In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  Now that he was clean and richly attired, Gelanor hardly resembled the blood-spattered warrior she’d fought beside on the battlefield. Surrounded by laughter, dancing, and rich food, his innocence and naivety were evident, but earlier, during the formal speeches, his face had worn an ominous frown as he stood next to his father’s litter.

  She was queen of Kaphtor again because of these men. Honor, gratitude, and gifts were being heaped upon them. Yet in six short months she would reward all they had done by overseeing Chrysaleon’s ritual murder.

  Aridela lowered her gaze and tried to fight off queasiness. She doubted it had anything to do with a supper swimming in rich sauces.

  If only her mother were here. Helice would know how to handle this delicate situation. She would find a way to satisfy Idómeneus, Gelanor, Chrysaleon— even the Immortal Goddess.

  Duty and obligation lay heavy as a yoke over her shoulders on this night meant for joy.

  She didn’t want Chrysaleon to die. Yet she dared not confess this selfish desire to anyone. She could do nothing to save him. Instead, she must stand with her head lifted and her grief hidden as his blood seeped into the earth, as he looked his last upon her, as his manhood was carried to the sea.

  Blinking back tears, knowing she must extinguish thoughts offensive to the ever-watching Goddess, she turned to her consort. “Are you taking your slave with you to Mycenae, my lord, or leaving him here with me?”

  “I can’t leave him here,” Chrysaleon said. “That old man is far more trouble than he seems, and loves to interfere in matters beyond his station. Who knows what mischief he would cause while I’m gone? Change your mind and come with me. It will be a short stay— a fortnight, no more.” He added, low, “We can use that time to begin a child,” and kissed her palm.

  They’d already discussed the impossibility of this. Rather than restating tired arguments, Aridela said, “Would that not make your many citadel women jealous?”

  Startled surprise, followed by a hint of uneasiness, flickered across his face.

  She turned away, giggling.

  Aridela’s stewards had scoured Labyrinthos and Knossos to obtain offerings for King Idómeneus, King Eurysthenes, Prince Gelanor, their officers and men. Merchants who squirreled away their wealth to protect it from Harpalycus donated it now in hopes of gaining favor with the queen. Presented with much fanfare were gifts of golden tripods, carved signet rings portraying full-breasted Athene with lions at her side, miniature bulls carved from crystal and onyx, bolts of Egyptian linen, and delicate quartz jars filled with Cretan oils.

  Idómeneus in his turn gave Aridela an exquisite painting made especially for her. It depicted Athene brandishing a spear on the summit of a hill, flanked by two lionesses. The High King told her it was a likeness of the stone carving that towered over the main gate into his citadel.

  The night wore on. Many left for other entertainments and the feasting hall grew quiet. Idómeneus was carried off to his bed. Aridela and Chrysaleon made excuses and slipped away to stroll through the neglected palace garden.

  Lavender-jeweled light had begun to streak from the east, bringing a new dawn’s subtle promise. “I will bring it back,” she said, struck with fervor at the beauty. “I will make Kaphtor as great— no, greater— than it ever was.”

  Chrysaleon pressed her arm against his side. They walked on without speaking, their steps making no sound on the dirt footpaths.

  As they detoured around the skeleton of a dead bush, they nearly ran into Menoetius. Leaning against a stone pillar, the last remaining piece of an elaborate arch that once framed the outer entry into the garden, he was staring into the sky. He straightened at their appearance, obviously as startled as they.

  Guilt prompted Aridela to step away from Chrysaleon. She fancied Menoetius noticed, and felt her cheeks flush.

  After Chrysaleon took her from the cave in the Araden mountains, Menoetius returned to Selene. He hardly spoke to Aridela. In fact, she’d scarcely seen him since the battle. Obedient as always, he bowed to Chrysaleon’s wishes and hers, unspoken though they were.

  Chrysaleon cuffed Menoetius on the shoulder, oblivious or dismissive of the tense atmosphere between his consort and half brother. “Where have you been hiding?” he said. “I can never find you these days. Is that milky Amazon girl roping you to her bed?”

  In this brief space before sunrise, the sky turned deeply purple, like a vast royal robe soaked in the precious dye Crete’s fishermen extracted from snails. Such rich color made it hard to determine any subtleties, yet Aridela acutely sensed Menoetius’s desire to escape.

  “Leave off, Chrysaleon,” he said. “I don’t ask what you do with your time.”

  “Let every foolish wench on Crete invite you to her bed. Why should I care? I alone possess the queen of women.”

  “Chrysaleon.” Aridela’s attempt at criticism was interrupted when he plucked her into his arms and swung her in a dizzying circle. So close were they to Menoetius that her heel struck his shin.

  Setting her down and holding her fast, Chrysaleon gave her a long, suffocating kiss, effectively halting her sputtered protests. He lifted his head and shouted, his words bouncing off the crumbling walls. “The queen of Crete belongs to me. She is mine alone.”

  “You show me little respect, Zagreus,” she said, her face burning with embarrassment.

  “My property. My chattel. My slave.” Lowering his voice, he added, “My wife, my love, for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.”

  “An earthshaking could bring those down tomorrow. What of you? Are you my property and slave?”

  He dropped to one knee and pressed her right hand to his forehead before kissing it. “Command me.”

  Tears stung her eyes as she drew him upright. “Who will make me laugh while you’re gone?”

  Chrysaleon squeezed her hands, but she thought she caught the slightest hint of that anticipation she’d noticed when he first told her he meant to go.

  Menoetius stepped away, drawing Aridela’s attention. She turned toward him, startled and guilty.

  He offered a rigid bow. “I leave you to your privacy,” he said, and stalked toward the palace, swiftly vanishing into murky violet shadows.

  Aridela realized what she’d said and how it must have sounded. Again, her face burned. She was glad the dim light disguised it.

  “Not him.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “Women find my brother alluring because he frightens them, makes them shiver and feel alive. They fantasize about taming the ugly beast of Mycenae. But when his true nature is revealed, they run away as fast as they can.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “Stop frowning like that or I’ll think you’re one of those simpleminded females.”

  “I assure you I am not simpleminded.”

  He laughed. “Until recently I suspected my father preferred the bastard over his true son. I was ravaged by jealousy. He’s older than me, you know, by a few breaths.”

  Aridela nodded. Menoetius had described how the brothers came into the world almost simultaneously, from different mothers— one the queen of Mycenae, the other a slave.

  Tilting his head up, Chrysaleon contemplated the sky. “At last I know differently. My father is angry and must shout his curses, yet I saw his pride. He’s disavowed Menoetius, though, for allowing me to compete. Menoetius has become a man with no home. It is me Idómeneus values.”

  Aridela stiffened. “I will not stand for this. Menoetius has twice saved my life. If your father cannot see his worth, his home will be here, with us.”

  Chrysaleon kissed her again, and guided her backward, into the still-deep shadows behind the ruined arch. As he drew her to the ground, he said, “I suspect you’re too soft to be a queen. Did I say I was disavowing Menoetius? He’s still my brother, as far as I’m concerned. And my father will forgive him when he calms down. He always does.”

  A small, pale lizard, the kind with bumps that looked like armor, skittered across the pillar. She couldn’t help smiling as
it paused and seemed to peer at them. She’d caught one when she was little and kept it as a pet, toting it around on her shoulder with a tiny leather leash.

  It seemed a good omen.

  “I overheard King Idómeneus the night of the battle,” she said between kisses. “He was so angry. I feared for you. I truly thought he might have you both killed.”

  “If you knew him better, you’d understand.” Chrysaleon hiked up her tunic as he nuzzled her throat. “His anger is what made it clear. He wishes Menoetius, not me, was facing death at the midsummer moon. That was the plan, you know. Menoetius was supposed to compete in your Games. My father considered him expendable.”

  His callous statement brought back the confession Menoetius made when they were living in the Araden mountains. If Chrysaleon hadn’t disobeyed our father, I could have won the Games. I could have become your consort. Only the gods will ever know what difference it might have made.

  Chrysaleon lifted his face from hers long enough to add, “Be cheered it was me who fought for you and won.” He grinned. “My humorless brother would have made your life as grim as the ash-buried isle of Callisti.”

  “Was Iros with child?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Theanô kept her eyes downcast, her hands folded, her stance meek.

  Chrysaleon wasn’t fooled. “You had her killed.”

  She sent him one glance, just enough to refresh his memory. She had beautiful eyes, his lover of old— sultry gray irises emphasized by kohl-darkened brows. Every part of her was seductive, and well kept. Jewels accented her long, fair hair, but it only served to remind him of Aridela’s, scorched off during the blaze of heat that decimated her island. Theanô’s flawless skin was kept pale and pure in milk baths, while Aridela’s would bear scars for the rest of her life. Chrysaleon couldn’t help admiring the curves that filled out the delicate pleats of Theanô’s gown. She, unlike Aridela, had missed no meals. He knew he should be angry, but after the extraordinary months he’d barely survived, he could hardly remember Iros, the child-wife imposed upon him not long before he and Menoetius set sail for Crete. He couldn’t recall what she looked like but for her mousy brown hair, though he had no trouble remembering Harpalycus’s claim that he, not Chrysaleon, was the father of her unborn child. King Lycomedes had deliberately attempted to foist his son’s cursed offspring off as Chrysaleon’s. Just the thought of how close it had come to success made Chrysaleon’s teeth grind and the tic under his eye throb.

  It was hard to be angry.

  But Theanô must learn she’d taken too much upon herself.

  “How did you know?” he asked, when she made no response.

  She gave an elegant shrug. “It was common knowledge among women that Harpalycus initiated his sister soon after she began her monthly bleeding. When King Lycomedes urged the marriage so desperately and wanted it done so quickly, there could be no other reason.”

  She took a step closer and stopped. Chrysaleon smelled the rose oil she often used, and which reminded him of better days. He knew if he touched her skin, it would be soft and smooth. By the gods, it felt good to be home, good to walk in a place untouched by havoc except for a sprinkling of fine ash, which affected nothing. The blast that threw him off his feet on Crete had also been heard and felt in Mycenae, but the mainland suffered no mountainous waves, no poison fire-clouds, and only minor earthshakings.

  “The child could have been mine,” he said, allowing a hint of threat to lace his tone. “Do you think I didn’t lie with her before I sailed?”

  Ah, there it was— a flash of fury, quickly masked. Jealousy was the true core of her actions, not a desire to protect him.

  He fingered the perfect curl in front of her ear. She smiled. She couldn’t know he was picturing Aridela’s hair. After that calamitous night, which had gradually come to be known by all Cretans as the ‘Destruction,’ Queen Helice moved her court to Natho, a village on the southern coast, and Aridela’s handmaids set out to save their mistress’s charred hair. They shaped it and drenched it in special revitalizing salves made from olive oil and herb essences. It continued to grow, even when she was Harpalycus’s starving captive. Now, as snow finally began to retreat from the plains and mountain slopes, it was glossy again, and brushed her shoulder blades.

  For some reason no mortal could know, his hair had merely singed at the ends. Such tales abounded, of buildings, bronze, and tile disintegrated from heat and fire while a half step away, feathers, lamps, and linen remained unaffected. The Goddess selected what would burn according to her whim. It remained a matter of puzzlement as to why she chose to incinerate her beloved child’s hair while leaving the barbarian’s intact.

  “Chrysaleon.” Theanô placed her hand on his cheek. “I’ve longed for you in the night.”

  He smiled and she returned it. He saw she was no longer afraid of his anger. Her other hand trailed up his thigh, fingertip by fingertip.

  He used her then, as he would use a nameless woman caught in battle. He wanted to see if she would allow it. He threw her backward onto his bed and when he was finished, rose, leaving her to drowsily grasp at him, her coiffed hair tangled and her gown torn.

  Chrysaleon looked down at her. The words of Aridela’s dead father floated through his mind. Finally, an age will come when woman will embrace her own degradation.

  “Perhaps I will take you to Crete,” he said, “and allow you to wait upon my wife.”

  Her eyes flew open. She sat up. “You want me to serve your Cretan whore?”

  He seized her by the throat, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises, just so she wouldn’t forget too quickly. “Apologize for using that word.”

  She pulled at his hand but couldn’t break his grip. “You’re a fool,” she shrieked. “They’ll slaughter you and she’ll take your killer into her bed. You’re nothing there but a goat. You could have married me and ruled your whole life.”

  His grip tightened, forcing her to wheeze and gasp. He dragged her off the bed and threw her to the floor.

  “We will see who is slaughtered,” he said.

  She started to say something but instead pressed her lips together and breathed out, sharply. Rising, she straightened her gown and walked, a bit unsteadily, to the door.

  “Keep close to the citadel,” he said. “In case I need to have another pregnant girl murdered.”

  She paused. Half turning, she sent him a narrowed stare redolent with hate. “Long before that day comes, you will be dead.” She tucked her loosened hair back into its network of jeweled silver before adding, “And the world will forget you.”

  The summons arrived in the middle of the night, just ten days after Chrysaleon and his father took up residence at Mycenae’s citadel.

  Chrysaleon rubbed his eyes as he strode toward the king’s bedchamber. Alexiare struggled to keep up, his stick hastily tapping against the flagstones.

  Throwing open the door, Chrysaleon took in the scene before him. Bateia crouched in a weeping knot on the floor beside the bed. Gelanor stood over her, his hand on her shoulder.

  The great King Idómeneus, always ruddy, loud, and robust, was now so emaciated he hardly made a lump under his purple wool blanket. Bereft of hair, his head resembled a skull with eyes. Chrysaleon suppressed a shiver as he grasped the dying man’s skeletal hand.

  “My lord.” Chrysaleon gritted his teeth, unable to keep his nostrils from flaring at the stink.

  Sores, eating away the inside of the High King’s mouth, broke open at the slightest movement of his lips, bringing helpless tears of pain to this fierce warrior once dubbed the ‘Mad Lion of Mycenae.’

  “Crete,” Idómeneus whispered. It was all he could manage. His voice grated and failed.

  It was true, what the healers said. High King Idómeneus would not survive to morning. As he stared at the fraying threads of his father’s moera, Chrysaleon realized the death obligations and associated uproar would force him to remain at least another month. He’d promised Aridela he would return i
n a fortnight. It was a promise he now knew would be broken.

  Idómeneus’s fingers tightened around Chrysaleon’s. He tried again. “You will be High King. You. Not Gelanor—” He fell back, his eyes closing. Tears coursed over his frail face and watery blood seeped from the corners of his mouth.

  “Allow me, my lord.” Alexiare cleared his throat and proceeded at Idómeneus’s nod. “Your father has proclaimed you his heir. He wants you to abandon your role as consort on Crete.”

  Idómeneus raised his head, gasping, clutching at Chrysaleon’s arm.

  “I will tell him, my lord.” Alexiare helped the king lie back.

  “You must take his armies and overthrow Crete as Harpalycus tried to do. It must be done now, before Queen Aridela rebuilds her country’s strength.”

  Chrysaleon stared at his sire’s waxy face and tried to dislodge the constriction in his throat. “I’ll do it some other way.”

  “There’s no time,” Alexiare said. “Soon the summer sun will beat upon Kaphtor’s soil, bringing the rise of Iakchos. You must use any means to halt the great sacrifice.” Sending Gelanor an apologetic glance, he added, “Your brother, though highly favored, does not possess the necessary strength to hold Mycenae’s throne.”

  “It’s true,” Gelanor said quietly in answer to Chrysaleon’s questioning gaze. “The Kindred think me weak.” He lowered his head. “They don’t fear me as they do you.”

  Chrysaleon could only swallow again as he watched his bold plans swirl away, taking Aridela with them.

  “Menoetius might succeed, my lord,” Alexiare said with a raspy cough, “if you truly wish to abandon your birthright and give your crown to him. If your desire is to follow the path of Crete’s previous kings….”

  “Watch yourself, old man.”

  Alexiare inclined his head. “Then your choice is made. The High King’s legacy cannot be lost.”

  Idómeneus touched Alexiare’s wrist. Again the slave seemed to read his master’s mind. Gently, he slipped the gold seal ring off the king’s finger and held it out.