, on the ground next to the pool. He was angry enough, with both her and her Goddess, who’d tricked him for so long, who played with them all. It would be done before anyone could interfere. He would be slaughtered, but he didn’t particularly care.
He pushed himself backward and slipped. Pebbles and dirt cascaded down the slope. It sounded loud to him, yet no one below paid any attention. Kaphtor was as safe to them as a mother’s womb; it was inconceivable that a man could be spying on them or plotting mischief.
Odd, this rage that set his bones shaking. But was it? Aridela was beautiful still. He was ugly. Once, he’d held her heart in his hand. Now she was repelled. How could he ever touch her? She would never allow it.
And of all the men she could have chosen to place her hopes on since he’d last seen her, she’d picked Chrysaleon. She’d given herself to the arrogant, callous prince who could never love her in return, who would lie without conscience to achieve his own ends. Chrysaleon and the lion in the dream. Both kept him from her and made him face his cowardice.
Alexiare often insisted that dreams weren’t small things, to be dismissed or forgotten. They were gifts or curses, a way for Immortals to communicate with the beings they’d created.
Aridela, now dressed in a blue gown, waited idly while a maid combed tangles from her hair.
Chrysaleon will find a way to lie with her again.
His brother seemed fascinated in a way Menoetius couldn’t remember ever seeing before. But he knew it wouldn’t last. Chrysaleon would grow bored. He always did.
Now that he’d recognized her, maybe he could stamp out the dream for good. Long ago, he’d saved her life; surely that was the source of the dream, of the need to protect. She was a beautiful girl, but there were thousands of those in the world. Selene for one.
Even through his gritted, clenched attempts to dismiss, to calm his arousal, to flay the obsession of her out of his soul, his mind whispered on.
I will follow. She is the one. The only one. I will never leave her again.
There would be no rape. Not with her. Not ever.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Moon of White Light
All day, while Aridela and the others rested and made offerings on the sacred mountain, Knossos resounded with its celebration of Prince Chrysaleon of Mycenae, who must now be thought of as Zagreus of Kaphtor.
One of the maids mentioned assisting Rhené. Aridela pulled her away from the others and demanded every detail. The biggest fear, according to the maid, was death from the loss of blood, or, if he survived that, an infection of what little blood he still possessed, which often happened to warriors. There was also a serious blow to his head, causing him to fade in and out of consciousness.
The news left Aridela nauseated with worry and fear. Lycus was in even worse condition; a penetrating sword wound threatened his internal organs. Celebrations in town should have been postponed. For the first time in her life, Kaphtor’s entrenched fidelity to tradition struck her as cruel and needless. It was almost impossible to lie in the grotto where she was supposed to be resting, and pretend no more than normal, detached concern. She returned to the palace as soon as was reasonable with the intention of visiting both contenders, but a messenger who found her first gave summons from the queen.
Heaving an annoyed sigh, Aridela crossed the courtyard to the morning hall. One of the most beautiful and soothing rooms in the palace, the hall boasted potted fruit trees, fragrant flowers, and delicate frescoes that brightened it with color. Square skylights drew in the rosy dawn and when it grew too hot, were covered with reed awnings. It was the queen’s preferred place to discuss judgments and policies, or simply to enjoy the cooler morning air and scents from the adjoining garden.
She was about to enter when she saw Harpalycus of Tiryns sitting next to her mother at the high table. She paused and considered slipping away, but the serious expressions and quiet, closely held conversation held her still. The frown on Helice’s face roused protective instincts and she lingered, uneasy.
Lavender twilight suffused the room. The maids began lighting lamps. Harpa
lycus, scraping at his chin, turned and spotted her. He broke off his conversation and rose. A smile curved his lips; odd, how his attempts to be charming conceived an urge to run away.
“Sit with us, my lady,” he said, bowing, all courtesy and consideration.
She armored herself with cool formality as she took a seat beside her mother. Her favorite cake, baked with barley, honey, and sesame, was placed before her, along with watered wine.
“Are you sailing back to the mainland soon, my lord?” she asked.
Heavy eyelids dropped over blue eyes as he speared a fig. “Yes. Alas.” He held up his right hand, bound in wrappings, kept immobile with wood splints. Rhené used the technique to assist in healing and minimize loss of use. Even so, this warrior would never again wield a sword properly, if at all. Yet he appeared light-hearted as he perused the damage. “What is there to keep me here?” He met her gaze. “Only your face. Life will be hollow when I can no longer admire it.”
Aridela inclined her head. “You have mastered the honeyed speech of an ambassador.”
“Aridela.” Helice gave her daughter a reproving glance.
The prince excused her rudeness with a shrug. “I do hope to see you from time to time, now that tiny Crete is to be part of powerful Mycenae.”
Aridela bit the inside of her lip to keep from laughing outright, but a subtle snort escaped. “And Mycenae part of tiny Crete,” she said.
The way his mouth turned up on one side suggested skepticism. “I fear this union will bring unforeseen changes.”
“I hope not too many.”
His voice remained smooth. “Iphiboë may find small pleasures at Mycenae’s citadel, though it will never offer the comfort she’s accustomed to, and the winter can be bitter.”
“What?” Aridela asked, startled out of bored annoyance.
“I don’t understand, my lord.” Helice was much better at disguising her surprise.
“Forgive me.” Harpalycus’s brows lifted innocently enough, though Aridela felt certain he knew exactly what he was doing. “Have I given some offence?”
“Iphiboë will live on Kaphtor as she has always done.” Aridela kept her voice level. “Those who would be king on Kaphtor are reborn to our land and our ways. They become our kin, and give up previous alliances.”
“You suppose Idómeneus will relinquish his son and heir?” He drummed the tips of his fingers on the edge of the table and sent his gaze wandering over a serving maid’s cleavage as she poured wine for Helice. “Mycenae isn’t a huddle of mud bricks, you know. Iphiboë should have chosen an unimportant prince, like me, for instance—”
“Iphiboë didn’t choose.” Helice succumbed to a sharper tone. “Goddess Athene picks the man who will wear the ring of Zagreus.”
“Of course, my lady.” Harpalycus bowed his head. “But I noticed how openly the guard opposed his prince competing. If Chrysaleon defied his father, it could mean trouble for you and your people.”
Helice’s hesitation was nearly imperceptible. “The prince assured us he received his father’s blessing. Necessary compromises will be made,” she said, again noncommittal. “I have much respect for Idómeneus.”
As the tenseness abated, Aridela excused herself and wandered into the gardens with a basket and small knife. All hint of the coolness and rain that so oddly transformed the king’s death day had evaporated as though no more than a dream. Today it was so hot that one must keep to the shadows, and the onset of evening brought little relief. She’d always disliked the Moon of White Light, even aside from the consort’s violent death. Vegetation wilted, heat shimmered along the ground, and pestilence stole young and old alike from those who loved them. Everyone much preferred winter. Snowy caps on the mountains heralded the return of life and vitality. She often asked Selene to describe the winters in her northern homeland, and tried to picture a place where snow fell as deeply as a tall man’s knees, fierce winds sliced at the skin and the trees and crops went into several months of divine sleep.
By the end of the Moon of Asphodel and Honeysuckle, spring flowers would bud. In the Moon of Flowering Apples, the almond and apple trees would burst into bloom. Winter lasted such a short time here, yet served the important purpose of quenching the earth’s thirst, which was why they called the month after the winter solstice the Moon of Drenching Rain. This year, Themiste would insist she spend the entire winter and spring in the mountain shrines. The budding and bloom of the palace garden’s magnificent floral arrangements would occur without her there to watch. She wouldn’t get a chance to walk the scented paths to the queen’s cypress maze, where, on an evening like this, she and Lycus had come so close to consummating their desire.
Tears of aggravation stung the back of her eyes; pain stabbed her temples. The bee balm did nothing to calm her headache. As serious as Chrysaleon’s wounds were, Lycus was in more danger of dying. Rhené had kept him alive through the night, but refused to make any promises.
The unwholesome heat couldn’t prevent a shiver as Aridela imagined the fight between the two men. Lycus wasn’t trained to wield a sword. Had Chrysaleon needed to wound him so cruelly?
But she knew what starvation, thirst, and cold did to the heroes who struggled in Kaphtor’s king-sacrifice. That kind of physical suffering coupled with the dark endless corridors beneath the palace often caused temporary madness. She knew little of what happened, all of it second or third hand. Lycus might have forced Chrysaleon to show no mercy. From the sound of things, Chrysaleon had battled for his life.
To her irritation, Harpalycus appeared on the path behind her. His eyes widened as though he was surprised to see her, but she was sure he’d followed her deliberately. “I’m pleased to find you, my lady,” he said with a bow. “I should use this opportunity to give you warning.”
Another shiver crept across her shoulders, this time from the proximity of Tiryns’ prince. A strange smell emanated from him. She realized it had been there the night of Iphiboë’s dedication as well. The closest she could come to naming it was the smell of still-smoldering ashes.
“Chrysaleon’s people will be angry if the wife of their crown prince refuses to take her place with him at Mycenae. It will anger your people if she goes.” He sighed, wearing that signature bland smile she found so abrasive. “It seems a great inconvenience. If only….”
“Chrysaleon has a brother. Gelanor, isn’t it? Could he not take Mycenae’s throne?”
He tilted his head as though considering. “I fear it isn’t that simple. Chrysaleon already has a wife. Didn’t he tell you?”
Aridela struggled to hide her shock, but he was watching. His lip curled.
“His wife is my sister, the lady Iros. She is as much a princess as you and Iphiboë, and has certain rights. So does my father, who believes he married his daughter to the future high king. What will become of Iros now? What will my father do when he hears of this?” The shake of his head told Aridela that King Lycomedes would be quite annoyed, if not enraged. “Now Chrysaleon is giving up his throne and has acquired another wife. Iros, Idómeneus, my father— all are likely to be insulted.”
This was her doing. She’d encouraged Chrysaleon to compete in a moment of weak selfish desire. If not for her request, which many men would find difficult to refuse on honor alone, he would be preparing to sail home to Mycenae— to his wife. Now, because of her meddling, the king of Tiryns might make war on Kaphtor. Helice must be told.
Harpalycus broke into Aridela’s thoughts. “Chrysaleon is quite taken with… Iphiboë. He shows her and… you… more regard than I’ve ever seen him show his citadel women. This unexpected marriage will be a shock for them, too. They haven’t yet accustomed themselves to the first wife. They’ll fight like jealous cats to turn his attention from your sister. I know it’s discourteous to speak of such matters, but when one deals with Chrysaleon….” He paused, peering around them, then extended one arm toward a wooden bench, clasping her elbow with the other.
Thinking he might divulge
more about potential problems with the mainland, she stopped herself from making an excuse and they sat. She sorted through the flowers she’d gathered while trying to absorb his shocking revelation. Despite the deepening twilight, she saw the blooms were already wilting. She would try to revive them with water and take them to Lycus. Hopefully they would cheer him.
Chrysaleon has a wife.
“Iphiboë must do what your council demands,” Harpalycus said. “No doubt Chrysaleon can bring his people to heel. As for my father….” He shrugged.
He brushed her forearm with two fingers from wrist to elbow, lightly enough to tickle. She wanted to jerk away, but kept herself from doing it.
“I came here with my brothers once. Your mother feasted us. When I saw you at the high table with your sister, Zeus the Protector struck me through the heart with one of his mighty thunderbolts. Do you remember?”
She shook her head. “When was it?”
“Long ago. You were small, but I saw what a beauty you would be.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Chrysaleon never voiced a desire to compete in the Cretan Games. He seemed content with his fights, hunting, and women. I didn’t want my sister to marry him, yet she seemed resigned. I wonder if Idómeneus ordered him to come. It’s hard to believe, but Crete is a rich land, and the high king is ruthless. He loves to expand his holdings and deepen his coffers.”
Aridela frowned. She didn’t want to be reminded that many suspected Chrysaleon’s actions, any more than she wanted to question her dizzying attraction to him. For foreign lands, the purpose of competing could be a matter of state, a desire to ally countries, to create new ruling Houses, or to shore up old ones. The mainland was crowded with kingdoms. They constantly warred and sought the upper hand although on the surface, everyone paid homage to Idómeneus, high king of Mycenae.
“Even then I wished you were the oldest,” Harpalycus was saying, “and dreamed of becoming your consort, or at least your lover.”
Aridela returned her attention to the prince, whose hands now curled around hers. The cutting knife was squashed in her palm; its honed edge pressed against her skin.
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 35