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

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  “Selene found the saw I used to weaken the king-killer axe.” Alexiare managed to speak almost normally. “I kept it, never thinking it could be used against us. It was just a saw. Many men have saws. I confess I desired a memento of what you and I brought about— changing Kaphtor’s ancient tradition. But she tricked me. She said she would take it to Aridela, and she seemed to know everything. I couldn’t allow her to plant suspicions in the queen’s mind.” His voice broke and grew steadily fainter. “I didn’t want you to know, but now I go to the shadowlands, and you must be on guard against her curse.”

  “What is this curse?” Chrysaleon remembered the morning no one could find her. Alexiare kept to his bed, seemingly ill. There had been a fire in the old man’s chamber the night before. When asked, Alexiare said he stumbled and knocked over a lamp. Chrysaleon had laughed at him, ridiculed him for being so clumsy. Now that he thought about it, his slave’s lip had been cut and swollen. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  Alexiare stretched out his arm, grabbing at Chrysaleon. His fingers were nearly transparent, the nails thick and yellow, curled like talons.

  “Seize your happiness, my lord,” he gasped. “Do whatever you must to make a full life with Queen Aridela.”

  Chrysaleon gripped the old man’s cold, dry hand. “Curses mean nothing to me. You know that. Have you forgotten my grandfather’s motto? Fortune favors the bold. I’ve done nothing but construct my fortune in the same manner as my ancestors. Tell me this curse of yours. I’ll defeat it as I have everything else that’s tried to stand in my way.”

  “You must understand— I saw the hand of the Lady on Selene’s face. It was she who spoke. Here, my lord, here it is, as she said it. It’s had years to burn itself into my bones, but so I could never forget, I had it carved into my flesh.” He lifted his thin, papyrus-skinned arm. Chrysaleon had to seize it and hold it still, for it was so shaky he couldn’t decipher what was there. Once he had it steady, he saw a series of faded tattoos spelling out a phrase.

  Glimpses of joy will be ripped from you. You will beg for death but death will refuse you. You will follow and follow, without end.

  Chrysaleon spoke it haltingly, for the symbols were faint and hard to read. When he finished, Alexiare nodded. “This is what the warrior Selene said to me as she died.” His voice degenerated. He coughed again, but was too weak to clear his lungs. His breathing rasped and hissed.

  Even as Chrysaleon formed words of cynical derision, he paused. This curse, so frightening to Alexiare, revived a memory of Themiste at that long-ago mead-making festival, when she’d fallen into a death-like trance and spoke prophecy about Gelanor.

  The youthful sun will marry the ancient moon. He who laughs will lie with she who is beautiful to men. Curse the usurper, the changer of the Way. He shall follow without rest, without joy, without relief, until the final devastation of the heavens. He shall follow begging, but love will run from him, and he will receive only sorrow and regret until the world is old and tired and razed by war.

  His skin erupted in waves of gooseflesh. Gelanor’s name meaning was ‘laughter,’ and Pasithea, ‘she who is beautiful to all.’ Themiste had predicted the alliance that Chrysaleon, Gelanor, and Pasithea herself now wanted. The oracle’s words cursed the usurper, the changer of the Way. It was easy to attribute such a statement to Harpalycus. But in the end, Harpalycus hadn’t really changed much about Kaphtor. Chrysaleon had changed everything. The smallest children knew how much.

  Selene, in the throes of death, spoke words so similar they couldn’t be discounted or shrugged off. This had to be a true omen. Not even he could bluster it away.

  “No….”

  The word floated in a horrified whisper from the shadows near the door. Chrysaleon swiveled and rose, tensing. His fingers embraced the hilt of his dagger.

  Aridela approached, each step slow, unsteady, as though she was ill or injured.

  “Alexiare is close to death,” Chrysaleon said. “Delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “My lord.” Alexiare’s hand clutched at the air until it found and latched onto Chrysaleon’s forearm. “You said we were alone….”

  “Quiet, old man.”

  “He speaks the truth, and I will hear no more.” Aridela turned her gaze from Alexiare’s ravaged face to Chrysaleon’s. “You did trick us, all of us. All but Selene. Because you were too selfish— or too cowardly, to die. Look how many have died in your place.”

  Her hands rose to her lips, tremulous as the wings of a dragonfly. “Themiste said my blindness would cause untold suffering. She was talking about you. I see it now. She told me I would betray everyone who believed in me. And I have.”

  “Aridela—”

  “Chrysaleon, how I loved you. But what… what was it I loved? A shade. A dream— a vision I thought Athene sent me. I loved you like a child loves a hero in a legend. I forgot that bards exaggerate their stories to make them more interesting.” Her eyelids fluttered. Color rose then fled through her cheeks. “When you professed such desire for me that you were willing to relinquish your country and die in our rites, I believed you. When the time came and you refused, I told myself it was because you were cheated of so much of your promised year. I allowed you to change our ways, to set yourself above us. Selene tried to tell me. So did Menoetius, but I wouldn’t listen.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Now Selene is dead. Menoetius is dead.” She drew in a breath. “And I cannot bring them back. I cannot repair what I have done.”

  As he sought desperately for the words to soothe her, she continued, almost to herself. “I’ve always been told I was meant to fulfill a great purpose. How stupid and arrogant I’ve been. See how I’ve failed. I didn’t make use of my mother’s wisdom. I didn’t heed the warning in the prophecy or even my nightmares. I blinded myself to everything but you. What will become of the people now? What new horrors have I brought upon them?”

  Tears swam in her eyes. She swayed as though she might faint.

  “You didn’t want me to die,” Chrysaleon said, worry fading beneath an explosion of anger. “You were happy for me to trick you, as long as you didn’t get blamed.” He shook off Alexiare’s clinging hand and stepped closer to his wife. There was something in her face he’d never seen before. Horror. Self-condemnation. He must control this situation. If she would let him hold her, he could kiss her into submission. He was certain of it.

  “It’s true. Kaphtor was my covenant, not yours. It is my treason alone. Potnia Athene will never forgive me. She saw my thoughts, how I wanted you to live. Only my fear of reprisal kept me from ordering it.” She ground her knuckles into her cheeks, hard enough to leave red marks. “Yet if I had given the order, there would have been no reason to kill Selene or Menoetius.”

  “What’s done is done, my love.” He took another step and held out his hand. “We did it together. Nothing need change.”

  She glanced at Alexiare then turned her unblinking obsidian gaze upon Chrysaleon, reminding him uncomfortably of the Spartan seer, Daphoenissa. “The mauling. You deliberately caused that lioness to attack your brother. Why? What did he do to make you hate him so much?”

  Had she been standing there that long? She’d heard everything then, every incriminating detail. “No— I didn’t. Alexiare slips in and out of delirium. His memory is faulty. He’s confused. Everyone knows the story of how I saved Menoetius’s life.”

  Those eyes penetrated his brain like knife blades. “He died believing it.”

  Screaming silence crowded close, thick and suffocating. Then she blinked, and her gaze turned even darker, more intent. “I would like to know if you murdered your Mycenaean wife, Iros, and the baby she carried.”

  “What? No.” He shook his head. “No. I did not, and punished the ones who did.”

  She stared at him, visibly shaking. He could see she was reluctant to let herself believe anything he said. “In the craze of battle,” she added, so softly he could hardly hear her, “have you done to others
what Harpalycus did to me?”

  The question took him by surprise. He started to deny it, but he knew any protest he might make wouldn’t sound convincing, and that gaze missed nothing. In an attempt to deflect her, he tried resentment and anger. “Why all these questions? Why am I being interrogated like a slave?”

  His effort failed. Her expression didn’t change. Softly, she said, “I have been such a fool.”

  She stared at him and he stared back, not knowing what to say or do. At last she turned away. “Themiste shall know, and the people. They will decide our fate.” She staggered toward the door, pressing her hands to her stomach, hunched as though in pain.

  “You can’t tell them,” he said. “They’ll kill us. Everything I’ve done will be for nothing.”

  He caught her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, covering her mouth to prevent her from shouting.

  She struggled mightily, and managed to free one hand. Lifting it, she seized a fistful of his hair and ripped it from his head.

  He released some wordless animal sound. Pain obliterated everything. He didn’t mean to, but it happened so quickly. His fighting instincts overpowered his wits.

  It was an effortless twist, one he’d performed many times, both in battle and practice. He only realized what he’d done as she convulsed then sagged against him, and the sound of her snapping neck echoed through the room.

  Was that a scream? The sound was faint, far away, but Chrysaleon heard and straightened.

  “Hippos Poseidon,” he whispered. “What have I done? Why didn’t you stop me?”

  The strength drained from his legs. He slumped to the floor, still holding her. “Wake up, Aridela,” he said, shaking her. “Wake up. You can’t be—”

  He stopped as the tiles under his feet rippled and cracked in an undulating wave. The bowl of broth next to Alexiare’s bed fell and shattered, followed by the lamp stand. The room plunged into murky shadow.

  The earth shakes.

  His instinct was to run, to hide. But he couldn’t let go of Aridela’s body, couldn’t just leave her lying here. Someone would soon come to make sure they hadn’t been injured. He moaned, pulling her lifeless head against his throat, pretending for one glorious instant that it had been a dream, that she was still here. Then he forced himself to rise.

  As the chamber sighed and shuddered, he dragged her to the bed and pushed her underneath it. Crete’s Earth Bull, believed to live deep inside the mountains, accompanied his labor with eerie, echoing growls that made the hair rise on the back of his neck and prompted him to glance over his shoulder, again and again.

  “What happens?” Alexiare struggled to lift himself. His breathing came in shallow wet gasps.

  “Quiet. For once in your life be silent, old man.”

  “The earth is shaking.” Alexiare frowned sightlessly into the gloom. “Queen Aridela! My lady, are you there?”

  “She cannot answer. Because of you, cursed slave, and your loose tongue, she is dead.” He choked as he said it, and clenched his hands. Rage flared, leaving him trembling.

  Alexiare’s hand groped for Chrysaleon’s. “Your ambition takes you too far. It’s my fault. I led you to this. Oh, that I could have died before now.”

  “Stop talking, or I shall kill you as well.”

  “I see the face of a king. I see all Crete’s kings. They will force us to repay this debt.”

  “Quiet!”

  Alexiare fell back, sobbing like a child.

  The earth’s quiver subsided. Everything grew as still as the death around him. A maid soon arrived to ask after Chrysaleon and his slave. Working to keep his voice measured, he sent her away.

  The warbler rustled in its cage and made a sad, plaintive call, which sounded like an accusation.

  Chrysaleon peered into the shadows as uneasy prickling ricocheted over his skin. His bare toes touched Aridela’s arm. Clerks and servants began their days early. More would have been awakened by the earthshaking. There was no time to waste. What should he do? How to dispose of the body so none would suspect the truth?

  Alexiare continued to sob. The sound grated against Chrysaleon’s skull. He clenched his teeth to keep from ordering the old man to die and leave him in peace.

  Glimpses of joy… ripped from you. Follow begging until the world is old and tired and razed by war.

  It began softly. Chrysaleon hardly noticed the cool breeze skimming past his face. A sheet of papyrus on the table across the room blew into the air then drifted to the floor.

  He looked up.

  Stabbed by spears of dread, he rose, fumbling at the hilt of his dagger and pulling it free of the baldric.

  A man stood on the opposite side of Alexiare’s bed, motionless as a statue. His long black hair blew wildly in this strange wind that had somehow found a way into the chamber. Bluish-lavender light circled his body like a halo.

  “Who are you?” Chrysaleon cursed the unsteadiness of his voice. The man’s face struck him as familiar. He flailed, trying to place him.

  Alexiare’s weeping faltered. “Who is here?” he asked in a whisper. “I feel so cold.”

  Chrysaleon ignored him.

  The breeze strengthened. The man’s expression darkened. As his fists clenched, a hard gust hit Chrysaleon. The papyrus flew up again like a disturbed leaf.

  The man’s lips pulled back, baring teeth, wolf-like.

  Something fell and broke. Chrysaleon couldn’t tear his gaze away from the specter before him to see what it was.

  Outside, thunder rumbled.

  “What is it?” Alexiare cried. His gnarled hands gripped the edges of his bed. “A storm?”

  Chrysaleon braced himself, suddenly remembering. This was Damasen, Aridela’s dead father, but there was no hint of the kindness or serenity he remembered from his death-dream.

  The wind died. The temperature in the room dropped. Chrysaleon’s breath steamed and he shuddered uncontrollably.

  Intensely aware of Aridela’s body beneath the bed, he fought the urge to kneel and beg forgiveness. Instead he squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the knife. In truth, he hadn’t felt such raw, lashing terror since the night of the Destruction.

  Damasen spoke. “You have betrayed all who trusted you.”

  Vomit clotted in Chrysaleon’s throat. Speckles swirled through his eyesight. He hardly realized when he dropped the dagger. The sound of it clattering was faint, far away.

  “You have set this world upon its path, and so you will live it. You will watch it unfold, and you alone will remember everything you have done. Until you honor your vow, you will carry the burden of all your deceptions, and they will grow heavy.”

  Chrysaleon’s blood raced. His ears thrummed. He staggered, and almost fell.

  “You will remember and despair,” Damasen said.

  With those words he erupted. He vanished in a flash of silver, leaving nothing but a deathly chill and the echo of his promise.

  The room returned to dim stillness. The sensation of fire licking through Chrysaleon’s veins subsided.

  Alexiare lay motionless, his mouth open, his blind eyes staring. Chrysaleon thought the old man had died of fright, but then he sucked in a breath and coughed.

  “My lord,” the old man whispered. “Now do you believe me?”

  Chrysaleon gritted his teeth. He wanted to throttle that ugly, wrinkled throat, but instead he dropped onto the stool, willing his heartbeat to return to normal. For some time he jumped at every sound, but no more shades from the underworld appeared.

  Clearing his head with a hard shake, Chrysaleon went to the door and studied the corridor. He saw no one, but he knew that could change in an instant. He must hurry, or he would lose his nerve. Aridela’s body felt soft and warm still. He slipped from Alexiare’s chamber with her, quietly, carefully, keeping to the shadows. Holding her against him in a lover’s caress, he carried her to the nearest set of stairs and balanced her at the top.

  “Farewell, my love.” He blinked aw
ay persistent, blurring tears, and willed the annoying tic beneath his eye to quiet.

  Sending a nervous glance one direction then the other, he removed the necklace she always wore, the one with two crescent moons cupping a blue star, and meandering lines representing the holy temple of Labyrinthos. “This I will keep,” he said into her ear before he kissed it.

  Such a small woman. Light and fragile as a bird. She hardly made a sound as she fell, step over step, coming to rest in a sadly disjointed posture at the bottom.

  Fortune favors the bold.

  Great societies were created in such ways, molded from rough clay, shaped into amaranthine civilizations that would endure until the end of time.

  Crete would be his monument. It would tower, invincible, indestructible, growing greater and stronger throughout eternity.

  He stared at the shadowy form. “You and I will be together again,” he whispered. “We’ll be together for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.”

  “Is it done?” Alexiare asked.

  “It’s done.” Chrysaleon dropped wearily back onto the stool. “Now be quiet. I need to think.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  No more deep, thick nights shadowed in green. No more murmured words of passion and soft warm limbs twining through his. No more huge black eyes, windows to trust, although of late, he’d seen that trust less and less.

  And she had conceived. At last. The child who might have been his son and heir.

  He couldn’t bear to look at Alexiare, who sputtered and gasped.

  Wiping away tears with the back of his hand, he bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, afraid to allow such thoughts, afraid they would fracture him into pieces. Later, after he’d come up with a way to mend this disaster, he could mourn her, the only woman he’d ever loved. But not now. Not yet.

  The sacred king of Crete rose to his feet as the answer formed in his mind.

  Yes. So simple, neat and believable. Pasithea, as Aridela’s successor, would be crowned. Chrysaleon would find a way to make Gelanor the cabal, and would protect his brother by naming him Zagreus. The couple would be formally betrothed, and would marry when Pasithea came of age. Chrysaleon would return to Mycenae and rule for the rest of his life, putting this tiresome place forever behind him. Together, he and Gelanor would decree the final end of the king-sacrifice. The people were ripe for change, partly because they’d grown used to him continuing to live, and partly due to crushing taxes. More and more had started hanging miniature clay dolls in the trees, and accepted the idea that these ‘Aridela dolls’ pleased the Goddess and fructified the crops on their own.