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

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  The crowd began gesturing and arguing. A few again came to blows. Chrysaleon dared a glance toward Aridela. She stood at the edge of the platform, as straight and motionless as the golden staff she gripped. Then, slowly, she turned her gaze to the inky night sky. Twinges of guilt and remorse ran through him.

  He felt her bewilderment, her ambivalence. She was young, alone, and had endured one catastrophe after another. She must be fighting her opposing desires— to see him live, to submit to the Lady’s demands, and somehow appease her people.

  A shiver ran down his spine.

  Help came from the crowd itself. “Goddess Athene brought him from over the sea to save us,” an old woman cried. “It is prophecy fulfilled. Do you not recollect when our queen was a child, the words she spoke in trance?”

  The collective anger faltered. Chrysaleon watched as faces remembered that old prophecy. Awed wonder replaced fear.

  He kept his expression grave, though he wanted to smile. The old woman was probably one of the crones Alexiare had carefully prepared and heaped with bribery gifts.

  Many still stared at him with hostility and bloodlust. His goal had not yet been achieved.

  “Even then,” someone shouted, “the Lady knew he would come, the Gold Lion from over the sea.”

  “The Zagreus saved us.” This raspy pronouncement emanated from deep within the crowd. It sounded like Alexiare himself. “Kaphtor will fall into ruin under the Beast!”

  “The consort shouldn’t be sacrificed,” another female cried. “He should be rewarded with life for what he did. That’s what Potnia wants.”

  “Who else but he can protect us from the mainland threat?” a man shouted.

  “The Zagreus is a comely man, beautiful in every way,” a matron said as she boldly looked him over, her hands on her hips. “Who wants a monster as our king? I do not.”

  How many of these who shouted in support of him were Mycenaeans following Alexiare’s instructions? He heard his homeland’s accent here and there.

  “What of the crops?”

  The people fell silent. They turned toward the one who spoke.

  Selene approached the edge of the platform, her layered skirts rippling in the night breeze. “The consort must die,” she said clearly. “It is Law. The crops must be sanctified, now more than ever. To ignore our holy rites invites the anger of the Immortals.”

  Aridela gazed upon the crowd. She frowned.

  Fearing what he saw on her face, Chrysaleon swept out his good arm to draw attention back to him. He couldn’t allow the momentum he’d achieved to be lost. “She is right,” he said. “Blood must fructify the crops. One must die. By doing so, he will earn forgiveness for his crimes, and achieve entry into Paradise.”

  “No,” Selene cried.

  “The oracle said it.” Chrysaleon’s voice carried over hers. “‘Slay the Lady’s Earth Bull,’ she commanded me, ‘and rule until the sun and moon shift into perfect alignment.’ As of tonight, by rights, the Beast of the Labyrinth is the Lady’s Earth Bull.”

  Chrysaleon returned to his brother, who had begun to stir. He seized Menoetius’s wrist and held it up. “The consort must stand at the side of the Goddess-of-Life-in-Death. The sacrifice must continue in obedience to the Goddess-of-Death-in-Life. When the sun rises, the first day of the new year will begin. Menoetius, my brother, will be titled Zagreus and bull-king. He will perform the consort’s duties and receive every pleasure and accord. When Iakchos ascends again, my cabal will give the divine offering of his blood and be restored to eternal glory in Hesperia. His death will bring true, complete forgiveness to the people of Kaphtor.”

  He dropped Menoetius’s arm and stepped away from him. “I, the thinara king, will spend the first day of the new year in the tombs, in communion with my true brother, Velchanos.” Pausing so this image could sink in, he added, “At dawn on the second day, Velchanos will rise to the call of the offering, bringing abundance and peace in his holy mother’s name.”

  The hush following his speech was different from the silence of before. He felt the people considering his proposal. Many nodded. They turned to each other, talking among themselves.

  Triumph washed over him. Victory. Life. And, given enough time, he would discover a way to halt the king-sacrifice altogether. He would not die now, nor would he die at the end of the great year, no matter what any oracle predicted.

  “Mycenae’s king toys with us. He would cheat Goddess Athene of her due.”

  The words spilled through the night like a flood of icy water.

  “Menoetius warned me of Chrysaleon’s tricks,” Selene said. “He tried to warn the queen, but she would not listen. Here is the proof. Chrysaleon stands before you, mocking our rites to your very faces.”

  Silence fell again as the people stared from Selene, to Chrysaleon, to Aridela.

  “The woman isn’t one of us,” some unseen male shouted. “She carries the monster’s spawn in her belly. She only speaks to save him.”

  Aridela took Selene’s hand. Chrysaleon’s brief sense of achievement crumbled like a seashell smashed against a rock. Death flowed closer, lapping at his feet. She meant to speak the words that would send him to a cold and bloody grave.

  Gelanor took a step forward, his hand moving to the hilt of his dagger. Chrysaleon sent him an almost imperceptible shake of the head, willing him to stay silent.

  Selene spoke again. “The High King of Mycenae sent his sons here on a quest to overthrow us,” she said. “Menoetius abandoned the mainland and his father’s plots. He has become one with us. Chrysaleon seeks our defeat, even now.”

  Silence fell, but not for long.

  “If our queen is too timid to perform the rite, another should take her place,” someone shouted.

  Selene put her arm around Aridela’s waist. Prince Kios, his face black with anger, moved Themiste back and moved in on Aridela’s other side. He gestured for one of the guards to hand him a sword, and when it was given, he pointed it at the crowd. “Who dares say such a thing?” he demanded.

  Then something happened Chrysaleon had not anticipated. A man somewhere shouted, “The queen herself can be sacrificed if she defies our laws.”

  “It is Chrysaleon, not the queen, who would harm Kaphtor!” Selene returned the shout, her cheeks burning with fury.

  “He could not if there was strength on the throne,” some hidden male cried. “She will sacrifice us all to save her barbarian lover.”

  Aridela looked out over her people. “You threaten me?” she asked. “When I have listened to every argument, as any judge should?”

  Breathless silence fell. The man who broached the possibility of Aridela’s death said nothing more, yet Chrysaleon saw countless faces staring up at their queen, narrow-eyed, hostile. One wrong word would send them forward. They would go through Selene, Kios, and the guards. They would rip Aridela to pieces before his eyes. Then they would turn on him.

  He didn’t know what to do. If he continued to argue for his life they would kill her. But he wasn’t yet ready to give in and accept his own death. His mind sprang and tumbled but provided no solution. This was all Alexiare’s fault. The old man hadn’t anticipated this. Now where was he? Somewhere in the crowd, too frightened to speak up.

  He dared another glance at Gelanor. His brother had left his spot by the throne. He now stood beside Selene, his dagger drawn and ready. He appeared to be defending the queen, but Chrysaleon knew if he raised his hand, his brother would toss him the weapon.

  Barely audible over the crackle of torch flames and sough of a suddenly chilly wind, another voice spoke. “I will make the sacrifice.”

  Chrysaleon swiveled, the hair on his arms and scalp lifting.

  While no one was paying attention, Menoetius had dragged himself to his feet. He stood, swaying, staring at Aridela, one eye swollen shut, his face covered in blood.

  Silence descended upon the oak grove. No baby cried. Not even a cricket chirped. Then, from the west, came a low growl of thund
er that didn’t fade but went on, and on, and on.

  “I will give myself to your holy blade,” he said. “I will guide your hand to my throat. When the earth holds my blood, you will come scratching in it to find me.”

  With the back of his hand Menoetius wiped blood from his eyes and limped across the field, passing Chrysaleon but never even glancing at him. He staggered up the seven steps. Aridela and Selene reached down, one on either side, to help him. He knelt before the queen.

  She dropped to her knees and took his face in her hands.

  Menoetius said something. He leaned forward, tucking his face against her throat. She put her arms around him, holding him close.

  Selene gave a wordless cry. Sobbing, she turned and ran down the steps, disappearing into the night.

  A flash at the corner of his eye pulled Chrysaleon’s attention from what he saw before him, this betraying, incriminating intimacy between his brother and his wife.

  Iakchos broke free of the shadowed bulk of Mount Dikti’s summit and took its place beneath the grand, courageous Hunter. Unlike last year, there was no haze around it. The star was bright, strong and clear, a good portent for the coming months.

  Menoetius’s agreement, coupled with the appearance and clarity of the holy sphere, seemed to transform the mob.

  “Chrysaleon,” someone shouted.

  Another joined in. “Zagreus!”

  Others took up the cry. He was called hero and savior. Menoetius was heralded. Aridela was praised for the loyalty she inspired.

  The boy on the platform beat his drum wildly. The crowd pounded the earth with their feet and clapped. Laughter and cheering echoed into the heavens.

  Chrysaleon hardly heard any of it. He stared at Aridela as she rose. She met his gaze before she spoke.

  “The people have chosen,” she said.

  Bending, she linked her arm through Menoetius’s. She helped him to his feet and guided him down the steps. He stumbled a little. Themiste ran after them and put her arm around his waist. Together, the two women led him away into the night.

  One strange memory of something Alexiare had said overtook every other, causing Chrysaleon’s flesh to shiver as he watched their retreating forms.

  He will never let you go to your death, not without giving his life to prevent it.

  Everyone, including Alexiare, would think Menoetius had indeed chosen death in order to save his brother. But Chrysaleon knew better. Menoetius’s choice had nothing to do with him at all.

  The day of Menoetius’s kingship flowed like a mighty river emptying into the sea. Rhené tended his injuries. Aridela cleansed him in a hot bath of sea salts and soothing oils, though he hardly released her hand long enough for her to wield the sponge. She and another handmaid massaged the soreness from his muscles.

  Revived and fortified, though with one eye still closed by swelling, he held the reins as he and his queen made the circuit of Knossos in a gilded cart drawn by white oxen. Woven garlands and wildflowers rained upon them.

  The title he was given while imprisoned lost its stigma of fear and horror. He was hailed as Asterion the starry god, lord of the labyrinth. Aridela was his queen and dark mistress. Kaphtor’s grateful people sang of his courage, strength, and nobility. Glauce worked rapturously on a fresco that would span an entire wall in the chamber of judgment; standing in a field of lilies, their hero saluted the Goddess and made offering of a winged sphinx.

  The queen and her surrogate-consort formally mated in the barley, washed in a dusky twilight, as demanded by ancient tradition and more recent fears.

  After she presented him with three golden apples and the divinatory knucklebones, when the pageantry, songs, and feasting were done, he carried her away to their chamber, leaving behind a wreckage of giggling, sighing maids, a smiling retinue, and many wistful would-be lovers.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered as he kicked the chamber door closed behind them. “Again. Kiss me again.”

  Menoetius kissed her until she could no longer feel her lips, until she could no longer speak or think, and could remember nothing but the feel of his mouth against hers. Taking his time, he moved from her face to kiss every curve, every angle, even her toes, as though he wanted to know her body as well as she did. Such tenderness threw her off balance a little, it conflicted so dramatically with the brutal combat she’d witnessed between the brothers on the killing field.

  “You remind me of the lioness,” he said. “You protect your people like she protected her cubs. Tell Chrysaleon I remember that day. He gave me back my life so I could be here, with you now.”

  She didn’t want to think about lionesses, or Chrysaleon, or what was to come. “Kiss me, Menoetius.”

  He poured wine between her breasts and watched it pool over her navel. His tongue tickled her when he licked it off, making her giggle. Yet soon he left her gasping, then weeping. “How can I pretend any of it matters?” she asked, her voice hoarse with grief. “I want you with me every night, every night for as long as I live.”

  He made no reply, gave no consolation. He offered no desperately formed idea to escape his fate. He kissed her tears, and the line of her jaw, up to her earlobe.

  She tried again, longing to understand, at least. “Selene and I begged you not to be his cabal. You had a choice. You could have stayed with us. Why did you let him do this to you?”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. “When I looked at Chrysaleon and saw the crowd’s anger, I understood, at last, what the Lady required from me.”

  “What?”

  “My blood.” His eyes darkened. She watched him travel within to some place she sensed must be awe-inspiring, and maybe terrible as well. “I didn’t want to tell you what I saw in the blackness of the labyrinth, what I heard. She said it many times, as she has in dreams, for as long as I can remember. ‘Thou wilt give to her the offering of thy blood.’ All my life she’s prepared me for this. I couldn’t tell you because you might have tried to sway me. Whenever I felt fear over what was to come, she repeated her covenant. Remember? I told you of it. ‘What seems the end is only the beginning.’ I knew she didn’t make that vow lightly. I lost all doubts. I understood that whatever might happen, it wouldn’t be the end. I’ll go into my nightmare. I’ll fight the lion. If I defeat it, you’ll be free. If I succeed, maybe she’ll let us be together again.”

  Ah, that’s what he’d meant on the platform in the killing field, when he’d knelt before her. The lion is calling me, he’d said.

  Though she held out little hope, she argued anyway. “I cannot bear this. I will not stand for it.”

  He brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her temples. “A sacrifice has to be made, Aridela. Did you not see the mood of the people? They were turning against you. As soon as I agreed, they calmed. They accepted. If I hadn’t, you might have been hurt.”

  He didn’t say anything about Chrysaleon putting her in such danger by refusing the sacrifice. She thought of it, and wondered what Chrysaleon would have done if Menoetius hadn’t stepped in to soothe the mob’s bloodlust. Would he have let them attack her?

  “I’ll find another way.” She stroked his hair, as she’d wanted to do for so long, letting it flow between her fingers. “I am the queen,” she whispered. “I must be obeyed.”

  His lashes descended, hiding his thoughts. For a space of time he was silent, then he admitted, “I don’t want to die. I want to stay with you and Selene. I want to hold my child.” He took a deep breath then shook his head. “The Lady won’t allow it. It’s my punishment and reward. Punishment because I left you, years ago, reward and redemption now. I can only consent. Maybe it will help Kaphtor. My hope, my prayer, is that she’ll reunite us, somehow, somewhere, if I do what she wants. That’s what I think she meant with the vow she made. Whatever happens, wherever she sends me, I will wait for you.” As if to further strengthen his word, he removed his gold seal ring and slid it onto her middle finger.

  His promise, and the way he kissed the palm
of her hand, forced her to blink away tears. But a niggling question remained. “So this isn’t to save Chrysaleon?”

  “My debt to him is great. But no. Not for him.”

  Menoetius kissed the crescent scars below her ribs, then her knuckles, then the bend of her elbows. She almost succeeded in forgetting what was to come at the end of their night, but then he said, very quietly, “I ask your forgiveness.”

  Her eyelids felt almost too heavy to open, but she managed. “For what, my love? What could you think you’ve done?”

  “I should have kept him from lying with you in the Cave of Velchanos. I should never have allowed him to enter Kaphtor’s Games. Even after, I had a chance to stop him from becoming bull-king and consort, but I did nothing. I was too afraid.”

  “You, Menoetius, afraid?”

  She laughed gently, but he remained grave. “I knew it was you in the cave. I wanted to be with you more than I have ever wanted anything. I loved you even then. But I let Chrysaleon best me. I, who could have stopped him, instead turned away and allowed him to drag us all here, to this. The Destruction itself, the suffering and deaths of your people, are they, too, the result of my fear? I’ve failed you, again and again, because I couldn’t bear your revulsion.”

  “You’re wrong about Chrysaleon.”

  Menoetius turned away from her a little, so his scarred cheek was almost hidden. “But he found a way to escape his fate, as I told you he would.”

  She knew her sidestep into excusing Chrysaleon, almost a habit by now, a defense she wasn’t sure she believed any longer, hurt him. She held out her arms, looking down at the marks left by burns. Truth spilled with a storm of tears she could no longer contain. “It’s true. In the beginning, your scars disturbed me. If I saw you coming I slipped away. I couldn’t accept the loss of my Carmanor, how he’d changed. I was spoiled, never tested. But on the mountain, when we were alone, I learned how little they matter. I loved you when I was ten years old. I love you now. I will love you… Menoetius… until only dust remains of my bones.”