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

by Lochlann, Rebecca

  Glimpses of joy will be ripped from you. You will follow without end.

  He shall follow begging, but love will run from him.

  You will remember and despair.

  Words meant to intimidate and frighten him. But he was no untried boy. Time and time again, he’d proven his invincibility. He was the one to be feared. He alone of every bull-king who had ever taken the throne of Kaphtor had changed history and thwarted his death. In true warrior fashion, following in the footsteps of mighty Zeus, he killed his blood brother, achieved power over the Goddess, and accomplished what no other man ever could.

  Fortune favors the bold.

  He would see the day Cretans sacrificed bulls, rams and goats. Maybe women. Never men, for men would be as gods. A new era was coming. The ancient worship of female to female would be forgotten.

  You will harness the force that brings wondrous change to the world, Damasen had promised long ago, in the death dream.

  “May it be true.” Chrysaleon spoke fervently to the empty room, to Damasen, if he still listened.

  He remembered the dead king’s other statement. 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.

  Triumph crept through his limbs. He nearly laughed as he worked it out. Somehow, death was not to be his end. He would return, or never die. Perhaps the gods meant to make him immortal— a god himself.

  Until you honor your vow, you will carry the burden of all your deceptions, and they will grow heavy.

  The last part of Damasen’s speech pricked at his mind, but he pushed it away. Burdens were like guilt— designed for women. He would not be swayed by such things.

  He fell so deeply into thoughts and plans he didn’t realize night had succumbed to morning until another handmaid entered to check on them.

  She inclined her head, saying, “Did you feel the earthshaking in here, my lord?”

  Not trusting his voice, he gave a curt nod. The rising sun had brightened the room in a soft pink glow. It was only a matter of time now before she was found. He broke out in a sweat.

  She babbled on, not noticing or ignoring his tense, unwelcoming expression. “Blessings to the Lady,” she said, “it caused little damage. I came to ask if you’ve seen Queen Aridela, my lord. The earthshaking caused a landslide on the northern cliffs. A skeleton was uncovered. Some fishermen found it and brought it here. They think it might be murder, for it was stuffed into a leather sack.”

  “Selene,” Alexiare cried. He began moaning and thrashing. “Oh, Lady Athene….”

  The maid stared at him, her brow crinkling, before returning her attention to Chrysaleon. “The queen isn’t in her chamber,” she said haltingly. “Has she been here?”

  Chrysaleon pressed his fingers against the pulsating tic beneath his eye. “She said she was going for a walk on the plain.”

  “Did she take no one with her?”

  “Sometimes she wishes to be alone, as I do,” Chrysaleon replied impatiently, and waved the maid out. She inclined her head and apologized for disturbing him, but he watched her glance back when she reached the door, her expression frowning and wary.

  “Is she gone?” Alexiare asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We are alone?”

  “Yes, old man. We are alone. What is it you want to say?”

  “I know it was Selene they found. I put her in a leather sack, and filled the sack with stones so she would disappear forever. But the Goddess brought her back. It’s a judgment. A warning.”

  “You should have kept your mouth shut about it. That woman will tell everyone she knows what you said.”

  “My lord, my lord, I am so afraid for you. How can you doubt after this night that the gods are watching, or that you will be punished?”

  “Shall I give up, then? Throw myself off the cliffs? I am not ready to admit defeat, even if you are.”

  Alexiare blubbered a bit longer then he wiped his eyes and said, “Please don’t hate me, my king, but there is one more thing…. I wasn’t going to tell you, but after everything that has happened here, I dare not keep this secret.”

  Chrysaleon didn’t want to hear any more revelations. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. “How many plots have you birthed and carried out in that shriveled mind?”

  Alexiare swallowed several times. He grimaced as he tried to gain control over his emotion and reached out, but Chrysaleon ignored his searching hand and eventually Alexiare let it drop to his side. “It is about Harpalycus.”

  “Harpalycus!” Chrysaleon sighed, disgusted. I am ready for you to expire. Why do you cling to this life?

  “He is not dead.”

  Snorting, Chrysaleon rose and crossed the room. He picked up the papyrus from the floor and tossed it on the table.

  “Harpalycus and my old acolyte, Proitos, discovered how to outwit death,” Alexiare said. “I’m not sure how… but they did. You must believe me. I know of what I speak, for I myself taught Proitos the rudiments of these cursed abilities before he abandoned us to serve the prince of Tiryns.”

  Chrysaleon returned to the bed. “What you claim is impossible,” he said, squinting at his dying servant. Yet he remembered the rumors about Alexiare, whispers that Far-Reaching Hecate had shared her knowledge of plants and alchemy with the secretive old man, and that he knew far more about women’s mysteries than he should.

  There was also that covert mission Menoetius made to Tiryns. When he returned, he reported the people there believed Harpalycus was seeking a way to achieve life without death.

  Alexiare shook his head emphatically. “I tell you the truth, my lord. They found a way. When I began delving into these matters, I sensed the rage I was causing, and I knew I would be punished if I continued. I abandoned it, but Proitos did not, and Harpalycus joined him in the search. I didn’t know, and still do not, how they slip into other living bodies. So I took every precaution when we captured Proitos. I made certain no one came near him or touched him. But Harpalycus did manage to consume someone after the queen slit his throat— I believe it must have been one of Kaphtor’s warriors. Do you remember when she returned from Mount Juktas that time, claiming Harpalycus attacked her? She spoke the truth. Later, just before the rise of Iakchos, while you were in seclusion, she and I searched for him among the troops. We were shown the dead body of the man from the mountain. She thought she was free of the soldier who had terrified her, but I know better. Harpalycus found a way to consume another before he died. Unless something has happened to him in the last seven years, Harpalycus is alive, my lord, and there is no way to expose him. I don’t know if he is still on Kaphtor. But I do know he hates you above all else, and will harm you if he gets the chance. I doubt he’s left.”

  “Are you saying he can… place himself into other people’s bodies? That would make him a god.”

  “I’m not sure how he does it, my lord. But I’ve considered it carefully. I don’t think he can simply consume a body whenever he wishes. Otherwise he could have taken you over at any time, and become High King of Mycenae. What better vengeance upon you than that? I suspect he has to be on the verge of death. If this is true, there is always a danger for him. What if he’s alone? What if something prevents him from passing into another body before he expires? Still, even if I am right, you are vulnerable, for he is utterly disguised. He could be a trusted friend, a servant— perhaps even a woman. And if he were to get you alone, and fatally injure himself, he could steal your body from you.”

  “He could have easily done so when I was his prisoner,” Chrysaleon said.

  “I’ve thought of that.” Alexiare’s voice was failing, forcing him to grate out a whisper. “But why would he? He thought he was winning, and would soon be king of Mycenae without having to impersonate you. You understand don’t you, my lord, that given a choice, Harpalycus will always choose for you to suffer and be humiliated?”

  Chrysaleon thought of the day he and Menoetius
had gone eagle hunting. The handler had stared at Chrysaleon with such menace. Chrysaleon remembered how out of place it was. His flesh had crawled with warning. If that man were in truth Harpalycus, it would make sense.

  “Part of me believes your mind has rotted,” he said, but grudgingly added, “Maybe you’re right.”

  Alexiare lay back and gave himself over to weak coughing.

  He died soon after. Chrysaleon watched as the corner of his mouth drooped into an ugly grimace. He pulled the blanket over the old man’s face so he wouldn’t have to see it.

  All of this was Alexiare’s fault. He should be dumped above ground for scavengers to dismember. Why hadn’t the god-cursed man carried his secrets into death? Aridela wouldn’t have overheard his incriminating talk. She might have announced her presence before any harm was done. She would have walked with Chrysaleon to their chamber, held his arm, expressed her sadness at the impending loss of his long-time slave. In their bed she would have held him in her arms and comforted him with her smooth young body.

  His teeth chattered. Shivering threatened to overpower him.

  He thought of King Idómeneus’s other son, the one elevated beyond his station. He heard Menoetius’s voice echo in his mind.

  My Mother promised me retribution. I mean to return.

  “Come then, bastard!” Chrysaleon clenched his fists and stood, shouting into the gloom. “If you have courage enough! We will see who wins.”

  The Oracle Logs tell the story of Kaphtor from its beginning. They give advice and comfort. They bring to life the women who write them. It is a method of immortality for those of us who surrender all we have, even our names, to serve the Goddess.

  I have always loved writing in the log. Now I dread it.

  What is my legacy to those who haven’t yet been born?

  A change is coming. I sense it getting closer. I cannot rout the fear that no one will remember Kaphtor’s holy seers. The prophecies and predictions will be forgotten. None will know the true meaning of ‘Minos.’

  Tonight, at the welcoming feast for Chrysaleon and Pasithea, the child gave her secret title to Gelanor, Chrysaleon’s brother and a prince of Mycenae. Everyone laughed. It was taken as a child’s harmless prank. I looked at Chrysaleon when she did it— I saw his satisfaction. It was he who planned this.

  I felt the cold grip of approaching doom. Gelanor will accept the title and become Minos Gelanor. His son will be Minos something else— probably Idómeneus. Mainlanders love to name their sons after their grandfathers.

  Our subjugation is almost complete.

  Aridela and I are to blame. We have betrayed Kaphtor. I gave my shame, selfishness, and fear more power than truth and honor. Aridela lost herself in stubborn, consuming loyalty and love.

  As I looked upon Chrysaleon, I finally understood. All of it was clear— him lying with me, getting me with child, killing Menoetius, using Gelanor to beguile Pasithea… it has all been part of a maze-like design to this end. I suspect Alexiare is the true master of these plots. Chrysaleon is like a bull— directed by emotion and instinct. He could not have thought this up without help.

  If Gelanor marries Pasithea, the Mycenaean connection will gain dominion over Kaphtor’s ancient royal line. Pasithea carries the blood of our high priestesses, yes, but also the blood of Mycenaean kings, and Gelanor is Idómeneus’s son. Their union will change the course of our land forever and bind us irrevocably to Mycenae, for Chrysaleon will be sure to reveal at some advantageous point that Pasithea is his child in truth.

  Once that happens, I will meet my death, either openly at the hands of the people, or stealthily, on Chrysaleon’s orders. Perhaps it is no more than I deserve.

  When he has control of our most sacred title and the heir to Kaphtor’s throne, Gelanor will possess complete authority. Whatever he decrees will be done.

  He will be not only consort, but king,

  …and Moon-Being.

  I slipped away from the feast to chronicle what happened, and after long pondering, fell asleep at my table. An earthshaking woke me. It doesn’t appear to have caused much damage, but it did leave me uneasy. I suppose that’s natural, given what we have endured.

  The smoke, the venom, the cara and the prophecies— they have depleted me. I remember thinking once that I knew of no oracle who lived to be old. Daily exposure to the Immortals burns away our will to live. I woke from the earthshaking feeling like charred wood, ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

  Of late, more days than not, I find I am looking forward to the end. I have already had a longer life than most of my predecessors, and I am tired.

  I have to tell Aridela my suspicions. It will help that she, too, realized the significance of what Pasithea did last night. I know I must do this, yet I hesitate. In telling her, my voice will join the voices of Menoetius and Selene, who also tried to warn her about the Zagreus. How will she take it from me? She has always been loyal to him, but I have seen a change over the last few years. I sense she doesn’t trust him as she used to. Perhaps she is ready to listen.

  Today, at sunrise, when I speak the monthly oracles, I will publicly announce that Nephele is to be my successor. She is true to me, patient, dedicated, and I believe she can develop the gift of Sight. She reminds me of my beloved Laodámeia, though Nephele would never be as disrespectful. My choice made Chrysaleon angry. He wanted his sister, Bateia, to be named, but I defied him. From the beginning, I have sensed the poor child was forced to come here and be my disciple. Although she is obedient, diligent in her studies, and has never said a word against her brother, it is obvious to me she was not called to be a priestess, much less an oracle. She and Chrysaleon never speak, and I am told she often weeps at night. He is using her as a scapegoat to assist his plots, like Menoetius, Gelanor, Pasithea, and, perhaps, Aridela, as well.

  The time has come to set my life in order. If I die, I want my wishes carried out. Chrysaleon must not get the chance to wreak more havoc upon us than he already has.

  It is time to go to the oracle chamber. When that is done, I will say what must be said to Aridela. I pray the Goddess gives me the words to convince her.

  Following is my formal account of what happened today in the presence of the council.

  I went into the oracle chamber. Io wound up my arm as she always does, yet I felt a change in her. She rocked from side to side. Her tongue flicked in an agitated manner. I soothed her with soft stroking and promised her a bowl of milk.

  The council was waiting. Nephele took my hand and assisted me into the pit. She leaned close and told me Aridela hadn’t yet come.

  I probably would have worried more if the cara hadn’t already set in my blood, causing an inability to concentrate on worldly things.

  Io and her sisters wrapped around my outstretched arms. Smoke filled the pit and I breathed it in.

  Two priestesses sat on either side to make the translations.

  All was as it should be, as it always is, but for the absence of Aridela and the odd behavior of my serpent.

  In the beginning I heard and understood my words. I said something about burning an olive branch to frighten away evil.

  Everything blurred and echoed, as it often does. The cara was taking hold. A youthful, unscarred Menoetius appeared before me, so clearly he could have been standing in the pit with me, alive. His gaze upon me was somber as he took my arm. He led me down a slope and backward in time, into a long ago dream, where I sat next to Athene’s handmaid at the edge of the sea, just before the cataclysm struck. “The holy triad is joined,” she said. I saw myself asking, “This marked bull. Who is that?” She replied, “If I told you, you would try to change his fate. Remember this, Minos of Kaphtor. What seems the end is only the beginning.”

  I looked from her to Menoetius, and at last, I saw. Menoetius, son of Sorcha of Avalon, Asterion, lord of the labyrinth, blood brother to Chrysaleon of Mycenae.

  Menoetius, ‘he who defies his fate.’ He was the marked bull.

 
I allowed the sacred bull of Athene to be slaughtered by his own brother.

  A sense of desperation came over me. I should have seen. I should have saved him. What irreparable damage have I done? How will I, and Kaphtor, be punished?

  Menoetius clasped my hand and said, “Do not lose hope, priestess. We have another chance.”

  Before he died, he told Aridela that he believed they would be together again. His conviction gave her comfort, as it does me, now. We have made mistakes, trusted where we should not have trusted, given where we should not have given, seen things that were not real, ignored things that should not have been ignored. Yet Lady Athene wants us to go on striving. She does not want us to give up.

  Menoetius’s death in the mortal world set him on a divine path, much like Velchanos’s sacrifice and rebirth. It is a rite beyond my understanding, something that will make him infinitely stronger— strong enough, I pray, to fulfill the mysterious destiny Athene has designed for him.

  I was given more visions, one upon the next. I reeled as I saw the illusion played upon us by Alexiare, Chrysaleon’s slave. It was he who changed Aridela’s dream on Mount Juktas, who caused the statue of Velchanos to take on the likeness of Chrysaleon. I remember observing Aridela’s thoughts through the use of the mind link, the subliquara. I saw the dream unfold. Velchanos stepped off his pedestal and became a living man. At first, he resembled Menoetius. Menoetius, not Chrysaleon. Alexiare, using some powerful ability beyond anything he should know, altered that image into the Gold Lion of Mycenae, and by doing so, changed what should have been. If Aridela had seen only Menoetius, she would have bound herself to him. Our country would have continued in strength, wealth, and success. There would have been no Destruction. Our ways would have filtered through history, influencing other societies, other countries. The world would have enjoyed peace and prosperity, into the far distant future. I saw glimpses of that lost world in my mind. It was astounding.