“I may be able to grant your request,” Themiste said. “Of course I must speak to the council about it. As long as Menoetius is willing, there might be a way.”
“I’m grateful.” An odd prickling crawled through the back of his neck, almost of anticipation. He didn’t dwell on it but moved quickly on to the last part of his planned lie, that which would hopefully make Themiste feel closer to him in spirit. “My sister Bateia has asked me to release her from her betrothal. She claims a desire to serve the Lady, and wants to dedicate her womb to Athene, as you have done.”
“It is the call of her mother’s blood,” Themiste said.
He left his chair and knelt, almost touching her knees, gazing into her face with all the ardency he could muster. “If you would take her, it would put my mind at ease.”
Her breasts rose and fell beneath her tunic as though she struggled to catch her breath. Her eyelashes swept down. Timidly, her fingers grazed his cheek before she clenched her hand into a fist and pressed it onto her lap. The firelight made her hair look redder— reminiscent of his death-dream, and leant a glow to the blue crescent moon upon her forehead.
“I had thought to make Aridela my successor,” she said, leaning toward him. “Now, of course, that cannot happen. I must find another. Of course I will take your sister. If she is called to it, Bateia could wear the bull’s mask for Kaphtor.”
Bateia would be furious; she had wanted to marry Eurysthenes’ son since she was a child, but she would comply. He would see to that.
Was he becoming more like his father? He remembered how angry it made him when Idómeneus ordered him to marry Iros, and how carelessly the king dismissed his son’s protests.
Rising, he bent over Themiste and gave her a formal kiss on each cheek. He felt her quiver and heard her indrawn breath. Her hands clasped his forearms, but she didn’t push him away.
A short space of downy-soft skin separated him from her mouth. He covered it swiftly. “The moon guides me… Minos,” he whispered.
Another indrawn breath, this one ragged. She stiffened. He feared he’d gone too far. But then her hands slipped up his chest and around his neck. The softest sigh escaped and she murmured, “As it bids me follow.”
With a body as slender and nearly as small as Aridela’s, it was an effortless task to pick her up and carry her to the bed.
“Release her,” Chrysaleon said.
The soldier who held the eagle removed its leather hood and lifted his arm, sending the bird aloft with an eager hunting cry.
Menoetius, cresting a nearby hill, diverted Chrysaleon’s attention from the beauty of the raptor’s flight. His bastard brother shaded his eyes as he peered up at the eagle, then he turned and descended, swiftly crossing the field toward Chrysaleon, his singular white and black cloak billowing in the chilly breeze.
Even from a distance Chrysaleon could see how much thinner Menoetius had grown in his absence, yet he looked harder too, as though he’d kept up with or increased his training. That Phrygian bitch probably forced him to spar for the pleasure of bedding her.
The Spartan oracle’s advice whispered through Chrysaleon’s mind. Slay the Lady’s Earth Bull and rule until the sun and moon shift into perfect alignment. Alexiare still wasn’t certain what Daphoenissa meant when she spoke of killing the Earth Bull, but he’d set his mind on the coil while Chrysaleon was occupied with Themiste. Once his master returned, after they left the labyrinth where, Alexiare whispered, “anyone could be listening,” he shared a rudimentary yet inspired plan.
Chrysaleon was more than pleased, eager to get started. If Alexiare was right, and if everything progressed to their advantage, he would in one act save his own life, rid himself of the threat to his Mycenaean crown, and fulfill an oracle’s prophetic instruction.
As he squinted at his approaching brother, a dark, burning need rose up inside his chest. His hands curled into fists; he had to force himself to relax them.
Months ago, Harpalycus had banished Chrysaleon to the Knossos labyrinth, intending to let him slowly expire. As he lay in that dim prison, starving, thirsty, hovering ever closer to the shadowlands, Chrysaleon had experienced a dream or vision, one where Menoetius transformed into a bull and gored him. It had unfolded with such clarity, menace, and significance Chrysaleon never forgot it. Nor had he forgotten how, in the dream, Aridela accepted what Menoetius did— even wore an expression of satisfaction.
As the bastard approached, he relived the dream and wondered if the god of his fathers, Immortal Poseidon, sent the memory of it as a warning.
The tic beneath his eye began to throb.
Everything hinged on Menoetius. If he refused to serve as cabal, all their plots would disintegrate. Chrysaleon would die beneath the light of Iakchos, slaughtered by some Cretan. Menoetius would go on living, free to do whatever he wished. He might manage to become High King of Mycenae. He could gather power and support here, on Kaphtor. He could father children and live a long life.
The possibility made Chrysaleon’s teeth grind.
He smiled even as his eyes narrowed and his mind formed the resolve. You will lose to me, brother. You won’t have Mycenae or this island. I’ll see to that.
“Well?” Menoetius effectively interrupted Chrysaleon’s spinning conjectures and doubts. “I see you survived the swearing in, so you must be High King. How does Mycenae fare, and Gelanor, and the Kindred?”
“Mycenae is in loyal hands, with Gelanor as my custodian. My father’s most trusted advisors will assist him.”
They gripped right arms, gradually increasing pressure as always, to see who would relent first.
This time Chrysaleon did.
“You look tired,” Menoetius said, the faint lift of one eyebrow his only indication of surprise. “Are you sure you wish to hunt? Perhaps your bed and a warm posset are all you can manage today.”
Chrysaleon laughed. “I’ve missed your mothering ways. In Mycenae I had only my own poor resources.”
The eagle dived upon some creature. They walked toward her, the serving men following at a discreet distance.
“I regret not being there to celebrate Idómeneus at his funeral games,” Menoetius said.
“Safeguarding my queen was more important.” Chrysaleon frowned. “Harpalycus has caused much damage. Some of it can never be put right. We did capture the one who fed the poison to Father. He was tortured and put to death.”
“The Kindred swore fealty?”
Chrysaleon nodded. “All, including Lycomedes. He denied any knowledge of Harpalycus’s schemes and claimed he’d disowned him.”
“And?”
“I haven’t forgotten the number of warriors it took to invade and hold Crete’s cities. Lycomedes’ entire army, as well as conscripts. I let him languish in the catacombs awhile then I killed him myself. His youngest son swore terrified fidelity. He sits on his father’s throne at my pleasure, and rules under the guidance of my council. Tiryns is now wholly subject to Mycenae.”
“That must be sweet vengeance,” Menoetius said.
The eagle snared a rabbit. Chrysaleon sliced a generous portion of thigh for her before handing the carcass to one of the men.
“Let us free ourselves of prying ears.” As Chrysaleon turned to dismiss his attendants, he caught the eagle handler, an older, gray-haired Cretan, staring at him. Though the man lowered his face swiftly, it was too late. Chrysaleon saw such bare, malignant hatred it made him forget what he’d been about to say.
He’d never seen this man before. They’d brought him along because he fed and cared for the raptors, and they were comfortable with him. No doubt he was just another discontented peasant who wished for something beyond what his moera had dealt him.
“Give her to me,” he commanded curtly.
The soldier, bobbing his head, stepped closer so Chrysaleon could take the sturdy oak pole supporting the eagle. “My lord,” he muttered, keeping his eyes downcast.
Chrysaleon waited, but the man never lifted his gaz
e from the ground. Maybe he’d imagined that seething hatred. He took the staff, running one hand soothingly over the bird’s wings. “Be off with you,” he said, “All of you.”
The men bowed and began trudging toward the palace. Chrysaleon watched them, but the eagle fluttered restlessly, taking his attention. By the time he’d hooded her and moved her from the staff onto his forearm, the men were halfway up the hill.
“Did you see that?” he asked Menoetius.
“What?” Menoetius was staring at Mount Juktas, a brooding frown on his face. He squinted at his brother. “See what?”
“Never mind.” Chrysaleon perused the luxurious cloak Menoetius wore, feeling the old sense of covetous jealousy. “You look more a Cretan than these slaves,” he said. “You’re wearing their womanish linens instead of good Mycenaean leather. And what is this? No beard? Have you turned into one of them?”
“I grew tired of being stared at and called a barbarian,” Menoetius said with a shrug. “It means nothing.”
They walked on, stopping to inspect the sprouting barley and wheat, and the dusty green olive trees along the lower slopes of Mount Juktas.
“How many of these were lost?” Chrysaleon asked.
“Most. The queen tells me it will take more time than we or our children can live to bring them back.”
“Some survived?”
Menoetius nodded. “The groves to the east of Phaistos and west of the Ida mountains will still produce. The people seem to think you helped bring about this miracle.”
Chrysaleon plucked a bunch of tiny budding grapes from a surviving vine and examined them. They looked healthy and blight-free. He was no farmer, but these were some of the brightest, firmest young grapes he had ever seen.
“The queen, of course, they exalt above all.” Menoetius cut into the vine’s moist green center. “They say new life sprouts because she was reunited with her throne. But your praises follow close behind. They never thank the Lady these days without including you. The mainland barbarian has become their savior.”
“You sound as though you doubt their wisdom.” Chrysaleon frowned in mock suspicion. “Or is this more of your tiresome envy?”
Menoetius laughed. “I have everything I could wish for. Reverence is heaped upon me as well as you, and I have a woman of beauty and fire in my bed… as do you.”
“Yet something is missing?”
Menoetius shrugged. “Things have become boring. There’s no war. No lions. No overthrow to plot.”
Chrysaleon recognized this for the fishing attempt it was, and smiled. “The mainland kings watch me. I can imagine the wagers they’ve placed on how it will turn out— what I will do to keep myself from being slaughtered like an ox.”
“Idómeneus didn’t die agreeing to your sacrifice. I know it.”
A nearby flock of sheep bleated as they grazed. White gulls soared like swift moonbeams through an azure sky. It hardly seemed, on such a pristine morning, that the earthshakings, suffocating ash fall and Harpalycus’s brutal occupation had ever happened. Mother Gaia, given time, always found a way to renew herself. “My ship passed the destroyed isle,” Chrysaleon said. “There was a burning stink and boiling cauldrons of steaming water. As for the land, all that’s left is a sliver.” The back of his neck crawled at the memory. “Is it a sign, do you think?”
Menoetius shrugged.
“We beached and explored. There are no birds. No plants or trees. Ash is everywhere. There’s no hint of its great cities, or of those who lived there. Remember the mountain? The one that gave the island its name? Callisti. Most beautiful.” He faced his brother, watching for any reaction, however miniscule. “With his last breath, Father ordered me to invade Crete. He respected Helice, but that meant nothing at the end. My kingship and my life were more important.”
“What did you tell him?”
No more than the briefest narrowing of the eyes. As usual, his brother hid his thoughts with skill. “What could I say? He was dying. I agreed, to give him whatever peace I could.”
“But you’ll disobey?”
Menoetius would not be fooled easily. Chrysaleon had already decided to dance with the truth, so his lies would be more believable. “I promised Aridela I would lay down my life for her. Can I turn on that vow and invade like the Butcher of Crete?” Suddenly hot, he unfastened the clasps at the neck of his cloak and removed it, tossing it on the ground.
His brother’s gaze sharpened. “So you mean to submit to your fate after all? You’ll stand unarmed in your own grave while one of these Cretan shepherds slaughters you?”
“Not a Cretan. You.”
A slight hesitation, a tilt of the head. Then, “Me?”
“Themiste gave me leave to pick my own cabal. I picked you.” His heart must be willing. What if Themiste asked Menoetius why he’d agreed to be his brother’s cabal? What if Menoetius guessed his true role? It all seemed so shaky and fragile. Chrysaleon wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Why me?” Menoetius stared at him unblinking, his jaw working.
“As you say, a Cretan would be more than eager to kill me.” Chrysaleon lowered his voice and placed one hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’ve been working the tangle. Testing the means to avert their customs. So has Alexiare. He and I sought answers at the oracle’s lair near Sparta, from a blind seer they call Daphoenissa.”
There was a pause. Something, perhaps disappointment, seemed to pass across his brother’s face, but it was gone too soon to be sure. “Did you receive one?”
Chrysaleon shrugged as he recalled her vague words. “In a manner of speaking, but I have yet to understand how it will help.”
“What did she say?”
“That I must lie with a holy woman— ‘the moon upon the earth,’ she called her. We thought she must mean the priestess, Themiste. I did so this morning.”
Menoetius stopped in mid-stride. “Are you saying you bedded the virgin oracle?”
“It was a simple matter, easily accomplished. I suspect from her eagerness she’s long wanted me to take her.”
Menoetius snorted. For once he made no attempt to hide his thoughts. “She has gone her whole life resisting any such temptations, and you managed it in one day— one morning.” He shook his head as mingled disgust and disbelief ran across his face. “I cannot doubt the gods direct your fate. But how does this avert your death?”
“The oracle we consulted said there will be a child— one who will change the sacrifice.”
They stopped by a swift stream and Chrysaleon loosed the eagle. He shook the ache from his arm then leaned on the staff as they watched the bird glide joyously into the blue heavens.
“Any child you get on Themiste won’t be born until long after you’re rotting in the earth,” Menoetius pointed out.
“The Spartan oracle may have used her prophecies to trick me as I attempt to trick the Goddess who’s been stolen from her. The child may indeed change the sacrifice, after I die.”
“No more than you deserve.” Menoetius gave him a sideways smile. “Then why lie with Themiste?”
“I vowed to halt the sacrifice.” Chrysaleon mused on the image of his future sons and heirs. He wanted to have many, one after another, all growing into warriors and kings. A pity, almost, that the bastard would be dead, and couldn’t see it happen— that is, if everything went as it should. “Aridela is pregnant and if I chose correctly, Themiste will be as well. Both infants will be of my line. My blood will rule this land, one way or the other.” He searched the sky for the eagle and saw her circling above a stand of dead tamarisks. One of those murderous poison clouds must have descended there, killing every one. “I asked Themiste for an extra year. She refused me. But, if she quickens, perhaps her heart will soften. Or something else might present itself if I follow the Spartan woman’s advice. I know I can change things to my benefit, if I can just have more time.” He made an abrupt dismissive gesture. “Oracles speak in riddles. I guess at her meaning. She may not have meant Themi
ste at all. The truth is if we cannot determine a way to change or halt the custom, you may very well be forced to kill me at the midsummer rites.” He laughed, but he watched.
A flush crept up Menoetius’s face and his hands balled into fists. “You’ll have to find another man to help you trick these people,” he said flatly. “I won’t be here. Now that you’re back, I’m leaving.”
Surprise brought Chrysaleon up short. “You can’t do that,” he replied in kind.
“I thought you would be pleased,” Menoetius said. “You have long distrusted me— since we were children, in fact. I mean to leave this place and never return. I will sail to the mainland and from there make my way west until I reach my mother’s country.”
“You’ll leave me to be slaughtered?”
“How can my being your cabal stop that? Someone has to kill you— I don’t want to be the one. It was your choice to become bull-king of Crete. Idómeneus and I tried to talk you out of it. Even these people tried. Do you have a plan that makes any sense? More than oracle ramblings and smoke-fed prophecy? If so, tell me what it is. If not, I leave you to your schemes.”
Chrysaleon leaped upon his brother and knocked him to the ground, smashing him on the cheekbone and eyebrow with his balled fist. Menoetius stabbed his knee into Chrysaleon’s ribs and threw him off. He rose and backed away. Blood dribbled from a gash gouged into his cheek by Chrysaleon’s seal ring.
Chrysaleon sat on the ground, breathing hard. Maybe it’s enough. If he never comes back he’ll no longer be a danger to me. I never have to see him again. But as soon as those thoughts formed, another one crowded behind. He looked up at Menoetius’s defiant face.
The bastard makes plans to leave, while I cannot. Even if I find a way to live, I’m still trapped here, while Menoetius is free to go anywhere he wishes. Who is to say he’ll go on to his mother’s country? He could recruit his royal guard— they would do anything for him. With their help, he could oust Gelanor and the council. He could seize control of Mycenae, all while I am forced to remain here, helpless to stop him.
In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 8