The Thinara King (The Child of the Erinyes)
Published by Erinyes Press
ISBN-13: 978-0-9838277-3-3
Library of Congress Control Number 2012931397
Copyright © Rebecca Lochlann 2012
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or shared in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Author.
Also available in paperback: ISBN-13: 978-0-9838277-2-6
Cover design, images, and Erinyes Press logo by Lance Ganey
www.freelanceganey.com
Back cover image: © by Peter Vancoillie http://skyscapes.info/
In the Moon of Asterion cover image: © Giovanni Dall’Orto
For my friend, Sulari, who always liked Chrysaleon best
“Now came the dust, though still thinly. I look back: a dense cloud looms behind us, following us like a flood poured across the land. “Let us turn aside while we can still see, lest we be knocked over in the street and crushed by the crowd of our companions.” We had scarcely sat down when a darkness came that was not like a moonless or cloudy night, but more like the black of closed and unlighted rooms. You could hear women lamenting, children crying, men shouting. Some were calling for parents, others for children or spouses; they could only recognize them by their voices. Some bemoaned their own lot, others that of their near and dear. There were some so afraid of death that they prayed for death. Many raised their hands to the gods, and even more believed that there were no gods any longer and that this was one last unending night for the world.”
Pliny the Younger
Fire. A blinding shock of green lightning that could only be hurled from the mind of a god. Smoke. Strange blizzards of gray snow, that didn’t melt but collected in his eyelashes, around his nose, and in his throat.
The discomfort of the dream brought Alexiare, aged slave to King Idómeneus of Mycenae, abruptly awake. Fighting for breath, covered in sweat, he sipped from a pitcher of watered wine, restoring calm and freshening his tongue before returning his concentration to the dream, undoubtedly one of the most vivid he had ever experienced.
In the dream, the ground trembled. The air scorched the inside of his nose and deeper, in his lungs. He was reminded of the night, six years gone now, when he attended a feast of celebration on the isle of Crete. High-ranking refugees from Crete’s northern outpost of Callisti had terrified everyone with stories of their island. Several described fiery stones shooting from the heavens, the earth’s heavy yawl, poisoned air, and once-pristine lakes transforming to boiling black sludge.
He carefully examined every detail he could recall of the dream, lingering over images of Chrysaleon, Mycenae’s prince and his master. Arrogant, handsome Chrysaleon, who turned his head toward the heavens and shouted defiance at a shower of sparks.
You won’t have me!
Who did he bellow at so furiously? Who was up there, just out of sight, hidden in darkness and streams of fire? Whatever god brought Alexiare the dream veiled that part.
Chrysaleon gripped the hand of a young woman. The tunic she wore and her bearing suggested wealth and status. Alexiare recognized her from his sojourn to Crete six years ago. She was Princess Aridela, second of Queen Helice’s royal daughters. A child then, she had rashly entered the bullring and, of course, was promptly gored. Later, when she’d sneaked away from her nurses and her wound broke open, it was Menoetius, Chrysaleon’s bastard half brother, who rescued her from a cold, lonely death in the temple labyrinth.
A shiver crept down his spine. Was this dream a premonition? Was it something that had already happened, or was going to happen?
Alexiare gave his dreams serious regard. Omens, he called them. They could direct a mortal’s life, for good or ill. Many times they offered warning, and were ignored or dismissed at the dreamer’s peril.
It was possible, though, that the dream was simply born from the terrible ache of longing he’d suffered since Chrysaleon and Menoetius left Mycenae on a ship bound for Crete. Nearly a month had passed since that day. He had stood at the water’s edge, hoping Chrysaleon would gift him with a smile at least, but he didn’t. It was Menoetius who grinned and cuffed him on the shoulder.
A few nights after, the first of the dreams descended. Nightmares. Anxiety troubled his days as well. There was no way to know what mischief Chrysaleon was getting into, no way to intervene. Alexiare didn’t for an instant consider Menoetius a trustworthy guardian, though the king did.
Idómeneus, High King of Mycenae and father to both Chrysaleon and Menoetius, desperately wanted Crete. He’d sent his sons there, charging them with the task of finding weaknesses that would allow his armies a way in—a trick that would give him the power to overthrow the island and make its people his slaves. Yet another bauble for his own glory. Yes, he had extracted a vow from Chrysaleon to keep his head down, to avoid danger or risk. Alexiare rose from his pallet, his fists clenched, muscles itching with frustration. The king was a simpleton if he thought some hastily coerced promise would stop Chrysaleon from throwing himself into the midst of disaster.
If only the rash warrior-prince would relinquish his stubborn love of danger, rebellion, and adventure. But asking for such a thing was like screaming at the heavens to stop the sun from rising.
Idómeneus should have sent Alexiare along. He would have watched over Chrysaleon, kept him from harm. Alexiare would do anything to protect the heir to Mycenae’s crown—the youth he loved in tortured silence, knowing he would be banished or slaughtered if Chrysaleon ever suspected his true feelings.
Should he risk the king’s unpredictable temper with a request for ships and a squadron or two of warriors? Suggesting that Idómeneus’s eldest trueborn son might be in some nebulous danger could earn Alexiare a beating. Hearing that Alexiare’s fear was birthed from a dream would accomplish nothing but unrelenting ridicule.
Alexiare longed to journey to the coast. If he could stand on the cliffs and gaze southward, over the vast depthless seas, perhaps his mind could conjure a way to help. But his aged bones creaked painfully at the mere thought of overland travel, and he was a slave. He couldn’t go where he wished, when he wished.
Perhaps he should once again delve into the ancient mysteries. It was dangerous, to be sure, but when a man couldn’t find practical answers to a dilemma, the power of blood and enchantment might provide one.
For his beloved Chrysaleon, he would brave any peril, even from the Immortals.
On their third day at Phaistos, Chrysaleon and Aridela went along with a team of bull leapers to watch the capture of a wild bull.
All too soon, they would make the return journey to Knossos. Chrysaleon would become consort to Aridela’s boring sister, Iphiboë. The thought was intolerable. What of the prediction he’d overheard the Phrygian woman, Selene, make on Mount Ida? She'd claimed a mystical voice, carried on the wind, told her that Aridela would become queen of Kaphtor. But what if she’d been dreaming? The possibility made his guts grind.
The troupe painted themselves with stripes of green dye to help them blend into the foliage. They tethered a cow near the bull they hoped to attract then hid downwind and waited.
Chrysaleon and Aridela set up a picnic on a slope beneath the shady branches of a poplar, where they could view the scene without interfering. Aridela’s attendants and the litter-bearers sat nearby, within sight but
out of earshot.
“She’s ready to mate,” Aridela said. “Her scent entices the bull. He’ll mount her and the team will hobble his back legs. When he finishes, they net him.”
“Cruel sport for the bull.” Chrysaleon popped an olive in his mouth.
“Dancing with the bulls helps us keep peace with the Lady. For time beyond measure, she has harnessed her Earth Bull in our mountains, beneath the rocks where no mortal can reach. When she is angered, he roars and the land heaves. No matter what stone we use nor how thick we cut our pillars, everything we have built crumbles like twigs.” Her voice lowered. “Once, long ago, Potnia ordered her bull to pull all Kaphtor to the ground. Multitudes were killed. Our palaces and cities were destroyed.”
“What did your people do to anger her?”
“Some say we had turned away from her, that we thought ourselves as strong as she, or as wise. Others claim the queen allowed one of her consorts to live beyond his time. Athene did send warning through one of our oracles. Some escaped onto the sea in boats. We rebuilt, as you’ve seen.” She twined her arms over her head in a sinuous movement, stretched, and turned her face to the sun. Golden light bathed her cheeks, glinted through her eyes and lashes like a lover’s touch, sparking more colors than Chrysaleon knew existed.
“Look,” she said, scooping a handful of ivy from the trunk of the tree. She placed her hand on one of the leaves, spreading her fingers over its surface. “Each leaf has five fingers, honoring the hand of Athene. Artisans fill their homes with vases of ivy to spur imagination and creativity.”
Aridela, a goddess in her own right, with her black eyes, that delicate yet defined bone structure she’d inherited from Helice, and a mouth that made his groin ache. He could almost picture giving up everything for her, even his life, without regret. Perhaps the old saying was indeed truth—that Athene planted the desire to die within the heart of the bull-king.
The image of her triumphant leap in the bullring would never grow dull—that and the first time he’d seen her, swimming naked in the forest pool on Mount Ida. On the heels of those memories came more, of their coupling in the cave, of her erotic desire and fierce response. Yet something else nagged him, something harder to define. He hadn’t expected wisdom, reckless courage, or the trust she’d so quickly and loyally granted him. He felt dazzled, as though he stood in the path of a falling star, and feared she could fast become a compulsion.
Below them, the cow flicked her tail at flies and grazed, untroubled.
Heat made the wound on his forearm itch. He rubbed the dressing absently. Eleven days had passed since his triumphant struggle for the crown and title of Zagreus in the labyrinth at Knossos. Lycus, Kaphtor’s foremost bull leaper, had managed to inflict several wounds upon him, which he still found unbelievable and annoying. Besides the large chunk missing from Chrysaleon’s forearm, there was also a puncturing cut in his thigh and a tender, half-healed lump on the side of his head. But Lycus had fared much worse, with a deadly cleft to his side. He couldn’t even walk yet, and suffered from blood fever.
“I cannot bear this,” he said, quietly.
Aridela continued to watch the cow, but the muscles in her jaw tightened and a shadow formed between her brows.
“It’s you I want, you I fought for. Not your sister.”
She met his gaze. “Do you understand what you’ve done? Your father—is he truly willing to give you up?”
Chrysaleon considered. He didn’t want to lie to this girl, with her obsidian eyes, not completely, anyway. He would take a chance and see where it carried him.
“He and I see the benefits of a closer alliance. He wants our two countries united. Yet he respects your mother, and ruled out any talk of invasion or war.”
“So you competed to strengthen this alliance.”
“He forbade me from competing. I defied him because, when you entered the ring, when you leaped over the bull’s back, a god’s noose slipped around my neck and bound me to Kaphtor—to you. I’ve known from that day to this I won’t leave.”
She bit her lower lip, making him want to kiss it.
“Before I saw you,” he went on, “I railed at my fate, ordered to travel so far to watch other men fight for some dust-dry princess. How was I to know that here, in the bullring at Labyrinthos, I would discover my perfect mate?”
Shock passed over her face. “I felt Athene’s hands pushing me into the bullring that day. I’d known since I was small she wanted me to dance with a bull. I knew it would change something, but I never knew what. Now I see. It changed you. She wanted you to enter the Games, so you would win and become our Zagreus. The bull dance was how she spurred you to it.” She paused, tilting her head, frowning. “I don’t think—no, I’m sure. I haven’t had the dream of leaping a bull since that day. Not once.”
Her acceptance of deliberate divine intervention reminded him of a child.
He started to smile, to tell her she shouldn’t give deities too much importance, but the scene below changed, calling for their attention.
The underbrush shook and a massive brown-spotted bull crashed into sight. The cow stopped grazing. With a gruff bellow, the bull pawed the earth and trotted to her, smelling the air.
Chrysaleon offered the scene a cursory glance before turning back to Aridela. He sensed the advantage he’d created and didn’t want to lose it. “How could I have known,” he said, “before I came here, that your waist would fit my hands like it was made for them? That your body would mold into mine and mine into yours as though we were twined within the same womb?”
Appreciation flickered across her face, but then the frown returned. Someone had warned her against him; he saw it in her eyes.
Receiving some sort of acquiescence from the cow’s uplifted tail, the grunting bull mounted her hindquarters.
Chrysaleon plucked one of the leaves off the vine and traced it from Aridela’s shoulder to her wrist. “The bull cares for nothing but his brief pleasure, and when it’s done won’t remember the cow. But it isn’t that way for us. Whether I want to or not, I love you. Have I not proved it through the battle I waged in the labyrinth? By these wounds I suffer for your sake?”
His argument formed without planning or preparation; for the first time he wasn’t sure if he was still telling lies.
“Goddess Athene paired you to my sister,” she said, her deep black gaze softening. “You will ascend Kaphtor’s throne at her side. The council made the decision.”
“Your decision holds me, not the council’s. If they forbid our union, we can leave. Your home will be the citadel of Mycenae. We have mountains in plenty to remind you of Kaphtor, but I will never leave you alone long enough to miss it. And our palace, though not as magnificent as yours, is the finest on the Argolid. I’ve seen how much you love honey. I’ll pack our storerooms with jars and serve you honey-cakes three times a day. You will know honor and respect as my wife, as Mycenae’s queen. Would you not rather come with me than waste your life buried in caves praying and breathing smoke?”
“And what of Iros, who is already your wife?”
Ah. Her doubts came from Harpalycus. He should have known. “That means nothing to me. It was arranged without my knowledge or consent. I will send her back to her father.”
“And in doing so, make me the cause of war between Mycenae and Tiryns.”
He shrugged. “I would gladly flatten Tiryns if you join me at Mycenae.”
“You ask me to abandon my people, betray my mother and sister, defy Lady Athene. Do you imagine we would be allowed a single day of happiness?”
The painted team crept out of hiding and roped the hobble around the bull’s hind leg. His furious bellow reverberated up the slope.
“Do you want that to be my fate?” Chrysaleon asked, nodding toward the bull. “Hobbled, cheated, helpless?”
“You would take me from all I was born to do and leave Kaphtor in turmoil.” Aridela shuddered. “My mother would never stop hunting you until you were dead.”
“I’m restless,” Aridela said. She started to take his hand in her own but, glancing toward the attendants, brushed off her tunic instead and rose. “There is no purpose in debating things that will never be. Why don’t we hunt or explore?”
He couldn’t tell if this meant her outright refusal, and bit his lip to hold back angry demands. Seldom was he forced to wait for what he wanted, whether it be a pomegranate, a well-crafted spear, or a virgin. When had he ever bothered to speak so many flowered words to a woman? And why did he offer marriage? She was right; it would mean war, not only between Mycenae and Tiryns but Mycenae and Crete. He’d declared his willingness to fight for her, but was he willing to see thousands killed for the sake of this unreasonable lust?
Litter-bearers carried them back to the palace. She went off to exchange her blue gown for a sturdier tunic while Chrysaleon wandered the terraces on the hillside and stretched his leg, which had stiffened from sitting beneath the tree. He saw Menoetius and Selene below, walking along a low rock wall. Selene laughed. Menoetius bent and kissed her.
Aridela reappeared, clad in muted brown and a plain leather belt. She carried two bows but warned him that the hills around Phaistos didn’t offer much game, as the farmers did their best to keep animals away from the crops.
“My friend is taken with your guard.” She nodded toward the unaware couple. “She called his lovemaking a pleasure beyond belief, and blushed as though he was her first.”
Even as Chrysaleon gave a skeptical snort, he was struck by a transient expression on Aridela’s face. Sadness? Nostalgia? He saw again in memory how Menoetius had reddened when the boy, Isandros, revealed that the bastard and Aridela knew each other.