“Of course, my lady, whatever you wish.” His head spun, a lingering effect of the poppy, and he hated it. He felt dull and stupid.
But she seemed not to notice. “I also wanted to tell you Prince Harpalycus left us this morning.”
“Left….”
“Yes, my lord. On his own ship, bound for the mainland.”
Chrysaleon’s relief diminished at the queen’s next words. “The prince said something in anger to my daughter that worried her. How well do you know him, my lord? He told Aridela he wanted to win Kaphtor for himself. He accused you of stealing our island from him, as if you were in some kind of competition. When Aridela confronted him, he recanted, claiming he misspoke because of the bad history between the two of you.”
Chrysaleon didn’t need a clear head to split Harpalycus’s words to their core of truth. He hesitated. If he told Helice he was aware of Harpalycus’s true motives, she might begin to suspect him, as well.
“Do you know of a mainland threat to us, Zagreus?” Helice no doubt used the title on purpose, to remind him where his loyalties now lay.
He must word a careful reply, something she would believe. “Harpalycus spoke the truth about our bad blood,” he said. “We’ve long hated each other. I know of no threat to Kaphtor, my lady. Harpalycus often says and does things when drunk or angry that bode ill for his future rule.”
She watched his face, taking in every inflection and movement as she considered. “I’ve seen these rages. They control him beyond all reason. With your assurance, I will take this no farther. But I admit, my lord, it pleases me to never see him again.”
He worked to create an expression of understanding and sincerity.
She asked a few more questions about his injuries then sent in two handmaids to bathe and dress him in kingly garb. Shortly after, four young men appeared. They assisted him into a cushioned litter and brought him in due course to the throne room.
Right away he saw Menoetius among the other bystanders not far from the queen’s dais. His brother’s arms were crossed, his head tilted, frustration and anger chiseling a dark frown on his face.
Helice stood before her throne, her daughter Iphiboë on her right. Their redheaded oracle, Themiste, held Aridela’s hand on the queen’s left. Behind this foursome, two boys circulated the air with enormous feathered fans.
Seeing Aridela, at last, was like an infusion of undiluted wine. Dizziness swept through his head, leaving him blinded by sparkles of light, deafened by humming in his ears. He doubted whether he could stand long enough to hear whatever the queen wanted to say, but, gritting his teeth, he allowed the litter-bearers to help him from the litter then motioned them away.
Smiling her approval, Helice said, “Prince Chrysaleon, our oracle and stargazers have determined the most auspicious time for new beginnings. It occurs in eight days, the first full moon of the new year. I worried whether you would be strong enough to attend your own coronation, but seeing you earlier reassured me. So, my lord, eight days from today, you and Iphiboë will marry with all the proper rites and ceremonies. As the moon gifts us with new strength, Iphiboë will ascend the throne with you by her side. Are you prepared, prince of Mycenae, to honor our customs? To give up your homeland and title and become bull-king on Kaphtor for the span of one year?”
Her eyes, so gentle before, now felt like daggers as they stared into his. He could scarcely believe they were still giving him a choice.
“I am.” He swallowed. He hoped his words weren’t slurred. The hum made her voice echo, and no amount of blinking helped his blurry eyesight. Moreover, his mind refused to work; Rhené told him the blow to his head caused these symptoms.
“Then, when you have offered thirteen sacrifices, at the midsummer sowing a year from now, you will meet your cabal in the labyrinth.”
Chrysaleon felt the eyes of every person in the room appraising him.
Fearing he might choke for lack of air, he drew in a deep breath and fought to steady his mind and body. There was that word again. He stalled. “My understanding of your language is limited, Queen Helice. Cabal?”
“Someone should have explained.” Helice sent an irritated glance toward her counselors, who muttered among themselves. “You were the cabal of Xanthus. The man who makes you ready for the sowing is yours. He is your sacred brother, and will serve as bull-king after you.”
Brother. On Crete, the word held twin meanings. His cabal, or brother, was also his killer.
Idómeneus’s face formed in his mind. His brother, Gelanor. His sister, Bateia. His lover, Theanô. His pampered, spoiled life. What had he done? His gaze shot to Menoetius again, who stared back, wholly expressionless but for the repeated clench of his jaw.
Old defiance and resentment flared. “I am prepared,” he heard himself say.
Menoetius’s nostrils flared. He shook his head.
Helice stepped off the dais and embraced him, giving him a kiss on each cheek. “Son and lover of Athene,” she said. “You will be adored and honored. Paradise will welcome you, and you will be cloaked in glory.”
His muscles strained. He wanted to jerk away from those calm eyes, gazing with trust and affection into his. He feared she might glimpse Poseidon laughing at her.
Helice beckoned to Iphiboë. Assisted by an attendant, the princess limped forward. She looked as uncomfortable as he felt. In fact, she looked as if she might faint.
But she didn’t. Hints of Helice glimmered within her, in the same high cheekbones, gently slanted eyes, and firm, straight brows. If, somehow, Iphiboë could be taught confidence, she might indeed make a fine queen, though if things went his way, she would never have the chance.
Placing her daughter’s hand in his, Helice covered them with her own. “Athene herself unites these two,” she said. “On pain of death, let no living person oppose it.”
Iphiboë’s fingers trembled. She glanced into his eyes then away. She made him uncomfortable and reminded him of Iros. He’d almost forgotten his Mycenaean wife during his time here.
He needed to see Aridela, she who leaped, laughing, over the back of a wild aurochs. He scanned the dais until he found her. Woman of innate courage, of strength, of radiance. Absurd fate made Iphiboë the eldest. A dog could see Aridela would make the better leader. Now he’d agreed to months of torturous longing for one woman while spending his nights with this milksop whose hand shrank within his like a frightened sea anemone.
Helice said something, but this maddening impasse into which he’d flung himself, coupled with the sight of Aridela’s face, made him deaf to everything.
“Excuse me, my lady?” he said with a stammer.
“Phaistos, my lord,” she repeated. “You need distraction, I think, different scenery. Until the day of your anointing, would you care to visit Phaistos, my summer palace in the south? Sea breezes find their way inland at this time of year, making it cooler there.”
His first thought was a resounding no. He’d finally glimpsed his lover’s face, and after longing for her every moment for seven endless days, he couldn’t be sent away, losing any possibility of seeing her again before his formal entrapment to Iphiboë.
As he tried to construct polite words of refusal, Helice added, “Iphiboë wishes to go into seclusion, to meditate and prepare. But my youngest daughter could show you the sights of our southern coast. I understand a wild bull is to be captured for the ring; you might enjoy watching how this is done.”
Aridela gave a slow, surprised smile as Chrysaleon’s gaze shot to hers. Through blazing sparks of pleasure that he fought to hide, he noticed Themiste’s reaction to the queen’s offer. The oracle’s mouth opened then closed like a fish and her face reddened. “Queen Helice,” she said. “You cannot mean to send Aridela so far away right now.” She glanced at Chrysaleon, her expression unreadable. “And it is inappropriate to send a royal princess to serve as a mere guide. Perhaps one of the priests would be a better choice.”
Hushed muttering ran through the room. Chrys
aleon sensed the queen stiffen beside him and saw her ominous frown. “The Lady brought me a dream last night,” she said coldly. “I saw Aridela standing with our Zagreus on the terraces at Phaistos. She was happy. When Iphiboë takes the throne, Aridela will descend into your shrines and you will have authority over her. Until then, I am still her mother and can make this choice without consulting you.”
Rage flared across the oracle’s face before she bowed her head. Her hair fell across her cheeks, hiding her expression, and she said no more. Helice turned her attention to Iphiboë and Chrysaleon used that brief opportunity to send Aridela a reckless grin.
Yes, he’d defied his father’s orders. He’d deliberately placed himself in line to die in one year. He’d offered himself as husband to this pale quavering fish of a woman.
But a year was a long time, during which he would constantly search for ways to thwart the destiny set for him by the people of Kaphtor.
Aridela’s return smile was faint yet redolent with intimacy.
Confidence crept back in, bringing whispered words echoing through the cave, kisses, and the fusion of their bodies. That smile made promises. For the first time since he’d killed the king, he felt lust rouse and wake.
“Your suggestion sounds delightful, my lady,” he said to the queen, and bowed low to hide his lecherous glee.
* * * *
What is this? Aridela could hardly believe what she’d heard. Had her mother truly just offered her as personal guide to Chrysaleon? Suggested he take her with him clear to the other side of the island? Themiste’s hand tightened around hers. Aridela peered at her, noticing the way she seemed to fold into herself; her head lowered as though she wanted to… to hide something. But explosions of excitement and joy took precedence. She turned to stare at her lover, fighting as hard as she could to maintain a noncommittal air.
She read the same fight in his eyes, saw the same smile twitch the corners of his mouth that she felt at hers. Her mind screamed at her to break his gaze, to look at anything else. Anywhere. But she couldn’t. Her lover appeared to have the same dilemma. If anyone were watching closely, their secret would be revealed.
But the queen was now wholly concerned with Iphiboë. She clasped her daughter’s hands and spoke to her quietly, seriously. Themiste kept her face pointed toward the floor and the audience spoke among themselves as they shuffled to the exits. The only one who really seemed to be paying attention was Menoetius.
As long as the pyramids stand in Egypt, Chrysaleon mouthed.
Aridela felt his promise pour through her veins like fire-warmed wine.
The End
Historical Notes
The Year-god’s Daughter
Current dating at the time of this publication places the construction of the cyclopean walls and lion gate at Mycenae in either the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. These dates often change; long ago I began viewing “secure” dates with suspicion. When Mary Renault wrote The King Must Die, then-current dating placed the Thera eruption in the fourteen hundreds quite confidently, but with better technology, that date has moved backwards to the sixteen hundreds, about 300 years before Theseus. At any rate, I decided to include both the walls and gate, as they are familiar to modern readers.
An intriguing theory is the possibility of a link between the lion gate at Mycenae and the “Lady of the Beasts” on Crete. A seal ring found at Knossos shows two lionesses in an identical pose as at the lion gate, with their front paws on a central pillar. The seal also contains a goddess, standing atop the pillar holding out a spear, and a youth, saluting her. Current dating shows the seal ring to be about the same age as the lion gate. I can’t draw to save my life, but here is my very rough sketch of the seal ring:
Several of my sources place Athene’s origin in Africa rather than Greece. She is considered by many mythologists to be much older than the well-known Classical pantheon of Greek gods and goddesses, and her name suggests she is “un-Greek.” One possible meaning of her name is “I have come from myself,” and her title, “Great Virgin,” would not have held the same connotation it does today, but instead meant she was not married, or under anyone’s control. The famous myth of Athene being born fully grown and armored from Zeus’s head is a much later construction.
Though perhaps not as well known as other species, a type of highly prized mahogany (Khaya) grows in Africa. It is this wood that the Egyptians might have gifted to the Cretans, and/or the Cretans might have brought with them when they relocated.
The Bronze Age Mediterranean mined or collected many semi-precious gems. Crystals, lapis lazuli, obsidian, agates, onyx, and amber, to name a few, and of course they had gold, silver, and ivory. From these resources, they made stunning decorations and jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, earrings, rings, breastplates, a few of which have survived the passage of time.
There is a bibliography at my website: http://rebeccalochlann.com
About the Author
While growing up, Rebecca Lochlann began envisioning an epic story, a new kind of myth, one built upon the foundation of the Greek classics and continuing through the centuries right up into the present and future.
This has become her life's work, though she didn't exactly intend it to be that way when she started.
The Child of the Erinyes series is historical mythic fantasy, “Loads of testosterone, slaughter, and crazy magic” (with a love story, of course.)
Even though the story is fiction-fantasy, it still took about fifteen years to research the Bronze Age segments of the series, and encompassed rare historical documents, mythology, archaeology, ancient religions, and volcanology.
The Year-god's Daughter is her debut novel: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes series. In the spring of 2013 it was utilized as a study guide in an American university, and later was named a B.R.A.G. Medallion honoree. Book Two, The Thinara King, (A 2013 Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist,) continues the saga. Book Three, In the Moon of Asterion, wraps up the Bronze Age segment of the series and leads into Book Four (The Sixth Labyrinth), which is in the works.
Rebecca has always believed that certain rare individuals, either blessed or tortured, voluntarily or involuntarily, are woven by fate or the Immortals into the labyrinth of time, and that deities sometimes speak to us through dreams and visions, gently prompting us to tell their lost stories. Who knows? It could make a difference.
For bibliographies, details into the history, characters, research, the arc of the series, and much more information, visit Rebecca’s website: http://rebeccalochlann.com
Sign up to receive announcements for new releases: http://eepurl.com/ws_jf
Acknowledgements
To the members of my writing group, Refiner’s Fire, for patient, multiple readings, critiques, copyediting and friendship: Linda Orvis, Lisa Peck Harris, Betty Briggs, Judy Anderson, Deanne Blackhurst, John Thornton and in memory of Sandy Hirsche and Max Golightly.
To those who came later, from all around the United States and the world, who gave so generously of their time, insights and emotional support: Sulari Gentill, N. Gemini Sasson, Melissa Conway, J.S. Colley, L. M. Ironside, Anna Lekka-Blazoudaki, V. R. Christensen, Cheri Lasota, Lucinda Elliot, Anthony Barker, Loretta Proctor, and April Hamilton.
Lance Ganey, Peter Vancoillie, John Shrimpf for their amazing photo and graphic designs.
To the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative, without whom nothing would be possible.
To all the generous readers and reviewers who have enjoyed my efforts: they keep me at the computer, working on the next installments.
To my girls, who nearly had to raise themselves through all the years of research, writing, and rewrites, and most of all to my husband.
If you enjoyed The Year-god’s Daughter and would like to see what happens next, please look for the second installment. Read on for a preview of:
THE THINARA KING
The Child of the Erinyes
Rebecca Lochlann
BOOK TWO
THE CHILD OF THE ERINYES SERIES
MAIDEN
Chapter Two: Moon of Figs and Acorns
On their third day at Phaistos, Chrysaleon and Aridela went along with a team of bull leapers to watch the capture of a wild bull.
All too soon, they would make the return journey to Knossos. Chrysaleon would become consort to Aridela’s boring sister, Iphiboë. The thought was intolerable. What of the prediction he’d overheard the Phrygian woman, Selene, make on Mount Ida? She’d claimed a mystical voice, carried on the wind, told her that Aridela would become queen of Kaphtor. But what if she’d been dreaming? The possibility made his guts grind.
The troupe painted themselves with stripes of green dye to help them blend into the foliage. They tethered a cow near the bull they hoped to attract then hid downwind and waited.
Chrysaleon and Aridela set up a picnic on a slope beneath the shady branches of a poplar, where they could view the scene without interfering. Aridela’s attendants and the litter-bearers sat nearby, within sight but out of earshot.
“She’s ready to mate,” Aridela said. “Her scent entices the bull. He’ll mount her and the team will hobble his back legs. When he finishes, they net him.”
“Cruel sport for the bull.” Chrysaleon popped an olive in his mouth.
“Dancing with the bulls helps us keep peace with the Lady. For time beyond measure, she has harnessed her Earth Bull in our mountains, beneath the rocks where no mortal can reach. When she is angered, he roars and the land heaves. No matter what stone we use nor how thick we cut our pillars, everything we have built crumbles like twigs.” Her voice lowered. “Once, long ago, Potnia ordered her bull to topple all of Kaphtor. Multitudes were killed. Our palaces and cities were destroyed.”
The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1) Page 37