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

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  She pulled his face to hers. “I swear I will not fail you,” she said instead.

  Cool twilight breezes filtered into the queen’s bedchamber, ruffling the draperies between the pillars and teasing the delicate gossamer around the great bed. The tiny disks and shells woven through the material sparkled and chimed.

  Chrysaleon took in the scene as he entered. Aridela was lying on the bed— she parted the curtain and beckoned, greeting him with a smile and a kiss as he joined her, and, more subtly, suggestions of sex. But Glauce, greatest of Kaphtor’s living artists, stood nearby, mumbling as she labored over a wet plaster fresco on the north wall. She seemed oblivious of the couple as she crushed various pigments— ground lapis, red ochre, charcoal, and gypsum. When finished, the scene would depict Kaphtor and Mycenae united through marriage.

  Rhené had acquiesced to Aridela’s stubborn insistence that she was recovered, and gave permission to again conceive. The determined glint in his wife’s eyes, the playful nips on his ears, and the way she tickled his chest and shoulders with her fingertips made it clear she intended to waste no more time, though as of yet not a day passed without inconsolable weeping over the loss of the previous child, and even now her eyes were red.

  They kissed and caressed as they waited for Glauce to finish her work and leave. The nightingale twittered in its wicker cage. Shadows deepened, fading the color on the walls. A maid came in with pitchers of scarlet anemones, which she arranged on either side of the bed. It was believed their fertile aroma would generate fertility in the queen. Wine also enhanced the mood.

  “I must tell you a secret,” Aridela said. “About Themiste.”

  Chrysaleon stiffened then forced himself to relax. “Where has she been?” he asked with studied casualness. “Today is the first time I’ve seen her in a long while.” He didn’t add that as soon as she’d caught sight of him, she turned sharply and walked the other way.

  Aridela didn’t meet his gaze as she shrugged. “Seeking a safe place for our stories and history. But she’s back now, in time for the festival tomorrow.”

  “What is this secret?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Aridela paused, causing his nerves to whine with tension. When she spoke, her tone carried awe. “She is going to have a child.”

  Again, Chrysaleon’s muscles stiffened and this time, his breathing shortened as he waited to hear what Aridela would say next. Had she tricked him with her kisses and wiles? Perhaps now she would call the guards and have him dragged away to join Menoetius in the labyrinth.

  Then the full revelation washed over him, drowning out his anxiety. Themiste had quickened. He could scarcely believe it. Themiste, the arrogant oracle, too good for any man to touch, heralded as the living moon, had surrendered to the same fate as any peasant woman when she opened her legs and let a cock have its way. He almost grinned. His seed was, indeed, invincible, if it could stir that haughty womb.

  Immersed in his self-congratulations, he nearly missed Aridela’s next words.

  “Athene sends this child for some holy purpose, perhaps to show us her forgiveness. Tomorrow we begin the fermentation of the mead. Themiste will enter a trance. No doubt all will be revealed at that time.” She threaded her fingers through his beard. “I wonder how it was done, and if she enjoyed it? I hope she did.”

  She kissed him. Light as feathers, her fingertips stroked his chest, then lower. His skin responded in a wash of gooseflesh.

  So Themiste hadn’t told Aridela the truth. She’d protected him, or more likely, herself. Themiste, the proud visionary, was capable of lying in order to hold onto tattered dignity and power.

  Chrysaleon’s thoughts careened on without pause, though Aridela’s hands and mouth sent his body into stupefying waves of lust.

  It’s my child. If you knew that, you wouldn’t hope for her pleasure. Or would you? I don’t understand the women of Crete.

  “Grant me a wish,” she said.

  “What do you want?” He was rapidly losing his ability to concentrate.

  “You’ve exerted your influence over the council to pardon Menoetius. Now let him go. Send him away. Don’t force him to fight you. Kaphtor needs no more ill fortune. Let us choose your cabal in the old way, as it has always been done.”

  He yanked her hands off his thighs. “Is that why you kiss me, to soften me toward my brother?”

  She pressed her palm to his temple and stroked his hair. “Do you believe that?”

  Slowly, the blaze of anger subsided. “No.”

  “As a woman and your lover, I always want more of you. More and more still. As a queen, I must think as I was taught. I fear the consequences of changing the rite. I don’t understand why Themiste agreed to do it, and it makes me uneasy. It is wrong, Chrysaleon. I think it will bring bad fortune.”

  He closed his eyes and put his mouth against her throat before answering. “I can refuse you little, Aridela— but Menoetius remains my cabal. On this I will not relent. He and I will meet at the rise of Iakchos, and he will remain in the labyrinth, under guard. I forbid you to worry about him anymore.”

  “You forbid me?”

  He didn’t take back his words, though the way one of her brows lifted and her jaw clenched suggested that might be the wisest course.

  “You will force him to kill you then share my bed for a year,” she said tightly. “And yet this is not my concern? I don’t understand. Not when the mere suggestion of him lying with me— or me even thinking of him— sends you into such rage as I can scarcely imagine.”

  He forced himself to speak calmly. “I know you have a soft spot for him, but he is my brother, and we have spent our entire lives together. If I am to die for you, I need him to be the one who takes my life. He understands. I cannot explain it to you any better than that.”

  The mood seemed lost. Another thing to thank the bastard for.

  Almost as though she read his mind, Aridela hesitantly returned her hand to his chest and traced one of the burn scars from the night of the Destruction. When he made no protest, she sent her tongue on an exploration of the sensitive spot behind his ear. “Let us not be angry,” she whispered. “Instead, we should give each other our love and trust.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding.

  “If I quicken, then the three of us— Themiste, Selene, and I will bear children very close in age. Their bond will be strong. We’ll raise them like sisters, or sisters and brothers.” Sighing as he gathered her close and folded her beneath him, she said, “I will take such care. I won’t rise from this bed, if only the Lady will grant me the gift of your child.”

  He forgot Menoetius, Themiste, and even Glauce, as Aridela twined her legs around his hips.

  Alexiare noted how his lord’s regard turned repeatedly toward the sky. It was no wonder, for the evening’s lofty turrets of color drew everyone’s attention, even, apparently, Chrysaleon’s, though Mycenae’s king was seldom moved by nature’s artistry. The pinkish glow was not uncommon, but there were also greens, blues, oranges and purples. The hues weren’t subtle but vivid and startling, as though the heavens had donned a layered gown woven of rainbows. It had been this way ever since the Destruction. Perhaps the gods wanted to soften what they’d done.

  Alexiare couldn’t help a few errant imaginings of he and Chrysaleon lying together, holding each other, washed in this beautiful light. But such fantasies were dangerous, and he quickly squelched them.

  Themiste stood before the people as she did every year on this day, to mark the beginning of the fermentation of the mead. This year she also offered the revelation of her quickening. Holding her head high, she swore without blushing, stammer, or pause that no man had touched her. Though she spoke with impressive confidence, Alexiare noticed her hands, half-hidden by the drape of her robes. They were clenched, white knuckled.

  Would she keep the secret? Or would she, perhaps in a trance brought on by one of her potions, confess her crime and Chrysaleon’s part in it? Alexiare wond
ered if he or his beloved would ever again draw an easy breath as long as they lived on this singularly cursed island.

  The people fell to their knees, gripped in awe and astonishment. Prince Kios and two counselors guided Themiste through the crowd so everyone could touch her and acquire a small portion of her miraculous sanctity.

  She was gifted and ambitious. She had as much, if not more, to lose by confession. Surely Themiste would never betray her mortal weakness and its consequences.

  He leaned closer to the king and plucked at his arm. “My lord, you have inherited your father’s legendary potency,” he said quietly. “He fathered many children besides those your mother bore and delighted in every one.”

  Chrysaleon didn’t reply immediately. Perhaps he was thinking of his imprisoned half brother. It was quite true that Idómeneus had scattered his seed indiscriminately. Chrysaleon himself had fathered several children on the rocky mainland citadel— if their mothers could be believed.

  “Yes,” Chrysaleon said at last, frowning. “Yet the child I most want is Aridela’s. I would give a fortune to know the secret of enticing that stubborn womb to give birth.”

  With a sympathetic smile, Alexiare said, “Please the Lady.” He added, “Daphoenissa spoke truly, it would seem. Yon priestess bears the fruit of your sowing. You must take care, my lord, or you’ll forever be surrounded by heavy-bellied shrews clamoring for favors.”

  “You love to bait me, old man. Watch yourself, or I’ll send you back to the citadel. You’ll have nothing to do but annoy Gelanor and live a life of dullness.”

  Alexiare blinked in mock surprise. “Have you given up your throne? You intend never to return?”

  Chrysaleon snorted. He rose to leave, but paused as Alexiare said, “My lord?”

  “What do you want now?”

  “I’ve just had an idea.” With a cautious glance around them to make sure they hadn’t drawn undue attention, Alexiare led Chrysaleon to the periphery of the crowd.

  “What is it? Aridela will be looking for me.”

  “Patience.” In a low voice, Alexiare asked, “What if the Immortals caused Themiste to quicken with your child because the queen never will?”

  “She has started children, and could again,” Chrysaleon replied, scowling.

  Alexiare had decided not to share the rumors he’d lately been hearing in the marketplace. It was being whispered that the queen’s miscarriage was due to an accidental glimpse of Asterion, the Beast in the labyrinth. Menoetius had become so dreadful that people believed the mere sight of him was enough to cause a woman to bleed and lose her baby. Alexiare knew what would happen if Chrysaleon heard these tales. It didn’t matter that it couldn’t be true. The king would lose all semblance of control and Aridela might well suffer the brunt of his rage. For some reason Alexiare didn’t quite understand, he felt very protective of her. He must be getting soft.

  “I don’t mean to anger you,” he said soothingly, “but the signs are not good. The queen ended her first pregnancy and one since has ended itself. Though we may wish and pray for her to achieve this desire, we should not blind ourselves to a more unhappy possibility.”

  Chrysaleon gestured impatiently. “Yes, yes. What is it you want to say?”

  “Lay claim to this babe— no, I don’t suggest you should confess you’re the father. What I mean is you should lay mystical claim to it. If Themiste bears a daughter, you and the queen could announce your intention of bringing up the holy oracle’s child as your heir. A female would strengthen your ties to the throne, and who knows what we could accomplish with a boy? Daphoenissa said this child will somehow halt the king-sacrifice. You should align yourself with it in all possible ways.”

  “Yes….” Chrysaleon turned his head and stared speculatively at Themiste. People thronged around her, pulling at her skirts, clasping her hands. His eyes narrowed. “And so one more piece of my moera falls into place.”

  Alexiare folded his arms and smiled.

  “I’ll propose it to the queen,” Chrysaleon said. “She won’t like it. She continues to hope she’ll conceive.”

  “Make her agree, my lord. I feel certain this is the course you must take. And there’s something else.”

  “Does your mind never cease plotting?”

  “Not when the plot may assist you, my king.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve been perfecting our plans to avert the sacrifice. Come, my lord. Allow me to explain.” Almost floating with satisfaction and a renewed sense of achievement, Alexiare led his master further from listening ears.

  Chrysaleon made his way to the royal seats.

  Aridela patted the space next to her. “You’re frowning,” she said. “Has Alexiare irritated you again?” She often teased him over their unique relationship, one almost of father and son, she liked to say, or mentor and pupil.

  He glowered. “I knew I would regret bringing him back with me from Mycenae.”

  She leaned against his arm as they watched Themiste move through the crowd. “It seems to me the priestess must have quickened with this child for a reason,” he said. “We shouldn’t ignore the Lady’s blessing. Perhaps she sends it for you, since you seem unable to carry one.”

  Dismay wiped the pleasure from her face. She straightened, pulling away from him. “Athene placed the child into Themiste’s womb. It would never be ours, even if we said it was.”

  “Why can’t the priestesses say words, make a rite of it?” He paused. “My time grows short. I fear I will leave no mark upon Crete or the world. I’ll be nothing— forgotten when your acolytes pour my blood on the land and you take my brother into your bed.”

  He watched his words cut into her. Her eyes clouded and her shoulders hunched. He forced himself to speak no words of reassurance, and kept his expression cold.

  “Because you ask, I will consider it,” she said at last. “But only if Themiste has a daughter, and if I do not quicken. Only as a last resort, my lord.”

  He nodded and kissed her.

  Themiste returned to the hillock, the bangles in her skirts and her bare breasts glowing in the strange, shimmering light from the sky.

  Aridela and Chrysaleon joined her. Only the briefest glance passed between Chrysaleon and Themiste before she looked away.

  The queen presented Themiste with her golden labrys. There was cheering. Pennants flew into the air. The people were exhilarated by this miracle that represented new life and a return to plenty. No one doubted the promise it offered.

  The sun descended behind Mount Ida. Torches were lit.

  Hobbling their legs and tying wings of partridge feathers to their arms, men crowded onto the wood and marble dance floor with its sacred maze pattern. They dragged one wing in imitation of the revered birds and circled, calling to prospective mates. Women shouted encouragement and made lecherous conjectures about the elaborate codpieces on display. The men grew bolder, making lewd thrusting movements toward the women, several of whom stepped onto the maze and joined the dance.

  Wine, beer and mead flowed freely. As the moon ascended, Chrysaleon was urged to begin the mead-making ritual. He found Aridela, who must have had her share of drink, for she giggled and leaned against him, her eyes heavy-lidded. He hoisted her onto his back and carried her, clasping her legs around his middle. Someone handed her a kylix filled with wine, which she offered to him. Laughter erupted as wine spilled through his beard and over his tunic, and the image of a man preparing to take a woman from behind was revealed in the bottom of the bowl. He cantered, mimicking a horse, forcing Aridela to drop the bowl and grab his shoulders to keep from falling. The pervasive air of arousal affected him too; he felt the press of her breasts against his skin, and choked down a desire to lay her in the grass and satisfy his lust. He wasn’t drunk enough to yield to such uninhibited behavior, though he saw other couples slinking away hand in hand to do that very thing.

  One of the priests brought forth a goat, its back padded with fur. Themiste adorned Aridela in an
embroidered robe covered with crystals that sparkled in the torchlight, and gave her a golden apple and a staff, wrapped in ivy and topped with pinecones, which the Cretans called a thyrsus. The apple was sobering, as Chrysaleon knew by now what it symbolized.

  The priest assisted Aridela onto the goat’s back. Two priestesses walked on either side, one carrying a live hare and the other a raven in a withy cage. Led by a priest holding the goat’s bridle, Aridela, her priestesses, and the effusive crowd circuited the path to the oak grove at the foot of Mount Juktas. Wine, bread and cheese passed from hand to hand. The talk grew louder, more amorous, the closer they came to the grove. Hands slipped beneath Chrysaleon’s tunic. Women, young and old, rubbed against him. He couldn’t help responding, though his wife rode just ahead. Men pressed close around her. Were they touching her as these women were touching him? Red-hued jealousy tore at him, yet he couldn’t reach her. Too many people blocked his way.

  The clearing held seven carts, piled high with leather sacks already filled with the proper combination of honey and water, which would gradually ferment into mead over the next forty days. Aridela slipped off the goat and joined Themiste in the center of the clearing. The crystals in her robe reflected light from the tall torches.

  Chrysaleon finally reached her side.

  “We need not participate,” she said. “They only want us to begin the rites. Then we may please ourselves.”

  Themiste held up the hare by its ears and lifted the withy cage, waiting until she had silence and expectant attention. “See and know what will come,” she said.

  The people chorused assents.

  “As the hound gives chase to the hare, so does Goddess Athene chase the bull-king. With her net she snares him. He returns from death as raven, bird of prophecy.”

  A pavilion stood at the edge of the clearing. Inside, a cauldron simmered above an ember fire. Themiste handed the hare and raven to one of her attendants, and went into the hut.