After the bard finished his tale, she leaned toward Gelanor, saying, “I want to give you a gift.” With great ceremony and flourish, she climbed up onto her chair, sending her bright gaze and winning smile around the hall. Lifting her arms to gain everyone’s attention, she made her announcement. “Prince Gelanor,” she said, “when you become my husband, you will have my title. You will be Minos of Kaphtor.”
She grabbed his hand and pulled him up beside her. He grinned, though he sent a bewildered glance toward the queen.
Shocked silence descended like wet fishing nets. Then someone laughed. Gradually, more people joined in, and soon, nearly everyone was buzzing and thumping their cups on the tables— especially the Mycenaeans. All who saw her loved Pasithea— impetuous in spirit, guileless, incomprehensibly lovely. Spoiled, true, but was that a bad thing? No one else could have secured such a mild reaction to something so shamefully improper.
Giving the onlookers a rueful smile and helpless shrug, Aridela rose and assisted her child back into her seat. “You’ve been taught better than this,” she whispered. “Your title is between you and Mistress Athene. Not for the ears of the uninitiated. You have just broken a tradition that has been in place since Kaphtor’s beginnings. Without asking me.”
Pasithea shook her head, causing her curly hair to fluff in a cloud. “Is the title not mine? I had a dream that when Gelanor and I are married he shall be known as King Minos.”
Aridela sighed. “You have winning ways, Prince Gelanor.”
“I don’t know this title, my lady,” he said. His ever-present smile faded into concern. “Has she done something wrong?”
Before she could make any reply, Chrysaleon intervened. “Perhaps we should consider this union. Crete would benefit from a stronger bond with Mycenae— especially when I am gone.”
Not so long ago, none among the Kindred Kings would have dared make such a statement. Aridela tamped down a wave of annoyance. Things had changed since the fire clouds and suffocating ash from the sky. It had happened slowly, subtly; only now, hearing Chrysaleon’s tone of arrogant confidence, did she realize the full reversal of their positions. This last war on the mainland had been a success. The Kindred Kings must have clearly displayed awe and respect for their overlord’s glorious achievements.
A bowing servant interrupted her thoughts. “My lord,” he said to Chrysaleon. “Your slave is asking for you. The healer can do nothing more and the end is near.”
“Shall I come?” Aridela asked.
“No.” Chrysaleon rose. “It would make him ill-at-ease.”
She touched his hand. “Give him my love.”
Sad, how the man who had been with Chrysaleon for so long was dying. She thought of how patiently he’d entertained her when she’d suffered the loss of her baby, and how he hadn’t laughed at her after her scare on Mount Juktas, when she believed Harpalycus had returned from the dead. Alexiare had devoted his entire life to the royal sons of Idómeneus. In many ways he had fulfilled a father’s role. At least his existence hadn’t been snuffed out too early, as had the lives of so many others.
Thinking of those lost loved ones made her morose, so she turned her attention to her daughter.
Pasithea was flirting. Seemingly mesmerized by her in return, Prince Gelanor twined strands of her black hair around his fingers. Then he made her giggle by marching two little clay dolls across the table. These were becoming more and more popular. Crafted to resemble Aridela, they were a symbol of the power of Kaphtor’s queen to inspire Goddess Athene’s mercy. Many believed that when hung in the fruit trees around the time of the Games, these dolls gave off a blessing or alchemy that fructified the crops on their own, without the blood sacrifice of the king. Their effectiveness could hardly be dismissed: every year they’d been used, the crops had burgeoned, and women everywhere were pregnant— even Aridela’s cantankerous womb had become fertile.
Aridela traced the designs on her wine bowl.
No more children. No more love. Not until they all lie dead. Then we will begin again.
The remnant of memory from some lost period in her life intruded into her wandering thoughts. A woman had shouted the warning from a hilltop. It had left her uneasy, as it did now.
Themiste experienced a frightening dream once, shortly after Pasithea’s birth. Aridela tried to recall the oracle’s words. The sacred bulls are stolen by the mainland god, Poseidon. I have seen men pulling down the statue of Velchanos, and the sacrifices of children. Every time I look upon your consort, I am fearful.
Change comes to all things, Harpalycus had announced from the head of his invading army.
Could mortal men destroy Labyrinthos? Even after the damage Harpalycus wrought, it was still hard to imagine any but Athene’s Earth Bull having that much power. But Aridela had to admit that the bulls, which, in her youth, were sacred only to the Lady, were now considered holy to Poseidon, as well. He was routinely called the ‘bull-god.’ Rites and sacrifices revering him had become commonplace, even within the palace. Priests and priestesses devoted to his worship resided in chambers next to those devoted to Athene.
Pasithea stopped giggling long enough to interrupt Aridela’s conjectures. “Mother,” she said, “Why were you upset by what I did? Father said I should give Gelanor my title. He called it a fitting gesture.”
“What?” Aridela was so shocked she forgot to control her expression, and stared at her child, enraged. “How did he know the title? Did you tell him?”
Pasithea shook her head again, forcefully. “I thought you did.”
It took all of Aridela’s will to grit her teeth and make her face appear calm, though she didn’t seem to fool Pasithea, who looked alarmed and guilty.
“It’s all right,” she said, patting the child’s hand.
Somehow, though Gelanor seemed appropriately startled, Aridela suspected he’d known about this all along, and was merely putting on an act of surprise, perhaps at Chrysaleon’s instruction.
But now was not the time to lose her temper. It was Pasithea’s first night home in two months. She would talk to Chrysaleon later. She would watch his face and get to the bottom of this.
As she took a deep breath and sipped her wine, the last bit of Themiste’s gloomy prediction ran through her mind as though of its own insistent will. This part had frightened the oracle more than the rest.
My title was stolen from me and given to a male. They laughed and kept it, and called themselves Minos for all time.
Aridela glanced at her daughter as a chill shivered down her spine. The title, so carelessly bestowed by the child, would remain with the Mycenaean prince. It would become for all time the way Cretan kings were addressed.
Aridela only realized she’d risen from her chair when Pasithea, Gelanor, and several others stopped what they were doing and peered up at her.
Almost desperately, she searched for one face at the end of her table.
Themiste returned her gaze. The oracle had already worked this out, Aridela saw. Her eyes were haunted, glistening with tears. She looked old and tired.
Minos, Aridela mouthed.
Themiste lifted her shoulders and covered her face with her hands.
So did things change.
Not with the Earth Bull’s terrifying explosion or the brutal invasion of armies, but softly, whispering into darkness on the wings of a child’s laughter.
My love….
Aridela woke instantly at the sound of Menoetius’s voice, but realized almost as quickly that she’d been dreaming.
Only one lamp flickered, leaving most of the room netted in shadow. She felt for Chrysaleon.
He wasn’t there. He must still be with Alexiare.
The draperies between the pillars at her balcony fluttered, stimulated by night breezes. Propping herself on her elbows, she looked about, blinking. She’d been dreaming, as she often did, of that long-ago night when she and her mother took Iphiboë to Mount Juktas. The stars in the dream glittered more brightly than they ever did in real li
fe, and the air tasted of honey. Velchanos stood over her, his marble face melting into the features of Menoetius, then Chrysaleon. Save me, Aridela. Open your heart.
Aridela….
Her head snapped toward the whisper as her heartbeat sped up. She stared into the darkest corner of her bedchamber. Something moved on the dressing table— a strange eruption of silver, green, lavender and crimson phosphorescence.
More intrigued than afraid, she slipped from bed and crossed the room. Ribbons of color fountained, lost momentum, and fell again into a pool. She reached out to this silent, wondrous spray, delighted as a child.
Her fingers passed through the glowing rainbow, carving a hole in the center. There lay the source. A gold seal ring.
She picked it up, rolling it one way then the other on her palm, causing the rainbows to scatter in every direction. They grew and expanded, surrounding her. Her hair drifted as if she were underwater. Her feet lifted off the floor. She floated, yet in this extraordinary fluid color, she could breathe, and she tasted the rich royal flavor of purple, verdant, earthy green and wet, salty blue, then the hot cinder burn of red. Her senses filled with song, awe, and soaring acceptance.
Aridela.
Menoetius stepped into the waterfall with her, his face and body flawless, unmarred, his eyes the shade of twilight. He was as he had been at seventeen, the beautiful youth from Mycenae. Her Carmanor.
He took her cheeks in his hands and kissed her, long and yearning, and held her close, cocooned against his body, but in the next instant, he dissolved into flickering lamp-lit darkness, leaving behind the mere hint of words.
Be wary tonight, my love.
The waterfall vanished. She stood again upon cool tiles. An exhale of wind from the open balcony nearly extinguished the lamp.
Her heart beat with fearful thudding strength as she pressed her hands to her chest, forgetting she held the ring. It dropped to the floor, flat face turned down. She bent and retrieved it.
It was his. Menoetius had given it to her the night he died.
She woke then, gasping, and jerked upright, staring at the ceiling. She lay in bed, her cheeks wet with tears. For some lost length of time she couldn’t remember where she was. Moonlight flooded from the balcony, pooling across her. Everyone knew that sleeping in the moon’s light brought prophetic dreams. Once, it had brought her a god.
As she realized the vivid rainbow fountain and Menoetius’s presence hadn’t happened, she slumped, pressing her face against her knees. Theirs had been an affair of opposites, of attraction and disgust, respect and resentment. Yet that enigmatic lover taught her things she could never learn from anyone else.
The balcony draperies billowed inward then stilled.
Rising wearily, Aridela went into her bath chamber, rubbing the ache in her temples and pushing back her sweat-dampened hair. She scooped handfuls of water from the bowl and refreshed her face.
A lamp illuminated the festive rosettes, spirals, and tessellations ornamenting the edge of the ceiling, but they brought no sense of pleasure or reassurance. She couldn’t rout the blaze of color streaming from Menoetius’s ring, or the dream-image of his face. Tender. Grieving.
She left the bath and went straight to her dressing table. Shoving combs, mirrors and paint-pots aside, she seized upon a small ivory coffer.
The ring lay next to the twined locks of their hair. She picked it up, but it was nothing more than a well-fashioned piece of jewelry, cool to the touch, smooth on the inside from years spent on his finger. The engraving was of a man brandishing a dagger as he held off an attacking lion.
Hopeless longing swept through her. If she could, somehow, she would say all she’d neglected to say when she’d had the chance. She would hold him fast and refuse to let him go. Collapsing to the floor, she stared at the ring a long time, kissing it, bathing it in tears.
Somewhere in this misery, the voice from her wedding day returned, offering gentle reassurance.
Thou shalt be called Eamhair of the sea, who brings them closer, and Shashi, sacrificed to deify man. Thy names are Caparina, Lilith and the sorrowful Morrigan, who drives them far apart.
It gave her mysterious comfort to hold his ring and think of the night in the labyrinth, when he shared the voice he’d heard at the same time. It was hard to remember, but she worked at it until she recalled every name he’d told her. Cailean, Nuren, Ambrosio, Daniel, Curran, and finally, William.
She dried her cheeks and rose. Kissing the ring one last time, she put it back into the ivory coffer.
Sleep would be impossible now.
She wanted to ask Chrysaleon why he’d told Pasithea to give Gelanor her sacred, secret title. How had he even known of it? But that could wait until tomorrow. Right now she needed him to distract her. His laugh and his kisses would dissolve her fears, and the unhappy sensation that she’d betrayed everyone who ever trusted her.
He’d probably dozed off in Alexiare’s chamber. He wouldn’t mind being awakened. It would give her a chance to tell the slave goodbye, as well.
Only with Chrysaleon could she release her obligations, her masks, and be simply, finally, a woman.
“The idea came to me on the voyage to Mycenae,” Chrysaleon said, “as the sun rose in the east and I watched dolphins leap about the ship. The dead god, Damasen, first suggested it, in my death dream from long ago.”
“Tell me again, my lord,” Alexiare said. “My memory fails me these days.”
“He said that Potnia Athene’s true origins would be forgotten, and she would be known as a hater of women. He suggested a day would come when Athene would be thought of as Zeus’s child.”
“Did the queen’s father want to help you defeat the sacrifice?”
“No,” Chrysaleon said, thinking back. “He was devoted to the Lady. He wanted me to protect Aridela. He thought I would be long dead by now.” He gave a defiant shake of his head, trying to rid his mind of the king’s face. “At Mycenae I called together the members of my Boreas council and put forth this idea. Together we perfected it. Before I left, our bards were setting the new stories to song— even a new meaning for Athene’s name. ‘She who has never known man.’ That came from Damasen as well.”
“You and I understand how a well-told story can root in the hearts of the people.” Alexiare gave a tremulous smile, though tears dribbled across his temples.
“All the years we spent trying to destroy her,” Chrysaleon said. “Changing her— we never considered that.” He laughed. “You would be proud of all I’ve accomplished in the last two months. Perhaps I don’t need you so much after all, eh, old man? At Mycenae, Pasithea told me she’d been given Themiste’s secret title. She didn’t tell me what it was, but she didn’t need to, thanks to you. I convinced her that if she gave the title to Gelanor, it would bind him to her. There’s nothing she wants more than that. She adores my brother. She made the announcement tonight. Neither Aridela nor the oracle could do anything to stop it. It’s done. Themiste’s holy title belongs to Mycenae now.”
“Gelanor didn’t resist, my lord?”
Chrysaleon laughed again, cynically. “Not at all. He lost his infatuation with Aridela when he saw she meant to go through with dispatching me in the sacrifice. I told him how sacred the title is, how much power it wields. He made a decent pose of bewildered, humble surprise to keep her from suspecting anything.”
“Yes, my lord,” Alexiare said. “I truly am proud of you, and of Gelanor. He has become a surprisingly invaluable ally. You know, I’ve been lying here, thinking back over everything we’ve done. It seems to me your true success began the day Menoetius was mauled. On that day, you discarded fear and impotence. You embraced your moera when you caused the beast to attack your brother. At that instant, you became a true heir to your noble ancestors. You chose your destiny, and accepted what you would have to do to achieve it. Every year since, you’ve grown more formidable, more determined.”
Chrysaleon nodded, though Alexiare couldn’t see. Before he
could say anything, Alexiare began to cough and choke. Chrysaleon gave him water, which helped a little.
“I only wish I could expunge the evil I’ve created,” the old man wheezed, his voice as grating as a dusty avalanche. “I’m so afraid.”
“You’ve done no evil.”
Alexiare coughed again, hacking until he spat out curds of black blood. He fell back, his battle to breathe obvious. “Oh no, my lord,” he gasped. “You’re wrong. I’ve caused much evil, and dragged you into retribution with me.”
Chrysaleon bit back impatience. More blithering about some silly crime. “Whatever you’ve done, old man, it can be nothing too reprehensible.”
Alexiare blinked as if he could somehow rid himself of the obscuring cloud over his pupils.
“Are we alone, my lord?” Alexiare asked.
“There’s no one here but you and I. Tell me what causes such shame and whimpering.”
“She cursed us before she died.” Alexiare’s voice was so soft it forced Chrysaleon to lean closer. “I fear what comes to me. Yet I asked the Goddess to give me a sign if she was angry. Nothing happened. I told myself she didn’t care, perhaps even approved, but now I know how wrong I was. She does care about what we’ve done. She cares very much.”
“Who cursed us? Have you forgotten how adored I am?” He paused. The people no longer adored him, thanks to the taxes he’d begun and never stopped. But peasants the world over did as they were told if they knew what was good for them. “The bards compose songs about my glorious deeds every few days,” he added with bravado.
“Selene.”
Chrysaleon straightened, staring at his slave’s wasted, yellow face. “You know what happened to her?”
“I killed her, my lord.”
“You— what?”
“The child, Xanthe— you stole her father from her, and I stole her mother.”
Shock numbed Chrysaleon’s ability to think. Then, slowly, he began to wonder if it could be true. His mind hummed. Alexiare had been a weak old man for many years, Selene a practiced fighter. Still, Alexiare seemed to have his wits, and believe what he was saying.
In the Moon of Asterion (The Child of the Erinyes) Page 24