The Thinara King
Author: Rebecca Lochlann
Date: 2012-04-30 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Book Two, The Child of the Erinyes series. A new myth from ancient Greece. Category Finalist, Next Generation Indie Book Awards Chaucer First Place Award for Historical Fiction, Ancient History Category Goddess Athene's white-hot rage incinerates Callisti and inflames the seas. Crete is left in ruins. Chrysaleon of Mycenae inherits the crown of an annihilated world. As death looms closer, he stumbles upon an ancient prophecy foretelling the rise of the Thinara King. This ruler will possess unimaginable power and upend sacred traditions. Commandeering the title could save his life. But it could
Publisher: Erinyes Press

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.”

The dancers fell back, laughing, and allowed the bull to finish his business. Afterward there was some thrashing, but the strong nets eventually won out. The bull gave up and sprawled on his side, exhausted.

“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.

“Perhaps she was dreaming or drunk,” he said. “He spares little time for women in Mycenae.”

Aridela dismissed her attendants in a tone that brooked no argument, something she had been specifically forbidden from doing by both her mother and the oracle, Themiste. His hopes leaped. She had put him off so far, citing his wounds and all those who watched them so carefully. Perhaps she’d finally realized he was perfectly capable of making love to her.

In answer to their timid protests, she said she was taking Chrysaleon for a short walk along the road, pointed where she meant, and promised they would remain in sight. They reluctantly agreed. Wasting no time, she led him south along the well-worn road. At first they passed fishermen, women carrying baskets of laundry, litters and oxen, but the farther they walked, the fewer people they encountered. Eventually, trees and rolling hills hid them from the palace altogether.

Chrysaleon’s hopes crept upward again.

“Tell me about the first time you met Menoetius,” he said. The request stuck in his throat like bad cheese; he hated the idea of his brother sharing secrets with this woman, no matter how innocent the circumstances. He needed Aridela’s side of things.

“He didn’t tell you?” Aridela’s gaze turned up to his and he was freshly astonished at her eyes, which seemed to consume half her face. They’d never held a hint of trickery or deceit. He wanted badly to rip off that tunic, to feel her beneath him, and he suspected she had arranged this walk so he could, but it would wait for the right place, the right time. Then he would have her, again and again, and forge her to him as a sword blade forged to its hilt, leaving no room for Menoetius, Lycus, or any other man.

“No,” he said. Now that they were out of sight of the palace, he clasped her hand. “I learned of it the day of the Games, from your brother.”

Her mouth turned up in a wistful smile. Apparently, his question sparked fond memories. He struggled to maintain an unconcerned air and tightened his grip on her hand.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Even then, he was quiet, shy. He saved my life. I confess I loved him, as a child will love an older, brave, and handsome man. I’m sure he thought me quite silly. I remember weeping for days when he left, and thinking death preferable to losing him.”

Chrysaleon unclenched his teeth with effort and forcibly swallowed resentment and jealousy. “What happened?”

“I tried once before to dance with a bull.” She laughed. “I was ten and very stupid. I thought the bull was no match for me. Of course I was gored. You’ve seen the scar.”

“Yes.”

“Isandros helped me sneak into the ring. He was under sentence of death for that. So I went to the shrine to pray for mercy, and my wound broke open. I would have bled to death but for Carmanor. That was the name he used, I don’t know why. It’s hard to think of him now as ‘Menoetius.’ He was there, praying. He carried me to the courtyard. He told you nothing of this?”

Chrysaleon shrugged. “He was praying?”

“Yes,” she said. With a quick glance backward, she pulled him off the road, beneath the overhanging branches of an enormous plane tree, and into a verdant, deserted meadow. “I loved his reverence. It wasn’t idle habit or show, but real, and meant much to me, for I’d heard all mainland barbarians were crude and impious.”

With a snort of laughter, Chrysaleon said, “Menoetius, devout? Not anymore, my lady. He no longer has any use for such things.”

Surprise passed over her face then she looked sad, saying only, “He is much changed.”

Good. If he could damage, even raze those tender memories, so much the better. “What happened after?” he asked.

“It wasn’t clear at first if he’d tried to help or hurt me. My mother was suspicious. She confined him until I could verify his story. Then of course, we feasted him and gave him many gifts.”

“So I am in my blood brother’s debt.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I must thank him.”

A strong wind lifted from the west; it was hot, dry, leaving them thirsty. Darkness fell earlier than usual, leaving vaults of purple in the heavens and the scent of wild thyme flowing on swift currents of air.

They came upon an old ruin of a wall that offered protection at their backs. Gathering wood, they built a fire. “All my life I’ve heard of Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon said as they settled beside it. He put one arm around her and made a sweeping gesture with the other. “Rich land of ships, palaces, mountains, caves and fertile plains. I thought these must be fanciful lies. Women, owning the land, passing it to their daughters? Such a thing could never happen in my country. Yet my slave, Alexiare, explained how well your people managed, and for how many long ages—since before any of Argolis was tilled or any citadel built. My ancestors brought powerful gods to help them conquer these mainland villages, but when we came to the edge of land and looked out for more places to vanquish, Crete’s mighty ships forced us to stop.”

“Where do your people come from?”

“Our bards sing of vast plains of grass, high mountains on every side, of snow and ice that can freeze a man solid in a single night. It’s said our ancestors traveled four entire seasons to reach the lands we now call home.”

“And your gods? I have only learned a little about them.”

“They reside in the sky, the ocean, on mountaintops. They control everything, from sunlight to earthshaking, and have jealous tempers. Foremost among them is King Poseidon, Hippos, Father of horses, Lord of the earth, sea, and heavens. He gave us the horse, a beast more precious to us than any other. One of his palaces lies beneath the sea, where he keeps stables of coral and white stallions with manes of gold. He sinks our ships when angered, and destroys our coasts with waves as tall as thunderclouds. He visits us in the form of a bull, and in the heavens, we see him in the sun and the moon.”

“My tutors told me about Lord Poseidon,” Aridela said. “But they never made him sound as glorious as you do.”

“Every village my ancestors conquered worshipped Lady Athene, White-Armed Hera, and she the farmers call dark Hecate. We merged these mistresses into our own beliefs, for we saw their worth and knew we would have an easier time with the people if we honored their deities.”

Wind swooped as though wanting attention. The fire leaped in swirls of sparks and blue-edged flames.

“Kaphtor,” Chrysaleon continued, “where the path of moon and stars is as familiar as the change of seasons, and the smallest lump of gold can be measured. Palaces sprawl like cities, marvels of comfort and elegance. In truth, Alexiare reminds me how Labyrinthos stood established and civilized when my own people were naked savages living in caves.” He bowed his head in exaggerated homage. “A commanding yet generous lady—that is Kaphtor, lying in perfect conjunction along the best trade-routes from Egypt and Isy. She brings us the tin we crave, purple dye to impress our rivals, gold, and all the comforts we can no longer live without. She forges ties with everyone and leads all in prosperity.”

“Do you mock us?” She looked wary.

“Perhaps I would like to.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “But Alexiare spoke the truth. I always thought his claims mere lies, the overblown boasting or false memories of an old man. But now I see they were not.”

“Lady Athene showed favor to my people when she sent her daughter to lead us here from our homeland.”

“Where is the land of your ancestors?”

“To the south. It is a country so vast it takes years to get from one end to the other. The sun burns everything; no snow ever falls but on the highest mountains. There is a beast I’m told, which towers as high as our highest walls. It eats the leaves from the very tips of trees, and another, so big it can crush a man with one foot. And lions, my lord.” Lifting her hand, she touched his hair then rested her palm on his cheek, her mouth curving into a slow smile redolent with desire. “You are like a lion. Your father named you truly.”

The need to kiss her threatened to blot out Chrysaleon’s argument. His mind fell into blankness, but he fought his way back. “You say Athene showed your people favor. Yet it seems to me she’s shown you no favor at all.”

“Why?” Aridela’s smile faded into startled surprise.

His wounded leg ached; he rolled onto his side so he could stretch it and cupped her knee in one hand. “If you were a peasant or farmer’s child, you could leave Crete, be with me.”

“Athene sees all, from beginning to end. She doesn’t plan things according to the fleeting wishes of mortals.”

“You accept your lot without question or protest.” He sat up and seized her shoulders. “Does it never weigh upon you?”

“It has,” she said in a small voice. He felt her tremble.

“And now?” He shook her, more roughly than he intended.

“If I were a peasant, you wouldn’t want me.”

He bit back the urge to shout, to strike, to cut something with his sword. “Can’t you see this is beyond any duty? Curse my father, my brothers and the child who believes herself my wife. I would have you no matter what your station, or mine. You alone separate us. I would abandon my vows, betray my father and my country to have you.”

“No you wouldn’t. You would not do that.”

Wind zipped over the wall and set upon them, pulling Aridela’s hair free of its knot and sending it whirling about her head.

Chrysaleon’s gaze followed the flight of her hair as he recalled his purpose. To find a way to overthrow these people. To end the king-sacrifice. He realized how hard he gripped her and saw pain reflected in her eyes. Biting his lip, he relaxed and massaged her shoulders. “Perhaps not,” he said, “but I would perform my duty like a man whose soul had been stripped from him and cast into the shadowlands.” Uneasy truth laced his words. Could he overthrow Kaphtor and subjugate Aridela, make her and her kin his slaves? No longer certain, he jerked her against him, closing his eyes and mind as he kissed her.

When he did at last release her, she sighed and rested her cheek against his collarbone. He felt her resistance dissolve, yet he experienced no sense of triumph.

She fit against him like song to a lyre, like a dolphin’s greeting to scarlet dawn.

“I wish I were common,” she whispered. Her voice broke. “And no one cared what I did.”

“Were I truly a man of honor,” he said, “I would leave. But I won’t. I’ve desired one thing since I arrived and now I have it. You long for me as I do for you, and what does it accomplish? I will be consort to your sister and you’ll live far from me in the mountain caves. We’ll be as lost to each other as if we’d never met. And in a year….”

He felt her stiffen in his arms.

Another gust of wind smacked them. The fire jumped in response; sparks flew. “A storm is coming,” Chrysaleon said. “We should return to the palace.” But he didn’t move.

She ran a finger down his temple and through his beard. “The firelight makes jewels of your eyes.”

Lust charred his blood, yet he forced himself to remain still. “I saw you, before the cave. Before I came to Labyrinthos.”

She waited, relaxed, her face mirroring the love he felt running hot through his veins.

“When we landed, Menoetius and I set out to explore. I wanted to see your country. I wanted to learn everything I could, to determine if my father’s army could invade and overthrow you.”

For one endless instant she seemed frozen, then she broke free and scrambled away. She crouched on the other side of the fire, staring at him, so many emotions streaming across her face he couldn’t separate them.

“No, Aridela,” he said, stretching out a hand, but she backed further away.

“How could you think to plan our destruction then woo me as you have?” Her voice dropped. “They were right about you.”

“I tell you this truth so no secrets remain between us. I wouldn’t invade Kaphtor now, not if it contained all the riches of the world. Kaphtor is precious to me because it holds you. I would die to defend it.”

She covered her face with her hands.

He breathed in and out slowly. “I thought if I couldn’t win the Games, and if Kaphtor seemed ripe, I could convince my father to attack. It would be bad, Aridela, if your island fell into the hands of Gla, Pylos, or Tiryns, or any of the mainland kingdoms. Especially Tiryns. It would be the end of us.”

She uncovered her face and glared at him. “You and your Kindred think you can fight over us like dogs with a bone. You think us easy prey.”

“It was foolish and arrogant of us.”

She watched him, silent, narrow-eyed, all hint of trust vanished.

“We heard gossip that you and Iphiboë were hunting on Mount Ida. We went there, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kaphtor’s princesses. We searched and spent the night. We’d almost given up when we came upon a path in the forest and heard laughter. There you were—you, Iphiboë, Selene, and your cousin, swimming in a pond. That was the first time I saw you.”

He paused, but she said nothing. Her chest rose and fell, giving away her shallow breathing.

Chrysaleon peered into the sky, his eyes tracking the fire’s wild, darting sparks. “That was my end.” He paused again as his mind worked out what words would convince her. “Our bards sing of tribes who live on hidden isles in these seas. Amazons, we call them. Moon-women. It’s said they shoot as well as any man and are joined to their horses. Proud as the proudest king, they fight to the death rather than suffer dishonor.”

“Selene comes from those tribes.”

“She taught you their ways?”

“Yes. My mother brought her to Kaphtor to teach us the skills of her people. She stays now because she is our friend, and Kaphtor is her home.”

“They’re legendary in my country. When I looked down on that pool, I thought I’d discovered a cache of those women. Your weapons lay on the ground. You swam without fear, never suspecting you were being watched. I know you and your council wonder why I competed in your Games when there’s so much for me to lose. This is the reason. Since that day in the forest, I’ve been yours, Aridela, though I’ve tried to deny it.”

He thought he discerned an almost imperceptible relaxation in the bow-strung tenseness of her body. “I had ideas of climbing down for an afternoon of pleasure. Menoetius held me back. Then I heard Selene call you ‘Princess,’ thank Black-Horned Poseidon, and realized who you were.” He gave a wry shake of his head. “Queen Helice would have diced us into fish food if I’d done what I intended.”

His brief amusement died away. “I watched you step from the pool and wring water from your hair. I couldn’t breathe. I knew what it would feel like, to die.”

He added, low, “You’re the woman my father promised I would find someday. The one who would bind me, make me a willing slave. All my doubts vanished when you leapt the bull.”

She still made him wait an interminable length of time, suspended, not knowing what to expect. Then she crawled back, her eyes wet with tears. He enclosed her, not only with his arms but his legs, trapping her against his body. He felt her heart quicken, swift and fluttery as a bird’s. She was strong, but she could never escape her ancestry. Her bones were fragile. She was a small woman, and ever would be.

“Princess of Kaphtor.” He rolled on top of her, holding himself up to keep from crushing this bird. “For longer than can be dreamed, I am yours. Even death won’t break our bond.”

He saw her startle, her eyes widen.

Propping his elbows on the ground, he took her face in his hands. “Even in death, Aridela,” he said. “I am yours.”

He kissed her a long time to keep her from speaking. When he felt all resistance evaporate, he raised his head. “We return to Labyrinthos in two days. Is this the last for us?”

“I don’t know.”

He pressed his mouth and tongue to her neck, wanting to taste her, to blot out every memory of her insipid sister.

The unguents she used intoxicated him. “If this be the last time—”

“Yes… yes,” she whispered.

Neither bothered to undress. Chrysaleon simply pulled up her tunic, struggling to hold back, for in truth, his body needed satiation and had no concern for gentler emotions. But this was Princess Aridela of Kaphtor, not a defeated female in a conquered province. Her thighs crept around his hips; he sank into her, and fought to control his basest instincts.

“Aridela,” he whispered. “Aridela.” Mother of kings.

Unbearable pressure blazed, turning his body to a rampage of fire.

“What is happening!”

He heard her cry out, but faintly; his need deafened any other concern.

Fulfillment shot from mere pleasure into divine ecstasy. He pierced like an arrow, seeking her very core. “Aridela,” he choked, clutching, thrusting, driving into a void of unconsciousness.

“Chrysaleon!” She shoved him, hard enough to push his upper body off hers.

He opened his eyes and rolled onto his side, gasping. Awareness was slow to return.

She grabbed his injured forearm as she stared into the sky, her face rigid with concentration.

The pain her grip caused brought him back to the windy night. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, fighting to catch his breath and calm his blood.

Then he heard what she’d heard, felt it through his bones. A guttural vibration emanating from the ground.

With a grating clash, the earth beneath them split, sucking them into a fissure. Chrysaleon, flailing as he fell, caught a protruding root in his right hand and Aridela’s wrist in the left. He strained to hold her, groaning beneath shooting agony in his injured arm and thigh as she climbed his body, gripping his thighs then his waist, and finally his shoulders. There they hung, choking in a cloud of dust and avalanche of dirt and stones, suspended by one tough root and Chrysaleon’s ability to disregard his injuries. Outside the trench, he heard blasts and roaring. The crack of wood. The earth splitting open in a thousand wounds.

The world was being unmade.

Blood ran down Chrysaleon’s injured forearm as he hoisted Aridela to the summit of the chasm. She pulled herself out and turned, grabbing him, helping him over the crumbling lip and back onto the earth’s welcoming surface.

But what he’d always considered solid, imperishable, was dissolving. Dirt and sand erupted in fountains on every side. A nearby grove of black oak and junipers thrashed as though a titan stamped through them, yanking them out as he came.

Blood dripped off the ends of his fingers. He tucked his arm behind his back so Aridela wouldn’t see, and tried to ignore the burn of the wound being torn open.

Distant susurration echoed like the faraway roar of lions, and built until the air hummed.

Aridela reached out to him. Chrysaleon took her hand and pulled her, first one direction then another, as gashes split the earth and barred their way.

Above them, the heavens fractured.

Neither could do anything but press their hands to their ears and wait for death to end the terror. The detonation of the sky ripped through Chrysaleon’s head with such force he feared his skull would shatter.

The ground heaved.

“Goddess, forgive me!” Aridela shrieked as she stumbled on land turned to maelstrom. “Forgive us!”

She thought Lady Athene was punishing them for what they’d done. Shivers arced through Chrysaleon’s spine as he peered into the sky, convinced she was right. A dirty-red glow, sparked by eerie rapid-fire flashes of lightning, marred the northern horizon.

Aridela fell to her knees, whispering, “Velchanos.” She stared into the sky, at the lightning. “He comes for us….”

Another rift opened, so close that she teetered and started to fall, but Chrysaleon grabbed her and jerked her back.

Something else, a boiling blackness, ringed with molten haze like clouds of fire, obliterated the heavens in the same direction as the lightning. He stared, stiff with horror, seeing Great Poseidon rise from the sea. “Come,” he cried, knowing this blood-soaked shadow brought their deaths. “Run!” He half-dragged Aridela past freshly uprooted trees.

“There’s a place—” Aridela took the lead. She pulled Chrysaleon to the west, into a wood untouched by damage. Soon she found an indentation at the base of a tree-covered slope, where erosion, root-growth, and the digging of animals had created a shallow cave. They knelt and wormed past the roots into the hole, only to discover it was too small to cover them completely.

“Fill it in,” Chrysaleon shouted.

They scooped everything they could, earth, rocks and leaves into the opening of their refuge as the world around them transformed into a white rage of heat and fire.

Murderous wind snapped tree trunks like twigs in the angry clasp of a god. The air grew hot and stank of sulfur. Branches burst into flames. Chrysaleon made sure Aridela pressed her face to her knees and he did the same. He covered his head and hers with his arms, but there was no escape, no choice between breathing and not. His lungs and mouth seared like meat on a spit. Aridela whimpered.

The wind died, leaving a crackle of burning wood, branches collapsing, the tortured shriek of animals. They saw nothing through the gaps but a smoky-red haze.

“Are you hurt?” The words scraped against Chrysaleon’s scorched, swollen throat.

She whispered, “I am burned.”

He scrambled from the cave, holding out his hand to help her. She crawled out more slowly.

The gloom was thick, unbroken but for the fire-glow. The nearest reflected in her eyes. At least they weren’t incinerated, but he was shocked to see that her glorious cascades of black hair had melted away, leaving only singed tufts no longer than his fingers.

She shuddered. Her teeth chattered. Chrysaleon felt his own flesh prickle in angry, offended waves. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but knew it would only add to her pain.

“Are you thirsty?” He tried to sound calm and reasonable even as he felt the ground scald his feet through the soles of his sandals. He’d never experienced such thirst, even during campaigns, and fought a childish urge to beg the gods for a drink. “Let’s find water.”

“The palace,” she muttered, her voice small and hoarse as she struggled to speak through desperate coughing. “We must go back.”

They stumbled through a ruinous tangle of wood and debris. Trees lay on the ground, all bark burned away. Sharp, jagged remnants of tree trunks stood everywhere. Heavy smoke chafed their throats without mercy.

Blood seeped between the stitches on Chrysaleon’s thigh. Putting weight on the leg sent keen-edged misery streaking clear into his jaw and temple. His limp grew more pronounced as they forged through the damage.

The earth groaned. Bouts of thunder reverberated. Aridela startled again and again at the abrupt echoing shatter of collapsing limbs, but she didn’t speak and hardly lifted her gaze from the ground.

Chrysaleon watched her as they struggled along. He suspected by her stiffened, precise movements and by the set of her jaw that she was suffering, and he longed to hold her. He, too, felt an involuntary shiver run deep through his skin, giving warning. The pain would soon become unbearable. But for now, his burned flesh remained like his mind, shocked into numbness.

They topped the last rise on the road above Phaistos and looked down.

There was no music. No light. No graceful terraces, pristine fountains, flagged courtyards or stately pillars. If anything remained, it was hidden beneath a noxious cloud, impenetrably black but for branches of fire that shot upward in twisting columns. The stench made Chrysaleon gag.

Faint ghastly screams emanated from the depths.

“Selene. Halia,” Aridela cried, her voice choked. She started toward the city at a run, but Chrysaleon grabbed her hand and held firm.

Menoetius, he thought, startled by fleeting amazement, a sense that he had far less control over matters than he had arrogantly believed.

“No.” He seized her other hand and pulled her back. “We don’t dare go down there.”

“Goddess,” Aridela whispered, sobbing. She dropped to her knees, clutching at handfuls of dirt. “We meant no harm.”

She peered up at Chrysaleon, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks. “I’ve dreamed of this. Athene showed it to me.”

Chrysaleon knelt, keeping a tight grip on her hand.

The air grew blacker. Thicker. Intermittent bolts of lightning traced like blood vessels across the sky. A mutter ran through the heavens as though, somewhere far away, the gods were battling.

The screams died away, leaving a terrible silence.

Chrysaleon could tell by the pungent sulfuric scent that a fire was burning, a conflagration greater than any he could imagine. The only place on Crete that could generate such combustion was surely Knossos, which lay in the direction from which the cloud had come. He glanced at Aridela, hoping she hadn’t worked this through.

“Please,” she whispered. “I cannot wait any longer. We must see if anyone is alive. They need us.”

“Patience,” he said. “Soon.”

They sat without speaking. Every now and then he caught the softest release of a sob, though for the most part his lover remained silent, slumped, and still.

In an effort to distract her, he said, “Tell me your dream.”

“What you see around us.” She didn’t lift her head. “The world destroyed. The earth heaving. The lightning of Velchanos cleaving the sky. Our oracle ordered me to remain untouched. I thought I knew the Lady’s mind better than she did.” She drew in a ragged breath. “You and I lay together, that first time. Nothing happened. There was no sign of anger. I grew even more defiant. Now see where my insolence has brought Kaphtor. What of the babies? Their mothers? Our brave men?” She gestured toward the ruined city. “What do they suffer because of us?”

He opened his mouth, but found no words. What could he say? He, too, believed they were to blame.

If Athene was punishing Aridela, what would she do to him? It was he who enticed Helice’s daughter to her defiance. He hadn’t known the restrictions placed on her the first time, but the second? Knowledge had not stopped him.

He pushed tangles of damp hair off his face and realized for the first time that it hadn’t burned. Though Aridela’s was singed almost to her scalp and he had squatted against her side in the shallow earth cave, the tawny mane for which he was famous remained, incomprehensibly, as it was before the searing heat.

At last he relented. The crimson tendrils of fire gorging on Phaistos seemed to have drifted to the south. Holding Aridela’s hand, Chrysaleon led the way down the hill to discover what was left.

Come with me, said the woman wearing a crown of silver and ivory. It is time for you to learn Our Lady’s plan. She held out her hand. Themiste took it, shivering at the surge of wellbeing that flowed from the woman’s touch.

She followed Athene’s servant down a slope to the edge of the sea. There they sat on damp sand, observed by a lone crab and a snowy-white crane wading in the shallow water.

The sun, the moon, and the star Iakchos were all shining in the heavens at the same time, suggesting a dream. Yet the murmur of water, the call of a mourning dove and the hint of a breeze against Themiste’s cheek made her wonder.

The holy triad is joined, the handmaid said. It begins here, but its finish is farther than you can conceive, and many shadows must be pierced before the end.

The holy triad. Themiste shivered again. These words had weighed heavily upon her ever since one of her priestesses, Sidero, had succumbed to a puzzling, incurable ailment that left her unaware of her surroundings. The woman muttered the phrase constantly, sleeping and awake.

The handmaid again spoke. You will see it as mere mortal passion, but that is no more than its outward shape. These three are formed from one thread. They are connected, now and forever. Athene has unraveled their bond so they may follow separate purposes, which will, in the end, return them to each other and either make whole or destroy your world.

Themiste ventured a question. “Who is the holy triad, lady?”

The daughter of Queen Helice… the gold lion of Mycenae… and the bull marked by his fate.

Themiste instantly surmised the child she named was Aridela rather than Iphiboë; the prophecies had long ago convinced her of the younger princess’s divine purpose. The gold lion was, of course, Chrysaleon. But why would Potnia Athene unite Aridela to a barbarian, a crude foreigner with vastly different obligations and beliefs? How could such a union influence the world? She caught herself resisting the idea, her mind searching for ways to thwart it, but the handmaid interrupted her thoughts.

The eyes of Kaphtor’s child will be darkened, her mind filled with clamor. She must forget the way of your world and follow the call of the lion, for she is the wounded woman, and will carry within her the suffering of all my Lady’s children.

“But why?” Themiste asked, startled and dismayed.

In order to gain the trust of the lost, she must be one with them. She will struggle without deliverance, as they do. Her eyes will be put out. She must find her way through seven labyrinths to learn what she must learn.

Themiste pictured Aridela stumbling without sight through black tunnels, her arms outstretched, alone and frightened. Horror constricted her throat. But she was familiar with the serpentine language of prophecy, and hoped this prediction was like the dream itself—not to be taken literally. Seven labyrinths. Why seven? What could it mean?

The way of the Lady was incomprehensible to mortals, even to oracles.

“You speak of Aridela and of Chrysaleon, the lion of Mycenae. But this marked bull. Who is that?”

If I told you, you would try to change his fate. Remember this when the time comes, Minos of Kaphtor—what seems the end is only the beginning.

The handmaid held out her palm close to the sand; the crab crawled onto it and she stroked its shell.

After some time of bewildered silence while Themiste fought with her own conviction of failure and stupidity, she asked, “Can you tell me Chrysaleon’s purpose?”

The lion’s purpose is to fulfill his obligation.

“What is it? Will he know? Will I know?”

You yourself did conceive it.

Filled with an oppressive sense of defeat, Themiste pondered everything she knew about the prince of Mycenae, but couldn’t produce any insight. Raw frustration expanded; she bit her lip to keep from shouting in anger. How could she have formed the duty of a man she didn’t know? She put the question aside until she could think more calmly. “Aridela has always understood that she would live a profound fate. She claimed it many times. I always dismissed her….”

A loom weight, suspended upon thread, will swing to one side then the other before settling into the middle.

Themiste peered into the sky, at the hazy sun, the creamy moon, and the glittering star, wishing for a way to relive the past with present wisdom. Guilt and sadness weighted her down. She wanted to weep, but fought against it.

Behold. The handmaid swept out her hand. Through some divine power, a stage of sorts formed in the air above the water, and a scene upon it. Themiste watched women scurrying about their chores, carrying baskets, catches of fish, and armfuls of cloth. In the shade beneath leafy trees, men lounged, holding cups, and odd devices from which they drew smoke into their mouths and blew it out again. One of the men called to a passing woman. Head bowed in a servile attitude, she crossed to them. Her clothing was ripped. The men amused themselves upon her, inflicting many abuses and lacerations. They ignored her stifled cries and when they were done, sent her creeping away with a slap to the rump.

This is the future as it now stands, the handmaid said. Will you remember? Will you do what is necessary to help these three fulfill their design? For it can be changed. You can change it.

Faint screams woke her. Her bed quaked as though it rode an angry sea. Crockery fell from the shelves. She staggered to the door and into the corridor.

“Lady!” One of her serving women ran toward her, covering her head as chunks of rock fell. “The earth is shaking!” She grabbed Themiste’s hand and dragged her toward the steps.

They emerged from the underground as the ornate latticework built around the cave entrance collapsed. Stones crumbled. Blinding dust rose. The earth groaned. People ran in every direction, shrieking.

“Look, look, my lady!” Her maid pointed at the sky to the north.

Deeper than the deepest black, shot through with bloodstained lightning, came the cloud.

A few still lived. Some sat listlessly. Some lay, twitching. Some crawled. Most had lost their hair, leaving naked, blistered skulls. Clothing was seared into skin that hung off bone in gruesome sheets.

Chrysaleon stepped in front of Aridela when a hideously charred object rose from the ground, only to realize it was all that heat and fire had left of a living man. Flames engulfed a woman next to him, feeding eagerly on her skirts.

“Can we help them?” Aridela whispered.

Chrysaleon could only shake his head. Most expired as they approached.

Swallowing the urge to be sick, Chrysaleon bent and picked up a torch from the ground. He lit it in one of the numerous fires that consumed the once-gracious, elegant palace.

Heavy snow began to fall, slowly at first then furiously thick, yet it wasn’t cold or wet. Chrysaleon scooped up a handful from the ground. “It’s gritty,” he said, rubbing it between his fingertips. “Like… sand.” He peered up, blinking against the onslaught. “It smudges like ash.” It piled on the ground, covered their heads and shoulders, caked at their noses and mouths, and burned their eyes. It seemed to suck moisture from the air, making it hurt to breathe. Chrysaleon had been thirsty since they’d crawled from their makeshift shelter, but now it was almost impossible to think of anything but water.

Pale stones began falling through the ash. Some were tiny, some as big as a pomegranate. They were covered with holes, nearly weightless, and bounced as they struck the earth. Chrysaleon and Aridela ran from one dangerous overhang to another to avoid them.

The sandy, ashy substance stuck to his raw burns. Both succumbed to helpless coughing as they breathed it in. Every time Chrysaleon coughed, his seared lungs stabbed him with hot spear-points of agony.

Before long, they were coughing up blood.

“I’m so thirsty,” Aridela whispered. Her eyes were red, streaming. Chrysaleon felt the ash grate against his own eyes, and had to willfully stop himself from scouring at them.

The ruins offered one atrocity after another. Motionless carnage. Thick pools of congealing blood. Limbs protruding from beneath splintered wood and stone, or lying piecemeal, burned to charcoal. One corner revealed piles of burning flesh, while in another, a dog quivered in its final torment.

The hair on Chrysaleon’s neck rose as he stared at something more monstrous than any nightmare could conjure.

It was a human body—that much was evident. Hair and clothing gone. Features burned away. As he stared, the torso swelled like a blowfish. The stomach ripped open; scarlet entrails squirmed like a mass of living serpents then blackened and stilled. He stumbled away from Aridela, helplessly retching.

All around them was the sickening sound of other bodies swelling. Bursting.

He forced himself to his feet. “Aridela,” he muttered. She too, had fallen and lay, retching.

His throat was as dry as a stone. He was dizzy, disoriented, barely able to hear Aridela moan. She compressed into a ball, hiding her head beneath her burned arms.

Part of a nearby wall crumbled. Dust clouds mushroomed. Pillars hung fragmented, topless. Debris and silent corpses covered the flagstones.

Chrysaleon gazed, breathless, awestruck, holding himself stiff, still, and blank.

He stood in the presence of malevolent gods, witnessing a depraved power he had secretly dismissed as fantasy born in weak minds.

“I want to go home,” Aridela cried, sobbing. “I need my mother….”

“We’ll go at sunrise,” he whispered.

If we are still alive.

Aridela and her lover fled from the horrors of the dead and dying but could not bring themselves to abandon Phaistos. They wandered through the ruins, looking for survivors.

After some wearisome length of time, they discerned faint shouting and followed the sound. They cleared a rubble-choked entrance leading to the underground, and there discovered a cache of people who had escaped the poison clouds.

Seventeen climbed from the hole. Each one stared aghast at the ruin and death.

Then no more came. Aridela pictured beautiful flaxen-haired Selene, her cherished nurse, Halia, and Carmanor, the boy she had loved so much as a child. Sorrow and a terrible emptiness engulfed her, more painful in some ways than the burns, which were already swelling into massive blisters on her arms, neck and shoulders. She saw blank disbelief in Chrysaleon’s eyes, though he said nothing of his blood brother, the only link to his home and old life.

Never again would she listen to Halia’s elaborate stories or hunt in the mountains with Selene. She could never mend things with Carmanor, who seemed so different, his heart as angry and sullen as the scars carved into his flesh.

But Chrysaleon and three other men were descending again into the hiding place. She heard one say there were more survivors, too injured to climb out on their own.

They carried up three more victims and laid them underneath an overhang that offered protection from drifting ash and falling stones.

“Aridela,” Chrysaleon shouted, his voice holding a note of excitement, but when she started to climb down he said, “No, stay there. I’ll bring them.”

He lifted a half-conscious Selene out of the hole into the arms of another man. Once she was safely removed, Menoetius followed. His face was bloody and his left hand frighteningly swollen, but he was able to walk.

Racked by sobs, Aridela fell to her knees, but such was the moaning, coughing, and despair around her that she quickly stifled this luxury. Wiping away her tears, she tried to give comfort to the other survivors, keeping to herself the horrors she’d seen as she offered reassurances she didn’t believe.

As the men returned to the underground one more time to carry out the last two living victims, Aridela knelt next to Selene.

In a weak, slightly slurred voice, Selene said, “You’re alive,” and touched Aridela’s hand. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Her hair was clotted with blood. Aridela feared a head injury, but didn’t know what to do. “And you, Selene,” she whispered. “I was sure you were dead.”

“What happened? Do you know?” The soot and ash covering Selene’s face, along with a sheen of tears, made her eyes strikingly sea-green.

Aridela stared at the ground, shivering. “Goddess Athene punished all for the sins I alone committed. Themiste commanded me to remain untouched. I ignored her. I brought this death, this suffering, when I lay with Chrysaleon—not once but twice, the second time tonight, just before the cloud of fire and wind killed so many, and nearly took you from me.”

Selene remained silent. Aridela finally forced herself to meet her friend’s gaze.

Selene opened her mouth but still said nothing, only bit her lower lip and frowned.

“Rest,” Aridela said. “Forgive me for burdening you with my crimes and regrets.”

“Aridela, your hair. Your skin. Your eyes.”

Aridela had tried not to think about her burns since she and Chrysaleon entered the ruined palace. Her head felt oddly light. Yesterday her hair fell past the small of her back. Now, caked with gritty ash, smelling of smoke, the short, brittle ends broke off in her hands. She glanced at her arms. The only light came from a few torches, but the red blotches, blisters, and wave upon wave of shuddering betrayed profound injury. She felt dizzy as well, nauseated, and desperately thirsty. Every time she coughed, her lungs felt as though they would spew from her throat. Her eyes burned so relentlessly, she almost wanted to gouge them out.

“Sleep, my sister,” she said softly. “I am in no pain.”

Selene obeyed, though tears seeped from under her lashes. Aridela held her hand until Selene’s breathing evened and her fingers relaxed.

Chrysaleon and others who were able fanned out through the destruction, searching for water.

Aridela made another round among the injured. She blotted blood with strips of cloth, gave a smile or kiss where it seemed to help, then returned to Selene’s side, where she sat, hugging her knees, and tried to force herself to be calm.

She felt Menoetius watching her for a long time before she finally looked up, catching a frown that left her stricken with a fresh stab of guilt.

Ash coated his face. His eyes, too, were red and swollen. The dried blood streaking his cheeks and neck, coupled with the firelight, threw his scars into sharp relief. Aridela couldn’t help remembering Carmanor, the beautiful youth from the mainland, laughing, telling her she was “still little,” and that princesses in his country could never get into mischief the way she did.

This ruin of a man, this ‘Menoetius,’ somehow mirrored everything she had seen tonight. The destruction of all she’d believed indestructible.

“My lord?” She kept her voice low so she wouldn’t disturb Selene. The words escaped as if they had a will of their own, even though she shrank from his judgment. “You believe it as well. Athene is angry at what your prince and I did. This is her punishment.”

His gaze faltered, betraying him. “I have never claimed to know the mind of the Goddess.”

She turned her gaze toward the south, where the killing cloud had gone. “I love Chrysaleon,” she said, clenching her hands. “Surely others have committed worse crimes.”

“If what you say is true, would you not now be dead instead of all these others?”

“If I died,” she said, “I would be released from pain. The suffering of others would no longer touch me.”

Leaning across Selene, Menoetius reached out as though to touch her cheek, but then he didn’t, and dropped his hand back to his side.

Her throat blocked with tears.

Those who had gone exploring returned with incredulous tales of how heat melted everything, even tin and bronze, in one chamber, while leaving feathers and wax tablets unharmed in adjoining rooms. They’d found a few jars of water. Aridela sprinkled a little over her burns, and drank sparingly. Never had she tasted anything so delicious as this tepid, stale water that carried a taste of smoke.

Unable to rest, she watched fires lick across the fields and hills as time slowly passed. Throughout the night, she sensed Menoetius’s gaze upon her, but whenever she looked at him, his eyes were closed.

Scarcely any change came with morning. Thunder rumbled. Crimson lightning sliced wounds in the sky. If there was still a sun, its light could not penetrate the murk.

Some wanted to travel north to Labyrinthos, through ash that continued to fall in a silent, deadly storm. Others were willing to stay behind with the more severely wounded.

Aridela was determined to reach Labyrinthos or die in the attempt. Chrysaleon wouldn’t be separated from her.

They journeyed north, knowing not what to expect.

The north and east wings of Labyrinthos collapsed, including the family bedchambers and baths. Gaping cracks split walls and pillars, yet more of that palace withstood the rage of Athene than at Phaistos in the southern provinces.

Shortly after the initial firestorms, Queen Helice ordered a ceremony. Without knowing Aridela’s fate, grief-stricken over the deaths of those near to her, terrified of what might happen next, the queen stood before her surviving people, holding Iphiboë’s hand, speaking hollow reassurances. Why would the Lady spare so much of the great palace-temple dedicated to her unless she still felt love for it? Lamentations, prayers and the sacrifice of twenty precious oxen completed the pleas for forgiveness. All who lived turned hopeful, frightened eyes to the ash filled, blistered sky.

Their reward came in a blanketing sulfur stench and another precipitous blast, nearly as deafening and startling as the first. Pottery shattered. Unstable walls crumbled. The ground wallowed and churned.

Messengers from the harbor at Amnisos informed the queen that the sea had vanished, sucked down the throat, perhaps, of the barbarian god Poseidon. Nothing remained but mud, shells, writhing sea creatures and beached ships. Helice wanted to inspect this phenomenon, but the counselors forbade her to take such reckless action.

While they argued, the sea returned.

A lone, broken boy reported before he died that it came in a wave so tall he could not see the summit. This mountain of water crushed every building, pier and ship at Amnisos and the west precincts at Tamara. Its murderous tentacles stretched halfway into the town of Knossos. Subsequent waves completed the destruction. Corpses of fish, sheep, fowl and human littered the coast and mingled in the sea among debris and vast suffocating mats of floating stones.

The survivors of Phaistos limped into Knossos three days after surviving the death-clouds. They joined a desperate influx from every corner of the island.

Aridela listened to horrific tales of monstrous waves and observed with heavy sorrow the ruin of so much of her home and the great city where she had spent her childhood.

Rhené smoothed unguents into her skin and sheared the charred ends of her hair. “You resemble the soldiers of Argolis,” the healer said, attempting a smile.

At one time, Aridela would have agonized over this loss, but now she hardly glanced in the mirror at a reflection she no longer recognized.

Rhené’s touch, and her balms, caused such pain that Aridela had to clench her teeth and fists to keep from screaming. Because she kept her face pressed against her knees during the onslaught of fire-wind, it had escaped serious burns, but swollen, unspeakably painful blisters covered her arms, shoulders, and back.

If only she could rest in her own bed… but her chamber lay buried in wreckage. Her dog, Taya, her cat and her little lovebirds—dead. All dead.

Dead also were Halia, Aridela’s nurse, who served as her day-to-day mother, and Isandros, Aridela’s beloved half brother, who taught her how to dance with bulls. A prince in his own right, he and Aridela shared the same father, Damasen, and unassailable loyalty. Neoma, Aridela’s cousin, lay senseless after a rock, shooting out of the sky with the force of a driven spear, struck her in the forehead. Neoma’s sister, eleven-year-old Phanaë, succumbed to the ash and suffocated in her own blood. Aridela found some comfort in the company of her sister and mother, who had, through the grace of the Goddess, both survived.

The blizzard of ash subsided, but fine clouds continued to drift over the palace roof, the courtyard and fields, clinging to hair, faces, and clothing. Brown haze lay between sun and earth so that each day dawned drearier than the last and the warmth of summer evaporated.

Prince Kios, whose wife was killed when a wall collapsed upon her, spent much time in grieving solitude on the northern cliffs. “Beyond our sight, the earth burns,” he told Helice. “A fire the like of which we cannot imagine. I fear it’s the disaster we have long expected on Callisti.”

This conjecture quickly spread. Refugees from that island leaned upon their comrades and wept.

Helice sought out her daughters and confided in them. “Goddess Athene seeks a terrible vengeance.”

“We must find a way to appease her,” Aridela said.

“What did we do? How did we anger her?” Helice shook her head and wandered aimlessly away.

The rumors began slowly, quietly, and when Aridela first heard them, icy threads of fear tightened her stomach. The people were eying the barbarian from Mycenae. Some said Chrysaleon, by winning the Games and killing the bull-king, ignited this ruin. Yet the conjectures remained soft. No one was brave enough to shout accusations; they were all too fearful of making a mistake and enraging the Goddess further.

The permeating ash caused nosebleeds and inflamed eyes. Countless children and old ones died, blood seeping from their mouths and noses. Artisans claimed the ash was actually fine particles of obsidian.

The people clamored day and night. Help us. Save us, Queen Helice. Avert the Lady’s anger.

A messenger sent from the sacred caves reported that Kaphtor’s oracle still lived. Themiste was uninjured. But no more messages came. She did not journey to Labyrinthos, nor did she make any statements or predictions. Day after day, the silence continued until the people began to mutter.

They demanded to know where she was. Why did she say nothing? It was the oracle’s duty to read the signs, to enter vision, to determine what should be done.

“If she won’t come to us, we shall go to her,” Helice said. “Let us seek answers from Themiste at her shrine.”

Gigantic waves of water crushed our harbors. Damerto and Phaistos have fallen. Hundreds are dead. News comes slowly; I don’t know the fate of other towns and harbors yet. Winds of fire and poison ripped down buildings, toppled trees and burned people alive. The queen and Iphiboë were nearly crushed by the partial collapse of Labyrinthos. Thankfully, loyal slaves pulled them into an underground corridor. All were later found and rescued.

Powdery dust poured from the heavens, warm at times, as though it carried a memory of fire. It covers the ground and hangs like fine veils in the sky, blocking the sunlight. Some call it ash, but to me it seems more like fine sand. It scratches and burns. It makes us cough and cough. Many who breathe in too much of it drown in their own blood. Those of us who remain cover our faces with wet linen.

As if fires, poison, and dust are not enough, we suffer downpours of rain like none can remember. Farmers tell of mud surging from gullies, down hillsides and out of mountain canyons. Day has forsaken us; we are left in endless twilight. Bitter, clammy cold creeps across the land. Thunder gives warning, all day, all night. Lightning—not white but crimson, sometimes blue, flickers in the clouds, always to the north, displaying the anger of Velchanos. Insects and birds drop from the sky, dead. Rats swarm the cities, killing cats, dogs. Some have even killed small children.

When I was named Minos, the safety of the Oracle Logs became my sacred charge. Written upon these tablets is our history, our prophecies and traditions. Now they are buried beneath stone, ash, and debris. Perhaps they can be recovered, but what of the papyrus scrolls? Our library at Phaistos, filled with writings from the countries we have befriended, was destroyed as well.

It sickens me to think how much is lost.

It is time to plant corn and barley. Our nuts and figs should be harvested, and soon the grapes, but the crops that weren’t destroyed outright are withering. So many farmers are dead, and the land is flooded with mud or poisoned by dust. Hunks of stone fell out of the sky like weapons from an angry god’s hand, devastating both plants and livestock.

What of the olive groves, nurtured since the time of Kaphtor’s first settlers? Have any survived, or is our whole island laid waste? I do not yet know.

The razing of Kaphtor began three days before Iphiboë was to take the barbarian, the foreigner who is called ‘Gold Lion,’ by his guard, as her consort.

I ponder the prophecy Aridela spoke six years ago.

Lion of gold from over the sea.

Destroy the black bull,
shake the earth free.

Curse the god,
crush the fold,
pull down the stars
as your seers foretold.

Isle of cloud,

Moon’s stronghold,
see your death come
in spears of gold.

This prophecy, coupled with Chrysaleon’s title, cannot be mere chance. The Gold Lion came to destroy Kaphtor. With the help of his barbarian gods, I fear he has succeeded.

No one has ever killed a sacred king out of his time. The murder of the bull-king before his time would be a crime so outrageous that the murderer would be hunted, hounded, tortured without mercy. I would do it if I thought it would cool Goddess Athene’s rage.

But I have seen that she requires more than a king’s death.

Helice and her daughters journey to my shrine. The people are desperate and she doesn’t know what to do. I must provide answers. Can I? Am I strong enough?

For I have seen what is to be done.

The time of payment, which was shown to me in vision so long ago, has arrived.

Helice, Iphiboë, and Aridela set out for Themiste’s mountain shrine.

Ash lifted in clouds around the litter-bearers’ feet. Fine and irritating, it invaded every crease and pore, defying all methods of holding it at bay, making everyone cough and rub their eyes.

Aridela tried to shut out the continuous, irritating sound as she sank more deeply into a spiraling well of guilt. With one breath she believed she no longer deserved to live, then with the next demanded to know why her crime was so much worse than her mother’s. Damasen competed, won, and became Kaphtor’s bull-king. Nothing terrible happened. He and Helice were lovers long before he entered the Games.

Why were the actions of Helice’s daughter so different?

She didn’t really need the Goddess to appear before her and explain. The answer was simple. Chrysaleon was meant for Iphiboë. Queen Helice had not defied holy commands in order to be with Damasen. The two events could not be compared.

Aridela had never feared Kaphtor’s high priestess, but now she did. Themiste had no doubt seen her blatant defiance in vision or by some other means. She might reveal it. If she did, the whole island would know the queen’s daughter had caused this devastation and death through selfish, petty lust and arrogance.

Punish me alone, Mother, not these others. They did nothing. The prayer remained a never-ending, never-answered litany.

Though they sent no messenger ahead, Themiste stood waiting for them outside the shrine. Her red hair fell unbound. Her white gown blended into drifts of ash at her feet. Shadows beneath her eyes suggested how long she’d gone without sleep, and her face was haggard. The gaze she leveled upon the approaching litters seemed darkened, perhaps from grief, or too much Sight.

“You know why we’ve come,” Helice said as she stepped from the litter. “Is there hope? What can we do?”

Themiste clasped Helice’s hands. “Rest,” she said. “Later, we will talk.”

“There’s no time for rest. Tell me what I must do to quell Athene’s anger, to bring peace again.”

Themiste beckoned to her attendant. “Wine then,” she said. “You must be thirsty.”

Helice agreed she was. Two priests hurried to assist Iphiboë but she waved them away, descending from her litter and walking on her own into the shrine.

Aridela accepted a cup of wine. It helped wash away the dry, lingering taste of gritty ash and sulfur.

The Holy Minos stood to one side and waited.

Before long, her mother’s head drooped. Her eyes fluttered and closed. No doubt she hadn’t allowed herself to sleep since the first explosion fractured their island.

“Lay her on the pallet,” Themiste ordered.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong with her?” Aridela asked as the priestesses made Helice comfortable.

“I put poppy in the wine. When she wakes, I will tell her what I have seen.”

Themiste told a priestess to bring stools. She approached Iphiboë’s chair and gestured for Aridela to join her.

When they were seated, she dismissed her maids and carefully examined Aridela’s arms. “Are the balms helping?”

“It’s nothing of consequence, Minos.” Sympathy and kindness were emotions she didn’t deserve. Pain, scarring, she did.

Themiste gave Iphiboë’s knee the same scrutiny. “I see no bruising now,” she said. “Is there any pain?”

“No, my lady,” Iphiboë replied. “I am fully healed. It’s been a month.”

“A knee thrown out of joint is a small price to pay, I suppose,” Themiste said, “for the way you two defied me.”

She didn’t look angry. Perhaps she didn’t know everything about that prophetic night when Aridela went with her sister to the Cave of Velchanos, against Themiste’s orders, and joined with Chrysaleon—also against Themiste’s orders.

Maybe Aridela’s secret was safe—for now.

Themiste leaned back on her stool, squeezing her hands together. Finally she said, “You are goddess beloved.”

Tears spilled from Iphiboë’s eyes. She only half-succeeded in stifling a sob.

Themiste’s considered words made Aridela’s throat close up too; her heart started to pound.

She suspected a measure of poppy might have found its way into all their wine cups.

“True love brings unforeseen strength.” The high priestess’s voice, though low, reverberated through Aridela’s skull. “When we make sacrifices for the sake of love, miracles happen. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Aridela said, though she didn’t. Her pampered life hadn’t included many sacrifices, but Themiste appeared agitated; she repeatedly clenched her hands, and Aridela saw her jaw clench too. If she could offer respite, she would.

“In Hesperia,” Themiste said, still very soft, “the great orchard on the far side of Okeanos, fruit hangs ripe upon the vine. Spring blooms every day. Those who reside there drink happiness from rivers. They absorb joy from sunlight. Kaphtor’s heroes are taken to Hesperia when they give their blood to the crops. Earthly cares and sorrows are forgotten.”

“It must be beautiful,” Iphiboë said. Her tears stopped. She watched Themiste, her eyes wide, unblinking.

“Everlasting renown comes to those who give all they have.” Themiste caressed Iphiboë’s cheek then leaned in close and kissed her on the forehead. “The greatest kings know this. It is why they meet death unafraid. They know it is but one of many labyrinths on their path of immortality.”

“‘There is never new life without death,’” Iphiboë said. “‘No new god without annihilation. Acceptance brings unimaginable glory.’”

Themiste drew back from Iphiboë. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Why do you weep over me, Minos?” Iphiboë asked.

Themiste knelt on the floor so she could kiss Iphiboë’s foot. She rose, drew Iphiboë out of her chair, and embraced her.

“Athene must have retribution.” Her voice was so soft Aridela scarcely caught the words. “The greatest payment we can give. A god did say this to me. ‘Iphiboë must open the path.’”

Shock spread from Aridela’s scalp to her toes, leaving behind an echoing numbness. “No,” she whispered.

Iphiboë gazed beyond Themiste into the darkness shrouding the corners of the shrine. “I can avert the anger?” she asked.

“Truly,” said Themiste, “out of all our long line of queens, you are the greatest. You are your vision-chosen name, ‘Strength of Oxen.’”

Swallowing, gritting her teeth, Aridela fought to maintain control. “No,” she finally cried, her voice strangely hoarse. “It was my crime. I must be the one. It must be me!”

Themiste didn’t ask what crime she’d committed. She simply shook her head and repeated, “A god did tell me, long ago, what must be done.”

“Be quiet, Aridela,” Iphiboë said without looking at her.

“You don’t understand—only my suffering can soothe Athene’s anger.”

Iphiboë turned her gaze upon her sister. “Would you take this from me as you have taken everything else?”

Aridela opened her mouth, but whatever protest she might have made died unsaid at the bitterness she saw in Iphiboë’s eyes.

Iphiboë crossed to her sleeping mother and kissed her lightly, so as not to wake her. “Give me your blessing, Minos,” she said, turning back to Themiste.

Themiste touched Iphiboë’s forehead with her fingertips. “Great princess of Kaphtor, you have my blessing. You have my gratitude.” Her voice broke. “May you live at the side of the Lady in joy eternal, as beloved by her as you are by your people.”

Iphiboë crossed her arms over her breasts and lowered her head.

“I will go with her,” Aridela said, her hands clenched. If Themiste forbade it, she would—

But Themiste nodded. “It won’t anger the Lady. But Aridela, you too have tasks to complete.” Her eyes said the rest. Return to me. Do not think to take her place.

Iphiboë held out her hand. Aridela clasped it and walked with her from the cave.

Iphiboë’s hand trembled in Aridela’s like a newborn bird, and her breathing was choppy. Yet she half-ran, half-stumbled up the steep narrow path to the cliffs.

“Stop,” Aridela cried. “Iphiboë….”

Twelve more steps at most would bring them to the edge. Aridela knew without looking what they would see. Water edged in gray foam, pinnacles, boulders, and, since the destruction, massive ugly reefs of rocks so light they would not sink but clogged every cove, every niche along the shore.

Iphiboë paused. She stared at the edge, breathing hard, before leaning on her sister.

“Please, for my sake,” Aridela said.

But Iphiboë stumbled on, half-falling over slippery scree. “If I stop the fear will catch me.”

Thundering spray shot high, as though striving to reach them. After the destruction, the water had turned a thick, murky brown. It seemed to Aridela a hungry beast, eager to devour whatever it could seize. She turned her back on it and grabbed her sister’s hands.

“Iphiboë. Don’t do it.”

Iphiboë looked up from the fury, her eyes large and dark, more haunted than the death cloud that melted Phaistos.

For the first time Aridela noticed Themiste. She had followed them up. The oracle waited some distance away. Her hands were clasped, her head lowered, yet still she seemed alert and wary. Rage flamed inside Aridela and she tightened her grip on Iphiboë’s hands.

“This is best,” Iphiboë said. She freed one hand and stroked Aridela’s hair. “Now you can be queen, Aridela.”

“Athene chose you.”

“A mistake, somehow. A mistake of birth. You can be with Chrysaleon. Do you think I haven’t seen how you look at each other?” She smiled. “An ox could see.”

“Have I hurt you? If he found you in the cave instead of me….”

“He would have been miserable.” With a brief, faraway smile, Iphiboë added, “I wouldn’t have liked him either. Everything about him is too big. Too bold. He is terrifying. You haven’t hurt me. You and he… seem a perfect match.” She touched, lightly, the puckered burn above her sister’s left ear. “I cannot decide which one of you I would wager on in a fight.”

Iphiboë returned her gaze to the surf. Aridela embraced her, ignoring the sting from her half-healed burns, agonized more by the unceasing tremble rippling through her sister’s body.

Iphiboë pressed her forehead to Aridela’s and closed her eyes. “I dreamed of this,” she said. “I have always known this was my purpose. It’s why I couldn’t love a man. Love might have made me cling to this life. Now I can make my offering freely, with my whole heart.”

“You—dreamed of—doing—this?”

“Many times. Potnia Athene was preparing me, I think. She planned it this way from the beginning. She has plans for you, too, Aridela.” Tucking Aridela’s cropped hair behind her ears, she added softly, “We go about our lives in ignorance, but the Goddess has every shade and texture perfectly woven into a magnificent tapestry. I feared ruling. I only wanted to serve her.” Her shoulders lifted. “Now I can.”

“But what if Themiste is wrong?” Aridela sent a glance toward the oracle, who remained still and silent, giving no indication she could hear them.

“You know she isn’t.” Iphiboë shook her head. “Listen to the Lady. Pay attention to the signs. You’ll see. You are meant to be queen. You’ll bring recovery to Kaphtor and our people. That’s your purpose.” She kissed Aridela’s cheek and with determination, pried herself from her sister’s grip. She backed away, toward the edge. “I couldn’t have made him happy. Consorts deserve to be happy. Their lives are so short. I go to Hesperia, where I will ask Athene for mercy. I will heal the land, and you will bring the world of the barbarian closer. You will forge peace among those who worship the Lady and those who follow angry gods.”

One more step brought Iphiboë to the precipice. Aridela couldn’t breathe. This cannot be happening. It must be a dream.

Somehow, she rallied. She swallowed useless fear and managed to speak in a fairly steady voice. “Your name will live in our hearts until the earth grows old and brittle,” she said. “I love you.”

Iphiboë smiled. “Yes. That’s the one thing I always knew was real.”

Even as Aridela stretched out her arms to seize her, to pull her back, Iphiboë stepped into space, her smile fading.

Aridela started forward, but strong hands clamped down on her shoulders, preventing it. Themiste had come forward at last.

Misery crept up her feet and legs, through her belly and into her brain, turning her stiff and still as a shaft of bronze.

Then, without warning, she dissolved. Her cheek struck the earth. The pungency of dust filled her nose. The sting of sharp stones burned her skin.

Far beneath her, the water roared its triumph.

I took cara. I breathed the smoke and swallowed venom. I gave myself to the vision and prayed for true sight.

Years ago, our northern settlement of Callisti was abandoned but for a colony of priestesses whose only duty has been to appease the mountain’s anger. All this time these women have tried to quiet the earth and calm Athene’s discontent, but what I have seen, if true, angered the Lady beyond all reckoning.

As Prince Kios surmised, Callisti was the root of Athene’s fury, but so terrible was this rage that Kaphtor was nearly destroyed as well, and who knows how many other lands? Perhaps the whole world lies dying or dead beneath burning ash.

I was sent into the mind of one of those women. I saw through her eyes. Unbalanced by fear and loneliness, by the poison she constantly breathed, she did welcome and lie with a man during the time dedicated to chastity. She took him to the shrine. There, he turned on her. He beat and bound her. This warrior’s men found the high priestess, asleep in her chamber. They dragged her to the altar and outraged her there, she whose body was dedicated to the Goddess alone.

This warrior and his soldiers pulled over the sacred statues, breaking them to bits.

I could not see his face, but blurred impressions came to me: people screaming as they were cut down, steam rising from pots, concoctions drunk, black prayers, and blood. The outline of this man seemed familiar. There was a beard that proclaimed him an Achaean or some other barbarian, mighty shoulders, battle scars, but his face remained hidden, smeared like wet paint. He stood before the priestesses and declared himself lord and king of the islands, even of Kaphtor. He proclaimed an end to the holy king-sacrifice and promised he would rule for the length of his natural life.

Laodámeia tells me I shrieked during the trance and tried to throw myself into the pit. Horror lies like the weight of the ocean upon my soul.

I see such a length of deep shadow that our children’s distant unborn descendants will be blinded by its darkness.

If we can show we are still Goddess Athene’s, completely, utterly, that we will give whatever we must, whatever she wants, to prove our devotion, we have a chance. It begins with Iphiboë. I think we must also seek out and kill this murderous barbarian. Only then can we hope for forgiveness.

At first Helice didn’t believe me when I told her. When she realized I was not lying, she dropped to the shrine floor, gouging at her eyes. “Why could Athene not take me?” she cried. “I would have given myself. I have lived. Iphiboë. My child….”

I gave her poppy. She fell asleep in my arms, whispering her daughter’s name. I hate myself for the grief I have caused this poor woman.

When did she become so thin and fragile? Holding her, I realized for the first time that Queen Helice of Kaphtor is lost to her people. The imperious ruler who cowed would-be invaders and brought warriors to their knees, she who commanded the respect of all surrounding countries—that singular leader is gone. She slipped away and I didn’t even notice. All that remains is a tired old woman, crushed by illness and desolation.

She isn’t the one who will lead us back to prosperity.

None thought Iphiboë possessed more than a glimmer of the fascination that draws everyone to Aridela like flame to oil. Shy and timid, she became almost invisible in her sister’s presence.

Yet she kissed Aridela and leaped from the cliffs with determination and courage. Iphiboë made this sacrifice with a willing heart, to save Kaphtor.

For the first time in many days, the earth did not shake. Today it rained, real, fresh rain, which seemed to bury some of the ash. After, the sun came out, still hazy, but bringing rainbows that stretched from horizon to horizon.

My priestesses and I watched the sun go down. I cannot describe the brilliance of the heavens. It was like being lifted in the hand of a god, of swimming through color, breathing every hue ever imagined until I became something other than a mortal woman. I was color itself. It was like being washed clean in a vast sea of paint.

The waning moon is as red as blood.

Chrysaleon found Menoetius after a long day of clearing rubble at Labyrinthos. His brother looked tired. Not surprising, as he had spent his day collecting corpses. Chrysaleon was tired too, but not enough to seek his bed. Though his burns and other injuries didn’t hurt so much anymore, gruesome nightmares made sleeping difficult, and lying in his bed made the longing for Aridela almost unbearable. Nine days he had waited for her to return. She’d promised him it would only be two or three.

“Knucklebones?” he asked. Menoetius hesitated then gave a weary nod.

They’d hardly begun their game before messengers came through announcing the royal family’s return. Exchanging a glance, the two ran to the south gate.

Helice stepped out of her litter, drew her fur close around her face, and walked away without responding to anyone who bowed and greeted her.

“Aridela,” Chrysaleon said, frowning after the queen. “Has something happened?”

“My sister is dead.” The gaze she leveled on him was opaque, emotionless. “She offered herself in the hope that Athene’s rage might cool.”

Shock bolted through him. He sensed more than saw Menoetius’s head rear back sharply. He started to speak, then didn’t, not knowing what to say.

Murmurs rose from those who overheard. Aridela glanced at them. “Athene’s anger is great,” she said. “Our oracle understood that we must make a sacrifice beyond any other. I only pray, if ever I am called, that I can equal my sister’s courage.” Her voice trembled; she fell silent and her jaw clenched.

Only later, when Chrysaleon lay alone and sleepless in the undamaged west wing of Labyrinthos, did realization wash over him.

He no longer faced union with a woman he didn’t desire.

Aridela was now Queen Helice’s oldest daughter.

Selene’s vision on the mountain would come true. The Goddess had stated that Aridela would take Kaphtor’s throne.

Now she would.

Mourning and death blanketed Kaphtor.

Helice closeted herself and refused to see anyone. Aridela sank into despair so dark Chrysaleon could see no way of breaking through. The intensity of her grief was foreign to him. He found himself dwelling morosely on the uninhibited passion she’d offered in the cave, her incandescent laughter when she leaped the wild bull, her unselfconscious exuberance as she played with her companions in the forest pool. Was that woman lost forever? Could she possibly come back after all this?

Iphiboë. Half the country ridiculed her when she was alive. In death, she became Crete’s greatest hero.

Chrysaleon walked with his brother to the cliffs near the razed port of Amnisos. Wreckage and carcasses still littered the beach and clotted the bay. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air. Every ship at anchor that day succumbed to the tremendous wave. Now Crete’s people were cut off from the rest of the world. Worse was the annihilation of the island’s master shipbuilders, who had made their homes in the ports. Only a few survived, and to those fell the gigantic task of reconstruction.

His thoughts turned to his father, his brother, Gelanor, his sister, Bateia. What of Iros, his child-wife? Had those lethal poison clouds of fire reached Mycenae? He and Menoetius were prisoners of this destruction. How long would it be before they could find out what had happened elsewhere?

In one night, the invincible country of Crete was rendered weak and vulnerable; grief and shock seemed to have numbed the rulers into listless apathy.

He half-hoped the kingdoms of Argolis had suffered as much damage to their ships and harbors, for if they hadn’t, they would soon arrive to take advantage of this newly helpless land.

“What is out there, beyond our sight?” Chrysaleon muttered. “Isy. Kos. Rhodes. Does anything live, anywhere?”

“Truly, Goddess Athene’s anger is terrible, that she would destroy her own faithful lands.” Menoetius made the sign against evil.

“What caused this anger? What did these people do?”

“Some say you brought it.”

Chrysaleon faced his brother. “Why?” He’d felt the growing chill directed toward him, glimpsed it in averted faces.

“You’ve heard the rumors. Their oracle claims one of us desecrated the shrine on Callisti. She says this man raped and murdered the holy priestess. You and I are the same to them, barbarians who give allegiance to Poseidon, not Athene.”

“If Lady Athene did not want me as Iphiboë’s consort, why did I win the Games? Aridela’s father was a warrior of Gla. He was heaped with honor and glory. Why did they not kill me, instead of Iphiboë, if they think I am the reason for all this?”

Shrugging, Menoetius said, “I merely repeat the gossip. I have no answers. The people are afraid, and want to blame someone. Anyone.”

“I must diffuse this suspicion.”

“How?”

“I will find a way.”

Survivors from the eastern provinces claimed they walked through ash so deep it covered their anklebones. Fire and the heave of the earth obliterated Elasa, the palace-temple in the northeast, and Phaistos in the south.

Messengers from the western provinces, however, offered brighter news. Only a smattering of ash fell west of the Ida mountains, and no one saw any poison clouds. The ground suffered nothing more than minor quivers as the Earth Bull cleared his throat. Crops in the west might survive, unless this unseasonable frost continued.

A lethargic Helice followed the admonishments of the council and relocated her court while repairs commenced on Labyrinthos and the port of Amnisos. After hearing from every precinct, she chose an inconspicuous hamlet in the southwest province as her temporary refuge. Even though it lay on the coast, the murderous waves ravaged only its harbor and ships; the village, tucked into the cliffs and hills, suffered no damage.

Though death and injury had diminished her entourage, the royal train still stretched in a seemingly endless serpentine line. Aridela, reclining in a litter just behind Helice’s, peered backward at refugees, litters, oxen, carts, donkeys and goats, and wondered how a negligible spot like Natho could possibly feed and shelter them all. Not only would this influx of people need to be fed, but food and other essentials must also be found and sent back to those who worked in the ruined areas. Her mother should have picked Kydonia, a major city center in the northwest that also escaped the worst of the destruction, but Helice confessed to a shrinking horror of the entire northern coast, and wanted to be as far from it as possible.

Ash polluted the snowfall on the eastern slopes of Mount Ida. All the way through the pass, bouts of thunder and lightning threatened; cold darkness made day and night nearly indistinguishable and the earth shuddered as though recoiling from a mortal wound. Every time thunder muttered or a blood-red moon rose in the heavens, Aridela recoiled too, and fought off streams of fear, guilt, memories, and grief.

Yet as the procession emerged onto the west side of the mountain, sunlight pierced the clouds, glinting against drifts of pure snow. There was no discernable ash. The air was clean and fresh. The land continued to improve the farther south and west they traveled. Dusty green olive groves stretched across the foothills. Cypresses remained tall, unbent. It felt as though the queen’s court had abandoned Kaphtor altogether and journeyed to a distant, undisturbed country.

The people of Natho emerged in welcome, yet none cheered or threw flowers as they would have normally. They kept their heads lowered; swollen-eyed women offered sympathy as the royal family passed, and touched the edges of Helice’s litter. Aridela heard the words our beloved queen repeated until it merged into a sorrowful chant.

Chrysaleon, wearing the king’s crown, along with the fact that he and Menoetius were the only ones riding horses, made it easy for the people to identify him as the mysterious foreign bull-king.

No one here knew Iphiboë had dreaded taking him as consort, or that Chrysaleon and Aridela were lovers. They didn’t know the affectionate title of ‘Gold Lion’ used on the mainland, nor had they heard any gossip suggesting he might be the cause of the destruction. They believed him an honorable king, cheated through no fault of his own out of his kingdom, queen, and country, and generously extended their sympathy.

Do you think I haven’t seen how you look at each other? An ox could see.

Tears welled, blurring Aridela’s first glimpse of her new home. Iphiboë had blessed Aridela’s union with Chrysaleon. She’d never made accusations, never suggested he might have secret motives when he lay with Aridela or sought to win the kingship.

We go about our lives in ignorance, but the Goddess has every shade and texture perfectly woven into a magnificent tapestry.

Iphiboë knew, perhaps for years, how she would die. Yet she never said a word. She’d embraced her death with faith and courage, while shrinking at the thought of coupling with a man. While Aridela complained about her own small dissatisfactions, Iphiboë carried this heavy secret. How long had Aridela felt superior to her sister, only to discover, when it was too late, that her sister was not what she seemed.

The road made sharp switchbacks through the village and up a steep hill. At the summit, the travelers beheld the sea, sparkling and cobalt blue as always, peaceful, as though its open-jawed hunger for destruction and death was nothing more than a bad dream. Only distant piles of trash and the lack of ships in the harbor below offered any suggestion of harm.

Their guides brought them to a spacious villa overlooking the sea, offered for their use by the merchant who built it.

Aridela drew in a deep breath.

She felt isolated and alone in a land of strangers.

Once, in happier times, Aridela and Iphiboë whisked a visiting emissary’s daughter away from her nurses. An unruly Aridela conceived the prank and bullied her sister into going along. They took the five-year-old to a waterfall where they often swam, and talked her into jumping off the cliff to the pool beneath. Through Athene’s grace, the child came to no harm. When Helice and her guest discovered his daughter missing and the Cretan nurses came crying about losing the princesses, an alarm was called. Searchers found the three girls beside the pond. Aridela had placed a crown of moss and leaves on the naked child’s brow and was teaching her to commune with the water spirits. Helice’s daughters were sent to their chambers with nothing to eat but stale bread for three days, and forced to apologize to the foreigner for their bad manners.

Eight days after the move to Natho, Aridela dreamed of that event, but this time it was Iphiboë who leaped from the top of the waterfall. The grassy hill transformed into the sharp murderous cliffs over the sea. The face she lifted toward Aridela as she dropped to her death was filled with accusation. Rocks at the bottom shattered her body and silenced her screams.

“Where is our prince this morning?” Helice murmured. “It grows late. I fear Lycus may come and there will be more unpleasantness.”

Neither the Destruction nor the passage of time had cooled Lycus’s hatred for the foreign prince from Mycenae. Since the night Chrysaleon nearly killed him in the labyrinth as they fought for kingship, Lycus’s rage had only escalated.

The petulance in her mother’s voice startled Aridela back to the present, to the airy chamber where they were having breakfast.

“Then why invite him?” Selene asked. “It only aggravates Lycus’s jealousy.”

Aridela looked down at her untouched figs and barley bread. A maid poured her a cup of goat’s milk, once a favorite. Now the smell of it gave her a headache.

“I feel as Lycus does,” Selene said. “Look what came of a barbarian winning the Games. It would be better for Kaphtor if he leaves on the first ship strong enough to carry him home.”

“Would you send Menoetius away so easily?” Aridela asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Selene’s gaze faltered.

Helice dismissed the tension with an impatient sigh. “We must find a way for these western precincts to feed the entire island,” she said. “Surplus stores from the palaces will help. But the workers tell me most of the grain and honey jars at Labyrinthos were crushed. Aridela, I am meeting today with local farmers. Go with me. Put your mind to work—brooding helps nothing.” She leaned over to touch her daughter’s hand. “I worry about you.”

Aridela avoided her mother’s tender gaze. She couldn’t confess the depth of her grief and guilt to Helice, who remained ignorant of all that had transpired between her daughter and the foreign prince. Aridela felt closer to Chrysaleon than ever. His actions during the cataclysm had replaced her girlish infatuation with admiration and trust. He’d offered his body in defense of hers, when rifts in the earth sought to swallow them. It must have been agonizing for him when she’d climbed up his chest and over his injuries. He’d stretched his arm over her head and shoulders in an effort to protect her during the blaze of wind-fire, and later, at Phaistos, he tried to shelter her from the horrors. He never left her side except when he descended into the underground to rescue survivors and to search for water.

She didn’t want to add to her mother’s despair, either. Helice was no longer the proud, invincible queen of legend and bard song. Iphiboë’s death had completed the ruin of that monarch, much like the poison gases, ashfall, and earthshakings ruined Kaphtor. The queen had little interest in anything now, and spent most of every day in her darkened bedchamber, alone with her grief.

“Don’t worry about me, Mother,” she said. “I’m just tired.”

Themiste’s visionary recounting of the barbarian overthrow on Callisti hadn’t dampened Aridela’s yearning for the prince from Mycenae. Thankfully, Helice disagreed that Chrysaleon should be held to blame for the actions of other men simply because they hailed from his area of the world.

When Helice’s expression remained distressed, she added, “I dream of Iphiboë… often.”

“Messengers from Labyrinthos tell us there have been no convulsions of the earth since her sacrifice,” Selene said. “They say the sky is beginning to clear. Her intercession has softened the Lady’s anger, I know it. Iphiboë proved herself worthy and courageous, yet, Aridela, even so, you know taking the throne would have been difficult for her.”

The Natho merchant’s ubiquitous servants opened the far doors, saving Aridela from finding a reply. They bowed as Chrysaleon and his guard entered the room. Silence fell as people throughout the chamber nudged each other.

The prince was clean-shaven. The sight of his bare young face resurrected in startling detail Aridela’s dream on Mount Juktas.

For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together, we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us.

She’d nearly forgotten that warm, honeyed night and seductive voice. Thinking of it now left her aching for lost sunny days, when she had nothing to do but plot a romance with Lycus, dream of golden gods, bicker with Iphiboë, and complain about tutors she thought were too strict.

He approached the queen’s table and bowed.

“My lady,” he said.

Helice stood, inclining her head as formally as he. “What has happened to your beard, my lord?”

“Kaphtor is my home now,” he replied. “I want to adopt her customs and traditions.”

“You show us great honor. I can only apologize to you for the poor showing you’ve been given so far.” She paused then briskly gestured to the cushions beside her. “I haven’t yet had a chance to ask after your father. All Kaphtor joins me in hope that your country escaped these troubles. Sit here with me. Have something to eat.”

“First, my lady, I crave your indulgence.” Chrysaleon’s voice carried through the room.

Silence, thickened by curiosity, infused the chamber.

“All we possess is yours, Zagreus,” Helice said, inclining her head again.

“Yes, I am Zagreus, bull-king of Kaphtor. I performed every rite you asked of me and was chosen to win by Lady Athene. But it is a title without meaning. I am unaccustomed to such idleness, my lady, and have given the dilemma much consideration. Since I can never be consort to Iphiboë, I propose that you join Princess Aridela to me in her stead.”

Helice stared, clearly shocked. The rest of the room echoed with the lively, scandalized whispering of those who overheard.

“I won the Games,” he continued. “I strengthened my claim through the killing of the Zagreus. I am here, ready to make the thirteen sacrifices and fulfill my obligation. I want to lead our people back to Athene’s grace.”

An odd ringing in Aridela’s ears almost drowned out his voice. She clenched her hands to stop their quivering. No, not now, she thought. Not yet. You belittle Iphiboë with this haste.

Chrysaleon cut through the rising wave of gossip. “Queen Helice,” he said, “I offer myself without condition, though more than a month of my rightful time as consort has been stolen from me—”

“You go too far, barbarian.”

Lycus, assisted by two women, entered just in time to hear the last part of Chrysaleon’s speech.

Helice sighed and nodded to her guards; they advanced, one on either side of Lycus, and seized his arms, pushing the women away.

He struggled, staring with white-rimmed eyes from Chrysaleon to Helice to Aridela. “You restrain me? He’s the one. He fools you all. Are you thick-headed, or blind?”

“Take him to his chamber,” Helice said. “He needs rest.” Her lips tightened as the guards dragged Lycus from the room. She motioned to a handmaid. “Send Rhené to him,” she said in a low voice, “with poppy.” Turning back to Chrysaleon, she smiled and bowed. “Patience, my lord. As you know, Lycus has not yet recovered from his wounds.”

His angry frown smoothed. “I understand the suspicion your people feel,” he said. “I am a foreigner, a barbarian, as some say. But, Queen Helice, I ask you to understand what prompts me to make this offer.” He paused, half-turning as if to include the onlookers in his speech. “Never in my life have I known any woman comparable to the royal daughters of Kaphtor. Iphiboë possessed the courage of the wild lions that rule my homeland’s mountains. I see the same courage in her sister. I saw it when she stepped into the ring to meet the bull, and again the night Phaistos burned. The acceptance Lady Aridela has shown me, a foreigner, recalls my mother, whose nobility never failed her in any circumstance. She was famed throughout Argolis for her spirit and generosity.” He paused again, meeting Helice’s gaze, and added, his voice betraying nothing but steady confidence, “Love for the princess of Kaphtor has overtaken all other ambition. I offer my life in her service. Surely Lady Athene herself instilled this desire in me.”

The carved ivory disks and onyx beads hanging from the circlet around Helice’s head trembled. So did her voice, just slightly, as she replied. “Prince Chrysaleon, you show us great honor. My daughter feels as I do.”

Aridela nodded, but she knew by Helice’s set mouth, shuttered eyes, and the deliberate use of his real name, what she was thinking. It’s too soon. Menoetius, standing to the side, scowled as though he, too, disagreed with Chrysaleon’s rash actions. If only she were still friends with the man she had known as Carmanor. She could advise him and he could in turn advise his master. Tears filled her eyes. She seemed incapable of finishing half a day without self-indulgent tears spouting over one thing or another.

“These matters cannot be undertaken lightly,” Helice continued. “They deserve the most serious consideration.”

Chrysaleon nodded.

“You have in truth won the Games. You made the great sacrifice, as our traditions demand. You have honored every requirement set before the man who would be consort and bull-king. Your worth is beyond question.”

He sent a quick glance toward Aridela.

“I must discuss your request with my council. Nothing is as it was, my lord.”

“I await your decision,” he said.

With unreadable eyes and an impassive face, Helice motioned to Aridela to accompany her, and left the chamber.

Themiste could not be found, so Helice’s twelve advisors convened without her. Oneaea, the queen’s sister and chief counselor, drummed her fingers on the table and leveled a narrowed glare upon Aridela. “Did you have knowledge of this beforehand?”

“No.” Aridela spoke the truth, yet her lover’s character should have warned her. He wasn’t a man to wait for things to happen. He was a man who made things happen. The fact that his life would end in one year if he remained on Kaphtor as bull-king must have spurred him to disregard the inauspicious timing and make this preemptive move. What brought beads of sweat to her scalp and uncomfortable heat to her face now was the fear of his actions leading to their secret being exposed. The humiliation and scorn would be worse than any physical punishment.

“It is most grave,” Oneaea continued. “There is much to be decided and the path we tread is dangerous. But I tell you: I will never condone such a union, even if we were to put aside Themiste’s choice for your future. An Achaean—the same breed as Callisti’s destroyer. Everyone knows by now of the Minos’s vision. All the mainland clans are cursed. If we allow any collaboration with them, I have no doubt we will suffer the consequences. Were it up to me, I would banish the prince and all his men to some out-of-the-way corner until a ship can carry them away.” Oneaea sent the queen a stern, openly blaming gaze.

“True, everything has changed,” said Prince Kios before Helice could react. Aridela’s uncle was a thoughtful man with a reputation for wisdom; as soon as he spoke, everyone turned toward him and offered courteous attention.

He looks tired. Grief over the loss of his wife has not yet abated. The thought only served to bring back images of Iphiboë. Aridela bit her lower lip and sighed.

Rubbing his eyes, Kios said, “It is hard to know what to do, but my instincts tell me that we dare not accept this man as our king, despite the outcome of the Games.” Drawing in a deep breath, he added in a low voice, “We must be rid of him, somehow.”

Oneaea returned her accusatory stare to Helice. “You’ve given him an excessive sense of himself with your doting and attentions. How could he otherwise be unaware of the arrogance he displayed today? Most didn’t trust him before, including me. He has no humility. That he dare come before us publicly and demand Aridela, like she is one of his mainland slaves—to be given for the price of a beard!”

Helice frowned. She crossed her arms over her chest and ran her palms over her shoulders as though she was cold.

“It could be as he says.” Aridela tried to appear casual. “Perhaps he is willing to love me in Iphiboë’s stead.”

Oneaea shook her head. “What does that matter? His own countrymen caused the near-annihilation of our entire world, perhaps with his knowledge.” She struck the table with her fist. “You may not know this, but some suspect he staged the horrors on Callisti while remaining here, courting Iphiboë and cloaking himself in a veil of innocence. I agree with Kios. The violence of that night, all we have suffered, and most of all, your sister’s death; these events have destroyed traditional relations with the mainland. We are weakened, and must be extra vigilant. There can be no sacred king now unless it is one of Kaphtor’s own, a man we can fully trust.”

“Does he deserve this judgment?” Aridela rose from her chair and paced, fighting to quiet her scattered nerves and keep her voice even. “I feel as Mother does—there is no evidence to link him with what happened, and without that, we cannot blame him for what other men may or may not have done. Kaphtor’s women have long taken Achaean men as husbands. You did so yourself, Mother. There’s nothing new about it. Chrysaleon is my equal in rank and he won the Games. Where has he transgressed us? He has made every effort to show us respect and honor, and he denied any knowledge of whatever evil may have transpired on Callisti. We haven’t yet received news from there, anyway, only Themiste’s vision. None of us can pretend her visions have always been accurate.” Locking her gaze to her mother’s, she added, “Chrysaleon could have abandoned me multiple times on the night of the poison fires and death. When the earth split open, he could have let me fall. He could have left me to burn. But instead he used his body as a shield to protect me. He risked his own life to preserve mine.”

Helice’s reply shocked her. “Apparently you have developed feelings for him as he has for you.”

Aridela felt her face betray her with hot color. She’d given away more than she intended. “I try, as you taught me, to be impartial. I don’t believe the prince to be underhanded. I’ve conversed with him many times, more than any of you. I have seen no deception in his face or manner. It was clear to me on that terrible night that he would sacrifice himself in order to save me.” She placed her hands on the table. “My aunt says he has no humility, but Chrysaleon came to you and asked your permission. He shaved his beard, which we know is never done, and vowed to submit to our ways. How can this be called arrogance? What more could he do to win your approval?”

“You’re right, Aridela.” Helice gave a brief nod. “We cannot allow emotion to sway our judgment. I’ve given much thought to the prince, and though your words are eloquent, I will share my concerns. Chrysaleon expends considerable effort to achieve brief kingship and his own death, when he could have Mycenae’s crown and live until unknowable fate severs the thread of his life. I have learned he has a wife there and has fathered children. Does he mean to die at the next rising of Iakchos, or does he have other plans, plans designed to benefit Mycenae rather than Kaphtor?”

“He is subject to our laws, now more than ever. He cannot think that has changed.” Even as Aridela spoke in her lover’s defense, she remembered him asking her to abandon her country for Mycenae. He had dismissed with scorn the wife who waited for him there. Confusion and fear sharpened her voice. “Do we or do we not believe the Lady chooses our sacred kings? If we believe it, as we’ve always claimed, our direction is clear. Chrysaleon descended into the labyrinth and killed the Zagreus. He won the Games. Athene chose him. To lie to him, to send him away—it is this sort of defiance that risks more divine anger.”

Oneaea fingered one of the crystals in her necklace. Her clenched jaw and stony expression remained unrepentant. “He does not and never has seemed to me a man who would walk willingly into certain death. At Mycenae, he is heir to kingship over all the Kindred. He will inherit riches, power and glory, if any remain.”

“We’ve discussed this many times,” Aridela said, no longer trying to hide her impatience. “We asked him repeatedly if he wanted this, if he was willing to honor our laws. He agreed, time and time again.”

“Yes,” Helice said. “We’re not arguing that fact. We’re wondering if his agreement was sincere, or if other motives hide beneath his spoken words.”

Oneaea rose from her chair. She leaned forward, fists pressed to the tabletop. “Mycenae offers but shallow honor to Potnia Athene. I’ve heard they call Poseidon her uncle, and give him authority over her.” She sneered, making clear her disdain. “If he were anyone other than the son of Idómeneus, High King of Mycenae, I might consider this union—if, indeed, Themiste would relinquish her claim upon you, Aridela. I wish she were here to consult. That aside….” She banged her fist on the marble tabletop. “I don’t trust him. I vote to refuse and banish him.”

“The ship being built in the harbor is almost finished,” Kios said. “It will be ready to sail in a few days.”

Helice nodded. “In many ways I admire the prince, and I will always be grateful for the protection he offered you, but in this matter I agree with my sister and brother.”

Aridela bowed her head. Again, eyesight melted into a haze of tears, but these burned with fury, not grief. Her teeth clenched. Here, at this momentous crossroads, she was being dismissed, her years of training, education, and preparation given no weight. The council obviously didn’t think she should have any say, though every one of these decisions concerned her. Even so, her mind, trained to look at things from all sides, forced her to concede. “Chrysaleon is a proud man from a race of warriors where the male reigns supreme,” she said, very softly. “I have to admit he may not understand, or might plan to thwart the ways of our people. I wish I could prove his honesty. I wish he were a common man. I think then you would trust him, as I do.”

“The barbarian profanes us.” Triumph glittered in Oneaea’s dark eyes. “Before more punishment falls, we will show the Goddess and her son Velchanos, that we will never bend to the ways of foreigners. Themiste must go into trance—false if need be, to speak Athene’s wishes. Then Chrysaleon won’t be able to accuse us of prejudice.”

“A false trance?” Aridela stared at her aunt. “Is that what we now stoop to? Cheap trickery? Is that what you think of our oracle?”

“Aridela,” Helice began.

Aridela threw up her hand in an impulsive demand for silence. “Why do you think you can speak for Themiste? Intolerance has clouded your judgment, aunt. I want to know what Minos Themiste’s true opinion would be if she were here, not what you foist upon her.”

“Silence.” Helice rose from her chair, her skin mottling from forehead to chest. “You will not speak in such a manner to my council. Go to your chamber and wait there for me.”

When Aridela opened her mouth to argue, her mother stopped her with a pointed finger and flashing eyes. For an instant, she resembled the Helice of old. “Do you think to defy me?”

“Follow your mother’s wishes, child,” Prince Kios said, giving her an understanding smile.

Aridela ran from the room. Tears flooded so hotly she could scarcely see where she stepped. She longed to run to Iphiboë, to scream, weep, and allow her anger its just release. But Iphiboë was dead. Neoma would be her next choice, but her cousin still lay near death from her head wound. Isandros, who shared so many of her childhood adventures and helped her defy the restrictions placed by birth, was dead as well.

There was only one person in whom she could confide. One person, who should have been at this meeting, and to whom she must now bare every secret.

Chrysaleon was summoned to the queen’s makeshift council chamber the following morning.

Helice sat upon her throne, which had been hauled over the mountains from Knossos to Natho on an ox-drawn cart. At her right stood Aridela. A necklace of golden ivy, fashioned by master artisans, fell in priceless drifts over her breasts. Themiste stood on the queen’s left, her face and thoughts hidden behind the terrible bull’s mask, feathered, jeweled, and horned in ivory, that marked her station.

“We must choose our words with care,” Helice said to Aridela. “Kaphtor is unprepared to engage in war. Anything we can do to preserve the ties we have forged must be done.”

“Except giving Chrysaleon what he wants,” Aridela said. “What he fought for, nearly died for, and has every right to expect.”

Helice made no verbal reply, but her measured stare and pointed frown demanded obedience.

Bystanders gossiped in low voices. Lycus reclined on a litter in the corner, scowling. Four beautiful and attentive women knelt beside the litter, smiling, flirting, touching him. But his dark, angry gaze kept returning to the dais and Aridela.

Helice’s steward escorted the Mycenaean prince and his guard into the room. Chrysaleon strode through the press, watching the three at the throne as though he might discern his fate from their expressions, but only Aridela’s gaze faltered. The others were too experienced to give anything away.

Helice rose. She lifted her scepter, a gold and ivory labrys, to command silence. With a polite inclination of her head, she began. “Prince Chrysaleon, heir to the kingdom of Mycenae, son of High King Idómeneus. You fought for my daughter Iphiboë, who gave her life in supreme sacrifice to save her people. You have stated your willingness to accept my younger daughter in Iphiboë’s stead. My council has discussed the matter with care and consideration.”

Chrysaleon’s gaze never wavered from the queen’s, though his brows lowered. Aridela watched his jaw clench.

Invisible charges of lightning seemed to zip between the two. The air felt sweaty hot, and the crowded chamber grew still, apprehensive.

Aridela’s skin crawled; she could hardly breathe. She felt Athene’s eyes staring down upon the scene.

“My lord,” Helice said, “you proved yourself as powerful a warrior as Aridela’s father, my beloved Damasen, who gave his life bravely, and who now watches over those he loves from Lady Potnia’s land of honey and nectar.”

Chrysaleon inclined his head.

Helice seemed to decide she’d made enough conciliatory statements, or perhaps that his patience was wearing thin. Lifting her chin, she said clearly, without hesitation, “Kaphtor’s council refuses your request, though we recognize your worth and all we owe you. Our gratitude is measureless, Prince Chrysaleon.”

She offered her most gracious smile, but Chrysaleon’s frown remained.

Helice cleared her throat. “We cannot continue as though nothing is changed when everything has. I urge you to return to the mainland, my lord, to your wife, and a long, respected reign as High King—”

“You disregard your own laws?” Chrysaleon’s voice rang against the walls. “Aridela will be queen. I won the Games. I am bull-king, and have won the right to be consort, either to her or to you.”

Helice drew in a deep breath. Briefly, her eyes narrowed in a way Aridela knew and respected. The queen of Kaphtor was not accustomed to being challenged. “My lord, you are not privy to every circumstance surrounding my youngest daughter.” Her voice was studiously patient now, as though she hung onto the last shreds of control over anger. “Omens follow her. On the night she was born, a bolt of lightning struck the summit of our holy mountain and she herself was marked with its burn. Long have we considered the portents of this event. Aridela added to her own mystery by speaking prophecy when she was but a child. Because of what we have suffered, of what our oracle has seen, because of the written prophecies—of which you know nothing—the council has decided to initiate new traditions. Aridela was promised to Minos Themiste, and dedicated to oracle training; the prophecy she spoke showed this to be her calling. We will now combine the queenship with her original purpose.”

Aridela stared at her mother. No one had told her of this plan. Helice and the council must have come up with it after ejecting her from their discussion. She noticed the smug satisfaction on her aunt Oneaea’s face.

The way Chrysaleon jerked his chin and released a sharp breath clearly demonstrated his impatience. Helice hurried on. “Aridela will take no yearly consort. She shall rule according to the Great Marriage. The children she bears will be the fruit of the grove. We hope this will please Goddess Athene and bring us back into her favor.”

Aridela’s breathing shortened. Her heart sped up. The Great Marriage? Her face flushed.

Chrysaleon’s gaze broke its hold on Helice’s at last, shooting first to Aridela, then Menoetius.

“The Great Marriage,” he said.

“This is no reflection upon you,” Helice said. “It is merely our attempt to correct a certain laxness and indifference that has, we now see, crept into our lives and angered our Mistress.”

From the corner, Lycus gave a snort of laughter. “At last,” he said, loud enough to be overheard.

Eyes narrowed, mouth tight, Chrysaleon pivoted. Aridela sensed his muscles tensing, and feared there would be a brawl. Menoetius stepped closer to his prince.

But Chrysaleon surprised her by turning back to the queen with a dismissive snort. The anger on his face vanished, leaving determination. “It is too late for that,” he said, sending his voice like the snap of a whip over the assemblage. “Mortal man has already coupled with Princess Aridela, outside the grove. I was that man. She may in fact carry my child in her womb.”

Gasps and protests filled the chamber. Aridela closed her eyes, swaying under a deluge of lightheadedness. She gripped the backrest on her mother’s throne. If only Helice had warned her of this excuse they meant to foist off on him. She would have confessed her crime. This public humiliation would have been avoided. She sensed Themiste staring at her, and tried desperately to control her expression and her reaction.

“My lord,” Menoetius said in a tone of warning. His hand wandered to his hip, where his sword would be if weapons were allowed in this room.

“Barbarian filth,” Lycus shouted. Chrysaleon smiled, lifting his brow as he glanced at the wounded bull dancer. Aridela couldn’t help but admire his triumph and confidence, when, if he but knew it, his very life hung by a single rotted strand of seaweed.

Themiste stepped forward. Such was her dominance from behind the mask that silence fell instantly. Her voice, neither male nor female but somehow reflecting the Divine, echoed off ceiling and walls. “You dare blaspheme us? Aridela was dedicated to Athene when she was born. At my decree, she has given herself to no man, in or out of the grove.”

Chrysaleon turned to Aridela. “Tell them,” he said.

Helice seized Aridela’s arm. “Is this true?” she asked, fear and anger in her eyes.

Even before Helice finished her question, the pottery in the wall niches started to rattle as though a herd of oxen were stampeding on the other side of the wall.

Themiste’s hand stretched to Helice’s.

Murmurs grew swift, loud, and frightened. Those who had come to see what might happen with the foreigner milled like beasts trapped in a pen.

A lamp fell and shattered on the tiles. From the stones, from deep within the earth’s dark, moist, secret places, a low, throbbing bellow oozed.

Panic exploded. “The Earth Bull,” someone cried.

“Goddess is again angry!”

Several women screamed. It was deafening in the small chamber.

The bellow intensified; walls reverberated and vases shattered. Water splashed over the edge of the purifying basin.

Themiste dropped to her knees. She pressed her fists to her breasts and lowered her head.

Helice and Aridela did the same.

“Isoke,” Helice whispered.

Aridela opened her eyes. Chrysaleon stood before them, feet planted firm and wide, arms crossed. He scowled down at them as though he didn’t care about the rumble of the earth, the broken pottery and frantic people who now fought to escape through the single narrow door.

“Pray, my queen,” Themiste cried. “Pray for forgiveness.”

“You have betrayed the wishes of Athene, not I.” Chrysaleon seized Aridela’s arm and yanked her to her feet. “I won’t leave her here,” he said to Helice’s startled protest. “What if the ceiling falls? Stay if you wish, Queen Helice.” He shoved through the crowd, knocking people out of his way, dragging Aridela with him. Menoetius followed close behind.

The heave of the earth was short. By the time they emerged into the courtyard, all had stilled, leaving giant cracks in the brilliant blue paint on the entrance pillars. Broken pottery and overturned flowerpots littered the ground. The threshold stone bore an ugly ragged fracture.

Aridela peered from Chrysaleon to his guard and back again. “Did you do this?” she asked, trembling and terrified.

“I cannot make the earth shake,” he said with the faintest of smiles. “But in truth, had I that ability, I would have used it.” He clasped her forearms so hard she gasped, and nearly cried out. “By the Father of Horses, I will have you.” His lips whitened and the tips of his fingers dug into her flesh. “I will rip that woman’s head off.”

“No,” Aridela cried, not knowing if he spoke of her mother or Themiste.

“Menoetius.” Chrysaleon kept his narrowed, furious gaze fixed on Aridela. “Find a ship, a boat, or a plank of wood. We’re leaving this cursed island.”

“No,” Aridela and Menoetius shouted in unison. Menoetius shoved Chrysaleon in the chest, forcing him to release Aridela and driving him backward until the courtyard wall stopped them both. Aridela remained still, gasping, trying to brace for the next shudder of the earth.

Surprise passed over Chrysaleon’s face when Menoetius pinned his arms then drove the breath from his lungs with a hard thrust of the shoulder. Every time Chrysaleon attempted to free himself, Menoetius’s grip changed to keep him trapped.

At last, only a sneer betrayed Chrysaleon’s impotent rage.

“Does the queen speak for you?” Chrysaleon asked Aridela.

“I am bound to follow the council’s decision.”

“You will lie with a man only at the Festival of Velchanos—a man wearing a mask. You won’t know the name or face of he who plants his seed within you. That is what you want?”

Once more he strained to free himself, but Menoetius held him firm. “Curse you and every bastard you ever sire,” Chrysaleon said. “You’ve lied to me about far too many things.”

The way they stared into each other’s eyes sent an uneasy tremor down Aridela’s spine.

“You make my duty seem a poor fate,” she said, hoping to divert this hostility between them.

“Why did the council reject me? The true reason.”

Aridela searched for duplicity in Chrysaleon’s eyes, but saw only anger and frustration. “They believe Mycenae will use our weakened condition to subjugate us. The truth is they have never trusted you. They remember the history of your people. Did the ancestors of your Kindred Kings not overthrow the entire Argolid?”

Menoetius turned his head and frowned at her, his expression indecipherable, but Chrysaleon laughed bitterly. “Is there a Mycenae? Does it have ships or warriors? My father might be dead. Our citadel may lie in ruins like so many of yours. I asked to remain here because living my old life, without you, is worse than death. Worse than defeat.”

Menoetius’s stare, as it shot back to the prince, was naked with surprise. That more than anything else convinced Aridela of Chrysaleon’s sincerity.

“Release me,” Chrysaleon said, “before I order my loyal men to throw you into the deepest hole on Crete.”

Menoetius stepped away and Chrysaleon straightened. Aridela approached him and leaned against his chest, closing her eyes. He put his arm around her.

“I know you grieve for your sister,” he said. “I grieve with you. But her death does make you Kaphtor’s heir. Your mother lied. I don’t believe you’ll be given to the priestesses nor will they abandon the sacred kings. It’s me they don’t want. They’ve lost their faith. That’s why the earth shakes, and why it will go on shaking.”

Lycus emerged from the villa on his litter, his female attendants surrounding him, and began screaming curses and threats as soon as he spotted Chrysaleon. The bearers took him the other direction, down the steep road toward the village.

Aridela touched Chrysaleon’s temple. She grasped a lock of his hair and pulled gently.

His expression of rage faded as he looked down at her. His love was so clear, so clean and honest. Why could no one else see it?

“I haven’t lost my faith,” she said. “Goddess Athene holds me in her hand and has since my birth. If the Lady wants this union, she will give me a sign.”

Chrysaleon’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying there is still a chance?”

Aridela nodded. “Give me a little time.”

He returned her nod. “So be it. I await your decision.”

Though no messenger came to summon her, Aridela knew Themiste was waiting to hear her confession.

She cloaked herself in heavy wool, for even here on the southern coast, persistent haze blocked the sun’s warmth. Every day dawned clammy cold, chilly enough to bring snow to this fishing village whose inhabitants never saw such a thing except from a distance, on the highest mountain summits behind them.

Day faded into evening before she found the oracle. Themiste was sitting on the ground inside a cave shrine overlooking the sea. A statue of the Goddess stood next to her; one marble hand rested upon a loom fashioned from grapevines and the other held an olive branch. Yet Themiste didn’t seem to be praying or making offerings. Her distant, meditative expression was turned away from the statue toward the sea, the sound of which echoed eerily against the cavern walls.

“Minos.” Aridela stepped around an offering basket of bread and honey.

Themiste looked almost relieved at the interruption. “Aridela,” she said. “I pray for answers, but….” She shrugged. “I felt so helpless when the earth shook today. Small and useless. As though, for all the power and rank I’ve been given, I could do nothing to protect you or the queen. Never again can we assume our world is solid and safe.”

Aridela ran her hand over the olive branch in the statue’s hand. “Unfamiliar sounds send me into cowardly shivering,” she said. “Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I feel uncommon gratitude for a day without earthshakings.”

“And this cold….” Themiste stood. “If it does not subside, any crops that survived the destruction will die.” She paused, her stare perceptive, but instead of the accusations Aridela feared, she said, “Let me see your burns.”

Glad for a distraction from her purpose, Aridela pushed up the wool covering her arms. “There’s hardly any pain.”

Themiste inspected her skin. “You will have scars.”

Aridela shrugged. “I am alive. Many are not.”

“Have you come to pray?”

“I’ve come to confess.”

Themiste’s brow rose then she frowned and sighed. “Walk with me,” she said.

They left the shrine and followed a path that snaked among the cliffs. Wintry breezes eddied around them. A conflagration of pinks, purples, blues and greens swaddled the heavens, creating mirrored reflections across the surface of the sea, where dark blue succumbed to every imaginable tint of fire.

“Never could I dream of such displays of color and light,” Themiste said. “Last night the moon was as green as seaweed. I wonder sometimes if your sister sends this beauty from Hesperia, so that we do not forget her.”

“Perhaps.” Aridela swallowed the sudden knot that formed in her throat.

“You worry about Chrysaleon’s lies.”

Again Aridela swallowed as she sought courage. “Do you remember last Moon of Mead-making, when we took Iphiboë to the holy mountain to prepare her for dedication?” She kept her gaze locked on the sea, watching it lap gently against the rocks far below.

“Yes.”

“That night, I had a dream—or a vision. Velchanos left his statue. He came to me. He spoke.”

Themiste stopped walking. There was silence, until Aridela gathered her courage and looked at the oracle’s expressionless but intent face.

“I remember,” Themiste said quietly.

Aridela forced herself to go on. “The first time I met the prince of Mycenae, I believed he was the god from that vision. Many times since I have told myself I was wrong, but when he came to us yesterday, clean-shaven, I was certain. Chrysaleon is the god as he appeared to me that night. His hair, his eyes, even his voice. Surely this means something.”

Themiste’s gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Aridela rushed on, too afraid now to pause. “Minos, on the night of Iphiboë’s dedication, I sneaked out of my bedchamber and went with her to the cave of Velchanos.”

Themiste’s lips parted. Her eyes widened.

Aridela backed away from the Minos’s unfathomable expression and unnerving silence. “Chrysaleon found me. How could he have done that if Athene hadn’t directed him? We told no one where we would be except my mother, and not even she knew I was going. My intent was only to offer Iphiboë strength and encouragement—I did not mean to defy you. I meant to hide nearby if a man found us. How could I have known she would fall and injure her knee, or that she would charge me with fulfilling the dedication in her stead?”

“An omen of what was to come,” Themiste said, slowly, as if to herself.

“Chrysaleon told the truth. We lay with each other. Nothing happened to suggest we’d angered Athene. Until the night of the Destruction, I believed we had done no more than follow the Lady’s wishes.” Aridela’s muscles relaxed as she concluded her confession, though an ache lingered along her shoulder blades. “Minos, in the dream-vision, the god, or Chrysaleon, said he would be with me for longer than I could imagine. He promised nothing would ever separate us. It made me feel safe, like when I was small, and you kissed me, and helped me brave the nightmares. Oh, I make no sense. It’s puzzling, but I swear to you. We never meant any harm.”

Themiste turned her face down and closed her eyes.

Nauseated with guilt, Aridela cried, “I beg your forgiveness. I never meant harm to anyone, least of all the innocent people of Kaphtor or Callisti.”

Lifting her face, Themiste clasped the sides of Aridela’s head. “In the vision on the mountain, it was the Achaean? There must be no doubt.”

Aridela’s gaze faltered. “Not at first. When he crossed the clearing he was a god of the night, of darkness and moonlight, but then he transformed, and became Chrysaleon in every detail.”

Her voice shook as she stammered out the second crime. “Minos, the prince and I lay together again, just before the fire and rocks fell from the sky. He repeated what the god said on Mount Juktas, and this time I was fully awake. ‘I am yours,’ he said. ‘Even death won’t break our bond.’ And he said, ‘for longer than can be dreamed.’ I felt I knew Athene’s mind. I believed she approved our union, but it’s clear now we angered her. You commanded me to remain untouched, and I defied you. My crime was more than child’s mischief—look what has come of it. Chrysaleon and I… we caused the destruction of Kaphtor, of Callisti.” Aridela rubbed so violently at her tears that she left red wheals on her skin. “I caused Iphiboë’s death.”

“You gave yourself to him, again, outside the rites? You defied me not once but twice?” Themiste covered her mouth with one hand. She staggered a little, and put her hand out to clasp Aridela’s shoulder.

“We were going home the next day,” Aridela whispered. “Chrysaleon to wed Iphiboë. I, to enter the mountain shrine. We intended to honor our obligations. I beg your forgiveness….”

“You cannot be oracle now,” Themiste said. “You cannot take my place.”

Aridela looked out, over the cliff, across the vast wash of water. If she jumped, she would join her sister in the cold dark sea. Perhaps that would quell Potnia Athene’s anger. She looked down, where sea met land, and pictured herself falling, but Themiste, still holding onto her shoulder, pulled her away from the edge.

Themiste placed the fingertips of one hand to the frown between Aridela’s eyebrows and cradled the back of her head with the other. Aridela felt a queer inner pull. Themiste was initiating the ancient oracle art of subliquara to see into her mind.

“True,” the Minos whispered, her eyes closed. “Pure. Your thoughts flow like a mountain stream.”

Aridela tried to jerk free but the mind link had a way of freezing the body. She hated it. As a child, she had enjoyed their ‘game’ and how Themiste could speak her thoughts. Now she wanted to hold onto her privacy.

Themiste’s hand dropped to Aridela’s stomach. She pressed her palm there for some time. At last she opened her eyes. They held shadows of some emotion Aridela couldn’t name. “There is no child. For that I am grateful. Your vision remains clear. I heard the words he spoke to you. Velchanos took the form of Chrysaleon during the rites. That seems certain. And the fact that he found you in the cave…. I wonder if he will ever understand the blessing he received? I saw the prince’s guard too. He was grieving and afraid. Somehow… lost.”

“Menoetius?” Aridela thought back. At the beginning Velchanos hadn’t resembled Chrysaleon. He was darker. Yes, very much the opposite of Chrysaleon. Something had snapped. When the ring of sound and blinding light faded, Velchanos had changed. It took effort to recall that in the beginning, she had recognized the god as Carmanor, her childhood love. She had even named him, and he hadn’t denied it. In the months since that night, she’d forgotten how, at first, the statue bore the likeness of Menoetius. Golden Chrysaleon, with his vivid, bold personality, had smothered the rest.

Themiste turned away. “Oh Athene,” she said, “I want to do as you wish. Do you hate these barbarians or love them? Do you want Chrysaleon punished or rewarded?”

She walked away, leaving Aridela on the edge of the cliff.

Then she stopped and swung around. “Come,” she said, holding out her hand and beckoning sharply. Aridela hesitated, but couldn’t disobey. She placed her hand in Themiste’s. The oracle pulled her charge down the hill, back to the villa, leaving the sea’s hunger unquenched.

Themiste spent her free time hunched over two large tables in her chamber, transcribing from memory Kaphtor’s lost prophecies onto new clay tablets.

She worked at this task until her mind blurred, her arms numbed, and she no longer trusted the phrases and symbols she pressed into wet clay. Was it Melpomene who wrote the holy child will follow a path of deep shadow, or Pelopia?

Hundreds of prophecies, some on clay tablets, others on fragile papyrus, had survived, safely preserved, even through other earthshakings, for thousands of years….

Until now.

Themiste tried to suppress the fear that she was sending Kaphtor into a future built on hazy, unsound recollections. Laodámeia, her most trusted handmaid, did her best to help, but she had never been allowed to study the logs as thoroughly as her mistress. All she knew of them came from forbidden, secret readings deep in the night when she wouldn’t be discovered, and from transcribing Themiste’s oracle visions.

Themiste had left instructions at the ruins of Labyrinthos, and a crude map. As laborers cleared and opened the labyrinth, they were to search specific areas. The first time a messenger came to Natho holding a recovered tablet, Themiste snatched it from him and smiled. The act felt foreign, awkward, as if she’d nearly forgotten how to form such an expression. As she placed the tablet on her worktable and stroked the edges, she tried to remember how much time had passed since she’d had a good day, one that contained a smile, a grin, a single laugh.

She couldn’t recall one.

Though the recovery of a tablet was cause for celebration, she knew she couldn’t rely on the hope that more would be found. She must create replicas as best she could, from memory.

After the confrontation with Aridela, she returned to her chamber and settled at one of the tables, a lamp by her side. She knew which reconstructed tablet she wanted and quickly found it—the prophecy Aridela herself spoke when she was ten.

Lion of gold from over the sea.

Destroy the black bull,
shake the earth free.

Curse the god,
crush the fold,
pull down the stars
as seers foretold.

Isle of cloud,

Moon’s stronghold,
see your death come
in spears of gold.

For years, this prophecy had defied all attempts at understanding. But now it made sense. Now that the prince of Mycenae, he who was called ‘Gold Lion,’ had appeared from across the sea and planted himself like a fishhook in Aridela’s heart.

Themiste glimpsed Aridela’s true feelings when she peered into her mind. Aridela always gave her heart fully, and this time was no different. Themiste remembered how the child had once loved Carmanor, who, as it happened, was the prince’s personal guard. Carmanor was Aridela’s first love, but now she hardly noticed him, such was her obsession with Chrysaleon.

It might be amusing, if there was not so much at stake.

The scent of damp clay and hot oil hung in heavy stagnant layers, making her room oppressive. She thought of the clean, cold air at the cliff shrine, but there was no help for it. Aridela’s revelations changed everything. Now Themiste would have to rearrange the future, yet again.

She searched through her newly created tablets until she’d gathered all that mentioned the lion. If she could connect the pieces from the different prophecies, she might be given insight into what must be done.

The first was Melpomene’s.

He of one father but two mothers will grow to dominion in a foreign land—one split into two, gold and obsidian. The universal egg will crack. All that is sacred will spill and be lost. Lion and bull, they are forged.

How could a child be born of two mothers, split into two yet at the same time remain forged? The lion must be Chrysaleon of Mycenae, but who or what was the bull? A memory sparked—she dug out a papyrus on which she’d recorded her dream from just before the Destruction.

A handmaid of Athene had shared what was to come. Athene’s great design. But that dream left many questions unanswered. Themiste remembered asking her the identity of the bull, but the handmaid had refused to reveal it. If I told you,she’d said, you would try to change his fate.

She had added a puzzling statement. What seems the end is only the beginning.

Could he be Xanthus, the bull-king Chrysaleon killed in his quest for the title? If so, Kaphtor was already overcome, for how could a dead bull defeat a living lion?

Minos Timandra also mentioned a lion in her prophecies.

This lion must bare his throat and consent to his destruction. The bull must consume the lion. The moon and stars will then return to the egg and the bull will repair the egg with his divine seed. If three become two, all the world will be reborn to the bountiful Mistress of Many Names, and the vine will again bear fruit.

She read two more of Timandra’s prophecies, though they didn’t talk about the lion. They did mention the child—the child she was certain was Aridela.

One more completes the triad. A child will spring from the loins of Velchanos, god of lightning, her celestial brother. Without her, all will fail.

The child must rise up from the intoxication in which she willingly drowns. If she becomes pure, utterly clear, the thinara king and his disciples will give her their allegiance. If she does not, every living thing will languish and the end will come.

Before she could pick apart these words, she was distracted from her purpose by another prophecy, which captured the lamplight and drew her eye.

Earth withers. Women are bartered for land, titles, and gold. Their songs are silenced. They are brought as low as fleas on the pelt of a dog, and the mysteries they have always guarded are lost. The days are set to come when women will forget their divinity and embrace their own slavery.

Themiste sat back in her chair and stared at the hearth fire.

Since coming to Natho, she’d hardly slept or eaten. Rewriting the tablets took all her concentration. She was so tired. But there was no time to rest. She must do something, even though she felt fragile and weak, as though she might shatter, much like a poorly forged clay jar. Rubbing her temples, she left the worktables and delved into coffers containing her visionary aids, the cara mushroom, laurel leaves, and vials of serpent venom.

No amount of pondering seemed able to bring her any closer to a solution. Perhaps, if she opened her mind to the sacred pathways and prayed for guidance, Athene might finally grant her true sight and wisdom.

Themiste sent for Helice and Aridela.

Dressed in her most formal ritual garb, including the bull’s mask, she waited beside the lustral basin, wherein the water remained perfectly still.

She had not yet thrown off the aftereffects of the powerful drugs she’d used to open her mind, and fought to display a veneer of calm, poise and confidence. She’d asked for revelations, and reeled still from what she had seen. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on what to say and what to leave unsaid.

A priestess stood close on either side, ready to support her if needed. Behind them, two lines of priests, bare-chested, in flounced skirts, stood with arms crossed. Kaphtor’s council members congregated nearby, half-hidden by drifting smoke from the incense, which made them seem to float like ghosts. Themiste drew in a deep breath and willed herself into stillness as the queen and her daughter entered the chamber.

She saw Aridela’s nervousness in the way she glanced back and forth between all those gathered. It irritated her, and she used that to strengthen her resolve.

None of these people could know that behind the expressionless bull’s mask, as Themiste stared at the princess, her mind went beyond the smoky chamber, back to the night Aridela played proxy for the injured Iphiboë. The entire act, preserved in Aridela’s memories, was revealed to Themiste when she had used the craft of subliquara.

The memory, coupled with the lingering hallucinatory strength of the potions, threw Themiste’s exhausted will into the experience as though she were Aridela. Chrysaleon’s mouth, his hands between her legs, the scrape of his beard against her thighs and face, the final culmination—each sensation reenacted with such immediacy that Themiste’s body livened from her scalp to her toes. Her breath shortened. She felt the surreptitious glances of the two priestesses who shored her up, and wondered if they could hear the erratic thudding of her heart.

She swayed; the priestesses clamped her upper arms and pushed against her. Her hand shook as she raised it to command silence.

“We have read the omens,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. “Seldom do the entrails and visions give such clarity.” She stopped and waited, drawing to herself perfect silence, rapt attention. “Aridela must be joined to the barbarian.”

“After what you saw his countrymen do to Callisti, and to us?” Helice cried. “No.”

Fighting the hallucinations and the sense of suffocation caused by the mask, Themiste fought to breathe normally. “Lightning struck our holy shrine at Aridela’s birth,” she said. “The lightning of Velchanos, promising transformation. Yet another sign came when Aridela was a child. Divine prophecy spoke through her. Do you remember, Queen Helice? Lion of Gold, from over the sea. Destroy the black bull, shake the earth free. Years later, on Mount Juktas, Aridela was given a dream of power. The statue of Velchanos stepped off his pedestal and came to her—to Aridela, not to you, not Iphiboë, not anyone else.”

Everything melted and swam; Themiste stumbled. The priestesses pressed more firmly against her and put their arms around her shoulders. Using the last of her will, she forced herself to finish, hurrying now. “On Mount Juktas, he blessed her and vowed to always be with her. But he was not Velchanos alone. Goddess Athene placed upon him the foreign prince’s face, so that Aridela would know him when he came to Kaphtor in truth. Chrysaleon of Mycenae and Velchanos the Calesienda merged. Chrysaleon of Mycenae’s name meaning is ‘Gold Lion.’ His coming was prophesied by the child, Aridela. And now he is here, the man, in truth, upon our land. If he is indeed a man, and not a god.”

Helice turned a shocked, bewildered gaze on her daughter.

“When Chrysaleon shaved his beard I was certain,” Aridela ventured. “In the mountain vision, Velchanos had no beard, and Chrysaleon’s eyes. It was him—the prince of Mycenae.”

Themiste welcomed the impatience that chafed her nerves at the sound of Aridela’s voice. It helped her shove the imagery of Chrysaleon’s lovemaking to the back of her mind and concentrate on the present dilemma. “If Aridela had told us the truth long ago,” she said coldly, “many mistakes could have been avoided. Now I must go before the foreigner and reverse the council’s decision. I must ask him to accept us. He is arrogant; he will think we fear him.”

Aridela’s lips tightened and her brows lowered ominously, but Themiste felt no remorse for her angry words. The girl had brought much trouble upon them with her defiance and secrets. Only the fleetest twinge of guilt made her wonder if there was another reason for this anger, but as her mind reacquired control over her emotions, over the physical needs she’d long submerged, she forcefully dismissed the suspicion.

“The barbarian came here for our rites by design, not chance. Athene’s design.” Themiste’s voice trailed off as disjointed images disrupted her concentration. She rallied, fighting to stay clearheaded. “Remember—the earth remained calm after Iphiboë’s offering until we refused the foreigner’s request. Runners from Tarrha tell me the earthshaking was felt there; it may have traveled much farther. Don’t you see, my queen? The lightning of Velchanos marked Aridela when she was born. His lightning marked her again during the Destruction. It marked our entire world. Unless we marry Aridela to Chrysaleon, the Earth Bull will roar again. The lightning will come again. Will we survive another night of destruction? Whether or not Chrysaleon had any part in it, this is what Athene wants.”

Themiste slumped and the priestesses caught her. Her legs shuddered; she could barely speak now. “When the waxing crescent begins its second phase and we harvest the surviving grapes, then we must give the prince of Mycenae our greatest treasure. We must make a spectacle like none have ever seen—a celebration that will be remembered, and sung of, for eternity. If we defy prophecy, our civilization will perish. Every blade of grass on Kaphtor will be destroyed. Chrysaleon wants Aridela. He battled for her. We have no choice.”

Her ears rang; faintly, she heard Helice say, “So soon?”

The last thing she remembered was motioning. One of the priests came forward, picked her up in his arms, and carried her away to her pallet.

Three ships have returned! Three of our own ships, which had sailed to Egypt before the Destruction—they bring living men and desperately needed supplies. They entered the bay near the ruin of Phaistos; runners were sent immediately to inform us at Natho. These sailors describe being on the open sea and seeing, far to the north, boiling black clouds and constant bolts of lightning in many colors. They feared Kaphtor was under attack, and saw the hand of the Immortals. The ash that buried our crops fell on their ships; the men scooped it off as fast as they could, yet still one ship sank beneath the weight. Terrified, they turned and fled back to Egypt, and only now have dared the voyage home. As far as high waves, they claim the turbulence they encountered was insignificant, no more than gentle surf. It seems the crushing mountains of water that destroyed so much of our coast dispersed harmlessly on the open sea.

We welcomed these men and made offerings of gratitude. The wives and children of the sailors we thought dead now rejoice.

Their ships were laden with gifts from Pharaoh—barley, cloth, oil, and most importantly, shipbuilders. Their traders used to bring perfumes and trained monkeys for our entertainment. Now we weep in gratitude for barley seed. Such are the changes brought upon us.

Ships from other ports bring their own tales. On the isle of Isy, only one city, Salamis, escaped destruction. The storm of ash fell there to the depth of a tall man’s thigh. These travelers claim they saw people burst into flames when it touched them.

One shipload of curious sailors ventured into Callisti’s waters. They say it is vanished, but for a single curved black ridge, which sends up plumes of smoke and a burning stench. Death and silence suffused the air. Sensing a divine presence, knowing they were in danger, these men sailed away as fast as they could, making sacrifices and uttering prayers for mercy.

The disappearance of Callisti confirms what I saw in vision. No longer do any doubt me, or my power.

Pervasive cold continues, along with more snow than we have ever seen, and dismal, overcast skies. How I long for clear sunlight, for the warmth we once took for granted.

No news comes from Chrysaleon’s homeland. He could go, yet he lingers. Nothing, it seems, will induce him to leave Aridela.

Now I come to that which I dislike admitting, though I know I must. Truth is required, at least in the Oracle Logs. I see why Aridela finds Chrysaleon so mesmerizing. He is handsome, and can be charming when he wants. His presence has the power to quicken my heartbeat. I’m drawn to him, though I don’t wish to be. Since I peered into Aridela’s mind and saw their intimacy, I find it difficult to ignore the images, more difficult still to keep from enjoying them as though they were my own. Whenever Chrysaleon’s attention turns to me, I blush and stammer, I, who have never lain with any man and never thought I wanted to.

Aridela stared into the sky, awestruck by an all-too-rare event—a clear, cloudless morning.

The sun lifted above the mountains. Blush, gold, and hints of lavender splashed the heavens like a vow of forgiveness, a promise that the union between Aridela and Chrysaleon, scheduled for two days hence, would bring renewed prosperity.

Villagers left their work, turning their faces toward the sky. Laughter rose with the sun.

To brighten the ceremony, garlands hung from every post and pillar. Pennants, embroidered with olive trees, fluttered above the doorways in every village along the coast.

Mundane tasks took on a sharp ring and lively beat. Chattering bounced off steep mountain crags, merging with the echoing drum of hammers, the grating saw of wood and rich smell of sawdust.

After Themiste made her edict, runners and merchants spread out to announce the news and collect goods from the various precincts. Priestesses lit new altar fires at every shrine and grotto. Gifts piled high in caves and temples, ranging from gold rings and necklaces to seashells, jars of honey, clay statues and woven baskets. Near the ruined port of Amnisos, lines of women waited to pray in fertile Eleuthia’s cave. Burgeoning hope wove through air and soil.

Aridela gazed at the sky and allowed herself to think the words she’d long denied.

Chrysaleon will be my consort. We no longer have to hide.

Joy tried to ignite, but was instantly smothered in sorrow. Iphiboë died in order for this marriage to take place. How could she be happy? How could she let go of her sister?

He could never love me. I wouldn’t have liked him either. You haven’t hurt me.

Iphiboë’s comforting words brought a little peace, as did the wash of golden sunlight and laughter from below.

Besides, Athene herself wanted this union. It was blessed, even prophesied.

Helice joined her on the balcony. Aridela smiled at her mother and took her hand. Yet the queen stared listlessly; she seemed oblivious to the glowing transfiguration of the heavens. Her eyes were red-rimmed, swollen. She was thin, her cheeks sunken, her hands shaky. The unhealthy pastiness of her skin frightened Aridela, though she carefully controlled her expression.

Finally, the queen spoke. “The prophecy of your childhood is at last made clear. Chrysaleon of Mycenae is the ‘lion of gold from over the sea.’”

Goose bumps shivered across the back of Aridela’s neck. “Goddess Athene wanted to prepare us for his coming; that’s what I think.”

“There’s nothing good for Kaphtor in that prophecy, Aridela.” Helice frowned. “And, I fear, nothing good for you.”

“Only if we refuse to follow Athene’s wishes. Chrysaleon will protect us from the warnings in the prophecy. Yes, the earth shook and fire rained from the sky. But look.” She gestured. “Now the sun shines. The sea is calm. And there are still grapes to harvest. How can you doubt Athene’s blessing? Renewal flows from Chrysaleon.”

“The prophecy says nothing about the Gold Lion protecting Kaphtor. Only his destruction of it.”

“Athene wants this union. Everything will be fine, now that we embrace her wishes.”

Helice stared at her. Her head tilted and she sighed. “You blind yourself, Aridela. You see only what you want to see. I, too, am guilty—I believed the gossip about you, that you are wiser, older than your years. Yet here you stand, spouting nonsense like any common love-struck peasant.”

Aridela clenched her fists, but the discipline her mother had just denied she possessed kept her hands at her sides and her temper in check.

Helice turned her face away. “This is what comes of keeping you overly sheltered. It was the same when you were ten, with Carmanor. You are easily impressed by anything different.”

Aridela gritted her teeth and drew in a deep, slow breath as anger flared almost beyond what she could swallow. She set her posset cup on the balustrade and clasped Helice’s forearm. “All my life I have received praise for my ability to see through lies to truth. Yet on this, you and many others continue to doubt. Well, I have none. Chrysaleon won the Games because Goddess Athene wanted him to win. He defended me because he loves me. You’ll see, Mother. He will fulfill every obligation we require of him.”

The queen’s gaze dropped from Aridela’s eyes to the hand on her forearm, then moved onward to the sea. “Lycus weighs on my mind as well,” she said, her frown lingering. “He is broken by rage.”

Aridela’s fragile, guilt-ridden happiness disintegrated. Yet what could she do? She couldn’t force herself to love Lycus over Chrysaleon. Love possessed its own measure and will, and went whatever way it chose, dragging the physical body behind. Didn’t it?

She sensed that her mother, and maybe others, blamed her for all this trouble; she felt their judgment, and wondered how many thought her a selfish, love-struck fool. Perhaps some, like her aunt Oneaea, believed she should have given Lycus her backing instead of Chrysaleon, no matter what she felt. Even she wondered if doing so might have given him the motivation he needed to succeed.

Keeping those thoughts private, she said merely, “His outlook is much changed. Is there not something else we can try?”

Helice shrugged. “Every day, admirers visit him—women mostly, but he refuses their offers of romance.” With a discerning glance, she added, “His suffering isn’t caused solely by you, isoke. It’s jealousy, hatred of Chrysaleon, and being prevented from seeking vengeance. What angers him most is his perceived humiliation. These are the reactions of a spoiled child.”

Sudden tears stung Aridela’s eyes. Helice would never recover from the loss of Iphiboë, nor was she reconciled to the union of her younger daughter to the foreigner. Long, debilitating illness, too many deaths, and the ruin of all she’d known had dealt a mortal wound, yet she still tried to offer what comfort she could. The sharp, hurtful criticism was forgotten in a rush of love.

If fortune ever returned to Kaphtor and its rulers, hopefully she would someday earn the same admiration she felt for her mother.

Perhaps she could divert Helice’s sadness into happier thoughts, if only briefly. “Isn’t Natho lovely?” she asked. “The air is fresh. Summer flowers bloom. What a difference from the east, where everything is poisoned and dead.” She pointed at the sky, where the burgeoning crescent moon glowed as it bid farewell to the rising sun. “We’re told the land there is without feature, like the face of the white mother’s orb. I’m grateful you brought us to this place for shelter, where recovery and hope are clear to see. It was an inspired choice.”

“Yes,” Helice said. “At least this much was spared, and your union creates an opportunity to take our minds off all we’ve lost.” She turned an intense gaze upon her daughter. “Have you given care to the plans? Are you overseeing the arrangements?”

Aridela rubbed Helice’s cold hand. “It will be wondrous. I promise. It will be everything Themiste envisioned.”

“Your union to the foreigner must inspire songs and tales. It must exceed any festival or celebration we have ever held. It’s up to us, Aridela, to return hope and dignity to our country, to instill the strength to triumph over these tragedies. That is Themiste’s intent, I’m certain of it.”

“All will be done. I promise.”

“Were it not for my fears,” the queen said, “I would be happy to hand you the titles. I’m tired, and you’re more than capable.”

Though this statement seemed at odds with the earlier criticism she had offered, Aridela accepted it with gratitude. “The time has come to rest, to enjoy your freedom.” She tried to speak with confidence, but her mother’s sallow skin and the ever-deepening darkness around her eyes and mouth made it difficult.

“It’s hard for a queen to love, isoke. This is something for which I cannot prepare you.”

Aridela could think of no response other than the pat answer that Helice’s consorts were resurrected in the beautiful gardens of Hesperia.

Her memories took her back to the day a sweaty, panting Chrysaleon seized her hands after winning the footrace. Fear had forced her to hide her feelings, that day and for many days after. She was glad to leave secrecy behind. Now she could spend all the time she wanted with him, openly, as she preferred… until the end.

Helice was watching her. Abruptly, she realized her mother had broached the one subject she’d always before avoided. “Mother,” she asked, “is it true that you loved my father more than any other consort, as you’ve said, or was this something you thought you should tell me?”

“No,” Helice replied after a slight pause. “No, Aridela, I meant it. Damasen gave me something no other consort could. They all have unique gifts and I loved many of them. But Damasen and I shared everything, all the mysteries within us. I have never felt as close to anyone.”

“Then… how could you allow him to be killed?” She knew this question would hurt her mother. But in two days, she would take on Helice’s role as leader of the people. She must know what lay beneath the words, It’s hard for a queen to love.

Helice’s pause stretched into a lengthy silence. She seemed to shrink into herself.

Aridela forced herself to wait, to refrain from saying, Let us talk of other things.

Finally Helice spoke, but she didn’t reply directly to Aridela’s question. “You love Chrysaleon very much, I think.”

“I know you and many others distrust him, but Chrysaleon and I share a bond just like you and Damasen. He will never betray me. When Iakchos rises, he will offer himself, if for no other reason than to prove his love.”

Tears slipped down Helice’s face. “Then Chrysaleon is like your father.”

With a deep breath for courage, Aridela asked the question she knew every queen who had ever loved a consort had pondered. “Would you… would you have changed anything, if you could?”

Helice faced her straight on, her eyes shining with moisture. “Yes.”

There were those on the council who would consider such words treason. Aridela realized she was holding her breath and let it out on a sigh.

“I would gladly have died in his place,” Helice said. “But he wouldn’t allow me to change the laws or appeal for more time.” She brought up her hand and touched the necklace at Aridela’s throat, the gift Damasen had left for her. “Be careful, isoke,” she said. “Yours is an impulsive nature. You’ll be forced to curb it, again and again. Damasen’s most loving gift to me was his refusal to allow me to change things. It showed his love more than any other act could.” She paused, gazing straight into Aridela’s eyes. “When Iakchos rises, that is when Chrysaleon’s truth will emerge.”

“He will honor his vows.” Aridela heard the defensiveness in her voice.

Misgivings shadowed Helice’s smile. She motioned to her handmaid. Leaning on the woman’s arm, she said, “Come to me later. We’ll watch the sun set over the sea.”

When she was alone, Aridela tried again to admire the landscape, but anger and uneasiness overshadowed the view. He will honor his vows, she’d declared. But the truth she didn’t dare examine was that she didn’t want him to. A year was such a short time.

In two nights he would be her husband. She wouldn’t squander an instant of this gift from Athene. Iphiboë wouldn’t want that, and neither did she.

Memories of earthshakings and deaths, Iphiboë’s sacrifice, and fears of what winter might bring were put aside to celebrate two monumental events—Kaphtor’s royal union and the crushing of now rare and precious grapes.

Themiste worked with the council to choose the most auspicious time. She had determined in vision that the wedding must take place during the second phase of the waxing moon. The augurs chose the day after for blowing the conch shell to the four winds, offering sacrifices, and trodding new grapes into rich purple mush.

Prayers and sacrifices begged for sunlight and warmth, but the morning of Aridela’s wedding to Chrysaleon of Mycenae dawned cold and overcast, with bouts of splattering, dirty rain.

At Knossos, the couple would have followed tradition by descending into the labyrinth to be blood-cleansed. At Natho, they had to substitute caves. Priestesses accompanied them into the caverns long before sunrise. There, deep in the earth, in echoing, dripping, torchlit chambers, each underwent somber cleansings meant to free them of unconfessed crimes, purify their hearts, and ready them for the ceremony.

While they prepared, multitudes from every province across Kaphtor collected outside the villa and throughout the village. Heads bobbed, elbows stabbed, and bodies collided in fierce jostling for the best position; all wanted a clear view of the royal parade as they made their way down to the sea.

A collective sigh marked the procession’s appearance. Two lines of warriors marched, outfitted in shining leather, polished bronze armor, and helmets. Behind them pranced Chrysaleon’s black chariot-stallions, white-eyed and snorting, their manes plaited with ribbons. Over their hindquarters fluttered tapestries embroidered with Poseidon’s image, holding a trident, and Athene, wearing a crown of poppies, a dove on her shoulder and a lioness at her side.

It wasn’t Chrysaleon but Menoetius who handled the beasts. Queen Helice waved and smiled at his side, clasping her charioteer’s arm, but the surly guard stared straight ahead, unresponsive.

“Obsidian to his master’s gold,” one woman shouted from a windowsill, but she received no more than a brief frown for her poetry.

Litters came next, decorated with ivy-wound poles at each corner. Reclining upon cushions, the ranking women of Kaphtor displayed themselves like living frescoes as they tossed wreaths and garlands into the crowd.

Robed priests followed, their pennants depicting Mycenae’s lions and the bulls of Crete.

The crowd cheered at the sight of a gilded, pine-draped cart drawn by two white oxen.

Chrysaleon, his hair wreathed in holly and grapevines, his face painted with swirls of royal crimson, held the oxen’s reins. Beside him, Aridela wore layered skirts that flowed around her in a myriad of colors. Her hair boasted a glorious wreath of golden ivy woven with white asterion and clover. Smiling shyly, she waved and tossed flowers to those who crowded against the cart, calling to her for blessings.

People hung out of the overhanging windows on either side of the lanes. They pelted the cart with leaves, making it seem the very heavens rained greenery.

The procession swept past. Those trapped in the narrow wynds fought to avoid being crushed against walls and posts as they cheered and shouted.

“She’s beautiful… I caught a flower….”

“He’s the most handsome to ever win the Games.”

“Their glory pleases the Lady.”

“All will be as it was….”

The onlookers, cheering, dancing, and leaping, flowed after the couple down to the strand by the sea.

Aridela walked hand in hand with Chrysaleon to the impromptu shrine near the water. Temporary it might be, but the craftsmen had poured all their talent into it. Sheer white draperies rippled between carvings of sacral knots and double-headed axes designed by master woodcarvers. Each corner column symbolized life. Greenery and holly berries festooned the ceiling.

The beauty of the structure brought tears to Aridela’s eyes. With the survival of such gifted artisans, Kaphtor would surely follow suit and regain its former glory. Lined up on one side, the builders shuffled, pleased and embarrassed when she sent them a grateful smile.

Hundreds congregated on the sand and along the cliffs to watch the bonding of the prophesied bull-king to Kaphtor’s last remaining princess.

Chrysaleon led her up three steps where they joined Helice, Themiste, and two priestesses.

Aridela bent her head and tried to visualize the familiar image of Athene, the gray-eyed Goddess who had resided in her mind for as long as she could remember.

Give me strength and wisdom, Mistress. Show me how to earn your forgiveness.

She knew she’d changed. The spoiled, overconfident child seemed a stranger now—a distant memory. Since the Destruction, she could seldom relax; whenever she began to slip into enjoyment or happiness, guilt jerked her backward as though she had a rope twisted around her neck. Sometimes she caught Chrysaleon studying her, his expression brooding. She fancied he was sorry for the promises he’d made to a woman who no longer existed.

Besides the constant ache for Iphiboë, she missed her half brother, Isandros, her nurse, Halia, and her cousins, Neoma and Phanaë. Neoma had awakened, only to fall back into senselessness where she continued to languish. The rest, and too many others, rotted in mass graves.

Helice was a fair and devout queen, but that hadn’t protected Kaphtor from fire, poison and stones raining from the sky.

Themiste, however, often stated that Athene had tempered her anger. After all, Kaphtor still rode the waves of the dark blue sea, and given enough time, could recover, unlike the vanished isle of Callisti.

At Helice’s nod, Aridela and Chrysaleon knelt side by side on a smooth limestone block. The queen twined a strip of fine white cloth around their wrists, binding them to each other.

The fitful rain subsided as Themiste placed triton shells in a circle around them. Sunlight broke through the clouds.

Helice was impressive in her tall ceremonial hat, wide belt and full panoply of layered skirts, overskirt and high-backed bodice. Crossing two ceremonial axes over her breasts, she projected her voice toward the expectant faces in the audience. “Though this day brings feasting and celebration, it is also a solemn event.” She handed her axes to one of her attendants and took from Themiste the ancient Labrys, the wood and stone double-headed axe that had come with their ancestors from the homeland, and which, for more years than anyone could reckon, had spilled the blood of kings. “Through holy sacrifice, the bond between our queen and consort becomes sacrosanct. None may sever it until the rise of Iakchos, and all upon this island will give their lives in defense of our bull-king.”

She leveled a grave contemplation upon Aridela and her consort. “Chrysaleon of Mycenae has given his oath to honor our great sacrifice, to make the land fertile with his blood and body. He has sworn to go consenting, to surrender his life so that all may live.”

Aridela turned to face him, but he wasn’t looking at either her or the queen. Following the direction of his gaze, she found Menoetius, who returned his brother’s stare with an expression she could only call incredulous.

The prince bowed his head and made the proper response. “I am Zagreus. My life and my death belong to Kaphtor.”

Aridela’s neck shivered. Her attention disrupted, she looked again upon Menoetius. From the corner of her eye she saw Themiste’s arms lift toward the heavens. The oracle spoke, yet her words echoed as though filtered through a tunnel.

“Wondrous Athene of Many Names, thy radiance blinds mortal man. Enter into the soul of thy servant, he who kneels before thee. Fill the chalice with thy fire. His blood shall flow to the rhythm of thy design, and he shall walk the remainder of his days in the footsteps of every predecessor before him, holding thy hand and adoring thee.”

A blanketing mist rolled in from the sea; the caress of water against sand gave off a hushed, tranquil susurration. Themiste’s voice faded beneath the heightened sound of Aridela’s breathing. It filled her ears, punctuated by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

Menoetius’s gaze shifted from Chrysaleon to her. As they stared at each other, shocked surprise replaced the frown on his face.

She had never felt so strange, so separated from what was real. Her mind seemed to soar into the mist. She saw Menoetius as he used to be, his youthful beauty restored—Carmanor as she remembered him.

Through some divine visionary gift, Aridela was allowed to see through Menoetius’s eyes everything that happened the morning he carried her out of the shrine, bleeding, near death. She felt his desperate need to save her, the tenderness with which he held her, the kiss he placed on her forehead. She startled along with him when the doves in their cages began their terrified fluttering and the dim torches abruptly blazed. She felt her soul slip away as he raced up the steps, shouting, and saw the beautiful, shining handmaid, smiling at her.

Her eyes stung with tears.

A voice broke into the memory. Gentle and melodious, it merged with the whisper of the sea. She couldn’t distinguish if it was male or female.

I have lived many lives since the beginning, and so shalt thou. I have been given many names and many faces. So shalt thou, and thou wilt follow me from reverence and worship into obscurity. In an unbroken line wilt thou return, my daughter. 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. Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times, far into the veiled future. Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost, and thou too wilt forget me. Suffering and despair shall be thy nourishment. Misery shall poison thy blood. Thou wilt breathe the air of slavery for as long as thou art blinded. For thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.

Aridela couldn’t move. She couldn’t even blink. As she stared at Menoetius, he seemed to disintegrate and remold into his blood brother, with Chrysaleon’s green eyes and honeyed hair, but the cruel expression worn by this phantasm immersed her in dread and anguish.

The voice spoke again.

I have split one into two. Mortal men have burned my shrines and pulled down my statues. Their arrogance has upended the holy ways. I decree that men will resurrect me or the earth will die.

The mist, shot with rainbows, lifted. Aridela heard the innocent wash of water. Freed from whatever had pulled her from her body and filled her with vision, she turned toward Chrysaleon then her mother. Nothing had changed; Helice laid one hand upon Chrysaleon’s shoulder then caressed his jaw as she spoke to him of his duties as bull-king. Themiste knelt to refresh the patterns of red dye on his face, which had melted in the rain.

Aridela fought to keep her teeth from chattering. Her flesh shivered uncontrollably.

Almost afraid, she turned her head to find Menoetius, half-wondering if she had imagined it all. He no longer wore that macabre guise of Chrysaleon, but was himself again. He stared at the sand, his hands fisted, white-knuckled.

As much as she had loved and trusted him in the visionary interlude, joined almost as one, she now welcomed the anger that crashed through her.

Every day since he’d stepped upon Kaphtor’s shore at Chrysaleon’s side, she’d felt nothing from him but judgment and censure. This man was now the stranger, ‘Menoetius.’ Her beloved Carmanor was worse than dead; he had never existed. All her memories were lies.

Menoetius raised his head and leveled his dark, unsmiling gaze upon her. Her anger sharpened and she turned away, trying her best to make her disdain and dismissal plain for him to see.

Now, as she gazed upon Chrysaleon’s profile, new insight into Helice’s unhappiness shocked her into stillness. Even Iphiboë understood Kaphtor’s ways better than she. Numerous men would come to Aridela’s bed after Chrysaleon. She couldn’t possibly love them all with this intensity. Some might disgust or even repel her. She feared the agony of being separated from this golden lover she so adored. She couldn’t imagine continuing without him. Dizziness and grief overwhelmed her; she gripped Chrysaleon’s hand as though that alone could prevent what must happen in one year.

Her stricken awareness caused her to glance once again at her consort’s blood brother. She was freshly shocked to see him stalking across the sand, his back stiff and straight. Menoetius was abandoning the sacred ceremony.

He never hesitated to show his abhorrence. He was morose and difficult. Aridela couldn’t understand why Selene loved him. He never made any effort to be charming. He seldom smiled. Aridela too often caught his unreadable frown directed toward her.

He hated her. Probably because she hadn’t recognized him. That must have hurt his pride. But he had changed so much.

Yet Selene had known him. Selene had remembered.

How she had loved that handsome youth who called himself Carmanor, his pure, unmarred skin, blue eyes bright as stars, thick fall of dark hair and easy laughter. The wonderful smell of him, like clouds caressing fallen leaves. She’d felt such terrible, racking sorrow when he left.

Another wave of dizziness washed over her. As she turned back to Chrysaleon her eyesight blurred, making his features hazy, indistinct; she glimpsed Menoetius’s scar and the tawny hair darkened. Treasured words wrapped through her mind like a soothing balm.

For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together, we bring forth a new world, and nothing can ever part us.

Divine insight told her that something greater fused these two than the mingling of blood between the mauled, dying Menoetius and the prince who had saved him. She imagined the bindings lashing them together. They were frayed, nearly worn through, but there nevertheless.

“O Athene,” Themiste was saying, “in the heavens thy face is crowned by eternal stars, and upon this soil thou art robed in the glorious green of life.

“Thy servant has from birth carried the name Chrysaleon, but now he rises, naked and unarmed, crowned in thy holly, and becomes for the remainder of his days, Zagreus, as he follows in the steps of every hero before him.”

Chrysaleon’s hand tightened around Aridela’s.

The bull, bound on a low sacrificial table, struggled. Blood flowed from its sliced throat through a grooved channel into a bowl held by one of the priestesses. Helice took the bowl and poured blood on the ground between the two pillars. She scooped wine from one of three tripods and poured it on the earth over the blood.

Themiste mixed a few drops of the bull’s blood into wine, and stirred it with a silver ladle. Aridela and Chrysaleon dipped a ceremonial cup, made of purest gold and carved with scenes of the bull rite, into the potion. They drank of it, their arms entwined.

The priestesses rang bells, which signaled an end to the rite.

Now, when all should be pleasure and relief, Aridela found a small corner of her mind recoiling over this union with a foreigner, a male of different beliefs and traditions. Chrysaleon had assured the council he would honor Crete’s laws and customs, yet how could he and still fulfill the expectations of his own people? Buried doubts pushed past her fascination. Would he again try to convince her to flee to Mycenae, where she would live as royalty but relinquish her hereditary titles of Goddess-of-Life-in-Death and Goddess-of-Death-in-Life? She couldn’t even imagine the repercussions.

Thinking Chrysaleon must feel the gravity of the rite as she did, must have heard the same warning revealed to her in the murmur of the sea, she stole a sideways glance at him.

Triumph gleamed from narrowed eyes and along the uplifted curve of his lips. He spoke the ancient words they had taught him, vowing to uphold the laws and give his life in defense of the people. Without hesitation, he seized a rhyton and poured a libation in appeasement to the shade of the recently dead Zagreus.

Aridela remained thoughtful as they left the shore and returned to the village. The price she and her lover paid for their year together was great. She relived the night the earth split, the suffocating ash and screams of mothers who lost their children, the gruesome swelling of the burned at Phaistos. Iphiboë’s grave face. You will forge peace among those who worship the Lady and those who follow angry gods.

Beyond those sorrows, winter would soon descend. Everyone believed it would be severe. Many claimed their losses and suffering had only begun.

Such memories and concerns might dampen anyone’s merriment. But Aridela was alarmed at the strength of these sudden, unexpected fears. As rain again coursed from dreary clouds, she sensed the full spectrum of foreboding in the words carried to her mind from the sea.

Thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been.

Before the ceremony, Helice had overseen the sacrifice, prayers, and offerings. Now the dead bulls were roasted for feasting. Aridela had tried to dissuade her mother from this custom now that food was so scarce. It made more sense to nurture the animals for the coming winter, but Helice cited her faith that honoring the old ways would inspire the people and draw Athene’s goodwill. The only concession she made was to drastically reduce the number of bulls she sacrificed from a hundred to fifteen.

Chrysaleon lounged at the head of the queen’s table, his hair bright and wavy, his brown chest richly oiled. Helice herself served him the finest cuts of meat, the plumpest dates and figs. Aridela held a goblet to his lips when he wished to drink, giggling at the faces he made to amuse her.

Dancers swayed to beating drums and airy flutes. A Thessalonian harpist, trapped on the island after the Destruction, played the lyre and sang ancient songs of Athene, praising her priceless gifts of weaving and the olive.

Artisans presented the new consort with a jug the height and breadth of a man, which pictured his battle with Xanthus. The hero in the painting wrestled with a gigantic bull-man, whose tail and horns coiled round and round even into the neck of the container.

One of the eastern region’s judges beckoned to his men. They carried in a wooden cask filled with black stones. Pitted with sharp edges and holes, they gave off a pungent, scorched odor. Mixed with them were the same white clumps of rock that pummeled Phaistos the night of the Destruction, and which now choked the seas.

“These fell from the sky the night Elasa was destroyed,” he claimed. “We find them half-buried in the earth. Can you smell the fire that lives still inside them?”

Chrysaleon rose and came closer. He picked up one of the black ones. “This is like no rock I have ever seen,” he said.

“Evidence of Our Lady’s anger,” Helice said quietly. “That we may never forget. Take them to the shrine and place them upon the altar with the jars of ash.”

Bowing, the judge signaled his men to remove the cask.

Chrysaleon returned to Aridela’s side. “These rocks trouble you.”

“Athene has never shown such rage in all our history,” she said. “Was it because of the priestess who defiled her vows? Was it the barbarian’s sack of all within the shrine? Or something else? I fear we, too, will be swept from the world and forgotten.” She peered down at the crisscrossed scars on her arms, and shivered.

“The ways of Immortals are beyond understanding.” Chrysaleon ran a soothing fingertip over the outer rim of her ear and along her jaw. “It is difficult to care about things I can’t change or control.” He shrugged. “Pray, if it eases your mind.” He glanced over the noisy crowd then returned his gaze to her. “Let us walk in the moonlight, my lady. Let me spend time alone with you, before the coupling. I want to see you smile again, like you used to.”

She clasped his hands as indefinable emotion ran through her like a fierce drumbeat. “Promise nothing will come between us. Promise me, Chrysaleon.”

“Nothing,” he murmured, with the faintest smile. “I vow it.”

Until the rise of Iakchos hung between them like the misty veil of rain. Aridela saw his eyes darken, but he turned away to drink from his cup and the words dissipated beneath the chatter and ring of laughter echoing through the feasting hall.

The clouds thinned, allowing starlight to twinkle through as litters carried the princess and her consort back to the strand by the sea. A host of priestesses spun a dance on the sand, weaving between the boulders, their upraised arms holding banners sewn with silver disks designed to catch and reflect the light from the red-tinted half-moon.

The sea muttered like a vast, immeasurable beast, black but for starlight sparkling on the countless heaving tips of its rough-hewn back. Mist drifted, a sign of good fortune.

“Mist is moonlight, drawn to earth by the dancers,” Aridela said.

“Why must the people watch us mate?” Chrysaleon asked, though he’d asked the same question twice before. “You said it mirrors the sowing of the barley and rebirth of the land, but in my country, these are private matters.”

Aridela heard his annoyance. It was confusing. She had grown up with the public consummation of queen and consort. Without it, no one would recognize the marriage. Longing for his approval, she tried a new story. “Athene once fell in love with a fisherman who sang to the seals. She appeared to him disguised in the body of a seal, and set fifty of her handmaids to dance for him. After, she showed him her true self, and they lay together in the sacred cave of Eleuthia. Athene loved this mortal. She wanted to do something for him. He had sung to the seals since he was a boy. They were his only friends. To please him, Athene gave these beasts the ability to become human whenever they wished, and she caused Kaphtor to bear the finest crops ever seen for twenty consecutive years. The coupling of consort and queen places the seed of new beginnings in the minds of the people, and shows our recognition of the blessings we’ve received. When a queen joins with her new consort here, at the edge of the sea, we show the Goddess honor. The people witness this union of earth with the Goddess, and the act is mirrored in the land’s bounty. Tonight holds more importance than ever before. Look how we have suffered. Frost blights the crops, yet Themiste promises rebirth will come, if we show Lady Potnia reverence.”

“What we do will help?”

Aridela leaned against him and closed her eyes. “I know it will,” she said. “The cara makes my blood burn. Why did you refuse it? It would have blinded you to those who watch, and heated your lust.”

He scowled. “I don’t trust those concoctions. I’ll do what I must, under my own power.”

Themiste approached, followed by two priestesses. The mysterious reddish moonlight made all three seem more wraith than human. “It’s time, Aridela,” Themiste said, bowing.

The priestesses led Chrysaleon away.

Aridela followed Themiste down a path to the sand, hushed and awed by the ethereal light. The soft sough of waves made its endless lament, sparking a shiver along the back of her neck. Creeping mist created a diffused, dreamlike stage.

Themiste draped the traditional sealskin around Aridela’s shoulders, covering her hair with the seal’s head and fastening it at the throat with silver clasps. To complete the preparations, she painted a blue crescent moon on the princess’s forehead.

“You never saw yourself as a priestess,” she said. “Somehow, I think you always knew you would be queen. But every time I look at you with Chrysaleon, my worry intensifies. I feel a strong urge to help him, yet also this fear I cannot dispel. Promise you will be careful.”

“I promise,” Aridela said, but her mind and body, livened by cara and the beginning notes from a lyre, carried her from nebulous warnings into the pulsing joy of mist, moon, and love, leaving little room for doubts and suspicion.

Taking up a banner in each hand, Aridela placed herself in the center of the dancers. The priestesses sang and danced, their pennants reflecting captured moonlight.

Chrysaleon stepped out of the shadows cast by a boulder. The nearest priestess cried in mock fear and broke away from her place in the dance.

Priestesses ran in every direction. Chrysaleon leaped among them, clutching one then another. Each slipped away until only one, the one they’d circled, remained.

Aridela stepped forward to the throb of a drum. She was acutely aware of every grain of sand that caressed the soles of her feet and the night chill pricking at her skin.

She lifted her arms. “Mother, you who have always been, enter into me, your priestess. Use me as I lay my body upon yours. Plant seeds within me and within your earth. Bring life and growth to your blessed isle, a child from my womb, barley golden and full, grapes upon the vine. Weigh down the olive trees with fruit.”

Helice and Themiste approached and stood on either side of the new queen.

Helice held up a rhyton of bull’s blood. “Lower your eyes from the Goddess before you,” she ordered Chrysaleon. “Kneel, Zagreus, and when you rise, stand reborn, worthy of what you are given.” She drew him up from the ground and bowed before him. She and Themiste striped blood on Chrysaleon’s chest and shoulders then backed away.

The drum continued its soft, patient accent.

Chrysaleon picked Aridela up in his arms. He gazed into her eyes somberly, and lowered her to the sand.

The priestesses chanted. Drums vibrated like the underlying beat of many hearts. Aridela remembered her mother performing this duty and drew strength from the memory.

Moonlight crept over the boulder’s edge, showering them in translucence.

With the light came the Lady.

Chrysaleon pressed closer.

The drumbeat quickened. Aridela was replenished in communion, her thirst quenched. The pitch and sway of her lover’s body brought images of barley and corn, high and ripe, ready to feed her people.

She ascended in delight and joy, taking her lover with her, until both found the divine release promised by Eleuthia, goddess of love and childbearing.

She peered through the delicate lace of mist toward Crete’s cheering populace.

Menoetius stood apart from the rest, his isolation both drawing her attention and making him seem forlorn. Instead of the guilt and resentment she usually experienced at the sight of him, benevolence made her blood tingle. After a priestess wrapped her in a robe, she held out a hand and beckoned, inviting him closer.

He approached, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, return her smile, or take her offered hand. His rejection and judgment made her burn with humiliation.

She would demand that Chrysaleon send him back to Mycenae so the lovers could enjoy their year free of his constant censure.

She turned away pointedly and took Chrysaleon’s hand, holding it high.

The people cheered for some time before Aridela motioned for silence. “It is done,” she announced. “We have honored Goddess Athene.”

Renewed cheering echoed off the cliffs. At last it grew quiet but for the sound of the sea.

“As your queen,” she said, lifting her head so her voice would carry, “I give my first command.”

She paused, feeling the earth pause with her.

“Bring wine for my people!”

The cheering continued long after she and Chrysaleon left the beach.

The bedchamber was chilly, though a fire burned in the hearth. Aridela rubbed her arms, noticing how the firelight seemed to make her scars gleam. Some were circular, some straight, as though carved by a vengeful whip. The worst were still raised, red and tender, while others had faded to white. She knew from mirrors that a few laced her upper back, and two, still pinkish, marred her face—one wove snake-like along her hairline above the left ear, and the other followed the line of her jaw. She remembered how curiosity had triumphed over terror the night of the Destruction, prompting her to lift her head and peer out of the makeshift barrier she and Chrysaleon had constructed. At that very instant, an object, glowing with fire, flew in and struck her, bouncing from her jaw to her temple and searing her skin.

Most of the burns no longer hurt. Rhené promised time would diminish even the worst. But her flesh would never again be without flaw.

She couldn’t help thinking of Menoetius. Did he rub his scars as she did in a fruitless wish to erase them? Did the ruin of her once-perfect skin soften his resentment toward her or strengthen it? He never gave his thoughts away, except for a constant frown that left her alternately furious and ridden with guilt.

Movement in the air caused the lamps to flicker, taking her back to the prophetic night in the Cave of Velchanos. Two men, one disguised as a bull and the other a lion, had dropped off the ledge and stalked toward her, outlined in wind-blown lamplight. Her life had been forever changed.

When would Chrysaleon come? She snuggled deeper into her fox-skin cocoon, not wanting to feel introspective. She wanted her wedding night to begin. She wanted to see her husband’s smile and warm her skin against his, to curl next to him and know it was the first of many nights they would sleep together, their limbs twined.

Bringing a creeping sense of doom, the divine words of prophecy she’d heard during the wedding ceremony returned.

I have lived many lives since the beginning, and so shalt thou. I have been given many names and many faces. So shalt thou, and thou wilt follow me from reverence and worship into obscurity. In an unbroken line wilt thou return, my daughter. 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. Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times, far into the veiled future. Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost, and thou too wilt forget me. Suffering and despair shall be thy nourishment. Misery shall poison thy blood. Thou wilt breathe the air of slavery for as long as thou art blinded. For thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.

What odd names. Eamhair. Shashi. Morrigan. Lilith. Her tongue didn’t feel comfortable forming any of them.

Menoetius had heard the voice. She was certain of it. She had seen it in his expression. Yet this shared mystical gift from the Goddess changed nothing. He still avoided her, still leveled judgment upon her. She longed to speak to him of the experience, to learn what he’d heard, and what he thought it might mean. But his demeanor wouldn’t allow it. He deliberately kept her at arm’s length. His disdain made her too angry to attempt reconciliation.

Laughter, singing, and the stutter of footsteps broke off her somber thoughts.

The door flew open. She laughed, blushing, as men crowded in, bathing the bed with light from the lamps they held.

Someone cried, “We’ve brought him, Queen Aridela. Be gentle; he’s as shy as an untried boy.”

Chrysaleon’s attendants betrayed varied stages of intoxication. Two had their arms draped around each other’s shoulders and seemed to be trying to hold each other up. Almost without realizing it, she scanned the group for Menoetius, but he was missing. It was too bad. Chrysaleon should have the support of his blood brother tonight, instead of men he hardly knew.

The bull-king wore nothing but a white loincloth, and his garland hung askew around his head. Only traces of royal paint remained. He staggered—his shoulder struck the partition set up to make the room easier to heat. He grinned as it crashed to the floor.

More men shoved through the doorway, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of her.

“Move. Out of my way.” The sour voice shot over the press of bodies. Old Laodámeia, Themiste’s most trusted handmaid, shoved through the horde. She placed a tray, with two bowls of wine, on the bed.

“Your health,” she said, “and the health of your womb.” Her bow was perfunctory; Laodámeia scraped to no one.

She turned, clapping her hands. “Out. Leave them alone.” She shooed at Chrysaleon’s attendants, rather like an impatient mother with misbehaving children.

With much grumbling, the men offered lewd advice as Laodámeia herded them from the chamber.

The door closed. The hearth-fire crackled. Someone somewhere plucked at a lyre, a pretty yet haunting tune.

Chrysaleon’s grin lingered, but he remained where he was, swaying a little.

Aridela shrugged off the fox-skin blanket, stepped from the bed, and crossed to him, returning his smile.

He stopped her at arm’s length. Gripping her shoulder with one hand, he grasped her hair in the other, drawing her head backward so her face was illuminated in the firelight.

“Do you love me, Aridela?” he said. “For myself, not because I won your Games.”

Shadows thrown by the fire leaped behind him, making him seem tall, though the prince of Mycenae was in truth more hefty than tall. Aridela traced the scar on his left bicep where Harpalycus had stabbed him that night in Velchanos’s cave. “I loved you before you even came to Kaphtor,” she said, so startled and shy of the truth beneath her words that she tried to turn her face away, but he kept his grip firm, and prevented it. “We are united by divine will. I have waited for you, Chrysaleon. Waited for you to come to me.”

He studied her, squinting. She felt him probing the depths of her mind through her eyes, her expression. He leaned forward suddenly and kissed her, hard.

“You and I will be together… forever,” he said. When he said ‘forever,’ he blinked and his brows lifted slightly as though his own words surprised him. “For as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt,” he added, more firmly.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

She fought back tears as she twined her arms around his neck. Why did he say that? He knew his future. When Iakchos next rose, he would die, and she would take the man who killed him into her bed.

How… where would she find the strength?

As he joined her in the cushion of fox-skins and brought her close, the bright flicker of the hearth fire reached out and seized her gaze.

It seemed, just for an instant before she blinked, that Immortal Athene’s face was there, in the reddish yellow flames, staring at her. Tears of fire fell from her eyes, hissing as they struck the embers.

Thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.

Aridela shut her eyes and feverishly returned her lover’s kisses, locking away tomorrow and its unendurable possibilities. She would embrace every instant of happiness. She would fill the bull-king’s days and nights with joy. Chrysaleon would never regret accepting the title and the doom of Zagreus. This she vowed as the daughter of the god of lightning, Shàrihéid, euan Velchanos Calesienda, even as the face in the fire whispered the question she could not shut out and could not answer.

Will you fulfill your obligation to me?

Aridela stared sleepily into the dark. Next to her, Chrysaleon gave a muffled snore. That must have been what woke her.

She stretched, careful not to disturb him, smiling a little at how he’d thrown off the fox skins though the chamber was chilly. He lay on his side, his back to her, his hair, his cheek, and his shoulder illuminated by faint ember light.

Her mind wandered ahead to morning, to the celebration of the grapes, to the dancing, offerings, and pleas for abundance that would consume the day. It would be her first grape festival as queen. No doubt she would be tired, for much of this night had been spent in ardent lovemaking rather than sleep, but that didn’t matter. She would lead the people of Natho to the clearing beside the vines and stand upon a boulder covered with sheepskin. She would blow the conch shell as her mother and every queen had done before her. Girls would climb into the vats and crush the grapes while couples vanished into the hills in search of privacy. She hoped a bit of sunlight and warmth would grace the day.

The hearth drew her sleepy gaze. The fire had subsided into mesmerizing, radiant embers, the heat glowing black, red, orange and yellow, all in perfect silence.

Faint luminescence played over Chrysaleon’s shoulder like a lover’s touch, fingers of light. Opening one hand, she held it above the curve of his cheekbone, not touching, not wanting to wake him. She slipped her hand down, careful not to touch but close enough to feel the heat from his skin. She followed the contours of his shoulder, his waist, his hip and thigh.

Beauty and tranquility were scattered by the memory of Athene’s face in the fire.

Will you fulfill your obligation to me?

Of course she would. She didn’t dare do anything less. But she couldn’t bear to think of it.

Red circles of light flickered across the wall. The embers were far too low to cause such a reflection. Just as her tired mind began to wonder on the cause, a scream pierced the night, jerking her upright. She sniffed.

Smoke.

Leaping from bed, she threw open the wooden doors at the balcony. She stared, dumbfounded.

Every building along the cliffs below the balcony was on fire. As she watched, a roof disintegrated in an avalanche of sparks. Flames glowed in the window openings of the nearest villa. Far below, in the harbor, fire shimmered on the surface of the water as it crept across the decks of two ships. She heard screaming and the crash of collapsing structures.

“Chrysaleon!” Backing into the chamber, she found that her voice refused her command. The name she meant to scream escaped in an inaudible squeak. She lit a lamp, her fingers shaking so violently that it took several tries to achieve a spark.

He shifted with an incoherent mutter.

“Chrysaleon!” This time she uttered his name with purpose. For added measure, she ran to the bed and shook him.

He heaved onto his elbows, blinking and squinting.

“Fire!” Aridela swiped at a flood of bitter tears. More punishment. More suffering. Nothing they had done had appeased Athene’s rage.

“Fire?” He seemed not to understand. She shook him again.

“Natho burns,” she cried. “The village is on fire. The ships in the harbor. Everything.”

His eyes widened then he leaped out of bed and shrugged on his discarded kilt. He ran past her to the balcony.

She heard him curse as she donned the sleeping tunic that had fallen to the floor earlier. Hesitating only an instant, she belted a dagger around her waist.

Chrysaleon returned. They gazed at each other.

There was no sound of alarm. No beating drums.

Aridela shivered. “Why is it so quiet?”

“Come,” Chrysaleon said. “Perhaps a storm blew through and lightning ignited these fires. We’ll sound the warning.” He held out his hand.

As their fingers touched, the chamber door flew open and crashed against the wall.

Aridela cringed at the cacophony of stamping feet, clink of metal, and glare of torchlight.

Chrysaleon shoved her behind him. There he forced her to remain with a relentless grip on both her forearms.

“No. This will not do,” a familiar voice said. “You’ve had her long enough, my brother-in-law. Far too long.”

Aridela leaned to the side and peered around Chrysaleon’s arm.

“Take her from me if you can.” Chrysaleon’s grip tightened.

“You offer your life for this girl?” Harpalycus rubbed his palms together. He wore the fancy wolf’s head breastplate she remembered, and his cloak sported a magnificent crest of crimson-dyed hawk feathers across the shoulders. In every detail, he embodied a powerful, ruthless monarch. “Surely that isn’t part of your father’s plot to conquer Crete. But it makes no difference to me whether you die now or later. I have no need of you, and my sister might thank me for freeing her.”

The soldiers in the doorway moved aside to allow another man into the room. He hesitated as he entered, glancing from Harpalycus to Chrysaleon.

“No,” Aridela cried. “No….”

Lycus tilted his head and smiled. “Long days have passed since I have seen you, my lady. I feel neglected. I had to invite myself into your bedchamber so I could offer congratulations to you and your new consort.”

Harpalycus laughed.

Chrysaleon backed up, moving Aridela with him, but the chamber wall stopped their retreat. Aridela slipped her dagger into his hand.

He lunged, slitting the nearest warrior’s throat before the man could raise his guard.

Lycus took a hasty step back and Harpalycus scrambled behind one of his men.

The terror and grief coursing through Aridela’s limbs heated into rage. Harpalycus. The evil prince, returned.

And somehow, Lycus was part of it. He had helped Harpalycus start these fires, and no doubt they’d already killed many.

Yet another betrayal by one of Athene’s own.

The warriors surged forward. Chrysaleon stabbed at one as another aimed a sword toward the vulnerable flesh beneath his ribs. Aridela leaped against the warrior’s arm, throwing him off balance. He pulled her down with him as he fell and she sprawled across his torso, wincing as his bronze-inlaid armor bit into her.

Her forehead struck the side of a wooden coffer, hard, and she knew nothing but dizziness and a scatter of sparks.

“No. Don’t kill him yet,” she heard Harpalycus say.

One of the men yanked her to her feet. A splinter caught the delicate chain at her neck, snapping it; the charm she’d worn since she was a baby dropped to the floor.

She searched for Chrysaleon. He lay on his stomach, unmoving. Blood seeped from an unseen wound.

Athene had guided the Gold Lion from over the sea. She’d given him victory in the Games. Was it only to see him killed on the first night of his long-delayed triumph?

Don’t take him from me. Not yet, my Mother. I beg you.

She turned her gaze upon Lycus and seared him with her contempt.

Fear and guilt passed across his face. Then he lifted his chin and smiled.

Harpalycus motioned; two of his warriors pulled her from the chamber.

The men bound Aridela’s wrists so tightly that her hands lost all feeling. They pushed her along a narrow corridor, down many stone steps, and shoved her into one of the villa’s underground storerooms. She stumbled, landing full force on her shoulder, and lay still, too saturated by pain and despair to move.

Dim shafts of moonlight crept through several cracks in the wall, creating slices of pale radiance across the floor. Other than that, only the faintest glow from the wall sconce in the corridor found a way through slits in the door.

The air was close and fetid, smelling of mold, dirt, damp wood, and underneath, hints of wine.

“Aridela.”

“Mo-Mother?” Aridela jerked upright and peered into the deepest shadows.

An indistinct figure in a torn nightdress broke away from the impenetrable blackness and crept forward.

Aridela fought back tears. “Have they hurt you?”

“My arm is broken, I think. It doesn’t matter. What of you?”

“They attacked us in our chamber. Chrysaleon was bleeding….”

With her good hand, Helice worked at the knots binding Aridela’s wrists. “Themiste is confined nearby.”

“Themiste, too? Is she—?”

“I’m unharmed.” Themiste’s voice floated through the dark to them. “Did they hurt you, Aridela?”

The knots loosened. Aridela flexed her hands to return the flow of blood. “No, Minos,” she said, though the forming bruises on her chest and stomach made breathing painful. “Harpalycus. Lycus. Did you see him? It is they, Mother. What could make Lycus do this? What will become of us now?”

Helice struggled to her feet. She limped the breadth of their cell, passing between rows of enormous clay jars and wooden coffers before slumping back to the cold dirt floor. “It’s my doing,” she said. “I brought Kaphtor to this unhappy ambush.” She closed her eyes and keened, scratching at her cheeks.

“My lady,” Themiste cried from the other room.

Helice pressed her face to the wall. “I am undone.”

“They cannot triumph,” Themiste said softly. “As soon as your brothers hear of this, they will come. They’ll bring armies. This is only a little village. These men couldn’t have conquered all of Kaphtor. Their invasion is futile.”

Aridela rose and crossed to her mother. “Why do you blame yourself? How could you have caused this?”

“The night you defied me and accompanied your sister to the cave of Velchanos, I saw you and Iphiboë speaking to Harpalycus at the feast. You confessed you found him handsome. I thought that, as always, what you admired, so would your sister.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Memories of Damasen were strong within me that night. I fancied him at the edge of my sight, nodding approval. He was a foreigner, yet he gave himself to Kaphtor. I had other notions, absurd ones, I know now. I had an idea that if Harpalycus and Iphiboë loved each other, it could strengthen ties with his father’s kingdom, and help protect us in these violent times.”

“Mother, what are you saying? I don’t understand.”

“May the Goddess forgive me, I sent him to the cave, for Iphiboë, thinking he might please her. I thought his difference from all she was accustomed to might spark her passion.”

“You sent him….”

“Iphiboë was so frightened of men. He was handsome. Charming. Why would Athene begrudge Iphiboë this insignificant pleasure, if afterward she gave her whole life to her duty? And Damasen—”

“But the Goddess makes the choice.”

“Oh, Aridela. Are you still such a child? Have you not yet realized that rulers cannot leave their countries and people to function on whim and prayer? I’ve manipulated many rites during my reign. I always felt I did so with the blessing of Athene. It seems I finally went too far. I have brought Kaphtor to ruin.”

Aridela had believed chance brought Harpalycus to the cave. But chance had been Helice. In truth, the rites were outraged, not only by herself and Chrysaleon, but Helice as well. “Chrysaleon and I completed the rite before he got there,” she said.

“I didn’t know that until the day we told Chrysaleon you would be dedicated to the Great Marriage. Perhaps that was the true reason for Harpalycus’s rage, but if so, he said nothing to me. When he returned to the palace, he shouted curses and vowed revenge upon Chrysaleon. He accused me of sending Chrysaleon to the cave as well, and I couldn’t convince him I hadn’t. He believed I sent them both there hoping they would kill each other.”

Aridela placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “How could you have known?”

“There is more,” Helice said. She rubbed her knuckles over her eyes. “My crimes are many.”

“No, Mother.” Aridela knelt next to her. “You’ve given your best. You must know that.”

“When Chrysaleon won the footrace, I couldn’t accept that Idómeneus’s son, the crown prince of Mycenae, might become Iphiboë’s consort. I was certain trickery was involved. Athene forgive me, I defied her wishes. Surely it is time for me to die.”

“Stop.” Aridela seized Helice’s hands. “Never say such things.”

“I had poppy put into his wine. I feared the consequences of such a match. I wanted Lycus to kill Chrysaleon in the labyrinth. Idómeneus could not have blamed us.”

“Mother, no.”

“When Themiste told us she wanted you to remain untouched, I was pleased. It’s hard, my child, to put consorts to death, men you have loved. It is so hard. I wanted to spare you.”

The heavy door at the top of the corridor steps squealed as it opened. Helice stiffened. “What will happen now?” she whispered.

They heard the distinctive high voice of a eunuch. “Your father will be pleased that you captured the oracle, my lord. He has often expressed his desire to see her, such is her renown.”

Footsteps passed by their cell and stopped some distance beyond.

“Who is it?” Helice whispered. Aridela didn’t answer, but rose and went to the door. She leaned against it, listening.

“She wasn’t defiled, thank black-horned Poseidon,” the same man said. “I have never seen hair that color. And her eyes, my lord. So mysterious. The rumors were not exaggerated.”

Aridela’s heart pounded with such violence it nearly drowned out what was being said. Her hands closed into fists. The scent of smoldering ashes drifted through the slits in the door.

Harpalycus.

The usurper finally spoke. “Are you well, priestess?” he asked. “Have the guards fed you?”

Themiste remained silent.

“Come, lady,” the eunuch said. “Do not be angry. You must realize how your rich island tempted us. We’ll rebuild. All will be returned to its former greatness. This island will become a wondrous shrine, wholly dedicated to Lord Poseidon.”

“You will all die,” Themiste said.

There was a space of silence. Themiste’s words seemed to cling to the invisible layers of air, heralding some inescapable destiny.

“I will have you,” Harpalycus said. “I don’t care what my father wants. Why should he reap every benefit when I have taken all the risks?”

“Listen to your future,” Themiste said. “Can you hear it?” Her voice dropped so that Aridela had to strain to catch her next words. “Your meddling takes you to realms you cannot imagine. You are ignorant and foolish to believe you control anything.”

The eunuch’s laughter was high and shrill. “If we wish, we can open this door and allow every warrior in the city to take his pleasure on you until there is nothing left but bloody pulp. How is that for control, oracle?”

“You could. But you won’t.”

Another long pause. Aridela pressed her ear closer to the slits in the door. Athene, my Mother, I beg you. If my pleas mean anything, don’t let them harm Themiste.

“Pray, priestess,” Harpalycus said. “Perhaps your goddess will save you, but I doubt it. My father wants a redheaded concubine. That’s the only reason you remain untouched. The oracles you speak from now on will glorify your conquerors.”

The sound of footsteps returned to the cell holding Aridela and Helice, and there they paused. Aridela braced for the door to open. She would fly out. Before anyone could stop her, she would shred his face from his skull. She trembled with the need of it.

She heard quiet breathing.

That smell wafted through the hole again. What was it? Why did it adhere to him like flesh itself?

Neither man spoke.

The footsteps continued along the corridor and up the steps. The door squeaked then slammed.

Helice put her face close to the hole in the door. “Themiste?”

“He didn’t touch me.” Themiste laughed. “I frighten him.”

Aridela sank to the dirt floor.

Helice joined her there and held her hand. “Harpalycus boasted to me,” she said. “I can hardly believe how his evil gods assisted him; that is why I think Athene must back his scheme.”

“What do you mean? What did he say?”

“When he left Kaphtor after the Games, he didn’t return to his home. He sent for his father’s army and waited for them on Callisti. Themiste’s vision was true. Harpalycus seduced one of the priestesses. He didn’t tell me her name, but from what he said, I think it must have been Leiriope.”

“She betrayed us?”

“I think it must be as Themiste saw, that she was maddened. So many years too close to the heat and fire of Lady Athene’s anger. We were wrong to leave those women there with no companion but that poison. How differently I would do things, if I had Athene’s divine sight.”

“Leiriope’s decisions, nor her madness, can be your fault. Tell me what Harpalycus did.”

“He convinced Leiriope that he was Velchanos, and that the Goddess sent him to quiet the mountain. She took him to the hidden shrines in the caves. There he discovered Orseis.”

“The high priestess,” Aridela whispered.

Helice nodded. “He raped her upon the altar in deliberate insult. He and his men pulled down the statues and set fire to everything. He murdered Orseis and the others, all but Leiriope. He bragged that as he and his men climbed down to their ships, he looked back and saw her throw herself into one of the fire pools.”

Aridela pictured it with nauseating clarity. Harpalycus would have laughed. He would have enjoyed watching the fire shoot up in a fiery caress then subside as it consumed her body.

“One day,” Helice said, “the pain Harpalycus has caused will revisit him, but many, I fear, will fall before then.”

“How did he escape the wall of water, the poison clouds, the heaving of the earth? How did he survive? Did he tell you?”

“A divine hand sheltered him, Aridela. That is the only explanation. I know he and his army sailed west from Callisti. He claims he lost two ships. Remember our sailors who returned. They, too, were on the open sea.”

“What part did Lycus have in all this?”

“Lycus killed the watchman at the harbor. Harpalycus and his warriors entered the bay without raising an alarm.”

“But how did Harpalycus even know where we were?”

Helice shrugged then winced and rubbed her shoulder above the break in her arm. “He didn’t tell me. They must have planned this after Lycus was wounded in the labyrinth. Hatred of Chrysaleon is at the heart of this attack. Harpalycus has hated Chrysaleon for a long time, I know not why.” She paused then said, low, “If only none of these foreigners had come here. How different everything would be.”

Aridela could think of nothing to say. There were no reassurances left. She was so cold she could hardly even shiver.

“He waited for the day of your union,” Helice said, “when everyone would be distracted with celebration. He claims he has overthrown all our ports, and tells me that even now his men spread through every precinct, killing and burning as they go.” She dug her fingernails into her face, leaving swollen red welts. “Could he have so many warriors? If only I knew. I feel my people crying out to me to help them.”

“I don’t understand why these barbarians must vanquish and ruin everything they see,” Aridela said.

Helice put her good arm around Aridela’s shoulders. “If I could somehow go back to the days before all of this, I would sit in the gardens, and spend more time on the mountaintops. I would walk in the rain. I would mingle more with my people and worry less about the crops.” She tousled Aridela’s hair. “What I would do is spend more time with my children. Why do we think of these things when it is too late?”

It seemed her hand moved absently through Aridela’s hair, but then she said, “I know you must grow your hair out. But I confess I like it this way.”

Tears trailed down Aridela’s face.

“We have been overly concerned with shallow things,” Helice said. “Things that don’t matter. Polished armbands, tassels on sunshades, bright jewels and pretty dyes. Since we left our wars behind and embraced peace, we’ve cared more about beauty than anything; we forgot how to look beneath it for the substance that matters. Harpalycus is a handsome man. So is Lycus. Yet see what lay beneath.”

Aridela rested her head against her mother’s throat and closed her eyes. She was reminded of her childhood, when no one could give comfort and love as well as this woman. “I hope I can be as good a queen as you.” Yet her throat tightened, and she wondered if indeed, Helice could be partly to blame for Goddess Athene’s anger.

Helice sighed. “My meddling has brought Kaphtor’s downfall. I deserve whatever punishment Areia Athene sends. Remember that, isoke. But you must survive. Do whatever you have to do. Will you promise?”

“We’ll both survive. We’ll fight and win back Kaphtor. That is what I promise.”

“Does she please you, my lord?” the eunuch asked.

“I haven’t decided.” Harpalycus’s eyes narrowed.

Aridela gave all her effort to hiding any sign of pain or fear.

Two of Harpalycus’s men had torn her from her mother and dragged her to this room in the merchant’s villa. Her wrists were bound with coarse rope. Blood trickled through her hair from a cut where he struck her after she spat at him. One shoulder lay bare, as he’d ripped her tunic when he’d knocked her to the floor. The eunuch he called ‘Proitos’ stared down at her with dispassionate interest, as though she were a sheep, and he was judging the merit of her wool. Harpalycus had a different expression.

“A prize, indeed,” Proitos said. “We shall take her to Tiryns and put her on display. All will praise your cunning strategy, your merciless strength. Harpalycus of Tiryns, the only man in the world with enough wit and skill to overthrow mighty Crete.”

“Yes.” Harpalycus’s lips stretched into a grin. “My father might finally take measure of my accomplishments.” His gaze traveled over her, lingering on the shoulder. Those watery-blue eyes were unnerving, fish-like in their coldness. Aridela bit the inside of her cheek, setting her resolve to die with courage, to keep any fear disguised, no matter what he did.

But she was afraid.

Proitos said, “We will look down from Tiryns’ walls upon the old queen as she beats our dirty linens in the river. And we have the oracle. There is no doubt you will enjoy your father’s highest favor when you present her to him.”

Screams and the horrifying din of violent carnage floated from outside the chamber. The stench of burning buildings lay heavy in the air.

Pouring wine into a cup, Proitos added, “Though Crete has suffered much adversity, there remains no land so coveted. Under your rule, it will bring you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Harpalycus continued to stare at Aridela. He squatted and ran his fingers along her hairline. “These scars are new,” he said with surprisingly little spite. “It’s too bad. You’re not the beauty you once were.”

“If only Chrysaleon had killed you.” Her voice was hoarse from the cold damp storeroom, where she’d shivered in nothing but a thin tunic. “You’re to blame for all of this, for everything.”

“Me?” Harpalycus scowled. “No, my lady. Chrysaleon brought these afflictions upon you. Don’t blame me. I merely seek vengeance as any man would.”

“Vengeance. For what?”

Harpalycus stood. He took a hunk of grayish meat from the platter held by his man, and gnawed at it. His face hardened as he chewed; his eyes grew colder. “I remember Chrysaleon never bothered to tell you about Iros, his wife. My sister. She was insignificant to him.” He returned the meat, with a grimace, to the platter, and licked grease from his fingers. “She wasn’t insignificant to me. You will come to understand. She was more important to me than anything.”

Uneasiness crept into Aridela’s fear. “What does she have to do with this attack upon us?”

Harpalycus lifted his gaze from her. He squinted at something beyond her sight, and sighed.

Proitos took up the story with a toadying bow. “The royal Princess Iros was given to Chrysaleon by my lord’s father. She was young, a mere girl, but so jealous were Chrysaleon’s citadel whores, that they had her murdered, even though she was quickened with child.”

Harpalycus’s hands clenched. The skin whitened over his knuckles as he said softly, “My child.”

Aridela kept her face expressionless, seeing how carefully he watched her. On Kaphtor, such things were frowned upon, but elsewhere, as in Egypt, common among royals.

“I’ve already taken my vengeance on the priest who betrayed us, and one day, my father too will understand.” Harpalycus fell silent as his throat worked. “But first,” he said through lips as tense as his fists, “Chrysaleon, and everything Chrysaleon loves.”

He meant to make her suffer. He wouldn’t stop until she screamed for mercy. Perhaps not even then. She saw it in his eyes.

Many heartbeats passed. Harpalycus’s jaw relaxed as he stared at her. Some of the rage seemed to fade.

“Were you witness to what happened on Callisti?” she asked.

“Cursed island.” His anger flared again; she forced herself not to shrink.

“Nothing remains but a sliver, my lady,” Proitos said. “Charybdis swallowed the rest at Lord Poseidon’s command. We were fortunate to escape. Poseidon holds my master in his hand. There is no safer place to be than at his side.”

Harpalycus shrugged. “For a time I believed the entire earth and sky would be engulfed.” He paused, frowning. “I don’t know who or what caused such fury. I feared it was me, but if so, why do I still live? Some of my men abandoned my cause, thinking your death goddess would slaughter any who served me. But Poseidon stayed her hand. We sailed west, hard and fast. Two of my father’s ships fell behind and disappeared.” He stared, somewhat blankly, toward the far end of the room. “Pillars of fire rose out of the sea. A most fearsome cloud, hurling flames and lightning, spread across the sky. We sailed on, knowing if we hesitated, we would die. The cloud overtook us. We nearly sank beneath the weight of ash and stones piling upon the decks. In time we came to an island and harbored on the far side. We prayed and made sacrifices to Poseidon. He must have heard us and accepted our gifts, for the destruction turned away. It went east, I think, and here, to Crete.”

He returned his gaze to her and smiled, leaving her even more apprehensive. “Aridela.” He knelt again, smoothed her hair and stroked her throat. His fingertips lingered. “Your heart beats like a bird’s,” he said. “There’s no need to be afraid. This day has been long in coming, but everything has happened as I wanted. Soon, I will announce my kingship. King in truth, not one of your sacrificial goats. Those days are gone. There will be no more sacrifices of men.”

He bent, putting his mouth close to her cheek. “You, Aridela, will bear my children. My father doesn’t know it, but I intend to marry Themiste as well, and I will have her title. Minos. You’re surprised I’ve heard of this. But Lycus knows many secrets, and he has been generous with his knowledge. My son will rule when I die. The sons I make on you will mate with our daughters, who will be declared high priestesses. Do you understand? The ways of Egypt suit me. My line will grow strong, Poseidon will be glorified, and your goddess will be lost. Great Labyrinthos will be a monument to the Lord of Horses.” He paused, frowning. “If you bear a child too soon, I will kill it. Chrysaleon’s bastard won’t taint my line.”

Rage overtook fear. She spat at him again.

He closed his fist and struck her. His seal ring tore her cheek. Stars shot through her head and her ears rang. Her neck, jarred to one side, burned.

Seizing the rope around her wrists, he rose, yanking her up with him. He held her face close to his. “You still think yourself a queen? You’re my thing—my possession. I choose the method and time of your death. You could have ruled at my side, had you not been so smitten with Chrysaleon. Aridela, my slave, you chose the wrong man.”

He threw her down. Her skull cracked against the tiles. She faded in and out of consciousness. Flashes of color, lightning bolts, and pain made her barely aware when Harpalycus straddled her. He ripped her tunic down the front. “You will learn what it means to cross Harpalycus, King of Tiryns, of Crete, and soon, of Mycenae,” he said.

Holding her wrists above her head with one hand, he stretched over her, pushing her legs apart. “I swore you would suffer,” he said, “when you stood in the cave and chose Chrysaleon instead of me.”

She tried to clamp her legs together and squirm onto her side, but he wasn’t discouraged. Laughing, he pressed against her. He thrust abrasively into her unwilling flesh. She bit her lip to keep any sound from escaping, and tasted blood.

“Queen of Crete,” he whispered. He shoved harder, deeper, panting against her face, until she thought she would die, longed for death, or at least unconsciousness. No matter how she twisted, his mouth, his wine-saturated breath, followed. He shuddered then lay still and heavy, breathing hard.

Her empty stomach retched. Bile burned her throat.

“Commander.” Proitos’s amused voice echoed through the tide of revulsion. “Look. Here is a new pitcher of wine. Are you thirsty, my lord?”

Harpalycus rose and rearranged his tunic. “Take her to my chamber,” he said to his guards. “Your lives are the penalty if she escapes. I might give her to you if she does not.”

They saluted, pulled Aridela to her feet, and dragged her from the room.

“I have no stomach for this,” one said.

“Nor I,” said the other. “I feel the wrath of the Lady in my bones.” His voice lowered even further. “What if the—the—”

“Don’t say it.”

“But—”

“I’d rather face the Solemn Ones than Harpalycus. You have seen how he enjoys making men scream.”

They spoke freely, in the tongue of the mainland. Maybe they thought Aridela couldn’t understand. She pretended to swoon, hoping they would reveal more.

The second guard almost dropped her in his zeal to make the sign against evil. They didn’t know what to fear more; Harpalycus or the Erinyes, the three fearsome crones, older than the earth itself, who would torture them, drive them insane for crimes committed against priestesses of Athene, against mothers and daughters.

The first guard changed the subject. “I heard something tonight from one of the villa guards. He told me he eavesdropped on Harpalycus and his generals. King Eurysthenes has promised Harpalycus sixty ships. Eighteen hundred men.”

“Your news is old. I heard that rumor days ago. I also heard he fashions delays and bargains for more treasure. He knows we don’t have enough men. I’ll wager he knows if he doesn’t send his ships before winter closes the sea, Harpalycus’s invasion will fail. Harpalycus is a fool. He’ll lose everything, either to the Cretans or to Eurysthenes. You know what I think? I think our master will be a rotting corpse by this time next year.”

As they yanked Aridela up a set of stairs, the other hissed, “You’ll get us both killed with talk like that. Eurysthenes knows the more time these Cretans have to rally, the bigger the chances are they’ll find a way to defeat us. If he has any sense, he’ll take what he can get, as soon as he can get it.”

Aridela welcomed the gossip between her two guards. She found she was able to concentrate on that, instead of what Harpalycus had done. She went over what she knew of mainland families and politics. Eurysthenes was the king of Pylos, one of the most powerful citadels after Mycenae. His son, Nyctimus, had once visited Kaphtor on behalf of his father, and had brought Helice many fine gifts. An educated, witty youth, he’d been popular, and had stayed for over a month making many friends, including Isandros. But before she could sort through the implications of what she’d heard, the guards stopped and rapped on a door.

It was opened by a mainland priest who gave her a single indifferent glance before ordering the guards to prop her on the edge of the bed.

“What are you going to do?” the first guard asked.

“Prepare her for her coming union.” The priest dipped a sponge into a bowl of water and dabbed at the blood on her face. “King Harpalycus wants to stand before the people as her husband at daybreak. The entrails and portents warn against delay.”

The guards fell back to the corridor as another priest came forward.

Tearing off the remnants of her shift, the priest dropped it on the floor and laid out a flounced ceremonial skirt covered with gold disks. Beside it he placed a bodice stiff with inlaid gems and fancy embroidery.

“She is young,” he said.

The other shrugged. “She is queen, and soon will be a wife.”

“I am already a wife.” Aridela spoke dully, staring at the floor.

Both priests regarded her with surprise, but shrugged and continued their tasks.

They arrayed her in the skirts and a belt studded with lapis and miniature ivory elephant tusks. One searched through dishes on the table until he found a pot of crimson dye. He rouged her palms, feet, and the tips of her breasts.

When Aridela fought him, the guards were called back in to restrain her. Her strength faded. The dizziness was unrelenting. Her wounds throbbed. She couldn’t center her mind except for one thing.

“Chrysaleon,” she whispered.

“She is ready,” the first priest said. “Take her to the shrine.”

The guards jerked and dragged her through corridors, down stairways and into the courtyard. When she opened her eyes she glimpsed an ice-blue dawn, studded with pink and yellow clouds. The heavens reflected nothing of Kaphtor’s continuing misfortunes.

Warriors formed an impenetrable armed escort. They took her to the cave shrine at the west end of the village.

Smoke filled the cave, stinging her eyes.

Harpalycus waited at the lustral basin in the center of the chamber, holding an unsheathed dagger.

“At last,” he said. “Can she stand?”

An image flooded Aridela’s senses, one so strong that for an instant her surroundings faded. She saw herself stumble into the shrine at Labyrinthos and fall before the statue of Athene. Gentle arms picked her up, cradled her. She peered into incandescent blue eyes.

At first she’d believed they were Athene’s, but it was Menoetius who saved her. Where was he now? Was he alive?

When the guards released her, her legs crumpled like sheets of papyrus. She would have fallen, but someone caught her around the waist; she gasped as she met Lycus’s frowning gaze. He returned her to the guards and stepped back.

Hatred surged through her limbs like the fire-wind of the Destruction. “Lycus,” she said. “In the name of my mother, I curse you.”

He didn’t look up. She noticed his unhealthy pallor.

Harpalycus gave an impatient sigh. “Hold her then.” He strode to the altar. “Look, my queen.”

Aridela blinked, trying to free her eyes of the acrid smoke. Harpalycus gestured toward a line of priestesses. Warriors with drawn swords stood near them. The first woman in line held her head high, though her dress was ripped and filthy, her face smudged with dirt.

It was Helice.

Harpalycus seized a handful of the queen mother’s hair and jerked her forward. He pressed the edge of his knife to her throat. “Poseidon is lord and master over Athene,” he said. “He will take her to wife even as I take you, Aridela. He will see my devotion, my loyalty, and he will reward me. All I do is in his honor.”

“No,” Aridela whispered.

Her mother showed no fear. “Isoke,” she mouthed.

“Let her go.” Aridela struggled to free herself, twisting one way then another to escape the grip on her arms. “You said she would be a slave.”

“Bring her,” Harpalycus said, and the guards dragged Aridela closer. Harpalycus pulled Helice’s head backward. “A queen so reverenced is too much of a danger. Better to be rid of her.” He lifted one brow. Never taking his gaze from Aridela, he slashed Helice’s throat, one side to the other.

Fountains of blood splattered across Aridela’s chest. She reeled against the guard’s implacable armor. “No!” she screamed.

The priestesses moaned. Several tore at their hair and scratched their faces. A few covered their eyes with their hands.

Harpalycus dropped Helice’s body onto the altar. She choked and convulsed then lay still.

Lycus strode forward, his hand pressed against the partially healed sword wound in his side. “What have you done?” he shouted. “You will make everything harder.”

Harpalycus still wore a faint smile. He motioned; two of his men seized Lycus and pulled him away.

“Peace, my friend,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Mother….” The deafening roar in Aridela’s head made the interchange between Lycus and Harpalycus faint, meaningless babble. Stars spilled through her eyes, blinding her. She couldn’t feel her legs.

“I am the daughter of Helice,” she intoned. “She called me isoke, which means ‘Beloved Gift.’ Helice was born from the womb of Admete, who was the daughter of Selene, who was the daughter of Evadne, who was the daughter of Zoë. Before her came Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy.”

Harpalycus motioned for the next priestess in line. The woman was brought forward. She was Laodámeia, Themiste’s beloved maidservant, the one person trusted to stay with the oracle during her visions.

“For you, Blue-skinned Poseidon,” he said, and lifted his stained blade.

She screamed and tried to shrink away. He grabbed her, jerked her upright, and punched her in the nose with his balled fist. Then he slit her throat. Her cries faltered into a sickening gurgle and her body fell on top of Helice’s.

Aridela staggered and retched. The guards held her, prevented her from falling. Blood from the dead women flowed into the lustral basin, swirling, eddying, thickening the water.

She sank against the guard’s chest. “I am the daughter of Helice,” she whispered, “the daughter of Admete, the daughter of Selene, the daughter of Evadne, the daughter of Zoë, and before her Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy.” White-hot fury surged through her limbs; she lifted her face and screamed, “Demon Women. I call upon you. Hound him.”

Harpalycus’s eyes glittered with killing lust. “No one can hear your threats in here. I’ll sacrifice many more. Enough to satisfy my master. He craves blood now, for Crete’s years of neglect.”

He motioned to the guard, who tugged her to the basin and forced her to kneel. “Come,” Harpalycus told the priests. “Let us be finished with this.”

Next to her lay the bodies of her mother and Laodámeia. Laodámeia’s eyes stared blankly at her.

Aridela no longer felt the sting in her wrists or the throb of her bruises. Watery rainbows danced wherever she looked.

“I am the daughter of Helice, who was the daughter of Admete, who was the daughter of Selene, who was the daughter of Evadne, who was the daughter of Zoë, and before her Thandiwe, Mawiyah, and Chausiku, from the line of Niachero most holy. My mother called me isoke, which means ‘Beloved Gift.’”

Dropping to his knees, Harpalycus forced her head back as he had her mother’s. He pressed the edge of his knife against her throat. He held her face close to his, half-turned toward him. A pulse beat rapidly in the side of his neck.

The roar in her head took up the rhythm of the pulse and obliterated the ceremony. She knew the barbarian priests spoke words that were sacred to them. Wine was sprinkled and strong incense burned her nose, but all meaning crumbled beneath the steady thrum-thrum… thrum-thrum in her brain.

Someone held the ritual goblet of wine and bull’s blood to her mouth. She pressed her lips tightly together so that none could enter her mouth. It ran over her chin and dripped to the cave floor.

Harpalycus yanked her to her feet. For the first time she saw Kaphtor’s council, herded into a tight group between several armed warriors.

They stared at her. Some wept. Kios looked old and broken. Her aunt Oneaea was stony-eyed, her expression defiant and accusing.

Aridela searched out Lycus. Still restrained by guards, he stood near the cave opening.

“My Mother,” she said clearly as she met his cold yet anguished gaze. “Bring your son’s fire and lightning. Sweep us away as you did Callisti, and free your world of this evil. Let us all die here, together.”

As the sun followed its upward path, Harpalycus stood before the people of Natho and made his decrees. Aridela was forced to stand at his side, her wrists bound behind her. A soldier pricked her in the small of her back with his knifepoint, a measure, Harpalycus said, to keep her quiet.

“I am your king,” he finished. “You will show me the same honor and obedience you gave your queen.”

The people muttered, but as a phalanx of warriors lowered their spears and readied their shields, they grew quiet, cowed, perhaps, by what they’d already endured. Aridela knew Harpalycus’s men had spent the night burning, slaughtering and raping at will.

“My ships have sailed into every port,” Harpalycus announced. “I now hold Tamara, Damerto, Phaistos, Aptara, Tarrha, Knossos and Kydonia. Your queen is my slave. Her mother is dead. Your famed oracle starves in my prison.”

Was he blustering? Could he have achieved such an incredible thing? Between the mighty waves, poisoned air, fires and earthshakings, the long, intoxicated marriage celebration, and help from Lycus, she couldn’t be sure.

“No land escapes change,” Harpalycus said. “Now change has come to Crete. Follow my laws, obey me, and you will live in peace.”

He led Aridela under the arch toward the villa, which still boasted wedding garlands and pennants.

“Fight,” Aridela screamed. She struggled and managed to twist free. She ran back toward her people. “Fight them. Don’t obey.”

The crowd’s mutter expanded into a low, threatening rumble. They began to mill.

The soldier grabbed her. Harpalycus swung her around. He struck her so hard she could neither hear nor see. The force of the blow again wrenched her neck almost beyond endurance.

“Curse you, Harpalycus,” Lycus shouted. “You promised—”

“You are growing very tiresome, bull leaper,” Harpalycus said. “You helped me achieve this. Your pathetic quibbling wears on my patience. All this blood is as much on your hands as mine. Stop sniveling and become the warrior you wish to be. Did you think these people would invite us in and give us their land without protest?”

Motioning to his men, he said, “Remove my young friend if he has no stomach for war.”

He turned back to Aridela. “Tie her to the bed in my chamber,” he said to the soldier.

Twining his fist in her hair, he drew her chin up and kissed her.

She did not twist or struggle. She did nothing.

He raised his head, one brow lifting and the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t fight me, Aridela?”

“For you to remember,” she said, returning the smile, “when the Erinyes come.”

Chrysaleon was shoved into an oxcart and forced to kneel. His arms and legs were bound with harsh rope. Another rope was wrapped around his neck, nearly strangling him, and anchored to the front of the cart. One of the warriors mockingly placed a crown of grapevines on his head and sent the oxen trudging through the village of Natho.

The vanquished watched from beside the lanes. Many wept. Some wore expressions of sympathy while others seemed apathetic or angry. The slaughtered still lay where they had fallen. Chrysaleon’s guards had to kick a few out of the way.

High on the cliffs gleamed the white villa where Chrysaleon had so recently made love to his young wife. Sunlight reflecting from it sent his mind to another day, when the hot midday sun had caressed the terracotta walls of Labyrinthos. Jumping from his chariot, he had admired the massive horns adorning the entry into the palace, and the enormous fresco of a black bull, stylized yet still realistic. Aridela, her mother, cousins, and aunts had come forth to greet him in their bright, layered gowns, their hair worked in elaborate styles. It was the first time he had seen his lover from the cave in her royal setting.

The memory dissipated as the oxcart bounced over a stone, jerking him off balance, returning him to the chafe and scratch of the rope around his neck and wrists, to his humiliation.

He was taken before Harpalycus.

The usurper had wasted no time stealing what riches he could find. Gold bands adorned his arms and wrists. An embossed belt cinched his clean white kilt. He wore Chrysaleon’s jeweled crown, his sword, and the king’s bright gold seal ring.

Thoroughly in the role of conqueror, he stood with his feet planted wide, his fists resting on his hips. Behind him were his priests and personal guard, and to one side Proitos, the lackey who had long followed Tiryns’ prince.

Cold breezes, tinged with the scent of the sea, teased the priests’ robes and the purple-dyed edges of Harpalycus’s tunic.

Soldiers dragged Chrysaleon from the cart and pushed him to his knees before his enemy.

He knew he would be gutted. He also knew Harpalycus would toy with him first.

“Behold, crown prince of Mycenae, bull-king of Crete. I offer news of home—of your father. If you hope for a rescue, I fear you’ll be disappointed.” Stepping closer, Harpalycus said, “For months, with every meal, he’s been fed infusions of the helleborus root. He dies, and when I send you after him to the land of shades, I will be High King, not only of Crete, but Mycenae and every great House on the Argolid. Every one of your kin, even to the lowest bastard you have sired, will perish on my sword.”

Chrysaleon tried to show nothing but contempt, though he reeled inside with shock and despair. “No one trusts you,” he said. “None will forget your treacheries.”

Rage whitened Harpalycus’s lips then he threw back his head and laughed. “Chrysaleon. Heir to the crown of Mycenae, but you wanted Crete’s as well. You already had a wife, but that didn’t stop you from taking another. Have you thought of Iros once since you came here?”

“No,” Chrysaleon said.

“No.” Harpalycus’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. “You’ve been obsessed with Aridela. My sister is forgotten.”

“I had no wish to marry her. I was forced into it.”

“Yes, by our fathers. Do you know why it happened so quickly? My father arranged it because Iros was carrying my child and he was afraid of what might happen. The people were already grumbling about me for other things. He saw a way to prevent judgment against him and to foist his grandchild off upon the House of Mycenae at the same time.”

“There is no honor among your kin,” Chrysaleon said. “If I ever did feel any debt to her, it’s gone.”

“She’ll never know,” Harpalycus said softly, his eyes now mere slits and his lips twitching, “because she is dead.”

Chrysaleon pictured that small, pale girl, weary in her bridal finery then later, weeping in his bed. He experienced a surprising instant of pity before he began to wonder how she’d died. He couldn’t stop himself from asking, “You’ve found out what happened there?”

“You will wonder for the rest of your short life. But know this. Your whore, Theanô, wasn’t it? She killed my sister, and you will pay the price for that.” He paused, regarding Chrysaleon with triumph. “The queen of Crete is chained to my bed.”

Chrysaleon strained at the ropes around his wrists, but they withstood his efforts. The guards’ sword points inched closer. One pricked the flesh over his ribcage.

Harpalycus watched him, his smile widening. “I will use her,” he said. “And then I will give her to my men. Everything I do to her will avenge Iros, and bring suffering to Chrysaleon, the spoiled prince. You will burn because you cannot save her from me.”

“You think the Kindred will allow you to live after murdering the High King? Your body will be torn to pieces and left to putrefy. Not even jackals will eat you.” Chrysaleon lifted his head. “Formidable Erinyes,” he shouted, his words echoing off the surrounding walls. “Hear me, Daughters of the Night. I call for vengeance in the name of my mother, Clematia. Gnaw his heels, chase him across the earth. Send him madness and death.”

“They won’t come,” Harpalycus muttered. Yet he peered at the wooden-faced warriors who overheard the curse. Straightening to his full height, he strode from one to the next, clasping a shoulder here, a forearm there. “Not even the goddesses of dread can harm my warriors,” he shouted. “You are the finest in the world, the only men strong enough to overthrow legendary Crete.”

His men cheered.

Returning to Chrysaleon with a satisfied smile, Harpalycus said, “I will send you and Themiste to Labyrinthos. I want you to die there, in the bowels of the citadel where you sought to be king. But you’ll see me again before that day. I will bring Aridela. I want you to look upon her belly when she is about to give birth to my child.”

Chrysaleon tried to suppress his rage. Perhaps, if Harpalycus believed he didn’t care what happened to Aridela, things would go more easily for her. But he couldn’t stop his teeth gritting or his breath growing shallow.

One brow lifted. Harpalycus watched him. Then he laughed. He gestured to the guards, who yanked Chrysaleon to his feet.

Harpalycus punched him in the stomach, leaving him doubled over, gasping.

“Take him,” Harpalycus said, and watched, his smile lingering, as the guards dragged his hated enemy away.

Water trickled down one of the cell walls. Labyrinthos’s ingenious interlocking water pipes must be leaking.

At least his prison offered hazy light during the day, and a bit of fresh air, something that would rankle Harpalycus if he knew. There were three holes high in the walls; it appeared rocks had punched through during the Destruction. Several black, pitted stones lay on the floor.

Pacing across the packed dirt, Chrysaleon tested every crack for a means of escape. He slept, woke, and slept again. At first a guard brought food and water, then, nothing. Chrysaleon lost track of how many days and nights passed.

Help me, Chrysaleon.

He started awake, hearing Aridela’s voice in his head. Sweat stung his eyes.

“Harpalycus holds me prisoner,” he whispered. He beat the walls until blood spattered from his knuckles.

Chrysaleon’s last glimpse of her had been in their chamber as warriors surrounded him.

You would have tricked her, if Harpalycus hadn’t beaten you to it. Don’t think you have more honor than he.

His thoughts assaulted him, bringing unfamiliar guilt. He didn’t know if his starving mind was torturing him in his last days with brutal honesty or if the voice belonged to someone else, a god, perhaps, wanting to humble him. He daydreamed about starting his time on Crete from the beginning and making no mistakes. His favorite vision was of killing Harpalycus during the wrestling.

If you had another chance, would you become bull-king and end your life in Crete’s sacrifice?

It was easier to allow his thoughts to spin in useless circles than to contemplate what Harpalycus might be doing to Aridela.

Death from starvation was painful. But at least the leaking pipe provided a little water, though never enough to truly slake his thirst.

At some point, as his stomach chewed at his bones, he thought he heard voices. He hoisted onto his elbows, unable to tell if the sound was real or another dream. Gradually the voices grew clearer. He discerned words. Women were speaking somewhere above him. Their conversation floated through a clay pipe that entered his cell at the ceiling and ran down one of the walls, ending at the floor. Somehow it concentrated the sound at its source and sent it to Chrysaleon quite clearly, almost as if the women were standing in the same room. He inched closer, his nose wrinkling at the sour smell of rat droppings.

“Our spies say he’s become a drunkard,” one said. “How does he manage to keep us enslaved? Potnia must want him to succeed.”

“Just be grateful you aren’t the queen,” said another.

“Can you hear me?” Chrysaleon cupped his hands around the ragged opening. “Are you there?”

No answer. The hole’s occupant squeaked and shuffled.

He still heard the voices, but they grew fainter. Soon there was only silence.

The next day he heard the same two, speaking their disgruntlement. And the next. And the next. Sometimes the voices came and went swiftly, as though the women walked past without pausing. At others, they stopped to gossip. But no matter how loudly he shouted into the hole, they never heard him.

Then, at last, they said something so strange he didn’t even try to get their attention.

“Harpalycus has learned of the thinara king,” said the one with the raspy voice.

“Who would have told him?” This one sounded younger, and had a tendency to giggle or weep with equal frequency. “He is male and uninitiated. And our enemy.”

There was a pause. The first woman said, “He probably tortured Minos Themiste.”

The voices faded then returned.

“—the entire prophecy?”

“Everyone will believe him Goddess-blessed. The king-sacrifice will be defeated.”

“Isn’t it already?”

The voices faded again, making Chrysaleon grit his teeth in frustration.

“—make the council believe that a god placed him here, gave him his triumph.”

“If he convinces them he is the great-year-king….”

“No one but Minos would hold more power.”

“How can he do it, though? He murders our people, rapes the priestesses.”

“No one ever said the council had any brains.”

“But—”

“His commands will be accepted, no matter how outrageous. And you know what his first decree will be.”

“Hsst—someone is coming.”

He heard faint sounds. Scuffling. A male voice.

“What are you doing here? Lazy whore.”

A scream. Then the unmistakable keening women always made when someone died. It cut off abruptly, and there was only the same empty silence that usually filled his days and nights.

Great-year-king. What else had she called it? Thinara king. He’d never heard either of these titles.

Everyone will believe him Goddess-blessed.

The king-sacrifice will be defeated.

He pondered until awareness ebbed into sleep.

His belly crept past hunger. Thirst made his throat swell. He sucked the ends of his hair and licked water off the wall. Day by day, it grew colder and he constantly shivered.

A girl stood beside him, looking at him with an expression of serene curiosity. How long had she been there? Her black hair fell long and straight over naked shoulders. Around her forehead ran a crown of blood-red anemones.

Her voice flowed over him like soft, soothing cricket-song and cool misty air. “You are the fountainhead.”

She ruptured into a scatter of ivory light as another form walked through her.

A dark hood disguised the features but she lifted her hands and pushed it back, revealing herself.

“Selene?” he whispered.

For some time she just stood there, looking at him. Then she bent, grasped his left hand, and wrapped something around his wrist. He was too weak to protest or struggle.

She straightened. “I could save you,” she said. “But it would be better, I think, if you died.”

He bit the inside of his lip in an effort to remain conscious. How he hated this bitch. If only whatever was being done to Aridela could instead be done to Selene.

“Aridela loves you,” she said, backing away. “I’ve brought you her token. Die in peace.”

“No—help me.” He was sure he said the words, but she melted into the shadows and vanished.

Dying made his dreams exquisitely vivid. No doubt this was another. Selene couldn’t enter his cell and leave again. Hadn’t he inspected every crack, every flaw for a means to escape?

He was so thirsty. Yet now when he tried to lick moisture off the cell wall, he tasted only stone dust. The leaking water pipe, his only salvation, must have dried up or frozen. Death would come quickly now.

The king-sacrifice will be defeated.

He couldn’t move his arms or legs.

Aridela reclined on a bed of soft grass and pine needles. Menoetius knelt before her. He clasped her hand, and she made no protest. He kissed her. She put her arm around his neck and pulled him closer. Golden light infused them. I will be with you… in you… of you. She didn’t seem to mind the scars. The colors surrounding them were bright and fluid, like water formed of rainbows.

Menoetius. Was he alive? What of Aridela? Harpalycus wouldn’t kill her or give her to another man. He would keep her for torture and rape, for his sadistic pleasure. He would force her to bear his unholy offspring.

Gasping, his heart fluttering and skipping, Chrysaleon inched, digging his fingertips in the cold dirt, to the wall of his cell. He pounded with his fist. He fell back, drifting from vision to vision.

He and Menoetius dropped off the ledge in the cave of Velchanos. There was Aridela on the sheepskin, seductive and willing.

But Menoetius was in his way. He grabbed his brother’s arm. Menoetius turned toward him, too slowly to be real. His mask disintegrated then reformed into the head of a real bull. His body elongated; he dropped on all fours. One heavy, dangerous hoof scraped the dirt.

Before Chrysaleon could react the bull charged. The horn splintered his ribs and pierced his heart.

He felt his life ebb in a hot flow, not unlike the unstoppable fall of water over a cliff. The bull stood over him, snorting.

Aridela came forward, resting her hand on the bull’s neck, and looked down at him dispassionately.

“No,” he whispered. “I won’t let Menoetius defeat me.”

The air felt thick, silent and black. It must be night. He thought he heard breathing. He listened, no longer caring if the death maidens came.

“Chrysaleon?”

He opened his mouth, but his voice caught against the back of his throat like old, corroded bronze, and he gave up the effort.

Cool fingers caressed his forearm then slipped around his neck, lifting his head. The rim of a cup touched his lips.

Water. Wondrous, delicious, life-giving water flowed over his tongue. He choked. The cup waited, ready to give him another chance when he recovered.

Just enough moonlight pierced the holes in the wall to chase away shadows from the center of the floor.

A figure knelt beside him. He felt the swell of a woman’s breast against his arm. Gradually, as he caught a hint of the crescent moon on her forehead and the perfect symmetry of her bone structure, he realized she was Themiste, Crete’s famed oracle. A warm smell, like dusty sunlight and blooming mountain wildflowers, surrounded him. He tried again to speak but couldn’t.

She helped him to his feet. He was surprised at how nimbly he rose. She guided him toward a wall. Glancing back, he started violently when he saw his own body, still lying, thin and filthy, on the dirt floor.

He held up his hands. Gauzy as a spider web or a veil of cloud, they merely softened his view of Themiste’s form as he peered through them.

Yet every muscle and sinew, even his skin, throbbed with pain. He couldn’t straighten. Every step hurt. Even shifting his gaze from his dream-like hand to Themiste hurt.

She waited. Of course there was no hurry. Just the journey to the land of shadows. No doubt she, too, had been killed by Harpalycus, and now served as one of Goddess Athene’s handmaids. She would lead him to the House of the Dead, make him ready for crossing the Acheron, for surely, since he hadn’t given his blood to the holy axe, he wouldn’t be allowed to enter that happy place the Cretans called Hesperia.

She made a sweeping gesture as though outlining an arch on the wall. The rocks melted into a cavernous black hole. “Come,” she said, lighting a small clay lamp, and stepped through the opening.

Her long loose hair moved as though it had life of its own. What he’d thought a necklace was really a snake coiled around her neck like an ornament.

She sealed the stones behind him. Chrysaleon couldn’t tell where the doorway had been.

Glowing lamps, set at intervals into the walls, lifted the rock corridor from blackness. As they walked, slowly, because every step sent arrows of pain shooting through Chrysaleon’s legs, he began to notice painted images. Some were faded, crumbled, while others seemed newly composed. He paused to examine the nearest. Two stylistic men stood on either side of a crowned, bare-breasted woman, who held in one hand a staff topped with the labrys axe. One of the men saluted her; the other reached out in supplication. The artist had added a crouched lion, a bull with lowered head, and a gnarled tree with spiraling, serpentine roots.

“What are these?” he asked.

“The paintings tell Kaphtor’s story, from its beginning and beyond, to its end,” she said.

The wall displayed illustrations of flowers, sheaves of barley, women weaving baskets and boys using sticks to knock olives from trees. Doves and swallows swooped around pillars resembling those at Labyrinthos. Men and women turned somersaults over the backs of bulls. Time and again he saw crescent moons, similar to the one tattooed in blue on Themiste’s forehead. Next to every moon representation stood a youth in a loincloth, sword in hand.

The path wound downward, causing Chrysaleon’s gossamer shins to burn. He stopped to rest many times. He didn’t understand how he could suffer physical pain when he was dead. Themiste waited whenever he stopped, watching him from tranquil, long-lashed eyes. She’d been one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in life. In death, she left him breathless. He tried not to stare at her.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

“To Velchanos.”

Shock bolted through his body. At last he managed, “The god lives here?”

“We travel his pathway. This is the true labyrinth. It exists in secret, beneath the layers of cities that have come and gone with the life and demise of civilizations. Our Lady created it when her people fled the wars and crossed the sea to Kaphtor. Now it is the way to Velchanos, the Keeper of the River of Light, he who gave his blood for the sake of mortals.” Her voice was soothing, melodious, a trickle of water. It held no hurry or strain.

“What wars?”

“They happened long before any record-keeping, in another land. Many of my ancestors died, for the greed of our enemies was strong.”

“Who were they?”

She tucked his arm through hers and they walked again, ever downward. “No one knew them, or from where they came, but they were well armed and ruthless. At the end, in the desperation brought by loss of hope, my people’s leaders used holy, ancient rites to bring Athene’s son. By that time only a few remained. If they had called him sooner, perhaps the ruin wouldn’t have been so complete. But fear held them back. It was believed that to summon the Velchanos would bring unforeseen consequences that might never be reversed.” Themiste glanced at him, her liquid doe eyes full of indecipherable messages, of entreaty. For what, he could not comprehend, but a powerful urge rose within to fulfill it, whatever it was.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Velchanos destroyed the invaders,” she said simply. “He scattered the survivors to each corner of the world. In these underground corridors, he placed the beasts of old, the basilisk, the sphinx, the dragon and gryphon. He gave the Above World to mortals: to women and men. That entire time is now lost, as is the thread of kinship. The dispersed tribes developed their own customs and beliefs. They composed languages others don’t understand. Some fight their neighbors and some seek peace. Some have pale skin, like the face of the moon, and some are obsidian, like moonless night. But all were once one. One kin, one people.”

“Your tale is like nothing I have ever heard. Is it true? Did it really happen?”

Themiste’s shrug and the tilt of her head suggested she had considered that question. “No one knows. It has come down through time. It is legend, or perhaps an enchantment.”

“An enchantment?” Chrysaleon wanted to scoff. But he was dead, and walking arm in arm with a ghost. Everything he had ever believed was upended.

Themiste nodded. “The Moerae weave enchantments through the skeins of our fate, my lord; they can turn our course when we think of other things, change our destinies and we won’t ever know. Magic runs alongside every action we take. Best to remember, and tread carefully.”

The walkway emerged into a cavern. She held her lamp high as they felt their way, but the light made only the faintest pool of illumination at their feet.

There were no paintings here. Their footsteps echoed into unfathomable space. Water dripped from unseen stalactites. Yet, surprisingly, the air was warm, and carried the faint scent of spices.

“We’ll continue to an underground sea,” Themiste said. “You can rest there.”

Chrysaleon tensed when he heard a rumbling growl ooze from the darkness.

“Many creatures live here,” Themiste said. “We must be quiet.”

They walked on, pausing once as a lizard, big as a man, crossed their path. It was red, scaled, with slitted eyes and a crest of bone around its neck. It hissed at them, revealing rows of wicked teeth.

Chrysaleon itched for his sword, or at least a knife. Themiste gripped his forearm and put her finger to her lips. They waited, and soon the lizard passed by.

They walked on. The encounter had sparked a memory of his younger brother, Gelanor, who had given him a dagger on his last birthday. Gelanor… the babe who slipped from his mother’s womb making a sound she’d insisted was a giggle, though the king maintained it was more likely distress. She’d waved away his cynical comments and demanded the child be named accordingly.

Gelanor. ‘Laughter.’

If Gelanor still lived, he would be sixteen, the same age as Aridela. Grief and remorse weighted Chrysaleon’s limbs as he trudged the path. The last he’d seen of his brother had been on the pier as he and Menoetius were setting sail for Crete. Chrysaleon had been dismissive and cool, impatient to be away. He’d brushed off the youth’s requests for trinkets, and his complaints that he never got to do anything exciting. Now Chrysaleon would give much for an afternoon of hunting, a fistfight or a wrestling match. Time was what he wished for now. Time, with his brother. Guilt and worry proving too much to bear, he stopped again, panting. His heart pounded.

Themiste studied him, missing nothing, he was sure. “Yours is a long journey, and a heavy responsibility,” she said, her expression unfathomable. “You have more power than you know, Zagreus, and choices to make which will determine the future of generations. I wonder what you will do—will you reunite the queen with her throne? Or will you choose another path?”

“Aridela?” Chrysaleon gasped, fighting to catch his breath. He felt old and tired, but Themiste’s words ignited dazzling hope. “She is alive?”

“For now.” A frown formed between her brows. “Our kings are the blood of Kaphtor, and our queens the earth that drinks it. If death claims the queen, our civilization will vanish from history, from all human knowledge, as Callisti has done.” Gently gripping his elbow, she began walking again, and he followed.

“The marrow of Callisti fell from the skies upon Kaphtor,” Themiste said quietly. “By the time the Lady’s anger burned out, nothing remained. Athene, when angered, is swift in exacting vengeance.”

Chrysaleon’s joy at hearing of Aridela’s survival faded into the horror of the night when fire, ash and wind nearly destroyed Crete. If Themiste spoke the truth, Athene was a goddess so powerful, so merciless, no mortal could dare cross her; from such a deity no mere man could keep secrets. Yet if that were so, why would she seek to help him, knowing as she must his true designs? And why had Harpalycus, the instrument of Callisti’s obliteration, escaped without injury while so many innocents perished?

Surely none of this mattered. He was dead and could no longer make any difference. Why did the oracle imply that he could reunite Aridela with her throne? Perhaps there was a way to do it from beyond the grave.

Greenish spears of light, like the sun shining through ferns, pierced the darkness ahead. Themiste said, “We are through the cave.”

The light seemed to have no source, but surrounded them softly, gently. It swayed and shimmered as though diffused through water. As they rounded a bend in the path, the view before them opened up. The smell of saltwater filled the air and Chrysaleon looked upon a vast underground sea, stretching away into blackness.

Two creatures stood on the shore. They had the bodies of lions, but with feathered, birdlike wings tucked into their shoulders, and the heads and faces of eagles. He recognized them immediately from many children’s tales.

Gryphons.

“Yes, my lord.” Themiste nodded, though he’d said nothing. “They will carry us the rest of the way.”

Chrysaleon lifted her onto the back of one and mounted the other, moving slowly and avoiding the enormous hooked beaks. The feathers unfurled into huge, diaphanous wings that carried them into the air, soundlessly and gracefully.

Now he knew beyond doubt he was dead.

The sea below changed. At first, Chrysaleon thought Themiste’s lamp had weakened. As they flew on, the greenish radiance at the seashore acquired a luminescent violet glow, as at twilight.

“See the difference?” She laughed. “We rise from the land of Darkness into Calesienda’s orchard. The world of Light. Can you feel it?”

Tingling energy flowed into his extremities, diminishing the earlier pain. His thirst lessened and he felt, for the first time since beginning this journey, closer to life than death.

Even as she spoke, the violet glow turned rosy pink. The gryphons turned their heads up and made a sound similar to the cry of hunting hawks.

Far above, the ceiling of the underground cavern became visible. It was covered with enormous hanging blooms, drifting from side to side in a breeze he felt against his face. The water below lightened to the tender blush of the summer flower his people called ‘mother’s tears’ for their drooping, tear-shaped petals. Waves billowed in soothing sound and rhythm.

The beasts they rode sped toward a gigantic cliff. Just as it seemed they would slam into it, they tilted and skimmed into a narrow crevasse then dove through a sheer wall of foaming blue-green seawater.

Chrysaleon peered at his companion. She smiled, her red hair flowing in currents made by the swimming gryphons.

Light and shadow, filtering through the water, transformed the aspect of this new world, making everything more vivid.

I can breathe. Chrysaleon realized it even as he understood he didn’t feel cold or wet.

The light shining through the water brightened as the cliffs fell behind. Again the gryphons turned and followed the edge of an underwater bluff into a valley; as suddenly as they had been submerged into water, they broke through the other side and were again on solid ground. The beasts landed lightly, like cats. Themiste’s shook its back as if to say, I have carried you long enough.

Chrysaleon slid off, careful of his creature’s wings, and helped Themiste dismount.

“Are you surprised, my lord?” The ends of her hair still drifted like seaweed in shallow currents, though, as far as he could tell, they were no longer underwater.

He shook his head. He had no words for what he felt. To all appearances everything was the same as at home, though the air was different. It carried an invisible sensation, like a living thing. It seemed to move, soft as kisses against his skin.

“Am I dead or dreaming?” he asked.

“That is for the Goddess to decide,” Themiste said. “This is Hesperia, Athene’s paradise.”

“Already? That wasn’t such a long journey. You exaggerated, Themiste.”

“I was not speaking of this journey,” she said, “but of learning all you must learn, suffering all you must suffer, in the name of she you claim to love.”

Her gaze was level, unsmiling, but she allowed him no time to ask more questions. “I have brought you, as I was instructed.” She plucked the serpent from around her neck. “Now you must forge your own way. There are many paths for you to choose, Prince. Or you might construct a new one.” Placing her companion upon the grass, she watched as it zipped away to a tumble of rocks.

He began to feel uneasy. What were these choices? What would happen if he made the wrong one?

The gryphons shook their heads and padded down to the stream.

To a man raised among the Argolid’s dusty rock-strewn mountains and plains, this landscape proved almost beyond comprehension. He and Themiste stood on the summit of a gentle knoll. Forest surrounded them on three sides. The evergreens and spruces made all greens he had known in the land of men gray by comparison. Beeches swayed and rustled. Glossy dark leaves and bunches of acorns weighted mighty oak branches. Moist, springy grass covered the ground, spotted with poppies and other wildflowers. To the south of the knoll, a stream spewed from the forest, bubbling over stones that glittered like stars. Movement caught his attention. He stared, squinting in the bright sunlight, finally discerning young women, dressed in what appeared to be leaves, their hair unbound. Some sat upon branches, half-hidden in the foliage like birds or lazing cats, while others peered at him from behind the trunks of oaks.

Themiste laughed, returning his attention to her. Her eyes had changed from the deep brown he remembered to the predominant color of this strange land—green, flashed through with gold. Sunlight brightened her hair from auburn to copper, and caressed her face, illuminating her cheekbones and forehead in a translucent blush. He blinked, awed by such beauty, struck speechless by the way she was looking at him.

Delight trembled through his spine and fingers. He knew the change he saw in Themiste had affected him as well, that he was more vivid, more alive. The haze of the mortal world had been washed away. He could taste as well as feel the air here. It was sweet as honey.

“Come,” she cried, touching his hand. Lifting the hem of her gown in both fists, she ran down the hill. He followed.

These surroundings, so different from the ash-choked land they’d left, enthralled his mind. His eyes drank it in greedily. Blue-purple hills swept away to the south; bright color spotted the ground where every manner of flower thrived. Fleecy clouds scudded on breezes, high above in cobalt heavens. Sunlight shimmered through the cascading torrents of water that had served as a gateway into this paradise. He wasn’t quite certain if what he felt against his face was air or water.

The grass was soft and pliable beneath his feet. Birds covered in jewel-like plumage flashed among the branches in the forest. A full-antlered stag observed him, while nearby, a fox licked its bushy russet tail.

Themiste had left him behind. Speeding up, feeling as though he could run forever, he caught her and grabbed her waist. They lost their balance and fell, rolling in a tangle down a short slope, coming to rest at the edge of the stream. Themiste, landing on top, immediately kissed him, demanding he return a passion he’d assumed she couldn’t feel. He submitted willingly, laughing. Seizing her arms, he pushed her tunic off her shoulders, threw her over so she lay on her back in the grass, and proceeded to cover her with kisses as he plunged inside her with his fingers and found her ready.

Her hands slipped beneath his tunic. They were soon naked and coupling with unreserved lust.

When it was finished he lay upon her, one cheek against her breast, sunlight warm upon the other, listening to her heart slow into steady beats.

He’d nearly fallen asleep when she pushed him. Unprepared for this abrupt eviction, he tumbled inelegantly into the stream, gasping at its icy bite. The cold shock evaporated whatever anger ran through him at her unexpected dismissal. He gulped the pristine liquid and let it wash over his face before stumbling out and falling onto the grass, panting, laughing.

Themiste, shrugging into her tunic, laughed too. “You snore.” She made a face.

“Only when I am uncommonly content,” he replied, pulling his tunic over his head.

A flock of geese, high above, drew his attention with their honking.

“By the black thundering waves of Poseidon,” he said, shading his eyes with one hand against the glitter of the sun. “This is a wondrous place.”

She instantly sobered. “Do not insult Athene. Not here.”

“I cannot speak the name of Poseidon, the god of my father’s father?”

“Athene’s roused temper is not a thing to test. Don’t you know that by now? And we no longer stand in the world of mortals, where thick air and noise protects the irreverent.”

“Where is she?”

“She is everywhere. This land, the air and light. Listen, Prince. Who gave birth to your dream of Poseidon? Gaia, who gave birth also to the queen of the wild things, our Lady Athene. This is the unsullied land of Gaia, and here you must show utter fealty. She was the beginning and will be the end. Can you not feel her inside your mind? Did you not just quench your thirst upon her breast?”

Chrysaleon leaped to his feet, fighting a rush of anger. “I feel nothing but pleasure and awe as I look upon a beautiful landscape. How can this help Crete or Aridela? Answer me, Themiste. Am I dead?”

“The bull-king of Kaphtor….”

It wasn’t Themiste who spoke. The voice was male. Chrysaleon pivoted, habit tensing his hands into fists.

A man stepped out from the edge of the forest. Rather, a youth, with curly black hair, a fine, firm mouth, and slender body robed in a sleeveless white tunic woven of some delicate, glossy material. Braids of fine, thin silver circled his head, half-hidden by his black locks. A partridge scurried about his feet and two of the girls Chrysaleon had seen earlier giggled behind him.

There was such a likeness in his face to Aridela that it left Chrysaleon blinking.

“Welcome,” said the youth. Tingles raced up Chrysaleon’s spine and lifted the hair on his forearms.

Glancing at Themiste, Chrysaleon asked, “Is this—”

“I am Damasen,” the lad said. He gazed beyond Chrysaleon. “Welcome, Themiste.” He held out his arms.

She knelt, covering her face with her hands.

“Rise, child,” he said.

Child? Damasen didn’t look as if he’d lived seventeen years.

Chrysaleon remembered the evening Aridela made the bull leap. Before she’d slipped away, she showed him her necklace, two crescent moons cupping a bead of blue lapis. She said her long-dead father, Damasen, had given it to her mother. Now here he stood, not a spear’s throw distant.

Themiste rose and Damasen clasped her hands. “Thou art well,” he said. “The barbarian could not harm thee nor even hold thee in his prison.”

“I used the secret corridor, my lord. But Kaphtor suffers. I was unable to save Queen Helice, and Aridela is captive to Harpalycus.”

His smile faded. He rested his forehead against hers. “Why have you brought the prince of Mycenae to my orchard?”

“He made the holy vow to lay down his life in sacrifice. He protected Aridela the night of the Destruction, and he has been tortured near to death by his own countrymen. Vision revealed to me that he must reunite the queen with her land if we are ever to recover. Did I see truly?”

Damasen contemplated Chrysaleon, his expression giving nothing away.

“Leave us, Themiste,” he said at last.

No outside sound penetrated the dim, airless chamber in which Aridela was kept. From time to time she feared the entire island of Kaphtor had been sucked into her nightmares and no longer existed except in her memory.

At first, with both ankles and wrists bound, she could do nothing but lie upon the moldy, insect-ridden bedding thrown upon the stone floor. But after a few days, the nameless eunuch who attended her cut the binding around her ankles and left it off. There was no danger of her escaping, as the leather strap around her wrists was secured to the bottom of a pillar, making it impossible to take more than one step away from the bedding, and that could only be managed doubled over. Testing the leather tightened it and strangled the flow of blood to her hands. This annoyed the eunuch, who, as he rearranged the bonds, muttered mainland curses and cuffed her on the head, where her hair would hide the bruises. Beyond that miserly kindness, he did nothing but toss down a bowl of thin broth twice a day, letting her struggle on her own to reach, lift, and drink, and, not nearly often enough, he carried the chamber pot away to be emptied.

At first she worried about the passing of time. There was nothing to do as she languished except fret, grieve, and rage. She tried to mark the days but couldn’t keep up. For a miserable blurry interlude she lay on the filthy bed, scratching those fleabites she could reach, and wondering if Harpalycus had forgotten her, for he never came and the eunuch shared no information.

The nightmares worsened to the point where she dreaded falling asleep. She was so hungry she dreamed of eating the straw beneath her. She dreamed repeatedly of Harpalycus’s rape, of his heaviness, his hot, suffocating breath, his painful invasion. She dreamed of swelling, bloating with child, not knowing if it was Chrysaleon’s or his. The larger she grew the louder and more echoing grew Harpalycus’s laughter.

Her dreams of Chrysaleon’s death were perhaps the most agonizing. She saw herself struggling free of her captors and approaching her fallen husband. Walking across the bedchamber seemed to take all night. Sometimes she never reached him. When she did and turned him over, maggots swarmed from his eyes.

Sometimes, weaving beneath horror and anguish, she dreamed the promise of the god: For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us.

Kaphtor would have slipped out of the Moon of Corn Poppies and into the Moon of Winemaking by now. No sound of the traditional grape festival seeped through the walls, nor any hint of the rich call of conch shells to the four winds. Aridela felt in her tendons, belly and bones the cry of abandoned grapes as they rotted on the vines. She experienced through every layer of her soul the sundering of the ancient bond between her people and the sanctified crops.

Every now and then she caught a whiff of fresh air clinging to the eunuch’s robes or sneaking beneath the door, and this helped her pinpoint where they were in the wheel of the year. The faint scent of grapes melted into a sweet hint of apples. One of Kaphtor’s most vibrant months, the cool nights and warm days of the Moon of Winemaking brought apples as well as grapes to ripe fruition. She couldn’t help inhaling with desperate desire and a plummeting sense of helplessness and fury. Before the rain of fire and ash, this month kept everyone busy crushing grapes and beginning the fermentation process, bringing out last year’s wine, planting new grains, and picking the ripe apples. Cider was made through the laborious process of grinding apples with stones then pressing the mush. There were sweet apple cakes and delicate crusts oozing apple juices. Suppliants left baskets of red fruit piled high in Eleuthia’s Cave, for it was well known how much she loved them. The Moon of Winemaking gave way each year to brisk winds and the excitement of the olive harvest, but who would knock down the fruit this year? Who would care for the surviving olive trees? Who would press the rich dark oil and contain it in clay jars, ready for export to the many countries that craved it?

She wept for all Kaphtor had lost and wondered how long she could continue living in this silent gloom as the forgotten prisoner of Harpalycus.

Athene, am I still your daughter? Do you listen anymore?

Then Harpalycus finally came. Awakened by some sound, she peered up groggily and there was his face, staring down at her with an expression of triumph and satisfaction.

Without a word, he shoved her onto her back with his foot and fell upon her, slaking his monstrous urge almost immediately. Aridela pressed her legs together as he rose, feeling sticky wetness on her thighs that might either be his semen or blood. She screamed until she was hoarse and kicked at him, inadvertently twisting the thongs around her wrists, causing them to squeeze without mercy. He stepped back, laughing at her attempts to harm him then raped her again, more slowly. When she struggled and spat and called to the Erinyes for vengeance, he raped her a third time, smiling, never closing his eyes but observing her furious helplessness with obvious pleasure. He only lost interest and stopped when she bit her lip, turned her head away, and lay without movement, in silence.

After that day, Harpalycus sent a messenger regularly to the storeroom in which she was kept. Upon receiving the summons, the eunuch would sponge her from her hair to her toes. He cuffed her so hard when she struggled or kicked that she would often lose consciousness, only waking to find herself either being carried to the bedchamber she’d once shared with Chrysaleon and which now housed Harpalycus, or already in the bed, bound to the bedposts. Sometimes Harpalycus would be sitting in a chair, drunkenly watching her, or he would enter the room at some point after she woke, giving her time to dread his arrival.

He loved to brag about his campaign. Everything, according to him, was proceeding smoothly, without resistance. He told her how much he enjoyed it when she fought him, and encouraged her to struggle, sometimes slapping her in an attempt to spark her anger. Lycus, who had apparently fallen in his own fortunes from accomplice to prisoner, was sometimes brought in and forced to watch, such was the usurper’s perversion. On those occasions Harpalycus delighted in doing whatever it took to elicit cries of agony from the queen of Kaphtor.

When his needs were exhausted, he had her carried back to her cramped bare cell, where the air and stones grew steadily colder.

“It’s a fine, sunny day, my queen.” Harpalycus flung open the bedchamber door and strode in, bringing with him streams of cold, fresh air. He motioned to the eunuch. The man knelt to remove the prince’s greaves then lifted the gold crown from his master’s forehead and placed it on a table. It was a crown worn on ceremonial occasions by Kaphtor’s bull-kings, and was heavy with priceless stones and carvings.

Aridela, bound as usual to the ornate bed, made no reply.

“Bring Lycus,” Harpalycus said. The slave bowed and backed out, closing the door behind him. Soon Lycus was dragged in, his wrists and ankles shackled. A leather strap covered his mouth. He was bruised and filthy.

Aridela barely glanced at him.

She encouraged random images to form in her mind then dissipate, ethereal as steam. It was her method of blocking out Harpalycus’s attacks and helping her remain still and silent, which discouraged him. She relived the day Selene stepped off the ship from Phrygia. Aridela and Iphiboë had clutched each other, speechless with awe at this tall, flaxen-haired girl who had come so far to instruct them. Selene, stern in the beginning, was a hard teacher who left many a bruise with her wooden sword, especially if she thought they weren’t paying attention or not trying their best. Aridela pictured Helice on her high-backed stone throne, surrounded by her council and judges, preparing to hear suppliants from the various provinces. Motioning to a younger Aridela, she pointed to a spot where her daughter could listen and learn about justice. The scene melted into a summer day, saturated with the hum of bees and thick scents of hyacinths and rosemary. Aridela hitched up her tunic and nimbly climbed the branches of a gnarled oak, dismissive of the long white scratches the rough bark left on her legs, equally dismissive of the swarming bees. Using a smoker, she lulled them and stole their dripping honeycombs, only ever suffering one or two stings. Neoma, Aridela’s partner in most of her wayward adventures, stayed on the ground, keeping an eye out for the nurses. “Come down,” she would hiss. “It’s not fair. Save some for me.”

“Come and get some if you want it so much,” Aridela always replied.

Then came the rush of air and utter silence of concentration as she vaulted over the mighty back of the aurochs.

The god-lover spoke his vow. Together we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us. I will always be with you, in you, of you.

Know me, Aridela. See me. I am with you, even now. My Mother and I are by your side.

The acrid smell of ashes and violent shaking forced her awareness back to Harpalycus. He leaned over her, a scowl marring his handsome face.

“Wake up,” he commanded. “You cannot sleep in your master’s presence.” He crossed to the table and poured some wine. “I’ve had a satisfying day. Eurysthenes of Pylos and I have come to an agreement that benefits us both. His armies will soon be here. Your people cower in their hovels, trying in vain to hide their daughters from my men.” He returned to the bedside. Aridela smelled the wine on his breath as he bent over her. She tried to swallow, but her throat was so parched she couldn’t. “Did we really think Crete invincible?” he said. “You, your country, and everything within it are mine, and always will be.”

“Never.”

He didn’t respond. She must not have spoken. She was so intolerably weary, so weak from hunger and thirst she could hardly tell truth from fantasy. The last time she’d truly slept had been the night of her wedding. Tears trailed from her eyes. “Chrysaleon….”

Harpalycus straightened with an impatient sigh. “Still calling your feeble lover? I expected more from you. When I finish here, I will move my court to Knossos. I mean to bury his skull beneath the road into the palace and take my place as king.” He drank off his wine, shattering the finely crafted, elegant bowl against the wall. Tilting his head as he sat next to her, he ran a hand so lightly along her arm it caused a shiver. “This is the way it should be, for all women, everywhere. You have no honor. We on the mainland have always known this. You claim to be blessed with divinity, but you’re nothing. Necessary vessels, soil in which to grow our offspring. I am the one with true power. I have defeated death, and will live forever. One day, all people, all civilizations, will worship me.” He pressed two fingers over the pulse in her throat. “It took me many years to find the secret and bind it to my will.” His smile widened. “But I succeeded. I cannot die. Do you understand?” He stood, stretching, scratching his scalp. “Is it time yet to untie you?” She watched his eyes narrow as he slit the ropes that bound her ankles and trailed his hands along her calves to her thighs, pushing down between them and forcing them apart.

Aridela inhaled and released her breath. Part of her longed to twist, scream and kick, but she couldn’t muster the strength, and something, something she couldn’t quite remember, advised her to ignore his taunts.

“You don’t struggle.” He lowered himself upon her, parting her thighs again with his knee. “Is the fight at last leaving you?”

His weight crushed her bound arms. One shoulder felt close to coming out of joint. Though she bit her lip until the coppery taste of blood seeped into her mouth, a miserable groan formed in her throat.

He grinned. It was all he needed. Soon he collapsed, heavy and sated, over her body. His breathing rasped into her ear.

Kissing her earlobe like an ardent lover, he said, “Sweet Aridela. I swear by Poseidon I never tire of you. You lie there without protest but I see the hatred in your eyes. You cannot hide it from me. I hope you never lose your hatred. It’s so much more exciting than the sniveling acquiescence other women offer. One day, when you hold my son in your arms, I think you might give yourself to me willingly. I’m not sure that’s what I want at all.”

“I’ll kill any child you make on me.”

He laughed, instantly reinvigorated. It was true, what he said. Her defiance did nothing but add to his strange erotic fulfillment. Many times she’d told herself to say nothing, to close her eyes and lie as though dead when he tormented her. Yet sometimes the old spark, the ‘cauldron of fire’ that used to simmer within her, blazed and wouldn’t be silenced.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. She glanced at Lycus. His shoulders were hunched, his face streaked with tears. The eunuch was there too, staring without expression over their heads.

Say nothing. Do nothing. As she grew hungrier and weaker, it became easier to follow the internal command.

She turned her head away, lying still and silent until Harpalycus lost patience and struck her in the face.

“Wash her,” he said to the eunuch. “Put new bedding in her cell. I’m sick of these ugly fleabites.” He sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers over her thigh. “If she can ever learn humility,” he said, almost gently, “and how best to please me, she will find her life much easier. She will be the mother of a line of kings. If she does not, I will hand her over to my men and see how she likes that.”

He motioned to his guards. They grabbed Lycus and pulled him from the room. The once-famed and adored bull leaper stared at her as he was dragged away. She returned his gaze, her eyes slitted with venom.

If only she could die.

But wishes for death were cowardly. As long as there remained the slightest chance she could free her people, she would suffer any agony to that end.

“Aridela? Please, wake up.”

She started. A hand gripped her shoulder. She felt the close presence of another being, but in the dark, she could see nothing.

“Aridela,” he said again, low, and she recognized the voice. She hadn’t seen Lycus in days, not since the last time Harpalycus had made him watch while he raped her. How could Lycus, as much a prisoner as she, be here, unbound, alone, in what must be the middle of the night? She couldn’t muster a great deal of curiosity.

“Is Harpalycus with you, traitor?” she said. “Are you here to watch again?”

His grip tightened. He made choked sounds.

“I don’t blame you,” he whispered. “I—I was mistaken in my trust.” He fumbled with the leather knots at her wrists.

“Mistaken in your trust?” She laughed, infusing it with all the contempt she’d been harboring. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you escape.”

“Get away from me.”

“I promise you. I’ve planned this since the day he imprisoned me. I dug my way out. I have a knife. I took it off a soldier while he slept. These mainlanders are lazy and careless, and always drunk.”

Aridela felt herself growing more alert. For the first time since she’d been captured she felt a spark of hope. She feared it.

“You’re lying. Where’s Harpalycus? He’s watching, isn’t he?”

“No.” Lycus shook her. “If we’re caught he’ll kill us both, and we’ll suffer before we die, do you understand? This is our only chance. I could have gone by myself, but I won’t, not without you. Do you want to come with me or stay here?”

She tried to judge his honesty but without any light, unable to discern his expression, she couldn’t.

He freed her wrists and rubbed her cold hands.

“We must hurry,” he said. “Your guard will return. I’ve been waiting for him to leave. He won’t be gone long.”

She struggled through exhaustion to sit up.

He kept talking as he rubbed her arms and calves.

“He fooled me. He promised neither you nor your mother would be harmed. I only wanted to see Chrysaleon ousted.”

“Idiot.”

He helped her rise. Weakness forced her to lean against him. Not since the bull gored her, nearly seven years ago, had she felt so helpless.

“How did you do it?” she asked. “Tell me that at least. I want to know how you and Harpalycus overthrew us.”

He sighed twice as if trying to build his courage. “We planned it before he left Kaphtor. After the Destruction, I thought he must be dead. But two of his men came to Kydonia on a tender and learned where we were. They rowed around to Natho and found me. We made arrangements. I slit the throat of the watchman the night of the celebration. Harpalycus did the rest. His father’s armies overthrew every major harbor in just a few days.”

She gritted her teeth to keep from spitting on him. “What did he offer to make it worthwhile? Gold? Were you not wealthy enough already?”

“What I told you,” he mumbled. “He promised to rid Kaphtor of Chrysaleon.” His voice lowered further. “He promised me your hand.”

She could only growl her disgust.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You must know, if we—if we’re caught. Has he said anything about what he can do? Things no mortal should dare?”

She fought to keep from collapsing as they made their way across the room. “He claims he cannot die. He’s a madman.”

“He may be mad, but he does possess power,” Lycus said. “Proitos taught him.”

He supported her around the waist. Aridela clenched her teeth to stop their chattering.

Keeping his mouth close to her ear, Lycus said, “I’ve heard Proitos learned his craft from a master. I tried to find out his name, but I only know he is close to Chrysaleon.”

They stopped at the doorway. Lycus listened, looking both directions, before helping Aridela into the corridor. “Hurry,” he said.

They stumbled along, trying to be quiet. “You don’t know anything,” she hissed. “You lie to serve your own ends, to discredit my consort.”

She began to feel a little stronger, and shoved free of Lycus’s supporting arm.

“No, Aridela.” Lycus caught her hand and led the way down a set of steps. “I’m not lying. It troubles me that I couldn’t learn this man’s name. He could be here right now with Harpalycus. This man is someone to fear. He possesses an unholy power.”

They entered another corridor and slipped along the wall. Aridela was groggy from exhaustion and furious at Lycus’s insinuations. Instead of these back stabbings and accusations, they should find the fastest way to escape. She stared into shadows, trying to identify their location even as her mind leaped ahead to the gathering of an army that would bring down Harpalycus.

“I hated you.” Lycus’s grip tightened around her hand. “You can’t know how much, for giving yourself to him.”

She twisted until she freed her hand from his.

“And such a love,” he continued. “So consuming. You forgot about everyone else. Chrysaleon was all that mattered. By the Lady, I hated you.”

“Why are you helping me then?”

Lycus guided her to a door. She shook her head. “That isn’t the way out.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve mapped it. Trust me.”

She shrugged and they passed through. Blackness encased them. They felt along the walls. Finally Lycus stopped, searching until he found what he was looking for.

“Here it is,” he said, throwing open another door.

Aridela heard the wash of the sea as they stepped onto a pillared terrace. She and her mother had breakfasted here in better days. Tears blinded her as she breathed the air of freedom. Never again would she take such a thing for granted.

Snow covered the flagstones, drifting in the corners to knee height. Icy wind howled against them. “How long have I been in that room?” she asked, remembering the fine warmth and sunlight she had reveled in the day before the ceremony that made her Chrysaleon’s wife.

“A month. Winter came early, as we feared it would. Eurysthenes will use it as another excuse to delay sending the armies he promised. Hurry.” Lycus seized her hand again. “I found a set of stairs. It leads both into the hills and down to the sea. Only a little farther.” He turned as he pulled her forward. Faint moonlight revealed a hesitant smile. “Remember how it used to be? Do you remember that day in your mother’s arboretum?”

“I wish not to remember it.”

His smile faded. “I’m not evil; I know that now. Harpalycus is evil. I’ve only been stupid.”

“The dead cry for vengeance because of your stupidity.”

“And they’ll have it,” said another voice, a voice Aridela recognized, coming from behind them.

Terror sent Aridela onto her toes as Harpalycus emerged from the open doorway.

“Quick—” Lycus hissed. “Down the stairs. Hide in the rocks. Find the caves—”

They backed toward the stairs. Harpalycus walked toward them, smiling. “I knew you’d escaped, my old friend,” he said. “You think yourself clever, but you always do exactly what I predict. I’ve won my wager with Proitos, who believed you too cowardly to try.”

Lycus pushed her away from him then faced Harpalycus. He held up his stolen dagger.

Aridela watched as Harpalycus took three long, quick strides, raising his sword. Lycus threw his dagger, but the blade flew wide. It sank into the snow. Still smiling, Harpalycus took one more step and thrust his sword into the renowned bull leaper’s stomach.

Lycus doubled over. Aridela glimpsed his wide-eyed shock.

Turning, she raced for the steps, hearing Harpalycus shout through the strangled screams in her head.

Arrows struck around her. One grazed her thigh. She descended, slipping on ice, gasping, clutching the stones on either side. Blood ran down her leg, leaving black streaks in the snow.

Warriors ascended before her, blocking her way forward. The high stone wall surrounding the steps prevented any escape to the side. She turned and fled back the way she’d come.

They caught her at the top. Her arms were seized. Sword blades pressed against her chest and the back of her neck. She could hardly breathe, much less move.

“Take her to my chamber,” Harpalycus commanded. “Tie her tightly.” He stepped closer. She smelled blood and that other scent she had grown to associate with him. The caustic stench of smoldering ashes.

“Killing makes me lusty,” he said as his soldiers pulled her away. “What happy fortune that I’ve a whore in my bed.”

Prince Chrysaleon has at last awakened. Neoma brought him a hot strengthening brew made of ox bones. She feeds him with the patience of a mother tending a sick child, which shows how different she is since her own visit with the shadowlands.

When we took him from his prison cell, his flesh was gray and sunken; he hardly breathed. Two men carried him here, to the holy cave of Velchanos, where I believed he would soon expire. I admit I’m surprised he didn’t.

I cannot help but gloat over Harpalycus losing not just me but his most hated enemy as well. I sense the rage behind his promises of extravagant rewards if we are returned. His warriors came to the cave yesterday and stumbled around the outer cavern while we laughed in the back chambers. Does he think we don’t know how to conceal ourselves?

All we must do now is free Aridela.

Though he is skeletal and weak as a newborn, Chrysaleon’s eyes shine. His mouth is tranquil. He looks as he did the first time I took notice of him, dusty and elated after winning the footrace at the initial trials. On that day I learned the meaning of his name. I knew he had come to Kaphtor by sacred design.

When I explained where he was, he gave me a smile of such brilliance it almost stopped my breathing.

“This is where Aridela and I….” He didn’t finish. I knew he was remembering the first time he lay with her.

Then he added, frowning, “She needs me.”

His voice sounds younger. His face, too, is different, perhaps because he came so near to death and defeated it. He seems changed from what he was, more thoughtful, maybe a little less reckless.

Every time I look upon our handsome Zagreus, Aridela’s vivid memories of their mating, which occurred in this cave, return to me. I should let these recollections go. They do not belong to me. But I haven’t. I confess they leave me desirous for that which I cannot have.

Before Chrysaleon came to Kaphtor, I used to dream of the vision in which Damasen appeared. He lay upon me, gazing into my face as we merged, flesh to flesh, soul to soul. The memory is sweet yet amorous, and roused passions that were difficult to quench, but they were always touched by divinity, somehow removed from this world.

Chrysaleon has intensified those longings but in a very mortal, earthy fashion that heats my skin. I turn away from him and try to feign indifference. I am afraid of betraying myself.

He dwells upon his death-experience. I understand. Sometimes I wake from a vision certain it was truth and this world false. I recognize the questioning confusion in his face. He asks if there are hidden corridors beneath Labyrinthos, under the prisons. My denials agitate him. He claims Kaphtor was embroiled in an ancient war, and creatures such as dragons, lizards, and gryphons live in a world beneath our feet. He insists I am the one who revealed these legends to him.

I hope his journey to death and back hasn’t damaged his mind.

Themiste watched Chrysaleon sleep. She couldn’t help it. Her gaze roamed over him, and in her imagination, her hands followed.

She lost track of time, which was easy to do in the cave, where all light came from clay lamps. When he woke, with a sharply indrawn breath, his arms flailing, she didn’t know how long she’d been there, but her back was stiff and her neck hurt.

“My lord,” she said soothingly. “You are with friends.”

“Themiste.” His voice hadn’t yet regained its old strength. His weakness made her feel protective; his use of her name made her smile.

She brought her stool closer. “I have broth. It’s still warm.”

“I don’t want any.” He frowned.

“Just a sip,” she said, hoping to tempt him as she brought the bowl closer. She would like to lay her hand upon his cheek, to feel the warmth of his skin, and maybe, if only she could, touch his lips, once.

His frown deepened. Clasping her wrist, he pushed the bowl away but kept hold of her. “No,” he said. “But I am happy you’re here, my lady. I have questions.”

“I hope I have answers,” she said, trying to ignore the flicker of fire that ran up her arm.

He released her. She put the bowl on the floor and folded her hands on her lap.

He hoisted himself into a sitting position with a sigh. Shadows lingered beneath his eyes. The flesh over his cheekbones was tight and pale and his hands weren’t completely steady, but she resisted the urge to coddle him and simply waited.

The frown remained as he began. “I walked with a god called Damasen,” he said, “in an amazing country; Hesperia, you called it. Athene’s paradise.”

Shock, tinged with disbelief, ran through Themiste. She straightened. “Damasen? Do you mean Aridela’s father?”

“Yes,” he said. He fell into thoughtful silence. Themiste, needing to absorb this amazing information, picked up her spinning and busied her hands, saying only, “That is very peculiar.”

He watched her then asked, “How do you tell the months?”

Thinking a simple answer would suffice, Themiste said, “Long ago, our stargazers mapped the heavens and calculated the passage of time into the calendar we use today.”

He shook his head. “Tell me more,” he said. “Describe the process you use, how it’s different from Mycenae’s.”

“We follow the moon, my lord, as it disappears then grows to round and fertile fullness. When this cycle repeats thirteen times, one of our years has passed. Each of our months lasts twenty-eight days, a consecrated number matching the cycles of women. As you know, our year begins at the rise of the star Iakchos. Kaphtor’s new consort must triumph against the old bull-king on the day before, the one day that lies out of time, between the old year and the new. This day is our holiest. It forms the passage into paradise for the dead consort and crowns the living man.”

Chrysaleon’s intent scrutiny caused a spark of uneasiness to creep up Themiste’s spine. It felt as though he was trying to see inside her. Sensing some secret purpose, she sought to distract him. “In our most ancient times,” she said, putting on a disarming smile, “sacred kings gave their lives twice a year, in winter, at the solstice, and at the height of summer. That one was most important, for the land was thirstiest in the dry heat, and we suffered much destructive pestilence. Long ago, we started our new year in winter; the summer solstice was known as the seventh moon. Some old people still calculate time this way, so you might sometimes hear our first month also called the seventh.”

“Why did you change?”

“Our history tells of a queen who wanted more time with a consort she loved. She changed the custom.” Only after she spoke the words did Themiste realize that perhaps she shouldn’t have. She quickly added, “It was only accepted because we had left the homeland by then and settled on Kaphtor, which doesn’t have the same destructive heat. The twice-yearly sacrifice was no longer needed.”

For a while he was quiet, but then asked the question she had hoped to avoid. “And a great year?”

She wrapped several strands of wool around her spindle as she tried to form the right words. She didn’t want to rouse his suspicions, but the calculation of the eight-year cycle was a secret, spoken of only within the mysteries. “It is a time of one hundred of the moon’s rotations,” she said. “Where have you heard of this?”

For a long while he didn’t answer. At last he said, “Damasen named me the great-year-king.”

The spindle fell from Themiste’s numbed fingers. She rose, stumbling, from the stool, dropping her distaff as well. Her heart hammered as though he’d laid the point of a knife against her throat. “Are you lying to me?”

“No. I don’t know what it means.” He watched her, hoping, maybe, that she would explain. But with difficulty, Themiste backed away without betraying herself further. She bent to retrieve her tools, hiding her face and keeping her hands busy so he wouldn’t see their trembling.

His frown returned but instead of pressing for an answer, he asked, “Can you bring one of my men to me here?”

Themiste called for one of his surviving Mycenaean guard and left them alone to talk.

Her thoughts spun. Had Aridela’s dead father gifted Chrysaleon of Mycenae with such a holy title? How could he have heard of it otherwise? She could think of no way. He must be telling the truth.

She sat down with her pens, ink and papyrus, but didn’t know what to write, and thoughtlessly sharpened her pen until she ruined it. The Oracle Logs spoke of the great-year-king—the ancient tongue called him the thinara king. Several of the prophecies claimed he would bring unimaginable change, not only to Kaphtor, but to the entire world, change that would affect future generations for more years than could be calculated.

Yet another prophecy coming to life in her time.

She readied another pen and forced herself to record everything he had said, knowing there might come a day when she would need to remember their conversation exactly.

A messenger came for her later, saying the Zagreus would like to see her again. She composed her features into a pleasant smile, hoping it would disguise her unease.

He was still sitting up, but he looked exhausted.

“You should rest, my lord,” she said. She remained standing some distance from his pallet.

“I wanted to tell you I’m sending two of my men to Mycenae, to ask my father for help. They’ll join Harpalycus’s soldiers and find a way onto a ship bound for the mainland.” His eyes darkened. “Harpalycus claims to have poisoned my father, but we must try. I wish I could send Menoetius, but… has no one heard from him?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, my lord.”

“He must be dead,” he said after a brief silence. “There’s no help for it then.”

She noticed him fingering a band of some kind on his wrist.

“What is that?” she asked.

He looked down then lifted his arm. “It was on my arm when I woke,” he said. “I don’t remember it. I don’t know how it got there.”

He plucked at it. It was no armband but a twine of silver, and as it unwound, a charm was revealed.

“Why, that’s Aridela’s necklace,” she said. “Her father gave it to Queen Helice when Aridela was a baby. How have you come to have it?”

He held it up, staring at the crescent moons surrounding a lapis bead. “When I walked in the orchards of Hesperia,” he said slowly, “a partridge brought this necklace to Damasen and he gave it to me. He told me I must return it to Aridela. You say what I lived was no more than vision or dream, and didn’t happen except in my mind. If that is so, how did this necklace come to be here, with me?”

There must be a reason. Perhaps Aridela gave it to him, and in his suffering he’d forgotten. But Themiste shrugged, unwilling to squelch his ardent conviction. “There is always magic, my lord,” she said, hoping to soothe him. “It weaves through our lives, guiding us onto paths we might never take otherwise.”

He regarded her, his expression half-startled, but soon smiled, and nodded as though satisfied.

Aridela tracked the sliver of daylight, sometimes golden, sometimes gray, that crept down her cell wall each morning. She watched it twenty times after Lycus’s failed rescue attempt. During those twenty days, Harpalycus had her brought to his bedchamber every evening, and returned to her cell when he grew bored with torturing her.

The band of light on the wall grew dimmer, grayer, as the days marched on toward winter. Harpalycus finally ordered that she be given a blanket as the cell grew frigid.

Day by day, her fear of him waned, until one afternoon, when he gave her his tiresome leering grin, she felt nothing past old, stale hatred. She was always sore and bruised, often bleeding from cuffs she received, mostly from the eunuch. But as time passed, the blows seemed less intense, as though her skin had constructed a toughened shell that allowed her to dismiss them. Pain no longer frightened her. Harpalycus no longer frightened her. Hunger, too, ceased to torment her. She often saw, in her mind’s eye, a set of steps in a dark and shadowed forest leading up to a closed door with beautiful carved hinges. She understood that the steps offered release, if she could ascend them. She knew that when she finally went through the door, all of this would be over.

But one fear continued, resonating through her mind, through every pulse-beat. It worsened, perhaps because she had nothing to do while Harpalycus was occupied elsewhere but dwell on it.

Lying on the matted straw in her cold, dusky cell, Aridela imagined all she didn’t know. What horrors were being inflicted upon the people and cities of Kaphtor? Within her soul lay unquestioning surety that Harpalycus enjoyed continued success solely because she was his prisoner. Her people were waiting for her to escape and join them. Until she did, there would be no recovery, no triumph, no return to grace and plenty. Like children, they wanted their mother to lead them. Through every weary muscle and shallow breath, through waking obsession and sleeping nightmares, Aridela knew she was the leavening of Kaphtor. She was the alchemist. She would cause the people to rise up in an unstoppable wave of rage. She alone could conjure victory.

Her continuing fear sprang from the possibility that she would never escape. No matter how hard she tried to strangle such futile thoughts, fear survived beneath deliberate images of triumph. She might die the prisoner of Harpalycus; she might grow so dulled and bitter in this dank cell that she would find a way to climb the steps and open the door, especially if a child took root inside her.

She called herself a weakling, a coward, a fool. Every death, known and unknown, weighted her soul. She had allowed this to happen, by not watching Lycus more carefully. By thinking only of Chrysaleon. By occupying her days with decorations and parades when she should have been strengthening the outposts and coastal lookouts.

Her wrists grew bloody because she couldn’t make herself stop testing the strength of the leather.

One morning, as she stared at the crescent of daylight work its way along the wall, she felt something on her forearm.

The snail’s black shell spiraled into a perfect point. A glistening track of mucus dried on her flesh as it traversed the expanse of her arm toward her wrist.

Pausing at the leather strap, the tiny creature’s translucent tentacles rocked back and forth. Though Aridela discerned no eyes or mouth, it seemed to rear up as though examining this barrier to its progress.

“Chew through it,” Aridela encouraged, softly, for the eunuch was snoring on the other side of the cell and it angered him to be awakened. “I must get free. The people need me. Can you help?”

The snail inched onto the strap. It stopped. Its shorter set of tentacles extended, gingerly exploring the leather.

“I must kill the eunuch while he sleeps. Otherwise he’ll be too strong for me,” she whispered. “Then I can escape. I’ll slip through the villa like a shadow. Like you do, unnoticed.”

A thought crept through her mind that a snail could never chew through anything like this tough leather. Or if it could, it would take years.

“Forgive me,” she said. “It’s unkind of me to belittle your abilities. I have faith, I vow it.”

Another thought, passing beneath her fascination with this moist creature, suggested the elixir, the pith of Princess Aridela, was disintegrating into madness.

“I am of divine Athene,” she said. “My course is set like the stars in the heavens. For as long as I am separated from my people, everything will wither—the land, the crops, our souls. Athene has turned her back on us. She will only return when I am free and fighting in her name. I am not mad. I’m not.”

Yet her voice sounded unfamiliar, as though someone she’d never met used her mouth. Poisonous fear consumed another chunk of dwindling hope.

The snail’s eye tentacles swiveled toward her face and waved as though in greeting.

She gave it a careful smile. “You want to know my plan? After I sneak past the guards, I’ll go to someone in the village, a peasant or farmer. Someone who has suffered at the hands of the invaders. My people will hide me in some cranny. I must find Chrysaleon and Themiste, and rescue them. Once I have Chrysaleon and Themiste, we will make our way across the mountains to Knossos.”

Knossos was the center, the heart of her success. Aridela’s imaginings always led to Knossos. There, she would gather her surviving warriors. She would find those of the royal court who had gone into hiding. There must be some. They could not all have been killed.

“First I will find Chrysaleon and Themiste,” she said.

But that annoying murmur spoke again. Your plan is flawed. You don’t know where Chrysaleon and Themiste are. It could take days upon days to discover. They could even be dead. If you escape, you won’t have time to search for them. If you take the time, Harpalycus will find you and whoever helps you will be tortured and killed.

“Are you questioning your queen?” she asked the snail. “Trust me. Someone will know where they are. Someone will know—”

“Be quiet, ugly shrew!” She’d forgotten the eunuch. Her musings and plots had awakened him. He struck her hard above the ear, but she felt only a dull throb and a ticklish trickle of blood through her hair.

When she looked back at her wrist, the snail was gone. It must have been knocked off when she tried to block the eunuch’s blow. Though she searched frantically through the straw, she never found it.

She wept for three days over the loss of her friend.

Faint scuffling woke Aridela from fitful sleep. Groggy, unable to see anything in the blackness of night, she gradually picked out another sound from the first. It was rather sickening, as though someone fought to breathe through lungs filled with fluid. Perhaps the eunuch had fallen ill.

She felt hands upon her, and stiffened. The eunuch had no interest in her. Harpalycus must have come to the cell in one of his drunken midnight fantasies. It had happened before.

But these hands tucked the blanket close and picked her up, cradling her like a child.

“What—” she began.

“Quiet.” The command didn’t come from Harpalycus. At least, she didn’t think it did. But the voice was a man’s.

“The guard?” someone else, a woman, asked.

“I cut his throat.”

Dreaminess showered through the purple black, filling her mind with sparkles. She remembered this feeling from when she was small, when her mother enchanted her with stories, like the romance between Athene and the seal-man. She thought she saw a hint of milky paleness. It might be moonlight. Everyone knew the moon brought divinatory dreams. Lady Athene must be sending her one.

There came an interlude of movement and vertigo as whoever carried her left the cell. Her feet, protruding from the other end of the blanket, brushed now and then against cold stone walls. She made no protests, asked no questions. No one should question a dream from the Goddess.

Athene will show me what I need to see.

The sense of closed-in spaces evaporated. Icy breezes blew over her face. She heard wind hissing and soughing. Athene had taken her outside.

The person who cradled her made no sound as he walked. She felt supported by a cloud. She couldn’t hear him breathing. He seemed to not find her much of a burden. Maybe it was one of Athene’s holy serving-men.

He walked for so long she dozed, and lost track of how much time passed before she heard the woman say, “We’ve gone far enough. Put her down here and rest.”

Wind sighed through tall cypresses. She saw the black outline of their tightly packed branches against a starlit sky. It had been so long since she’d heard such a sound, or breathed anything other than the air emanating from stale, moldy straw. She inhaled, shivering, caring about nothing for one glorious instant but that fresh, free scent.

Water trickled over her lips, shocking her into wakefulness. She opened her mouth and sucked at it, trying to swallow as much as she could before it vanished.

A wet sponge gently soothed her parched lips, but it stung the cuts and bruises, eliciting a gasp.

Someone put an arm around her shoulders, supporting her while she drank. The blanket loosened and fell around her waist.

She stared at her wrists, at the raw raised welts. The leather straps were gone. Harpalycus’s face leaped into her mind. After Lycus’s attempt at rescue, he’d been angry… so angry. She couldn’t think about what he’d done—

“Aridela,” the woman said.

She turned toward the voice. The night was deep, but she saw and recognized the creamy whiteness of hair, and clutched at it. “Selene?”

“Yes.”

Aridela burst into uncontrolled weeping as realization washed over her. This was no dream.

Selene pressed Aridela’s face against her throat and held her tightly until the storm subsided.

“Where are we?” Aridela wiped at her eyes. “Where is Harpalycus?” She didn’t know if it was the night wind or the hated name that lifted a fresh wash of goose bumps on her arms.

“He’ll never touch you again.” Selene dried Aridela’s face with a corner of the blanket. “I swear it.”

“He’s dead? You killed him?” Hope rose then crashed as Selene shook her head.

Wind caught at Selene’s hair, tossing it about her head. She lifted her gaze from Aridela and beckoned to someone.

Another figure loomed above her then dropped to one knee. Even in the dark, she recognized him by the way the shadows lightened and deepened around his form and face. “Menoetius.” Aridela seized his arm. “You’re alive. What of Chrysaleon?”

He didn’t take her hand, or smile. Agonizing conviction and guilt cascaded over her. It was her fault he and his blood brother had remained on Kaphtor—her interference that made Chrysaleon compete in the Games. Now Menoetius would tell her Chrysaleon was dead, and she couldn’t bear to hear those words.

It wasn’t he, but Selene who answered. “We know nothing of Chrysaleon,” she said, “other than Harpalycus had him taken to Labyrinthos. Themiste, too, was moved there. I have heard she escaped. I don’t know if it’s true, but I hope it is. You must go too, Aridela, to a hiding place, a cave in these mountains Menoetius and I found. We’ve stocked it with food and supplies. I will remain and do what I can. I’ll gather weapons, and try to find out if Themiste still lives. Menoetius will go with you. When it’s safe, I will come for you.”

Aridela stared at Menoetius. He returned her stare, the slight frown he always wore accented by night shadows, his eyes nothing but impenetrable black smudges. She shivered. “I’ve grown weary of being in the hands of foreigners,” she said with a hint of her old swagger. “Take me with you, Selene. I won’t hide like a coward while my people are slaughtered. You and I, together, will gather an army and defeat Harpalycus.”

“Aridela, we can’t argue about this now.” Selene rose to her feet. “We killed two guards, and one of our own died to free you.” She paced, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Harpalycus probably knows by now you’re gone. He’ll scour the coast and the mountains. Can you imagine what he’ll do to anyone he suspects of harboring you? If you won’t go, many will die, many who must live to fight.” She rubbed her eyes, and it seemed her fingers were shaking.

“For-forgive me,” Aridela said. “I’ll do whatever you say.” She slipped the queen’s seal ring off her left middle finger and pressed it into Selene’s palm. “Keep this safe for my return.”

Selene pulled Aridela up and embraced her. “May the Lady make it soon.”

When Menoetius entered the cave after only two nights, with the announcement, “I’ve found a better place,” Aridela made no complaint.

Since he hadn’t had time to acquire anything to cover her feet, he carried her on his back for the better part of the morning to his new hiding spot, so deep within this white, lifeless mountain range Aridela lost any sense of which direction the village of Natho lay.

The cave had two entrances, one at ground level, a low cleft disguised by the gnarled roots of a group of ancient cypress trees, and another on the summit of the knoll above, tucked within a tumble of rocks. Both led to a dank, frozen cavern spotted with animal droppings. Aridela was dismayed, both by the smell and the cramped quarters, which didn’t even allow one to stand upright. Before she could protest, Menoetius led her to the back and a low dark hole, one they had to squeeze through on their stomachs. Only the dimmest glimmer of light followed them.

The second chamber felt deeper and bigger than the last, dryer and warmer. She inhaled, grateful for space enough to stand. Yet they still hadn’t reached their final destination. Menoetius drew her to another orifice, sitting at cross corners from the first and angling steeply downhill. It too had to be maneuvered, this time on hands and knees.

With a striker and flint, Menoetius lit a torch he’d left behind on his initial exploration.

Light reflected in dazzling rainbows off embedded crystals of selenite and quartz, shooting ever-changing prisms as Menoetius lifted the torch and swept it in an arc.

This chamber had room enough to stand up straight—even to walk around. There were no animal droppings and nearly none of the chill in the two previous caverns.

Moreover, it was beautiful. Icicles of stalactites hung like decorative columns from a vaulted ceiling, some stretching clear to the floor. Crystals formed natural facets more intricate and perfect than any gem cutter’s work. In comparison to the initial cave, which had been adequate, this seemed a grand, exotic palace, eliciting a spontaneous laugh from Aridela and a rare grin from the man who had found it.

She breathed in the smell of earth, stone, minerals and damp—the unique scent of a deep, undisturbed cave.

Menoetius left her there with the torch while he fetched their supplies and erased his footprints from the snow.

When he returned, Aridela set up house, using natural nooks and shelves for storage. As she put things away, she took inventory. There was a good amount of bread, nuts, raisins, dried figs and dates, flint, and animal furs, along with arrows, bows, two spears, numerous knives, even a woodcutter’s saw.

Another detail she couldn’t help but notice was her protector’s relaxed confidence. He must have spent much of his life thriving in wilderness solitude, for he seemed more at ease than ever he had at the palace of Labyrinthos.

Though the cavern was pleasant, she chafed at the confinement. Menoetius, looking shamefaced, promised he would get her warm clothing and boots as soon as he could. Until then, she was forced to remain inside the chamber. To relieve herself, she had no choice but to borrow his boots and jerkin when he was there, or use a clay pot when he wasn’t.

He built an ingenious charcoal pit that warmed the chamber and produced virtually no smoke. Next, with her help, he constructed a sleeping pallet, raising it off the floor on squat wood legs, and padded it with animal skins. She asked if they would make one for him, but he shrugged and said he preferred to sleep on the cave floor. He did, wrapped in that luxurious white fur cloak with the symmetrical black stripes he’d brought from Mycenae.

Through all of this, her companion managed to remain as aloof as ever. Aridela’s conviction that he disliked her made her ill at ease, tongue-tied. He seemed to share her reticence, so there was almost no conversation between them. He never touched her except by accident; whenever that happened he would start away, which caused many unhappy conjectures on her part. He hardly ever looked her in the eyes for more than an instant or two.

She studied him overtly one night as he stared at the glowing embers in the fire pit. His expression was unguarded, as though he’d forgotten her and thought himself alone. Worry lived in that frown, which she understood. But the way he drummed his fingers against one knee without appearing to know he was doing it, the way his jaw clenched, unclenched, and clenched again, suggested more.

Unkind intuition left her shrinking, breaking into a sweat as her mind recreated one of Harpalycus’s more brutal rapes. He had gripped her chin and told her she had better show her fertility soon, before he tired of her.

Ambushed by the memory, Aridela succumbed to another fancy. Menoetius must feel trapped, but was caught up in his promise to Selene. Aridela was a nuisance, the ‘whore,’ ruined first by his prince then finished off by Harpalycus. He probably wondered, as she did, how soon her belly would swell.

Sickened, she turned away. She knew the beliefs of his people. Women must be untouched. Purity was the requirement for honor and respect.

What Harpalycus had done to her might never be forgotten in the eyes of the barbarian mainlanders. He had made it so clear, that long gone day in the palace garden at Labyrinthos, and many times since.

In my land, women are put to death for lying with men other than their husbands, even if they’re forced. Duplicity poisons every woman’s heart. All of Argolis knows this.

Perhaps because of their unease with each other, the two fell into a routine that allowed an excess of solitude. In the mornings, after consuming a fig or two, Menoetius left the cave to hunt. He hunted every day, but the Moon of Flying Swans was a cold, barren month even in favorable years. Here in these remote mountains, the weather never improved. Many days Aridela could hardly stand upright against the raging wind. The air was infused with a bitter, humid cold that burned her lungs. Snow lay as deep in places as her hips. Most of the wildlife had vanished, either hunted or gone to the lower foothills. Menoetius often returned at twilight without a single kill. They carefully rationed their food, which caused Aridela no hardship; she had lost her appetite while a prisoner of Harpalycus, and ate very little.

Seven days passed in this manner. Aridela spent the days alone, evenings and nights with her inarticulate guardian.

The first nightmare descended deep in the abyss of the seventh night after they came to their cavern of icicles.

Comfortable on her soft pallet, mesmerized by the radiantly shifting glow of the embers in the fire pit, Aridela was lulled to sleep. Her last sense was one of pure, selfish joy to be free of Harpalycus. She could close her eyes without fear, her body left in peace.

The dream shattered that brief tranquility. She found herself again in the smothering cell. The eunuch stood over her, holding the bowl of water and cloths that meant he was going to prepare her for her daily ordeal with Harpalycus. At first, these ministrations had sparked a firestorm of threats and protests, but by the time she was rescued, she no longer offered any reaction.

She heard Harpalycus’s echoing drunken laughter. I know you’ve quickened by now, he said. But I’ll kill it. You won’t foist another man’s get on me.

Her belly was swollen, heavy with child. She was in the bullring at Knossos; Harpalycus stood beside her, holding her hand high. A warrior, sword at ready, pressed close, hot sunlight licking the sharp edge of his blade.

Five other women were interspersed along the width of the ring, each under guard. Three slumped or wept quietly. Two stared, their faces naked with terror. All were heavily pregnant. Six sets of stakes and ropes protruded from the sand.

Chrysaleon sat in the queen’s royal seat. He held the crescent-topped staff, and gazed into the ring without expression.

Harpalycus sneered at his mainland rival and raised Aridela’s arm higher, pulling her up on her toes.

An audience crowded the stands. There wasn’t a child or female anywhere. Eerily silent, these men, too, stared at the women.

Soldiers poured into the ring from the entrances at either end. As they neared, Harpalycus released Aridela. Fear sent her racing with the other women toward the shadows at the far arch, but the soldiers quickly caught them. To a backdrop of sudden deafening cheers, the women were dragged to the stakes. Aridela struggled. She screamed. She even bit one man on the forearm. But no one came forth to help them. She was forced onto her back, her wrists and ankles roped to the stakes.

Young males, dressed in loincloths and armed with knives, entered the bullring. They spread out and gathered around each woman.

Now Aridela, in the way of dreams, knew what was going to happen. In an initiation meant to turn these boys into men, they would cut the babies from the wombs of the women. Male babies would elicit a celebration. Females would be thrown to the dogs.

Either way, Aridela and the other women would be left to bleed to death, spread-eagled on the sand beneath the burning sun.

She woke just as the first male, his eyes as hard and hungry as a jackal’s, knelt beside her and lifted his knife.

Sitting straight up on the pallet, Aridela stared into the cave’s depths. Ever-undulating shadows grew tall then shrank. Mouths opened, filled with teeth of crystal. Drenched in sweat, she gasped, long, painful breaths, pressing her hands against her throat. Menoetius, already awakened, was coming around the fire pit toward her.

For one stifled instant she thought him the boy, coming to slice her open. She heard a bloodcurdling scream and didn’t at first realize it came from her own mouth. She stared into the corners, searching for the other women.

Menoetius bent. Shadows webbed his face. She screamed again and fought free as he tried to clasp her hands. She scrambled off the pallet and backed away.

“Aridela,” he said. As he turned, the embers in the fire pit illuminated his face, forcing the shadows into retreat. She knew him then, but still she burrowed into her dream to make certain he hadn’t been there, hadn’t held one of those knives. Only when she had recalled every face she’d seen did she slump to the floor, hug her knees, and press her face against them.

Menoetius knelt beside her. He didn’t touch her. He said nothing as her heaving gasps and shuddering slowly lessened.

When she rose, she didn’t look at him. She ripped off the flounced skirts Harpalycus had forced her to wear and threw them on the embers. Flames wavered, bright and hot. The tight linen bodice followed. She watched as the material blackened and crumpled.

“I won’t wear this filth,” she said, her voice breaking. “I would rather be naked.”

Menoetius stood. He fetched his cloak and placed it over her shoulders, keeping his gaze fixed on the clasp at the neck.

She tensed and shrank away, even as she remembered the night, so long ago, that she had envisioned wrapping herself in this sumptuous fur.

His hands dropped to his sides and he spoke very softly. “A merchant’s concubine gave this to me,” he said. “She called the beast it was taken from a ‘tiger,’ and claimed I could never live long enough to cross the distance between its homeland and Mycenae.”

Clutching the cloak around her, she returned to the pallet and lay on her side, curling her knees to her breasts, covering her head with the fur.

She didn’t move until after she heard Menoetius leave the cavern in the morning.

Why do you linger here? You sit by this fire, warm and safe, while I die. Where is the woman who danced with a wild bull? Are you a coward now?

Aridela woke to the echo of Chrysaleon’s voice. Goose bumps raced across her skin in a parody of chill, though she was covered in sweat.

In the dream, he’d been thin, pale. Close to death.

She sat up. Her head throbbed. Every bone felt the long expanse of time in which she hadn’t truly slept. Menoetius squatted on the other side of the fire pit, watching her. Behind him, the shadows laughed and made obscene gestures toward the back of his head. He was oblivious. He couldn’t see they were alive, malevolent, that they were just waiting to creep out and eat her.

She dropped her gaze.

“You’ve been dreaming,” he said.

“We must leave this place. Avenge the deaths of those we love. I—I feel the Lady’s anger at our inaction.”

She said nothing of the white-hot terror that Harpalycus’s offspring was growing inside her. Or could it be Chrysaleon’s?

The blood of her kaliara hadn’t come in a long time. She couldn’t remember how long.

After a lengthy pause, he said, “Not yet.”

“Have you had no word from Selene? Why hasn’t she come for us? I want to go home, to fight Harpalycus, to find my consort.”

A scowl sliced a sharp dent between his brows. “Selene no longer knows where we are. Harpalycus has offered cartloads of gold to anyone who returns you to him. Many search for you.”

“You think Selene would betray us?” The possibility was so absurd she didn’t wait for a reply. “If only I could see Chrysaleon. I must know if he’s alive. And Themiste. What’s happened to her? My life is slipping away. My dreams accuse me of cowardice. The people suffer. Harpalycus’s hold on my land grows stronger. I cannot bear it.”

He said nothing, only sighed and scraped back his hair.

“We have to make our way to Labyrinthos before any more time passes. Do you not care about your blood brother?”

Menoetius rose. He paced from one side of the cave to the other then returned. “I didn’t want to tell you. Chrysaleon is dead.”

Shock jolted through her like a thunderbolt, though she’d been half-expecting this news. She’d thought it herself a hundred times. In a desperate attempt to ward off annihilating grief, she held onto logic. She would prove it wrong. “Where did you hear this?”

“From a man I trust in Araden. He heard it from others who claim to have mingled with the crowd when Harpalycus buried Chrysaleon’s head under the north gate at Labyrinthos.”

Aridela’s eyes squeezed closed. Tremors racked her body. Grief swelled from her stomach like vomit, choking her. She sensed the shadows crawl out of the corners and stretch toward her, and saw again the door through which part of her longed to go. “Harpalycus uses Chrysaleon’s courage to safeguard his own unworthy life. I curse him. I curse him. Rumors aren’t facts. It might not be true. It’s not true. It’s not. I curse him.”

“I grieve with you, Aridela. But those who watched said the warrior’s hair was long and yellow, like a lion’s.” He bit the corner of his lip where it was puckered by the scar. “I think we should leave Crete. There is no safe place on this island for you anymore.”

She grasped anger, feeling in its fire the dampening of pain, the slithering retreat of the shadows, and flung her rage like a spear at the person who brought such misery. Rising onto her knees, she shouted, “So that is your plan. You want me as your prisoner. Just like Harpalycus. Do you think to ransom me to him? You won’t frighten me. You could never match what’s already been done.”

“Aridela.” He approached the pallet and seized her hands. “I only want you to regain your strength. I know your sorrow. Do you think I don’t share it? But one day, because you are… wondrous Aridela… you will desire life again, peace, happiness. You’re wounded, but you will heal. I know it. I will keep you safe until that day. I plan for that day.”

“I….” Something made her pause. His whole face lay open in a way she’d never before seen, not even when he was young and beautiful, and called himself Carmanor.

She’d been trained to read what people betrayed in their movements and expressions. Many had praised her abilities, including Helice.

But she must have lost the talent, for what she saw, in the ardency of his eyes, the lift of his brows forming creases across his forehead, and that slight hesitation before he’d uttered wondrous—all this proclaimed something that couldn’t be.

For months, his every glance had borne nothing beyond an icy chill or blank reserve. She’d long ago concluded that her failure to recognize him when he returned with Chrysaleon had spoiled whatever tender feelings might linger from the past. No doubt she had bruised his pride by giving herself to his blood brother, though just six years ago it was Carmanor she had loved, Carmanor she had idealized with all the romantic fervor a ten-year-old girl could muster. Unwitting though it was, she had intensified the sense of ugliness his scars forced him to endure.

No. Menoetius couldn’t care about her that way.

“Your life is in danger,” he said, breaking into her astounded thoughts. He seemed to recover his usual reserve as he continued. “I haven’t told Selene where we are because if Harpalycus captures her, he’ll torture her to find out what he wants. No one can know where you are, not because I distrust the people of Kaphtor, but because I know Harpalycus.”

Aridela couldn’t argue with his reason. She needed to think about what she had seen, what she had heard. Already she was half-convinced she’d imagined it, for his face now held no hint of anything but impatience.

“It was unfair to accuse you.” She twisted her hands free. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

She ate a morsel of the bread he offered and accepted a sip of water.

“This is my fault,” he said. “I’ll go to Araden tomorrow and find you clothing. When you have something to wear, you can help me hunt. You’ve been confined in here too long, without anything to do.”

She gave a lethargic nod.

Menoetius was already gone when Aridela woke. She drank a little water but couldn’t make herself eat.

After stirring the fire, she examined the boots Menoetius was fashioning for her. They were like nothing she had ever seen, for nothing like this had ever before been needed on Kaphtor. He’d cut them high, to the knees, and insulated them with fox fur, inside and out. She couldn’t imagine any chill or moisture cunning enough to penetrate them. Picking up the bone needle and tough intestinal cord, she attempted to finish the work but soon gave up, disgusted with her uneven stitches and leery of ruining his handiwork. She couldn’t weave, much less sew. Working a loom had always been unbearable tedium, and she had never managed to produce anything worthy of hanging on a wall.

She returned to the pallet, pondering the riddle of Menoetius as she watched the flicker of embers in the fire pit.

The first thing that came to mind was the agonizing day he had sailed away from Kaphtor. Because she had fallen in love as only a ten-year-old female could, his absence left her inconsolable. It was so easy to fall in love with him, for Carmanor was flawless, his skin smooth, unmarred, his blue eyes as reflective as these cave crystals, his nature affectionate and earnest, his devotion real. She remembered weeping that day until nightfall, and waking from sleep only to weep again. Her head throbbed and her eyes were swollen and red for many days. The desolation of her loss strangled her spirit. Helice came to her chamber with bowls of bread soaked in honey, hoping to renew her child’s interest in eating.

In time, she had recovered. There came a day, though she couldn’t remember it now, when she didn’t think of him. His image grew vague and new adventures took his place. She had been, after all, ten years old.

He had returned, hidden inside this bearded, forbidding stranger with the disfiguring scars, his hair cropped short and threaded with gray, lines etched around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Nothing remained of the god-like youth of her memories, not even his name. Carmanor eluded capture like one of these insidious shadows.

How had Selene recognized him so quickly? But that wasn’t fair. Selene knew him because she hadn’t forgotten. Because he had been important to her, and maybe because she had been older at the time.

Because they were lovers.

Aridela relived the day Selene brought Menoetius into the queen’s pavilion. You goose, she’d said. You don’t recognize the boy who saved your life?

She protested. I would know Carmanor in the blackest cave. I would know him if my eyes were put out.

Apparently not, Selene replied.

She remembered staring angrily into that scarred face, searching for a sign, some detail, hoping to prove Selene wrong.

But the opposite had happened. Horrified with embarrassment and regret, she embraced him, and in some terrible gift of moera from Athene, she felt, for one awful instant, the claws of the lioness sink into her own flesh as they must have done into his.

Uncontrollable tears had gushed from her eyes, which even now made her cringe. He’d removed her arms from around his neck. Her pity must have hurt more than anything else she’d done or failed to do.

Waves of self-blame washed over her as she lay on the pallet in the cave. After that day in the pavilion, she hadn’t improved things with her lover’s blood brother. No doubt she’d made her revulsion clear in countless small ways.

Now Chrysaleon was dead. Menoetius knew Aridela had encouraged his prince to compete in the Games. If Chrysaleon hadn’t become bull-king, the two men would have returned to Mycenae. Chrysaleon might still be alive. Menoetius must blame her for that as well as everything else.

You asked him to stay and die in your name. You should have left them alone. Because of you, because of you….

He is dead because of you.

Be careful, isoke. Helice leveled Aridela with her sternest gaze. When Iakchos rises, Chrysaleon’s truth will emerge.

He will honor his vows, Aridela said. You will see.

Helice’s smile was resigned. Chrysaleon’s child would remind you of him. His child would return him to you in some ways. It might even rekindle life in your heart.

Or Harpalycus could be the father.

Which man’s child sprouts in your womb?

Her mother rose from the lustral basin where her life had bled away. She stared at Aridela, her face and lips white, the skin around her eyes sagging. It was Helice, but she spoke to Aridela with Chrysaleon’s voice.

Why does this lowly bastard dictate to the queen of Kaphtor? You promised you would win back our country, yet you hide in caves. You shame me. You shame the Lady.

Aridela woke. She was crouched beside the fire pit, smashing one stone against another. She had no memory of rising from her bed. Her forearm ached as though she’d been striking stones for some time. While she was asleep, the cave shadows had crawled so close they were licking at her feet.

She dropped the rock and covered her face.

“My mother. Iphiboë. Isandros. Halia. Laodámeia. The priestesses. All dead. Perhaps Neoma, too, by now. I don’t know about her. I don’t know.”

She could only imagine how many others had perished, slaughtered during Harpalycus’s invasion. Themiste. Was she still a prisoner? Had she managed to escape, or was she dead?

Chrysaleon. The gossips were wrong. He was alive.

Why wouldn’t she bleed? Then she would know her womb was empty, wasn’t growing the offspring of a traitor, a murderer. She stuck her fingers inside, tearing, gouging, trying to cause a rupture, reaching toward the baby in hopes of ripping it out.

Yet if she succeeded, it would also destroy any chance of bearing a child to Chrysaleon.

Harpalycus had bragged often enough that he left the Cretan dead to rot where they fell, without a proper burial.

The anguish was so terrible she thought of walking to the back of the cave and letting the shadows swallow her, but the angry frown on her mother’s face sent her instead to the pallet, where she sat cross-legged and watched the shadows stretch, slink closer then retreat.

“Harpalycus steals Kaphtor’s riches, defiles our women, murders and enslaves my people. How can Athene tolerate such crimes? Why does she not avenge us?” she asked.

They answered in their usual hiss. She will do nothing until you rise out of the earth and fight for her.

The embers in the fire pit subsided without any attention. Near darkness had engulfed the chamber by the time she heard a rustling echo against the walls in the adjoining cavern. Menoetius had returned.

He straightened as he entered. “It’s snowing,” he said, unstrapping his heavy quilted jerkin and dropping it on the rock floor. Rapidly melting snow frost speckled his hair. He squatted near the fire pit and stirred the embers to renewed vigor. “I’ve brought you a boy’s jerkin and woolen leggings.”

From the edge of her vision, she saw him glance at her. She hardly heard what he was saying. Earlier, as the embers dimmed, the shadows had crawled over her flesh, and she had breathed them in. Now they were inside her, forming the steps to the door.

She was so tired. It would take more strength than she had to reply.

“Look,” he said. From his hunter’s satchel he pulled out the limp, white-furred body of a rabbit. “They were by the stream. Three of them. Ice has melted, and water flows freely in the center.”

She turned her head like an old, sick woman, and stared without interest at the rabbit then at the man who had caught it.

Something on his face pricked her attention. He was pleased with this kill, and hoped she would be pleased, too.

Like a lover, he offers you his gold and jewels.

What an odd idea. Probably a remnant from long ago when Menoetius called himself Carmanor. The ill-humored warrior named ‘Menoetius’ was as far from a lover as a man could be.

“Do you think it an omen?” he asked.

“In what way?” she asked dully.

“The villagers said snow fell earlier than it ever has before. They say it is deeper in the mountains than even old women can remember, and it’s driven away the game. They blame the Destruction. They say that since that night, Athene has placed her hand between us and the sun and cut off its warmth. But rabbits wouldn’t be here unless there was food. See? Look at its belly. It has found enough.”

Any caution Aridela might feel was buried beneath abrupt flaming fury. “Why hasn’t Selene come for us? I want to go home, to fight Harpalycus, to find my consort. I want to see for myself if he’s alive or dead. Curse you for speaking to me of rabbits. I would rather die than live another day in this cowardly fashion.”

His eyelashes lowered. The familiar scowl reappeared and he laid the rabbit at the edge of the fire pit. “I told you Selene doesn’t know where we are. Chrysaleon is dead. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“We have to go to Labyrinthos.” She fought to make herself sound rational and convincing though inside, she heard herself shrieking. “Now, Menoetius. What is worth fighting for, if not love and freedom? Your disloyalty sickens me.”

“Do you think Harpalycus has stopped searching for you? No. He seems to care more about finding you than holding Crete, and has stretched his men thin. Yesterday, I watched ten of them not half a day from here. They were using a local man to track us. When no one was looking, he wiped away a footprint I had carelessly left in the snow.”

His warning swept past her, unheeded. The words were muffled as though submerged in a vat of honey. She knew his reason for speaking them. They would be the basis for his insistence that she remain in this cave another day, another month. An eternity.

“The Erinyes tear the skin from my bones.” Her voice no longer sounded familiar but raspy and old. “They care nothing for your fears and hesitation.” She scratched at her arms; the scars beneath her nails brought back the pain of the burns. “You take revenge by keeping me from my purpose.”

He looked puzzled. “You think I seek revenge… on you?”

“Because I didn’t recognize you.” She spoke with cold emphasis. “I know you’ve hated me because I remind you of how much you’ve lost.”

Betraying color crept over his face and he broke her gaze. He stared at the floor, hands clenching.

It seemed an admission.

“Did Harpalycus command you to imprison me here?” she asked, low but clear. “Out of reach of anyone who would help me? You’re his countryman. Has ugliness stretched your hatred so far?”

He lifted his gaze. She saw fury and shame combined. His lips were tight, his jaw clenched.

Her words returned to her mind as though through an underwater tunnel, dark and heavy. Her breath shortened. Her heart skipped and speckles blurred her sight. Who had spoken? She hadn’t intended to say such things.

He grabbed his jerkin and shrugged into it. He picked up his bow, quiver, and the hunter’s satchel. He crossed to the hole and shoved them through.

“Menoetius,” she cried. Uncontrollable shuddering racked her and her stomach cramped. “When you’re not here, the shadows gnaw upon me. Menoetius!” She gagged, unable to vomit because her stomach held nothing but blackness that refused to be evicted. “Soon I’ll be dead,” she whispered.

He didn’t turn or pause. He slipped through and was gone.

For longer than you can imagine… I will be with you… in you… of you. Together, we bring forth a new world, and nothing can ever part us.

Strange, to hear the god’s words—Chrysaleon’s words—when Menoetius filled her thoughts.

Aridela hadn’t set out to attack him. In fact, she had never considered the idea that he could be following Harpalycus’s orders until the words left her mouth. Now she’d said them, she couldn’t cut them from her mind. They echoed with terrifying possibility.

She must seize the opportunity created by her accusations and make her escape. Shrugging out of the soft tiger skin cloak, she donned the boy’s jerkin and leggings. The shadows thickened in her mind, making it difficult to focus, but she saw, again and again, the expression on his face.

Menoetius. Carmanor. Her first love. She had adored him and hated herself for being too young, beneath the notice of such a strong, virile youth.

The leggings felt odd, scratchy against her skin. She pulled on the boots. The soles were finished, though the outside of one still needed about twenty stitches; a leftover scrap of fur shoved into the split would postpone any problems.

She squeezed through the two clefts and exited the outer cave.

Snow fell in a blinding squall, carried first one direction then another by mercurial winds. Bitter cold stung her face and almost immediately penetrated the jerkin.

Slinging a bow and quiver of arrows over one shoulder, Aridela brushed snow from the trunk of one of the cypresses until she’d cleared a strip all the way around. Barbs of gale-driven ice lashed her eyes and face as she found what she was looking for, evidence of frozen lichen on what should be the north side. She staggered into the blizzard, hoping she’d successfully determined east, and Knossos.

I do your bidding, Mother. I follow your will. Please, please—

The plea died before it formed. Menoetius would never forgive what she had said. There was no use asking.

Snow fell like a cold white ocean from a darkly overcast sky. All sound was muffled. There was no way to be certain she’d chosen the right direction. If only the sun would come out, just long enough for her to place it.

Menoetius’s warning returned. What if this reckless escape sent her straight to Harpalycus’s search parties?

Surely they wouldn’t be looking for her in such a storm.

Don’t you trust me? She fancied a thrum of laughter under Chrysaleon’s words. Don’t you know I will protect you?

She closed her eyes. Show me the way, my love.

But there was only the swish of snow eddying in the wind. Only Menoetius’s face when she called him ugly.

Then she heard it. The crunch of deliberate steps. She opened her eyes and stared into the face of a large wild goat, its long, arched horns almost invisible under a coating of snow. It stood the length of a half-grown fir tree from her, staring back, perhaps trying to understand the sight of a motionless human transforming into a snow-drenched pillar.

Its meat would provide food for a month. But something stopped her even as her half-frozen fingers felt for the bow. Athene. Lady of the wild things.

Losing interest, the ibex turned and lumbered away. Aridela followed, trying to keep a discreet distance.

It came to a steep hill, dotted with mounds of stunted juniper bushes and a few twisted pine trees. The beast climbed effortlessly, crossing beneath a curious rock formation that rose high and curved into an arch, like a doorway. Aridela craned her neck to see the rough crown, half hidden in storm fog. Forced to use her hands as well as her feet, she scrambled then slipped backward, unable to secure footing in the slick snow. Almost immediately, the animal disappeared. “Wait,” she cried. “I can’t walk as fast as you,” but wind and a wall of snow stuffed her words back into her throat.

Eventually, she reached the summit. Snow was falling so copiously by now that she couldn’t see past the length of her arm. She stumbled along the ridge, calling, “I’m here. Where are you? Come back.”

Iphiboë materialized before her, arms extended. “Aridela!”

Shock drew Aridela up short. She tried to blink the snow from her lashes, fighting hope and disbelief. “Iphiboë?”

Before she could begin to accept this miracle, the image disintegrated into the dark, solid form of Menoetius. Snow caked his hair and beard. He squinted. His mouth lay tense and severe.

“What are you doing?” Without waiting for an answer, he picked her up like a twig and flung her over one shoulder. “Two more steps and you would have been over the edge. How much would that help your people, you lying dead at the bottom of this gorge?”

Aridela’s will dissolved as suddenly as it had formed. Stricken by futility, the dream-demands silenced, the only thing she felt with any certainty was the howling chill. Melted snow wet her face and mingled with tears as it ran out of her hair.

He struggled down the hill, spouting coarse mainland curses. At the bottom she slid off his shoulder, insisting she would walk on her own. They fought their way to the cave through snow that in places rose to their knees. Ice-laced wind buffeted them without mercy.

As soon as she was in the cave, he turned without a word and left again. When he returned he was dragging a log, pulling it with the help of thick straps over his shoulders. It was so heavy and fat it barely fit through the crawlspace. Breathing heavily, sweating, he still didn’t speak as he fetched a wad of leather strapping from his satchel. He bound one end around the log then seized her hands before she understood his intent.

He meant to truss her as Harpalycus had done.

Maddened by scarlet cataracts of rage, Aridela kicked him, sank her teeth into his one of his fingers, and fought to twist free, but she would have been no match for him even when she was strong and healthy. One of his hands was big enough and strong enough to confine both her wrists. His other arm circled her waist, restraining her against his body. She couldn’t help but remember the day he had pinned Chrysaleon to the wall outside the villa; Chrysaleon had struggled too, without success.

Exhaustion depleted what little strength she had left and she leaned against him, panting and dizzy, her heart thundering. He dragged her closer to the fire pit where he kept a pile of animal skins. Keeping her wrists secure in his unbreakable grip, he wrapped strips of fur around her hands then covered them with the leather straps, binding them together from wrist to fingertips, which would prevent her from working the strap free of the trunk. When he’d finished, she couldn’t move her hands or fingers at all.

“You truly are kin to Harpalycus,” she said, dismissing how he inspected his work, making certain her skin wouldn’t be chafed or the blood flow hindered.

He made no reply and didn’t look at her. The only sign he heard her at all came from the reflexive clenching of his jaw.

“Coward!” she shrieked, her earlier remorse burned away. “Do you know how much I hate you? Keep me tied, because if you turn your back I will kill you. Do you hear me, you spineless traitor? You have no feeling. You are made of stone.”

Stone… stone… stone echoed off the stalactites in the depths of the cave.

The shadows leaped from her stomach, engulfing her, thrusting her back in time.

She lived again the night when the statue of Velchanos came to life, stepped off his pedestal, and crossed the clearing on Mount Juktas to stand above her.

Stone grated against stone as his head swiveled. The shadows had been there that night, using moonlight to paint beautiful patterns on his face.

My love, he had whispered, but his mouth didn’t move. The words formed in her head.

Sparks of brilliant light played through his marble hair.

Save me, Aridela. Open your heart.

Calesienda? She had asked through fear and fascination.

He lay upon her, pale stone warming into human flesh, eyes burnishing into a hypnotic combination of blue and silver.

She saw herself say, Carmanor, why have you come to me through Velchanos?

In the cave, as Menoetius bound her up tight, her bewilderment and frustration escaped in a gasping sob.

For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together we bring forth a new world. Nothing can part us.

“Selene charged me with your safety.” Menoetius’s bitter tone scattered the memory like wind through mist. He gave the security of his restraints a final check and leveled a gaze on hers that blazed with fury. “I will do whatever is necessary to keep you alive. Do you understand? I will keep you safe against your own will to die.”

Themiste offered Chrysaleon what she hoped was an encouraging smile as he entered her private chamber, a small alcove separated from the rest by a large ibex hide.

He dropped onto a footstool next to her, his expression impatient and restless. Placing her distaff next to the basket of unspun wool and folding her hands in her lap, she prepared for more discomfiting questions.

“Why was Aridela not brought here at once when she was freed from Harpalycus?”

“I wish Selene were here to answer your questions.” Themiste gave a helpless shrug. “The messenger she sent had hardly any information. She and Menoetius and a small band succeeded in freeing Aridela. Menoetius took her into the Araden mountains.”

“Where they disappeared.” Chrysaleon’s voice was curt.

“The second messenger said the cave in which they were hiding was abandoned within a matter of days. Selene and others have scoured the mountains but have failed to locate them.”

“Why?” Chrysaleon rose and paced, shoving his unruly hair off his forehead in a manner that betrayed his frustration. “Have they been captured? Killed?”

Themiste wondered, not for the first time, whether Menoetius, or as she privately called him—Menoetius of the few words—had proved false. “Could he have given her to Harpalycus for the promised reward?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Chrysaleon stopped pacing and stared at her. Then he shook his head and snorted. “If they haven’t been captured or killed, he is protecting her as only he can. Completely.”

He dropped back to the footstool. She couldn’t help but notice the sallow hue of his skin, how every bone in his face stood out sharply. His shoulders slumped.

“Let me send for wine,” Themiste said. “You must eat, my lord, and rest. I promise to tell you as soon as I hear anything.”

This wasn’t the complete truth. Selene’s first messenger had carried a sealed papyrus that briefly detailed some of what Aridela was rumored to have suffered at Harpalycus’s hands. Themiste had burned the missive and kept that information secret.

“No.” He stared at the rough rock floor with a heavy sigh. “I must know what happened to her. Would you spare me a few provisions? I will go there myself.”

“That’s impossible. You’re not strong enough. Nor are you familiar with Kaphtor. You’ll most certainly be captured. Those mountains are remote; you could get lost. And the weather, my lord. We can only imagine how severe it is there.”

“Nevertheless, I will leave before daylight.”

She saw his resolve and realized nothing she said would make a difference. “Take one of my men with you.”

“Your men are needed here. I am not the weakling you think me, lady.”

“I’ll gather what you need.” Themiste felt oddly proud of him. “This is a time for healing, Prince Chrysaleon, and for divine intercession. Some intuition tells me the Lady approves of your decision.”

He gave her a tired smile and went off to make preparations.

Themiste left the protection of her stony chamber, though this caused her personal guard much anxiety. She climbed the hillside above the cave entrance and stood at the highest point where she could view the surrounding landscape. Pink twilight deepened into indigo; the air fell still and frosty. It felt wonderful to breathe fresh, dry, air.

One of Minos Timandra’s more obscure prophecies came to her mind.

For longer than can be dreamed or imagined, mortal lives will hinge upon the tiniest sliver of chance, of human frailty. The final unfolding of Earth’s destiny remains hidden.

Was earth’s destiny even now being determined, not by those with wisdom and insight, but by chance and frailty?

So much had happened to thrust the uncommon sphere of Kaphtor from its delicate balance. The Destruction. Harpalycus and his invasion. The untimely deaths of Helice and Iphiboë. The capture and torture of Aridela, which, if she still lived, must have changed her in ways that could never be measured.

Now Chrysaleon, the ‘Gold Lion of Mycenae,’ had proclaimed himself the thinara king. The prophecies stated this king would bring the death of all that went before. He heralded a new world, a new way. Themiste had studied every mention of the great-year-king, but never felt she understood the subtleties. Would this ‘new way’ be terrible or wondrous? The predictions gave no clear answers.

Yet she could sift in hints from other oracles’ divinations. She could blend the zest of one to enhance the flavor of another, and simmer them together. She could inhale the aromas and translate the sensations they offered.

She thought again of Timandra’s other prophecy.

The child must rise up from the intoxication in which she willingly drowns. If she becomes pure, utterly clear, the thinara king and his disciples will give her their allegiance. If she does not, every living thing will languish and the end will come.

The thinara king….

Aridela had said something about the thinara king, long ago, when she was only ten years old. Themiste recalled that terrible morning. Menoetius had carried the princess out of the shrine. She was bleeding profusely, near to death. She stared into Themiste’s eyes, but without recognition. She clutched at Themiste’s necklace, pulling her closer. Her voice shook with dread. Whatever the child saw, in that fearsome place between life and death, she was terrified of it.

Death cannot stop the thinara king. He will follow. He will slay me until time wears out.

What if Chrysaleon was, in truth, the thinara king? What did that mean for Aridela? She loved him so much. How could he be the thing she also feared so much?

The confusion of it all sent Themiste’s mind down another path, the one that held Aridela’s magical dream on the summit of Mount Juktas. Velchanos had come to Kaphtor’s princess, and he had taken on Chrysaleon’s face. In no way had he frightened her, but he had made her a promise.

For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you, in you, of you. Together, we bring forth a new world. Nothing can ever part us.

Themiste placed the palm of her right hand upon the rough trunk of a cypress tree. This tree, from the look of the aged, gnarled bark, had sprouted in Earth’s infancy. Through the intervening uncountable years, it had survived. When the rain of fire and ash, the disappearance of sunlight, and the onslaught of frost descended upon Kaphtor, this tree did not succumb. Although alive, the tree didn’t grow straight and tall but twisted close to the ground, branched almost like a shrub. She liked to sit with her back against the trunk, breathing its spicy scent, looking to the west toward Knossos.

This tree had observed Aridela, Iphiboë and Selene on the night of Iphiboë’s dedication. It witnessed Iphiboë fall and dislocate her knee. It listened when Iphiboë begged Aridela to serve as her proxy. It watched the arrival of two foreign warriors, and later, a third.

Shivers ran over Themiste’s skin, not entirely from the chill. She fancied she heard the young women’s voices, at first excited, then anxious when Iphiboë hurt herself. She imagined Chrysaleon and Menoetius tying their horses then slipping toward the black mouth of the cave, not knowing what they would encounter inside.

The decisions made that night took Kaphtor off course. More, she realized. Those three women may have unwittingly thrown many other societies into the confluence of Kaphtor’s destiny.

None could ever now know what would have unfolded if Chrysaleon had become Iphiboë’s lover, as was meant, if Aridela had remained in her bedchamber, as she was ordered.

Chafed by frustration and sick with worry for Aridela, Themiste turned her thoughts to Chrysaleon’s fantastic story. Damasen, Aridela’s father, appeared to be taking an active interest in the goings-on of the mortal world. Not only had he visited with Chrysaleon in the prince’s skirmish with death, he’d also stayed Themiste’s hand when she had considered murdering his daughter. She remembered his instruction well. The child must live, to fulfill the tasks set before her.

The dead king’s unfathomable eyes had changed colors like the heavens at sunset.

No matter how many possibilities Themiste tried to attach to the visions and prophecies, she always returned to the same conclusion. Aridela, the child of Velchanos, the god of lightning, had been given to guide the people of Kaphtor. Somehow, that scrap of a girl must change the hearts of ‘the thinara king and his disciples,’ so they would follow her.

Lion of gold from over the sea,

Destroy the black bull,

Shake the earth free.

Chrysaleon, as Velchanos, had promised Aridela a love that would transcend death.

Chrysaleon, the thinara king, would slay her until the end of time.

How could these two images of the Mycenaean prince, one adoring, one terrifying, be reconciled?

For the briefest instant, no more than a flash, Themiste’s mind opened. She saw into the future, but it was a jumble of incomprehensible images, of men and women she did not recognize, of hatred and jealousy, a desperate competition for power and love, all entwined to the point where none of it could be untangled.

“Themiste?”

The unexpected voice emanating from the night made her jump in fright, but she recovered as she rose, keeping one hand on the cypress, and smiled at Chrysaleon as he climbed up to her.

“I am leaving early tomorrow,” he said. “I came to say goodbye.”

“I feel success is at hand, my lord.” Themiste bowed her head. “The omens suggest it. Our spies, too, bring happy news, that Harpalycus is continually drunk and has lost the respect of his men. Apparently he has stretched his forces too thinly. I’ve been told that Kydonia is close to falling back into our hands. We will pray and make offerings. Perhaps they’ll guide you to Aridela. I, too, cannot sleep for worry over her.”

He nodded. Silence stretched between them. Chrysaleon plucked a lock of hair off her shoulder and ran his fingers underneath, allowing it to slip free. “In my dream your hair was lighter,” he said.

As his gaze lifted to hers, all desire to speak evaporated. She felt as though her obsessive efforts to translate the prophecies were as useless as grasping at clouds. She swallowed the sensation of her heart rising into her throat, and tried to steady her breathing.

He bent and kissed her on the mouth, then turned and strode down the hill, sliding a bit on the scree.

What had they shared in his death-dream?

She blinked away tears as his figure disappeared into the gloom.

I pray Mycenae’s prince has dreamed the key to Kaphtor’s freedom.

Storm after storm blanketed the Araden mountains in treacherous snowdrifts. Warmth and light abandoned Kaphtor, and took with them the spirit of Aridela.

She tried to bolster herself with memories of the day she’d leapt the bull. The crowd roared her name. Chrysaleon lifted his dagger in awed salute. Sometimes she managed a searing instant of triumph and joy, but it was always crushed in the next by painful truth.

He is dead. You will never see him again. He will never touch you. If he were alive, he would turn from you in disgust. He wouldn’t care that Harpalycus bound you or that you were unwilling. The proud warriors from Argolis can only see your ruin.

She wept into the animal skins on her pallet.

When she succumbed to the hopelessness of those thoughts, she knew Menoetius had discerned her hidden truth. I will keep you safe against your own will to die, he’d said. She didn’t think she would ever forget the fury in his eyes when he spoke those words. But she would defeat him. No more barbarians would inflict their will upon her.

Menoetius couldn’t force food down her throat. Soon her shade would rise between the stalactites and fly away to Athene’s paradise, dragging the infant inside her along.

All she loved was gone. Her country, her people, her mother, her sister, her lover. Not even her dog was spared. Her pride had been stripped from her like a dead goat’s skin, her body used like a crude clay cup, leaving nothing but putrid, helpless rage and memories of Harpalycus’s rapes, no detail of which faded, no matter how much time passed. His cruel laughter. His vow that she would bear his offspring. That threat grew stronger with every passing day and no flow of kaliara blood. Her own womb had sided with the usurper.

One evening he had stretched out beside her and stroked her stomach. He told her how he would kill the baby if she had one growing in her, since there was no way of knowing whose it was. He described with relish how he would let some of his most loyal men enjoy her if she was pregnant. Then, he said, after, he would keep her all to himself so there would be no doubt about who fathered the next one.

The beautiful palace of Labyrinthos, bull dances, festivals and harvests, mead-making and lively competitions between contenders for king—all grew indistinct. Even the need for vengeance dimmed.

She heard the echoing rasp of Menoetius’s boots before he reached the inner cavern. Although that meant her hands would be unbound and she could enjoy some small freedom, her jaw involuntarily clenched.

“The sun is out.”

He crossed to her pallet, holding by the ears the limp bodies of two rabbits. Rabbits were their main source of meat, but often they made do with dried fruit and nuts, for when storms struck, every creature vanished into hiding.

“Were you sleeping?”

She made an effort to soften her frown. “No.”

“The sun is setting, but the clouds are gone. There’s time enough to enjoy the sunset and I’ve seen no sign of search parties in many days. Wouldn’t you like to look at stars again?”

His gaze was uncomfortably intent. She felt him trying to judge how far her will had flown. No doubt he could see the evidence of recent weeping. Perhaps he could tell she was pregnant. No matter. When she died, he would be free. He could return to Selene.

But because she was unbearably lonely, desperately weary of her own thoughts, and because he’d penetrated the long, cold silence between them to invite her outside with such courtesy, she decided to be civil.

“Yes,” she said. “I would like to see stars.”

They emerged, blinking, into dazzling light. The first thing Aridela saw were two ravens playing in the sky, their harsh cries offering subtle promise of warmth and coming spring.

Ice clung to the banks of the stream, but the center ran clear and cold. Twisted cypress and hardy pine trees leant hints of green to the otherwise white, formless landscape.

Aridela, bundled in leggings and jerkin as well as furry boots, followed Menoetius up the nearest cliffs and into a bowl between three severe mountain summits that offered protection from the worst of the wind. She drew mosaic patterns in the snow with a sticky pine branch, reveling at the feel of sun-warmth on her bare head.

Menoetius squatted, his back against a boulder that must have tumbled, along with several others, from the rock-choked southern summit. “I went into Araden,” he said.

“What did you find?”

“Sprouting barley and corn. There’s renewed hope among the villagers that their crops will survive. Life returns to Crete. If we—”

“How can you say that?” She leaped to her feet, flinging the branch away. “With Harpalycus ruling in my palace? My mother and consort murdered?”

He frowned and glanced away. “I thought you would be happy to hear there are surviving crops. It means food, at least for some. Fewer will starve.”

Suffocating despair fell over her. She rubbed her wool-covered arms. “If I could be there, with them, I could see for myself. I could share this hope.”

He was silent. She felt the intrusive invasion of his eyes, slicing her mind open like a pomegranate, fingering every humiliation forced upon her by Harpalycus and the eunuch, each fearful conviction that the child of Chrysaleon’s murderer grew in her belly. His gaze shaved truth from lies, forcing her to face what had become indisputable.

If I could be there, with them. Even from herself, she tried to hide. Beneath Menoetius’s discerning gaze, the lie disintegrated.

She no longer wanted to return to the people of Kaphtor. Imagining their pity and disgust left her cringing. What she wanted was an end to breathing and memories. They could find another queen, one with a soul. One not devoured by shadow.

“It’s getting dark,” was all he said. “I’ll make a fire, if I can find enough wood.”

He attempted to distract her by pointing to the sky and teaching her what his people called the colors made by fading light upon wisps of cloud. He made her repeat the words; she told him with some acerbity that he reminded her of her tutors.

As stars became visible, she showed him the Cretan sky-bull, Tauros, and beside it, the Hunter. Then, clearer in the south than it had ever been in the lowlands, the star that, for her, had special meaning.

“See?” She pointed. “The bright white star, just above that summit.”

“Yes.”

“It’s Iphiboë’s. So I would know she watches over us.” On their climb up, Menoetius had pointed out the cliff she had nearly fallen over during her escape attempt half a month ago. The drop to a bottom strewn with jagged boulders made her dizzy and faint, and brought back the blurred, snow-fashioned image of her sister, arms outstretched, ordering her to stop. The memory had become vague and suspect with the passage of time.

“She was the bravest of women,” he said. Silence stretched again but for the hiss of burning wood. Then Menoetius said, “You believe that after we die, there is something left?”

Startled and wary, she asked, “Do you not?”

He shrugged. “I did, when I was young.”

“You are young still, Menoetius.”

He shrugged.

“Chrysaleon told me you lost your faith,” she ventured.

He picked up a branch he’d been using to stoke the fire and stabbed the earth as though wounding an invisible foe. The act brought a faint smile as Aridela remembered him doing the same thing during his first visit to Kaphtor, so long ago. Such an insignificant act, yet it instantly carried her back to happier, simpler times, and how she had adored him.

For a long while he stared at the flames.

“Menoetius?” she asked.

“I wonder if my father is dead.”

Compassion flooded her with unexpected force. She hadn’t once thought of his kin, so obsessed had she been with the fate of her own. “You told me he is one of King Idómeneus’s warriors.”

“No. That was a lie. Idómeneus is my father.”

“The High King… is your father?”

He nodded.

“Then you are—Chrysaleon’s brother. His true brother.” Her mind went backward, and she added, “I remember. You said you had a brother, half a breath younger than you.”

“We didn’t share mothers. Mine was a slave, and his the queen.”

She searched for any resemblance in the glow of the fire. They had the same straight, dominating nose. Exactly the same, though Menoetius’s bore a scar across the bridge. If not for his scars, so severe and transforming, she might have discerned the likeness long ago. “I should have seen this.”

“You weren’t meant to.”

“As Chrysaleon said, you have lied about many things.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Not everything has been a lie.”

A lifetime ago, she and Menoetius had eaten fire-charred ibex and watched the sun set on Mount Juktas. He told her a tale of his father, a warrior, and of his ambition to become the captain of King Idómeneus’s guard. He described his spoiled, selfish brother, and how they had to be separated for fear one would harm the other. “You’re royal,” she said, “or would be in my country. Are you the heir, now….”

He tossed the stick in the fire. Flames gnawed at it, spitting out the moisture. “Heir to what? Has Mycenae survived? All I can say is that the mainland’s greatest citadel deserved a leader who would place his country before his pleasures. Idómeneus ordered us not to compete in your Games. Chrysaleon defied him.”

For the first time, she realized that Menoetius must have been in on the plot. King Idómeneus had instructed both his sons to search for that weakness which would grant him a way to overthrow Crete. Chrysaleon had admitted to it, but Menoetius kept the secret, even now. Perhaps because he would not have succumbed to love over duty. By his own admission, Menoetius would have stuck to the plan. If Harpalycus hadn’t outpaced his enemies, she might now be Mycenae’s slave.

Fury welled. She’d suffered one betrayal after another from those she trusted. Never… never again would she give her trust. And she would learn. She would embrace cunning and trickery, until the day came when she escaped this tiresome existence. She could lie too. Maybe she would even learn to enjoy it.

Nothing you say is the truth, she wanted to shout. But what was the use of confronting him? He would just lie again.

Old, nagging guilt rose up inside, edging out her anger. Idómeneus ordered us not to compete in your Games. Chrysaleon defied him. “Chrysaleon competed because I asked him to. Because he loved me.”

“Love? He saw no farther than his lust. You would never be so weak or selfish.”

“I pray I would not.” His cruel statement burned a blush into her cheeks. Lust, not love. Harpalycus had insinuated something similar, that day in the palace garden before attacking her. He’d made it clear Chrysaleon enjoyed the favors of many women and cared for none.

“There’s no need for prayer.” Menoetius’s strong, sure voice scattered her doubts. “Day after day, you want nothing more than to fight and free your country. Harpalycus tried to break your spirit. He failed. You have far more courage than Chrysaleon.”

She stared at the fire, shivering. Tears stung her eyes. Though she tried, halfheartedly, to tell herself he was lying, his words wrapped around her like rivers of sunlight, like the arms of a lover. She wanted to run into the darkness and hide even as she wanted to take his hand and speak her gratitude. She couldn’t bring herself to do either, so she simply hunched further into her jerkin as if it could provide a bulwark between fear and truth.

She’d believed he saw her as dishonored, blighted, ruined, by what had been done to her. Perhaps she was wrong. A very small spark flared where the old Aridela moldered.

He spoke again. At first she didn’t hear him, so deeply had she sunk into her thoughts. Gradually, his words drew her away from examination of the bruised frozen sac into which she had stuffed her will to live.

“—Had Chrysaleon returned to his duties at Mycenae, I could have remained.” The crackle of burning wood and flowing night breeze nearly drowned out his quiet voice. “Nothing held me to that place.”

Cold air crept down the neck of her jerkin.

“Harpalycus probably wouldn’t have invaded Crete. It is hatred for Chrysaleon that pushes him to such lengths.”

“As hatred toward me pushed Lycus.”

Also because of Chrysaleon.

Menoetius plucked another stick from his meager collection. Removing his dagger from its sheath, he whittled at the bark. A miniature, crooked spear began taking shape. “After I became my father’s captain, I never allowed myself to care about a woman. I feared if I did, it would make me hesitant or cowardly. I’ve seen that happen in other men.”

Iphiboë had said almost the same thing. I always knew this would happen. It’s why I couldn’t love a man.

But she said nothing, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

He spoke slowly, seeming to give each word careful consideration.

“I believed I would die in battle. I wanted such a death. I saw no worth or grace anywhere, in anything.” He paused. “But now… this is what I was always supposed to do. I’ve been given another chance… to protect you.” He stabbed the point of the spear into the snow and carved a long, straight line, angling another through the first to make a cross. “If Chrysaleon hadn’t disobeyed our father, I could have been your partner in the cave. I could have won the Games. I could have become your consort.” He turned toward her. “Only the gods will ever know what difference it might have made.”

That night, in the cave of Velchanos, Aridela had propped herself on her elbows, heart racing, as two beasts dropped off the ledge and approached. The bull-man. The lion. It seemed centuries ago. Sitting beside a fitful, pine-scented fire, deep within steep, glacier-like mountains, she replayed their hostile disagreement. Menoetius, the bull, tried to reach her. If he had, she would have willingly mated with him. But Chrysaleon, the lion, had shown similar determination. Only when Selene intervened, inviting the bull to join her, did the fight end.

The bull-man had stared at her before he took Selene’s hand and disappeared with her into the gloom.

A pinecone sparked and popped. Aridela returned to the cold night of the present, yet the memory lingered.

Other memories flashed through her mind. Menoetius swathing her in a blanket the night he and Selene rescued her from Harpalycus. The way he’d cradled her against his chest, carrying her through the night, without pause, to freedom. How he’d cushioned her wrists and hands with fur before binding them. And perhaps most strongly, there was the day she’d tried to escape. In such foul weather, he could have just let her go. Not even Selene would have blamed him. But he searched until he found her. She’d be dead now if he hadn’t.

All this time, perhaps ever since Menoetius and his master found that cave and the women inside, she had misjudged him. She’d believed his coldness and reserve were evidence of his contempt. But it wasn’t that at all. It was his way of denying love for the woman his brother had claimed for himself. What other choice did he have?

She’d been so certain she’d discerned his duplicity. But even as she started to amend her judgment, another collection of memories washed over her.

She saw Chrysaleon’s face. Menoetius, devout? Not anymore, my lady. He no longer has any use for such things. Harpalycus’s toadying smile. Had you been Crete’s heir and I the winner of the Games, it would have been a matter of love rather than conquest. Lycus, his eyes cold with jealousy. I know he’s taken what you once nearly gave me. And Helice. I’ve manipulated many rites during my reign.

All, including Menoetius, had abandoned truth to achieve their own desires. Every one of them had fooled her, even Harpalycus in the beginning.

The tiny spark within kindled to the slow broil of anger, and licked at the cold armored pod surrounding and suffocating her will. She drew in a deep breath and tasted the air, scented of burning wood and crisp snow.

Menoetius had been watching her. Now he concentrated on the fire, inserting twigs and livening the flames by blowing into the crevices. She suspected he was really trying to back away from what he’d revealed. He was trying to reform the mask he’d allowed her to peer through.

She addressed the form of his speech and ignored the substance. “I dare not interpret the will of your gods. Why did you lie? Why call yourself Carmanor? Why not tell us you were Idómeneus’s son?”

His shoulders seemed to bunch higher around his neck. Firelight pricked at the scar on his face, sending it into sad, sharp relief. “Like a child, I played at being free of my father’s demands. And I wanted Helice to believe in me for myself, outside of him.”

This she understood. She’d grown so weary of expectations, watchful eyes, and constant tutoring. On the night of the Destruction, she and Chrysaleon had imagined what it would be like to be peasants. In that world, they could live together without care or interference.

“You’re shivering. This fire is lamentable. We should go back.” He rose, kicked snow over the smoldering twigs, and walked by her side through the cold night along a ridge drenched in moonlight. She glanced up as they hiked, watching the gibbous orb slip from cloud to cloud. What does this mean, Mistress? Guide me, I beg you, for I know not what you want of me. I no longer trust my ability to tell.

They returned to the cave and crept through to the inner cavern, Menoetius’s arm warm against hers, the frosty green scent of pine drifting from his clothing.

The cover of darkness gave her the courage to ask, “You don’t hate me?”

“Hate you?” His disembodied voice betrayed a hint of laughter. He grew silent and still. Then he said, “I am yours. As lover or slave. I thought you understood that.”

Could she believe him? She only knew she wanted to, needed to. “Everyone has lied to me,” she said. “I don’t know what I can believe anymore.”

He left her to light the lamps and coax renewed vigor into the embers he kept glowing hot beneath a cover of ash. Aridela sank onto the pallet, numb and confused. The wounds within still reached out to the peace and silence death would bring. But for the first time in a month, her suffocated will to live struggled to break free of its ice-bound chrysalis.

Light wavered; the chill retreated, chasing the shadows back. Menoetius watched the revived embers for some time before rising, crossing to her. He knelt and picked up a clay bowl containing a handful of dried figs. He chose one. Lifted it. Touched it to her lips. Watched her mouth as she took the fruit between her teeth.

The faint light softened his scar and turned his eyes black as the furthest depths of the sea, black yet not empty. Not frightening. But she didn’t dare trust what she saw. Knowing as she now did how easily she was fooled, how incapable she was of separating truth from lies, she held back.

His fingertips touched the top clasp on her jerkin.

She wanted him to unhook it. Astounded at this, she opened her mouth to speak a litany of refusals but just sat there, speechless.

He studied her face. Her breath shortened; she bit her lip and fought to hide her weaknesses, but he was Menoetius. He saw everything.

“Believe that I want you to feel joy again,” he said.

She must put distance between them. Rudeness would work. She could call him the liar he was. She clenched her hands but before she could speak he covered them with his own.

We’ve been overly concerned with shallow things, Helice said before she died. We’ve cared more about beauty than anything; we forgot how to look beneath it for the substance that matters.

“You’ve spoken of hate,” he said. “I know hate. I’ve long suffered the hatred of Mistress Athene.”

She must push him away. Now, quickly.

Had Leiriope, the priestess on Callisti, been so weak when wooed by the Great Liar, Harpalycus of Tiryns?

Her consort was murdered. Harpalycus slaughtered innocents for sport. Yet she lay here, contemplating lovemaking with one of the Achaean barbarians, kin to those who had brought her island to this sorry impasse.

Bad enough that her people might see her belly swell up with the cursed child of the Usurper.

Aridela had always been praised for her steadfast will. She had taken that will for granted until Harpalycus flayed it from her. She thought of herself no longer as invincible Aridela, daughter of the Calesienda, half-divine, proud as a lioness, full of wit and talent.

The spark wavered and dimmed.

She pulled her hands free of his and folded them against her stomach. “Such things are unfit, my lord, for these desolate times.”

Menoetius stared at her. Aridela thought she detected a shudder run through him, but couldn’t be sure. She wanted to beg his forgiveness. Instead, she gritted her teeth and remained silent.

“Your island languishes under Harpalycus,” he said. “His purpose is to destroy all that makes your country bright. He has used your desire for peace to overthrow your great cities. Harpalycus seeks to stamp out your people, but especially you, Aridela. By forcing yourself to suffer and starve, by blaming yourself for what he has done, you help him achieve his aim.”

She’d never thought of it that way. It was horrifying. To distract herself as much as him, she said, “You’ve spoken of love for me. What of Selene?”

His gaze faltered. He frowned then shook his head. “I love her too,” he said. “How could I not? She is your truest friend. But more than that, she offers gifts long lost to me. When she looks at me, I feel whole. I couldn’t speak to you this way without the courage she returned to me. Must I destroy what I feel for her in order to love you?”

The spark inside flickered, bringing a smile to her lips. “No,” she said. “I feared you were amusing yourself and cared nothing for her. I’m glad you love her, as I do. Our hearts are not as small as your countrymen want to make them.”

He could have lied. The fact that he didn’t chipped at her wary mistrust.

He spoke again, his voice husky. “I know a little of trying to destroy something that can’t be destroyed. I’ve loved you since the day I carried you out of the shrine. I have tried to slay it, but I can’t. I would have to rip out my mind.”

The shadows left her in an abrupt, flooding torrent. They returned to the corners and cracks; their deranged whispers faded to silence.

Tears blurred her sight. She brought his hand to the clasp on the jerkin even as the frozen husk melted, casting her into the violet light of quickened rebirth.

Aridela of Kaphtor is not dead and will not die.

His beard wasn’t wiry and coarse like Chrysaleon’s. It was smooth, soft as down-feathers. She’d wanted to touch it since she was ten years old.

Her fingertip traced the ridge of scar arcing from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.

A crescent, like the curve on the cutting edge of a labrys.

It wasn’t difficult to sense, or feel, how much he wanted her. But he was patient, to all appearances content, one leg over hers, one finger just touching her own scar, the one at her jaw, waiting for her to initiate or forbid.

She was grateful, for as much as she wanted him in return, she couldn’t stop her mind from conjuring images of Harpalycus. Of atrocities. Of pain.

To blot them out, she said, “Chrysaleon told me about the mauling.”

He didn’t reply for so long she thought she’d offended him.

“What did he say?” he finally asked.

“That a lioness with cubs attacked you, and he killed her. He told me you shared your blood after, and swore loyalty. That you became blood brothers.”

Again he fell silent. The ember-glow subsided so they lay in near darkness. “Forgive me,” she said.

“That was how he earned his title, ‘Lion killer of Mycenae.’”

She felt his chest expand as he inhaled. “After I met you the first time,” he said, so quietly she tilted her head to better hear him, “a month after I returned home, he and I slipped away from our chores and lessons, and went off with the intent to kill lion or boar. It was Chrysaleon’s idea. We believed we were blessed by gods, and thought ourselves indestructible.”

She ran along the scar with the tip of one finger, eyebrow to mouth. Mouth to eyebrow. Then she moved to his temple and stroked through his hair.

“Her breath was suffocating,” he said. “I remember little else. I can’t even tell you how the attack started. I’m told she charged out of the cave where we’d tracked her. I was nearest. How she disarmed me, what she did, how I survived—all that’s left are flashes. Images.”

Aridela’s fingers trailed down his cheek to his chest and followed the path of each scar she found.

“At first, there was pain. She clawed me, bit me, as you can see. But it all goes black when I try to remember more. Chrysaleon jumped on her and stabbed her.”

A set of four parallel ridges led from his belly toward his groin.

“He pulled her off after he killed her. I could breathe again. I remember that, how happy I was to breathe.”

Scars crisscrossed his palms. Aridela imagined him trying to protect his face from her teeth. She kissed one then the other. In return he seized her cheeks and kissed her on the mouth, long and thoroughly.

“Tell me more,” she said when he gave her the chance.

“I do have one memory. It’s cloudy, like a dream. I’m walking up a hill. At the top are three women, waiting for me. They turn me back. They say my tasks aren’t finished. One of the women promises to wait for me.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what it means or if it even happened. The next clear thing I remember after that is Chrysaleon binding the worst of my wounds with strips from his tunic. Two slaves were helping him. He forced me to make the vow before he would allow them to carry me home. ‘We are sons of Idómeneus the High King,’ he said. ‘Nothing can separate us but death. Your blood in my veins, mine in yours.’ He pressed his wound against mine. Then he cut the heart from the lioness and squeezed the blood into my mouth. He said her power would belong to me.”

He paused again, long enough to press his palm flat against hers and interlace their fingers. “But it was Chrysaleon. His will alone kept me alive.”

“I’ve wondered what I see in your eyes.” Aridela returned his grip. “It’s her. The lioness. She lives still, inside you.”

He kissed the hollow in her throat and ran his tongue up to her earlobe, birthing a shiver that nearly defeated her resistance.

“She attacks you from within,” she whispered.

He lifted his face and gave a bitter laugh. “Idómeneus was enraged. Had Chrysaleon not suffered already from so many wounds, he would have been whipped halfway to the land of shadows. I spent half a month on my back fighting fever and the loss of blood.”

“You believe Athene caused this attack?” Her heart was still racing. She could scarcely remember what they were talking about. She wanted him to kiss her again, and traced the outline of his lips.

“Yes. To punish me.” He slid his palm along her arm, so close to her breast, but not touching, still holding himself in check.

“For what?”

“For leaving you.”

Her throat closed and she struggled to speak. “I wanted to die I missed you so much.”

They lay, hands entwined. Aridela turned slightly toward him, mesmerized by the rhythmic tangled beating of their hearts, and the way she could feel his voice through her chest. But the unbearable memories weren’t yet vanquished. They clotted in her stomach, waiting to spring up in attack.

“I thought many times about the child-princess of Crete during my tiresome recovery,” he said. “How she tried to hide her tears the day I left, and shared that story about her father and the necklace he’d given her. I thought of her through the years, wondered how she fared, listened for any gossip about Crete. When I returned with Chrysaleon I hoped to glimpse her, but I wasn’t sure I wanted her to see me. She might be frightened, or pitying.”

“I’ve had to face my ignorance since you and your brother came here. Much time was wasted, in so many ways.”

He made light of it with a careless laugh, yet she felt his muscles constrict.

“Not long after,” he said, “Chrysaleon brought the cubs to Mycenae. There were two, both female. As I regained my strength, we fed and cared for them. They’re still there, if Mycenae is. The king likes to watch his concubines lead them around on jeweled leashes.”

Scarlet ember-light flickered across the rock walls. Menoetius rested one hand on her hip.

“I know what I owe my brother,” he said.

His fingers traced between her breasts and over her stomach, his gaze following.

“I never thought we would be like this,” he said. “You were his. I thought this could never happen.”

“Kiss me.”

The way he kissed her was tender yet lustful, conveying so much of need yet also devotion. Menoetius was a hardened warrior. But when he kissed her, he became Carmanor, the untroubled youth with the easy smile.

She longed to forget that beyond the cave walls lay destruction and overthrow. Murder, betrayal, lies.

An unwanted baby.

But she couldn’t. Not quite.

Aridela of Kaphtor, immersed in careless arrogance, thinking herself too keen and clever to ever be fooled, had been manipulated, not only by her own mother and probably Themiste, but also Lycus, Menoetius, and perhaps… perhaps Chrysaleon, who had kissed her with love and devotion too, or so she had believed. Now she wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything.

Menoetius lied when it suited him, and he had reason to undermine her feelings for his brother. She thought back to the night of the Destruction, how Chrysaleon had pulled her from the cracks in the earth and used his body to shield her from the horrors at Phaistos. Menoetius didn’t know how that night had changed everything between them, had deepened and honed what had been untested. She wouldn’t allow her memories to be spoiled by another man’s jealousy. She wouldn’t be malleable like Callisti’s priestess. From now on, she would maintain control over her emotions and her body. No man would touch her until she found an unassailable method of discerning lies from truth.

Still, knowing how he’d suffered, she wanted to be careful. She had to be, for his sake.

“I am empty as a broken crock,” she said. “You should have a woman who can return your love, as Selene does. Don’t care for me, Menoetius.”

He met her gaze, frowning, his mouth reforming into its more familiar tenseness.

“The paradise that was Kaphtor is gone.” She swallowed the hurt those words caused. “Vengeance is all that’s left of me now.”

“That isn’t true.”

“You cannot turn back the days. Neither of us can change what’s been done. Let me go.”

His grip squeezed, almost cutting off the blood flow in her hand. “Have you not been listening to me?”

“Yes… but I—”

“I will bind you to this pallet until the day of your death,” he said recklessly.

She didn’t believe it. The threat was weightless, hollow. She couldn’t help an almost tender laugh. “You’ll tether me like a goat? That is your image of victory?” She almost added, My love, but managed to suppress it.

He lowered his face. Kissed her throat, lingering and ardent, then without warning bit her. His body pressed hard against hers. Her blood rushed like ocean tides in response. It was impossible. She wasn’t strong enough to resist. Her heart thundered, her pulses raced; tears filled her eyes. Her arms crept around his neck as though they had their own will, even as Harpalycus reared in agonizing clarity, blotting out Menoetius, replacing his warm, seductive, beguiling form with one that was cold, hated and feared.

It was too soon. In truth, she didn’t know if love could ever again be separated from torture and humiliation.

She pushed at him, biting her lips to keep the torment hidden.

He seized her hand and brought it to his face. He pressed his mouth to the underside of her wrist, where the burn, shaped like bull’s horns, had marred her skin since birth. It tingled at his caress.

“I feel the lie of your words,” he said. “The truth your body cannot hide.”

His lips upon her skin obliterated conscious thought and the memory of speech. All that remained was the swift, consummating pulse beat, radiating outward from her wrist like the heat of the sun through her skin, muscles, and blood.

He put his mouth close to her ear as she breathed rapidly, almost lost. Almost.

“I will have victory, Aridela,” he whispered.

Themiste’s men stole a mainland chariot-horse from Harpalycus’s soldiers and offered it to Chrysaleon. He accepted gratefully, knowing his journey would be much hastened.

Neoma provided him with leather boots, a bow and arrows, a dagger, food, and a skin of water, as well as a flood of pleas to return her cousin.

Traveling south and west, he skirted the Ida range along its southern foothills. By edging along the steeper, wilder crevasses and gorges, he disguised his movements from enemy patrols that branched out daily from the ruined palace of Phaistos and Knossos.

Treacherous snowdrifts and ice slowed his pace, though impatience made him long to spur his horse onward. The streams he crossed were frozen solid. Wind blew continually, but accustomed as he was to Mycenae’s winters and heated by determination, he hunched deeper into his quilted cloak and continued on.

The death-vision drifted alongside, making him itch with need and resolve. It remained so clear that he fancied if he stopped and looked behind him, he could step back into it. Yet Themiste insisted she never led him beneath the city of Knossos, or rode with him on the backs of gryphons, or swam with him through foamy ocean waves to the green orchards of Hesperia. Athene’s grace may have sent you there, she had said. Perhaps to learn some lesson. I, too, have experienced visions of compelling power.

Yet he recalled with scathing clarity the snake she’d worn like a necklace and the gryphon’s rippling muscles between his thighs. He could hear the echoing drip of water in the underground caverns and taste Themiste’s sweet flesh in his mouth. The serene, youthful face of Damasen, Aridela’s father, remained distinct, along with every word he’d uttered as the two walked through Hesperia’s mossy green glades.

Since Chrysaleon had regained consciousness, he had examined each word, every inflection and expression—no matter how fleeting, in his attempts to determine what course to take.

Damasen had described a future of grim possibilities.

“I see a time when new gods will be fashioned and worship of the Mother will be unknown,” the bull-king said. “Mortals who cling to the old ways will be hounded, slaughtered.”

Chrysaleon said nothing, though he thought the god sounded remarkably like his own father.

“The female will be considered the substance of corruption, and every manner of evil toward her will be overlooked. Uninitiated maidens will be defiled in violence, forced to bear offspring against their will. The customs and beliefs of your ancestry, Prince Chrysaleon, will spread. As harsh as they are now, they will be further perverted. No longer will property and name pass from mother to daughter as has always been done, but from father to son. Fertile women will serve as tools to increase the wealth of their fathers. Those too old for childbearing will be discarded or used as slaves.”

A fawn approached, still shaky on its delicate long legs. Damasen caressed its ears before returning his attention to Chrysaleon. They walked on, the fawn gamboling behind.

“The deeds and stories of women will vanish,” Damasen said. “Everything they create or accomplish will be forgotten, and history will listen only to men. If your world chooses this future, wickedness will hold sway. All that has been holy since time began will be devalued. Finally, an age will come when woman will embrace her own degradation. Spring will vanish. The ground will crack and burn. Oceans will rise. Mortals will procreate until forests and fields stagger beneath the weight of human flesh and there will not be a single wild place left anywhere. Water will dry up, crops will fail. Disease will spread. Then, Prince, the earth will be crucified, and you will all die.”

Chrysaleon maintained a stoic expression. He fully expected Damasen to bring up his father’s secret council, Boreas, the clandestine meetings, the subtle manipulations designed to assist the rise of a future very like the one he described. But his people didn’t want disease and starvation. They wanted order, power. What any man craved.

Time passed. The youth remained calm. No accusations were thrown. Though divine in some fashion, apparently he could not see into Chrysaleon’s mind, or he would know Chrysaleon had been raised to despise female authority, nurtured to defeat it if he could, by any method or means.

As he worked his way toward the western mountains where he hoped to find Aridela, Chrysaleon’s own words, spoken carelessly, returned to his mind.

If the man who wins Iphiboë comes from the Argolid, she’ll rank no higher than a slave.

Something else struck Chrysaleon as odd. Damasen spoke as though Chrysaleon would somehow experience this bleak future.

Damasen beckoned to the fawn’s shy mother. “This is the path upon which the world is now set,” he said. “You stand at the junction. Unless the present course is diverted, much suffering will occur.”

“My lord?”

Damasen faced him, one fine black brow lifting.

“Why do you speak as if I have any part in these events?”

Damasen’s gaze changed then. It turned piercing, filled with understanding and cold insight. Chrysaleon clenched his hands and fought a surge of terror, for he sensed his secrets lying naked and transparent between them.

“Have you not listened to my words? The future is never determined. I tell you the worst I have seen so that you may go forth and construct a new road. The fate I have described need not occur. You are the leavening for change. You, Chrysaleon of Mycenae, can guide the people of your world into paradise, with Aridela at your side.”

Chrysaleon gathered his courage and glanced at the bull-king’s face. He was surprised to see a faint smile. Damasen walked on, bending to pluck a cluster of lavender. The uneasy instant passed. Chrysaleon drew in a deep breath and swallowed.

His mind flailed. Even in this infinite place, whether dream or reality, it was difficult to understand such mysteries. Needing to compose his thoughts, he turned away from the king to admire the scenery. To his right, above the tree line, there was a smooth-topped mountain ridge; odd, how rounded the summits were.

He blinked rapidly, because for the slightest instant, he thought the ridge had moved.

His mouth fell open. What he had assumed were high implacable cliffs, undulated, compressed then stretched. As he turned, slowly, half frozen with astonishment, he saw the head of an enormous serpent rise above the trees and peer down at him, its tongue flicking. It was a terrifying sight.

Damasen placed his hand on Chrysaleon’s shoulder. “He will not harm you,” he said. “Ladon watches over the orchard.”

“Oh,” Chrysaleon stuttered. “Oh.”

Damasen smiled and spoke again.

“Evil will find its strongest foothold at Athens,” he said, holding the aromatic flowers to his nose. “Secret brotherhoods will reshape the character of Lady Athene into a hater of women. Zeus will rise to ascendance. It will be claimed that Zeus existed before Athene and in fact gave birth to her. Athene’s true origins will disappear. Her children, Velchanos and Niachero, will seem to vanish. Her name meaning will be rewritten. ‘I have come from myself’ will turn into ‘She who has never known man.’ From Athens, change will engulf the world.”

“Athens?” Half relieved, Chrysaleon grasped at the familiar name. “We at Mycenae give no thought to that pile of mud and hovels. Nothing of moment will ever come from there. Mycenae leads the mainland and always will.”

Only after he spoke these rash words did he hear the insult, and the threat, within them. But even as he fashioned a quick lie—they cannot honor the Lady as a Mycenaean does—Damasen, with another ambiguous smile, changed the subject.

“I have seen another path for your world, and it can be easily achieved. Search out my daughter, Zagreus. Bind yourself to no other. Together, you and she can strengthen fealty to the Lady and bring peace. In that end, man and woman will live together as they should always have done. There will be no more sacrifices. The days of halcyon will reign.”

“Crete’s consorts will be allowed to live out their lives?”

“The king-sacrifice grew from observance of the life and death of seasons and crops, and their rebirth after winter rains. It generated from desire to participate in the ecstasy of the life force, to give homage and become one through imitation. My Lady allows the free will that conceived the sacrifice, and honors these heroes with divinity in their own right, but it was never her requirement.” He leveled Chrysaleon with a solemn stare. “You, Zagreus, at the rising of Iakchos, are marked to descend into the labyrinth, and die as I did.”

Chrysaleon swallowed a lump of uneasy anger.

“I feared my death as any mortal does,” Damasen said. “But it was nothing like what I expected. I swam in warm green seas, surrounded by creatures with the faces and breasts of women and the bodies of seals. I heard the mourning cries of those who loved me. I wanted to reassure them, but could not. I was cleansed of doubts and attachments in moonlight and saltwater. These women led me to a wondrous underwater city carved of seashells and stone that glows like the moon. When I was ready to release your world from my heart, they brought me to this place, Hesperia. Soon, you will know for yourself.”

He gave a nod and swept out one hand, prompting Chrysaleon to look up. They had reached Hesperia’s legendary apple orchard. Chrysaleon saw fruit of pure, shining gold hanging from white-flowered branches.

A figure stood beside one of the giant trees. Branches and leaves threw filigreed shadows over her face. Even so, Chrysaleon recognized her.

“Lady Iphiboë.” He bowed, struck by her straightforward gaze. There was no hint of the timid girl he remembered.

She acknowledged his address with a tilt of the head, the gesture regal yet courteous. In her arms nestled a plump partridge. She placed it on the ground and shooed it forward. It spread its wings and made a short clumsy flight to Damasen.

Chrysaleon peered again into the orchard, but in the instant his attention had been diverted by the bird, Iphiboë had slipped away.

Damasen bent to retrieve what dangled from the bird’s beak. Chrysaleon recognized the necklace Aridela had always worn—a gift, he remembered, from this man.

“Return this token to your lover,” Damasen said. “Defeat the oppressor. Reunite Aridela with Labyrinthos and reinstate sovereignty to its rightful guardians.” He dropped the necklace into Chrysaleon’s palm, waiting until he reacquired Chrysaleon’s attention before continuing in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Love for your queen brings infinite pain as well as joy, but if you choose honor and truth, your name will be crowned in glory beyond your comprehension. You will harness the force that brings wondrous change to the world.”

The promise rang through Chrysaleon’s mind as he rode toward Crete’s western mountains. He experienced renewed determination at his first glimpse of the shimmering, iridescent mountain range rising, higher and higher before him, like an oath of victory.

Crowned in glory beyond your comprehension. Chrysaleon envisioned magnificent frescoes, marble statues, bard songs so lovely they would make listeners weep.

Yet Themiste insisted no secret corridors beneath Labyrinthos led to an underground sea. Her brow had formed a bewildered frown at his talk of an ancient war. She stroked his hair soothingly, but nothing had piqued more of a reaction from her than a sympathetic smile until he brought up the great year. It was a calculated risk, declaring that Damasen had named him the thinara king. He hadn’t understood the conversation he’d overheard in his cell. If it turned out the great-year-king was Crete’s enemy, telling the oracle such a thing could have condemned him to torture or death.

But, remembering his family motto, Fortune favors the bold, he’d taken the chance and was pleased with the result. Shock expunged Themiste’s usual composure. She began treating him with subtle awe and a respect he had never seen her show anyone, not even Helice.

Had he walked with Damasen in a land beyond death, or had he experienced nothing more than meaningless visions, fashioned inside a dying mind?

One of the refugees, a goldsmith, had repaired the broken links on Aridela’s necklace. Chrysaleon held it up, letting it swing from his fingers. Sunlight reflected against the delicate crescents and scattered from the wavy lines symbolizing their labyrinth. The lapis bead mimicked the frosty blue sky.

Man and woman will live together as they should always have done. There will be no more sacrifices.

If he believed a god had given him this charge, his choice was clear. Who would not want to be recognized as the harbinger of endless peace?

Disjointed segments of his will fantasized about achieving Damasen’s obvious desire. Chrysaleon wanted to believe he had the power to usher harmony into the world. From the beginning, he had vowed to end the king-sacrifice. Here was the way. All he had to do was bow to Aridela, to Goddess Athene, and swear subservience to the earth.

You won’t do that.

His mind spoke softly. Damasen offers you glory with death. You want glory with life. Why should you bring eternal paradise to the world if your only reward for doing so is to rot in the ground?

He didn’t know with certainty how the necklace had come into his possession, but he would not bow away his moera to a death-dream, no matter how vivid. The Cretans might have put the trinket around his wrist when he lay unconscious. They might even have used one of their visionary concoctions to sway him to their beliefs. They had done so before. He laughed inwardly. His mind knew what he would do. No amount of excuses and justifications would change a thing.

Chrysaleon, son of Idómeneus, heir to the High King’s throne, had been suckled on the might of Poseidon and the death of female dominance. Glory beyond comprehension lay in overthrow, a transformation of all that was. Harpalycus understood this, but he had no elegance. Harpalycus was a boar crashing through underbrush, betraying his location to every hunter.

Had not Damasen stated that the world’s destiny wasn’t set? He had even admitted he didn’t know what might come.

Chrysaleon hadn’t shared the revelations of his death-dream with Themiste. At first, fear of ridicule kept him silent. Now, after deliberate consideration of the bull-king’s speech, he thought the forewarning it held might be useful to his own ambitions, and the insights he’d been given could provide an advantage over the oracle of Kaphtor, or at least put him on equal footing with her.

Damasen made no promises to end the sacrifice before my time to bleed. He wants me to help Aridela then crawl to my death, my usefulness complete.

I will bring an end to the sacrifice on my own terms. Chrysaleon of Mycenae will not be used to the benefit of women.

Twilight fell. He made a fire from dead olive branches. The last glow of the sun transformed gray clouds to scarlet and lavender, with hints of green and yellow. Beneath this magnificence he constructed a pyramid of stones and shot an unwary hawk from the sky. He burned its thighs in offering and knelt beside his cairn, clenching the necklace in his fist.

“Poseidon,” he said. “Walk with me. Lead me to Aridela. Make our bond unbreakable. Help me slay Harpalycus and bring an end to the king-sacrifice.” He peered into the heavens. “Make me this great-year-king, Horse Tamer, and I will present you with the rich island of Crete. I will cover this land with temples and fill each one with your image.”

A sudden gust of wind sent a fan of sparks into the dimming indigo sky.

He took it for the answer he wanted. Chrysaleon wrapped himself in the cloak Neoma had given him. “Bring Aridela home,” she’d begged, clutching his arm. “I miss her. I don’t think she even knows I’m alive.” The stone that struck her during the worst of the Destruction had left a noticeable depression in her forehead, like a large, out-of-place dimple, and ongoing headaches forced her to spend time in darkened seclusion nearly every day.

He stared at his fire, sleepless, thinking of Aridela, longing for her. A memory crept before him, one he’d forgotten, from his time near death in the cell at Labyrinthos.

In his starved, thirsty mind, he’d experienced a vision of Menoetius transforming into a black bull, the enormous bad-tempered kind Cretans used in their ring. The beast gored him and as he lay gasping, his lifeblood seeping away, Aridela came to stand beside the bull, resting her hand on his neck in an intimate manner. She had looked down upon Chrysaleon without any emotion.

“No,” he’d whispered, and he did so again now, his teeth and hands clenching as he gazed into the cold night sky. “Menoetius won’t defeat me.”

He fell asleep at last, but during the night’s blackest point, he was awakened by the earth shuddering. Small creatures scurried; rocks lurched and tumbled. His horse shied and nickered. Farther away, he heard ominous, eerie echoes as an avalanche of boulders crashed into one of Crete’s many precipitous gorges.

He stared into the night toward the mountains, aching to be among them.

I’m coming, Aridela. I will find you.

In the mountains, the wind seldom diminished. Icy cold, it pulsed through high pine branches, which created a constant hollow whispering. But the sun had again made an appearance. Shafts of light fell between the trees in translucent waterfalls. Aridela stepped inside one, turning her face up and closing her eyes, basking in faint warmth that waged battle against the bitter wind. How much time had passed since she’d left the cave for more than the time it took to relieve herself? Cold, wind and snow had draped her mountain home in dismal, exhausting, endless gray for so long she’d feared she would forget anything else.

Now everything felt different. Air poured through her lungs with the freshness of new milk. She followed rabbit tracks and drank from a creek, the water so cold it burned her throat and made her cough. Menoetius found her and took her hand, pulling her along imaginary paths. Leaving the tree line, they scrambled up a slippery, wind-scoured, near-vertical ascent onto a rock outcropping suspended over vast reaches of space. Mountain summits swept on every side, ridged and monumental, rising to the clouds, their feet hooked to the center of the earth. For the first time since coming here, the sky’s clarity offered a glimpse of the sea, sparkling in sunlight, and even hints of the island off the southern coast.

“It’s beautiful,” Aridela said. “Like it’s all been scrubbed clean.”

She stepped closer to the edge, unprepared for the surge of lightheadedness that engulfed her. She pictured herself tumbling or being pushed, falling, no way to stop, dissected by the rocks so far below. She clutched Menoetius’s arm like an oar in a stormy sea, ashamed, yet helpless against this cascade of trembling fear.

Perhaps because her gaze had frozen downward, Menoetius didn’t seem to sense her terror. He drew her closer to the precipice. Pebbles dislodged by their scuffling steps fell. Vanished.

“All this is ours.” He spoke low, next to her ear. “No one can find us if I don’t want them to.”

His words were indistinct, buried beneath an onslaught of cold, white, icy dread. Never before had Aridela avoided heights. She had perched, exhilarated, on the crumbling cornice of earth at Mount Juktas’s holy shrine. She’d stretched out her arms, longing to soar to the moon. But that was before ash, fire and poison had decimated her land. Before her sister had thrown herself over a cliff much like this one, to sink into the eternal embrace of the sea. Before Helice had perished, lifeblood spurting from a sliced throat. Daring and confidence had resided comfortably within her before Chrysaleon had succumbed, in whatever horrible and unknown fashion, to Harpalycus’s evil.

Before Harpalycus had used her like an object without value. Mere soil, as he put it, in which to grow his progeny.

Though she drew in deep breaths, gritted her teeth, and fought to regain control, the fear raged on, making her cling to Menoetius’s arm. Her head hummed; a kaleidoscopic barrage of color blurred her sight, and the terrible thunder of her heart seemed to propel her closer to the edge.

The innate courage Iphiboë had so envied was gone. Everything she loved was stolen and now, standing in this place of clear, naked altitude, staring into infinity, she saw her life stretch away, bearing her along like a shred of bark stripped off its tree by fiery stone wind. Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot against her skin, and she felt the old Aridela evaporate like insubstantial mist.

Menoetius frowned as he peered into her face. He pulled her away from the edge, rubbing her arms to warm them and lessen her shivering. Bringing her close, he wrapped his woolen jerkin around her and kissed the spot he said he loved the most: at the collarbone, where throat curved into shoulder.

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a flat dry spot next to a sturdy boulder. “The sun is warm and the snow melted. You can’t see over. You’re safe.” He added, “You’re always safe with me.”

With a mouth as dry as over-baked bread, she could only nod. They sat cross-legged on the limestone rocks, on equal terms with eagles at the summit of the world.

Menoetius, closer to the edge than she, scooped up a handful of pebbles and dropped them, one by one, over the ledge. “Seeing the sea today brought back something I’d forgotten,” he said. “An old, old memory, or a dream. I’m newly born. A woman is holding me—a goddess. She’s standing on the shore. I can hear the sea. The moon overhead is full, and glowing. She kisses me and hands me to a serving woman, who carries me through darkness into a hot chamber. There I’m given to Sorcha. There’s much anxious talk among the women. They claim I understand what they’re saying. And I do. Every word.”

“That seems more than a dream,” Aridela said. “Could it be a gift of sight from the Moerae?”

He shrugged. “When I was younger, I picked these pictures apart like a jackal with a carcass, but I’ve never deciphered them.”

“My nurse used to say that when I was little, Lady Athene spoke to me. People overheard me laughing and calling someone ‘Mother.’ Someone nobody could see. I do remember believing she watched over me and walked with me.”

Menoetius smiled. “I’ve known the truth of that since the first time I saw you.”

“Do you remember when you saved my life in the shrine? I thought you were her—the Lady.”

“Of course I remember,” he said, leveling her with an achingly tender gaze.

“Menoetius, do you know why your mother left you?”

“No.”

“Sorcha, from the city of Ys, on the shores of Albion.”

“I wonder if it even exists.”

“Kaphtor established ties with Albion long ago, and trades with them. It’s there. It exists.”

He stared at her, his expression dumfounded.

“Once a year,” she added, “we take them silver and bronze. They give us tin.”

He returned to dropping his pebbles, one by one, frowning slightly. Aridela listened, but she didn’t hear any strike ground. A nauseating sense of vertigo made her breathing go shallow. “Do you remember when we went up Mount Juktas and killed a wild goat?” she asked, to distract herself from the precipitous gorge yawning beneath their feet.

“Yes. You wouldn’t stop asking me questions. Do you intend to do that again?”

She gave a rueful smile. “I wish we could go back to those days. I hated being too young for you to notice. Still, when I think of that time I remember being perfectly happy.”

“If we could go back, I would not leave you,” he said. “I wouldn’t return to Mycenae.” He stared over the expanse of sky, snow and summits, his dark hair blowing across his face. “The lioness wouldn’t attack. My face wouldn’t make children shriek for their mothers.”

“I would do things differently too, if I were given another chance.”

He sighed and dropped the rest of the pebbles, dusting off his palms. “Since we can’t change what’s done, shall we make a different pact?”

“We have to.”

“That day I carried you from the shrine, a vow came to me, unbidden. It sank into me as I held you. I’ve thought of this vow many times, and every time I remember the words, I want to do things as they were meant to be done. I want to change the past.”

“Tell me the vow.”

“For longer than you can imagine, I will be with you—”

“In you, of you,” Aridela interrupted.

They stared at each other, Aridela’s breathless amazement mirrored on his face. Her heart gave a strange stutter.

He began again. “Together we—”

“Bring forth a new world—”

His eyes widened. “And nothing—” He stopped.

“Will ever part us.”

He sighed before repeating, in a near whisper, “Nothing will ever part us.”

He brushed hair out of her eyes, but the wind, capricious and willful, returned it.

Velchanos’s promise. But Chrysaleon was the dream-god-lover. He had said those words to her the night Velchanos merged with him on Mount Juktas and brought the statue to life. It seemed so long ago.

Menoetius spoke the vow exactly, word for word. Had she said it aloud in her sleep? Could he be trying to deceive her? Surely what she saw in his eyes was truth. But—she’d been so certain of others, too. “Athene, my Mother,” she said. “What are you telling me?”

“You’ve heard it too,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “The promise came over me like a blessing; I’ve never forgotten. But it wasn’t in the shrine. It was years after you left Kaphtor. I remembered the words as they formed, though—they felt familiar, as though I’d heard them before. As though it wasn’t the first time.”

Months ago, when Themiste used the mind-link on the cliffs at Natho, she had reminded Aridela that at the beginning of the dream on Mount Juktas, the statue resembled Menoetius, not Chrysaleon. Rage had revived the memory again, in the cave, when Menoetius first bound her to the log.

Somehow, in some way beyond her comprehension, the statue in the dream had been both men. Menoetius and Chrysaleon. And Athene had given a vow to all three, together.

Enchantments swirled; she thought if she took her gaze from him and looked into the sky, it would be filled with rainbows, rainbows that she could dive into and swim in; the enchantments would support her and keep her from falling. Enticing flashes formed at the edge of her vision, holding every tint imaginable. Yet she couldn’t look away from Menoetius, not even for an instant.

“I have never seen anything so blue as your eyes,” she said.

He blinked. His gaze faltered. “If they please you, then I am glad to possess them.”

Was that redness on his face caused from wind or embarrassment? She found herself starting to smile, and pressed her hand to his cold cheek. “But I wish I could see your face… without this beard. And I miss your hair, the way it used to be. Do you remember how long it was?”

His brows rose. He inhaled sharply as though he’d forgotten to breathe. “Soldiers in my country keep their hair short, for convenience.” His hand rose and covered hers. “Your hair too, is different.”

She’d nearly forgotten. When had she last looked at her reflection? So long ago she couldn’t remember.

“When I first met you,” he said, “you had only a topknot. You wove baubles through it.”

She laughed.

“After the Destruction, with your hair so short and with such small bones, you could have passed for a boy.” He shrugged. “You still could.” He moved his hand to her shoulder. “You’re no longer pale,” he said. “That terrified look is gone. All I want is to be with you, for as long as my moera allows. I want to live by your side. Do you trust me yet? Do you know I would do anything to protect you? That if you went over the edge of this cliff, I would follow and break your fall?”

“Yes.” She scooted onto his lap and tucked her head under his chin, closing her eyes. “I do know.” She loved how he made love to her with his words. Every time he did, it pushed Harpalycus a little further away.

Wind blew over them, clean, crisp, tasting of snow and pine. An eagle cried. Sunlight drenched them in a patchwork of yellow warmth.

He will never leave me.

Believing it changed everything. She forgot all that was, all that would be. For this brief space of time, suspended above the earth on a tremulous rock outcropping, she allowed his love to slip inside and press like healing unguent over her injuries.

“Try this.” Menoetius offered her a bowl.

He smiled. She hadn’t seen that smile since she was ten years old, and she knew by it that Carmanor had come back.

The water’s purity made her smile, too. It no longer tasted of ash.

“I see Crete recovering.” Menoetius squatted next to her pallet, resting one arm alongside her thigh. “As the snow melts, it carries ash into the rivers, then to the sea. Rain removes more. Little by little, the earth again grows fertile.”

“I hope you’re right.” Aridela uncrossed her legs and stretched.

“We’ll return to the lowlands and it will be as though none of it ever happened.”

“Yes.” Fierce, hot desire shot through her.

“You want to go back now,” he said. His eyes missed nothing.

“You know I do.”

Scowling, he stood up and strode away.

She rose from the pallet, her heart sinking. The time had come.

She’d known for days she had to do something. An end must be made to their mountain idyll, now, before another day passed and it grew harder, she grew weaker, and the child in her womb grew bigger. “I belong to the people of Kaphtor,” she said softly. “My life isn’t my own. If it were, if I weren’t queen, I would stay here with you.”

He faced her, narrow-eyed, mouth tensed. “Would you?”

“Go with me. Fight beside me. We will kill Harpalycus and rout his warriors.” She stretched out her hand, palm up. Hesitantly, he approached and clasped it. “I will make you judge or advisor,” she said, “and you will be at my side for the rest of my life. Chrysaleon loved and trusted you. Now that my consort is dead, I will have no other man but you, for as long as I am queen.”

He frowned, but drew her close.

She put her arms around his neck and stroked his hair. Menoetius possessed the softest hair she’d ever felt. It was thick, smooth, lacking even the slightest wave or curl, almost like the still surface of a lake.

He held her face so she couldn’t turn away. “Are you saying you love me?”

Tears burned her eyes and she had to swallow before she could answer. “I do love you.” She laid her hand against his crescent scar. Mark of the lion, of Athene. Mother, I have looked beneath the surface. I see what you wanted me to see. I wish it hadn’t taken so long.

He saw her tears. He laughed. He crushed her against him, kissing her face, her eyelids, her throat, her mouth.

She knew she had to convince him. Athene again demanded more than she could willingly give. Why couldn’t she ever be merely a woman? Her duty seemed more arduous than any other queen’s.

Give me strength, Lady, if you want me to follow your will.

But as she tried to form what to say, Menoetius picked her up and laid her on the pallet.

He’d been patient last time, understanding of her confusion, her memories and grief. Twining his limbs around hers, he’d pulled her cheek to his throat and stroked her hair until she fell asleep. He’d been gone when she woke in the morning.

No more waiting, his kisses now told her.

She wanted him to wait no longer.

The time for decision-making passed; their bodies even now were merging, dissolving into each other like two drops of rain. Another breath, and there would be no return. Her resolve disintegrated.

“No, Menoetius,” she said, yet her arms kept him close. She kissed the skin next to his eye, feeling his lashes brush against her mouth. One more kiss. Then she would find a way to return to sanity and reason. To loneliness and duty. “Wait.”

He opened his eyes, but they lacked comprehension. His hands slid between her thighs, coaxing them around his hips.

“No,” she said, but it was faint, and held no weight. She returned his kisses and followed his rhythm, longing for what he sought to give.

He took her earlobe between his teeth. “Why do you tell me ‘no’?” His right hand slipped along her ribs, over her drumming heart. His mouth followed.

“I need you,” he said.

“And I, too… but… I must… we must….”

He stopped her with kisses, leaving no space for anything outside the cave, nothing beyond his love.

She heard a voice. It seemed to come from outside; she didn’t know at first it was Athene, speaking through her.

“Take me to Labyrinthos,” it said. “There I will give myself to you, freely and with love, every night, every morning.” She stroked his beard and kissed the edge of it, where his cheekbone began. “Come with me. Fight with me. When my country is free, no man will take your place. I will change our customs and laws to make it so.”

He stared at her. Passion slowly faded.

“You play with me,” he said, his voice at once despairing and graveled with rage. “To get what you want. You… rouse me, allow me to touch you, then you say no?” His teeth grated. “You think your ‘no’ will stop me?”

His hand rose over her face. She cringed away from the blow. But instead he grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head.

“What is to stop me?” he shouted. “Nothing. Do you think I’ve never raped a woman?” He shoved his knee between her legs. “Your life belongs to me. I’ve saved it not once but twice. You gave it to me. I saw it in your eyes that day at the harbor.”

“Yes,” she said. “I did. But as a child. Chrysaleon won our Games—”

“Chrysaleon! If I had been the one with you in the cave—”

Rage and humiliation twisted his mouth. “If I were still that man….” He released her wrists as though they burned.

“I don’t mean to trick you. I shouldn’t have let this go so far. I should be stronger. If I lie with you I will never leave this mountain. You’ll never let me leave. Weakness will be master of us both. It frightens me how much I want to stay.” Sobs rose in her throat, manifestations of this desire that wanted its own way, just for one night. They were like stones, and hurt as she swallowed them. She couldn’t lie to herself. If she gave in, it wouldn’t be for one night. “Please understand.”

She tried to touch his face but he jerked away.

“All that was has been stripped from me,” she said. “I stood at the overhang and saw my courage, too, die. If we mate, will my resolve go? Will I be nothing but selfish need? Is that what you want, of me and yourself?”

He stared at her. He was an Achaean, a warrior nurtured on pride and conquest, from a land where women were considered property. He’d already given her more than most men raised in such a way ever would.

He still didn’t know that within her grew a child. That most likely it was the offspring of Harpalycus. There were ways to stop it, but not here. She needed birthwort and other herbs, which were dried and kept in containers at Labyrinthos, if any still existed, if Rhené, the healer who knew about such things, still lived. There was only so much time before it was too late.

Before the day came when he would see, and there would be no hiding it any longer.

She didn’t want him to see.

Nothing can ever part us, stated the vow they somehow, incredibly, shared. Menoetius, knowing Harpalycus, would assume he’d raped her, but as long as her belly didn’t grow, he could pretend it hadn’t happened. Aridela knew, with all her woman’s instincts, that their vow couldn’t survive Harpalycus’s living, expanding seed.

She hardened herself, tensing her muscles, routing tender thoughts. Speaking with the clear coldness of a queen who would be obeyed, she said, “You forced me away from my people. You had to bind me to keep me here. You knew I would leave if I could. I belong to Goddess Athene, not to you. I am Goddess-of-Life-in-Death. It is through me that man is made sacred. Rape me, but if you do, I will never give myself to you. You will be forced to rape me, like Harpalycus, until I escape or die, and I will bear no child from your seed.”

Shudder after shudder ran through him. His teeth ground audibly. She doubted if he’d even heard her.

“Do you think I don’t know what your father ordered you to do?” she said. “He told you to find a way to destroy us. And you would have, if Harpalycus hadn’t done it first.”

He stared at her. “You think that? I wouldn’t have let it happen. I would have found a way to stop it. Even if it meant my own death. But you won’t believe me.”

Her heart told her he spoke the truth. But she remained silent. She had to make him want to let her go. She had to kill his ardor, perhaps even his allegiance.

His breathing slowed. The anger in his eyes dulled.

She bit her lips viciously to keep from denying everything she’d just said, to stop from begging him to kiss her again.

He leaped off the pallet and paced, pivoting when forced by the walls of the cave. His hands clenched and unclenched. He didn’t look at her.

She sat up. “Menoetius.”

He didn’t respond. “Carmanor,” she said, softly.

He stopped but kept his face averted.

“You returned my desire to live. With it came my obligation. If you didn’t want me to fight, you should have let me die. My mother tried to warn me many times. The people are my covenant. Everything else comes after.”

He spat out something in his language, words she didn’t know. He turned then and seized her arms. She struggled, but even using all her strength he overpowered her. He bound her wrists behind her back, then her ankles, and straightened. She couldn’t find the Menoetius she knew in those eyes.

He left the cave.

The oil lamps sputtered and went out. No sound broke the stillness in the cave but for the endless echoing drip of water. Though she struggled until her flesh bled, Aridela couldn’t loosen the bonds.

She grew hungry. Thirsty.

Why do I not feel your death, Chrysaleon?

Menoetius must have decided to leave her to die slowly, of starvation. Maybe it was what she deserved.

At last she heard the scuffing of his boots in the outer cave. He stopped. She heard a faint sound, like a sigh.

“Menoetius,” she cried. “Untie me. How can you be so cruel?”

“Aridela?”

She struggled to rise onto her elbows as a nest of angry bees erupted into a deafening swarm in her head. “Who is it?” she said, scarcely able to project the question. Perhaps she had died, for that voice sounded like the one she most desired to hear and knew she never would.

More echoing steps. “Keep speaking,” he said, his voice muffled by the rock wall. “Where are you? How do I find you?”

“It cannot be,” she said. Louder, she asked, “Velchanos? Have you come to take me to my Mother’s land? I must be mad from despair.”

“I am neither spirit nor god,” came the bodiless reply, tinged with that arrogant amusement she’d always found so compelling. “I am a tired, frozen man who has searched endless days for you.” There was an abrupt sound of stumbling, followed by a curse. “Themiste promised the Lady would guide me to you. Speak, Aridela. I can’t see how to get through this wall.”

“It’s a hole at the floor, in the corner. You’ll find it if you get on your knees. My heart is breaking with happiness.”

The grate of his boots echoed as he crawled through the opening. One groping hand touched her wrist. The other fumbled over the pallet and ran up her leg.

“Why do you lie here like this, alone in the dark? Are you hurt?”

“He binds me when he leaves. Hurry, Chrysaleon. He’s been gone so long. Cut the straps.”

His hands examined her face then ran down her arms to the thongs on her wrists. “Who binds you? Menoetius?”

“Hurry,” she said. “I’ll explain when we’re gone from here.”

Muttering a colorful string of curses, he slit the tethers with his knife and scooped her into his arms.

Aridela wrapped her arms and legs around him and drew in deep breaths of his chilled skin. “Hurry,” she said, though all she wanted was to stay there, pressed against him, without care or thought.

He set her on her feet. They felt their way to the entry hole and shimmied through to the middle chamber, where faint shafts of palest daylight filtered in, allowing them a dim view of each other.

She threw her arms around him again. “Chrysaleon, you’re alive. Chrysaleon. Chrysaleon.” Weeping, laughing, she traced the softness of his brows and lashes, the hardness of his jaw, his wiry, springy beard. “You’re alive.”

“With Themiste’s help.”

“Themiste lives?”

“Oh yes. She commands a well-organized rebellion. Given enough time, she and her followers could defeat Harpalycus. She has your cousin Neoma with her. They’ve charged me to bring you as quickly as possible, as did many others. Selene is here, not far away. She’s been searching for you. It will give me great pleasure to show her I am the better scout.”

Giggles flowed from her throat like spring torrents through a gorge.

Neoma. Selene. Themiste.

“I have much to tell you,” he said. “Harpalycus abandoned Natho. He took his men and left for Knossos after losing Themiste then me.” Cold contempt rang through his laugh. “Themiste’s spies know more about Harpalycus and his invasion than he does, I’d wager. They learned early on that he hasn’t near enough soldiers. Rebellions and attacks are making his occupation impossible to maintain. It’s a matter of time, Aridela. Soon he’ll be gone or dead. You will sit upon your throne again, and I will be there beside you.”

His news, meant to bolster her, did the opposite. Worry crept through her mind. She knew she should tell him of Harpalycus’s boasts about King Eurysthenes and reinforcements from the mainland, but as she gazed into his face, worries and fears were suffocated beneath joy. She dropped to her knees, pulling him down with her. “Chrysaleon….” She pushed at the thick furs he wore, weeping as she leaned into him and pressed her mouth to the side of his neck.

He slipped his hands beneath her tunic and felt her shoulders and arms, putting her slightly away to ask, “What is this? There is no flesh on you, only bones. Has he starved you as well?”

“I will eat now,” she said, her voice breaking. “I now have reason to eat. It’s good fortune to join inside the womb of the Goddess. Love me, Chrysaleon; I cannot bear to wait.”

He had her pressed to the cave floor and her clothing pulled away before she finished her demand. The curved rock walls and stalactites threw back the sounds of their union in satisfying echoes.

“Come,” he said, after their need was sated, their breathing had slowed, and they had kissed until their lips were swollen. “Let me take you from here. Labyrinthos needs you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Take me home, Chrysaleon.”

They emerged into the sunlight, holding hands. Aridela knelt and scooped up handfuls of rich, wet earth, the sudden intensity of light making her eyes sting. Thank you, my Lady. Thank you.

“By the storms of Hippos, you’re skinny,” Chrysaleon interrupted. “Anyone would take you for a half-starved peasant boy.”

“That’s a good plan.” She laughed. “I shall travel to Labyrinthos as a boy. Harpalycus himself might not recognize me.”

“Could Menoetius find no meat?” he asked. “Have the two of you been starving? Where is he? Why were you lashed like a sacrificial dog?”

“After I was told you were dead, no effort he made could force me to eat. I didn’t care to go on living. I have not made things so easy for your brother, Chrysaleon—yes, I know he’s your brother. He told me. Menoetius did the best he could. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him for… a long while. Perhaps some misfortune came his way.”

Chrysaleon shifted the bow over his shoulder and glanced across the silent, barren summits looming on every side. “I feel an uneasiness here, like a curse. Let us leave this place.”

They fled down the slope to the east. Toward home.

The water in the creek was glacially cold, but it felt so good to wash away the dust and grit that Aridela didn’t care. She splashed her arms, face, and hair, scrubbing until she felt clean. Then she leaned against a boulder drenched in rusty orange light from the setting sun, shivering, combing through her wet hair with her fingers and watching Chrysaleon’s horse swish its tail and graze a patch of sweet grass in the protective lee of a fallen pine. Though he’d sworn Harpalycus and his men were long gone, it was hard to relax, and she jumped, startled and nervous, at every sound.

Chrysaleon had gone off to hunt their supper. Satisfaction exuded from him; he took great enjoyment in reminding her that he’d only been in the area three days, while Selene and her supporters had been combing the mountains for a month.

If only he had found her sooner. The destructive interlude in the cave wouldn’t have happened. Menoetius might be here with them, and she wouldn’t be consumed by guilt and regret. Where had he gone? Was he injured? Dead? Without Chrysaleon’s presence to distract her, she agonized over her mountain champion’s fate. Over and over again, she heard Menoetius’s exultant laughter when she confessed she loved him, and the way she had pulled him closer yet denied him. He believed she had coldly, deliberately manipulated him, and she didn’t blame him.

He would never know how she had forgotten her resolve even as she clung to it, or how much she had longed for their consummation, and in the time she spent alone in darkness, how bitterly she’d wished she could go back in time and give him everything he wanted, and more.

Menoetius had returned her desire to live. Menoetius had restored the ability to join with Chrysaleon in the cave without ever once picturing Harpalycus. Menoetius had done that. And this was how she repaid his gift.

She would give much to tell him how sorry she was, though she doubted he would believe it.

If he returned to the cave and found it empty, he would think she had run away again, without any care for the pain it might cause him.

Mistress, why does he have to be hurt? He has always loved you. He is a good man. Why?

She picked up the dagger Chrysaleon had left and rubbed her thumb over the leather-wrapped hilt.

Unease drew her gaze to the edge of the forest. Every leaf and branch lay perfectly still. She fancied something was watching her. If only Chrysaleon would return. She couldn’t leave these mountains soon enough. Active planning, reuniting with Selene, would suppress these thoughts, would erase Menoetius’s stricken face and the promise he’d made. I will have victory, Aridela.

She must concentrate on something, and movement would help warm her. Tossing the jerkin around her shoulders, she set off into the forest to search for edible roots, perhaps a valiant berry or two.

The sunset stained the clouds in the western heavens with effervescent crimson, but where she walked, green shadows reigned. Greenish-blue haze settled over her, as though the Goddess, in her guise of Dictynna, she who helps fishermen find their catch, had flung mystical sea nets across the sky, diffusing clarity.

Aridela found and gathered dusky blue berries and twigs from a juniper tree. She would burn the twigs and sweep their campsite with the smoke. It was well known that juniper smoke cast a veil of protection. The berries she could simmer in water and make an energizing drink. As she carried her finds to their camp, she came across a great old plane tree. Gnarled roots protruded from the snow, creating pockets of rich earth. Using the dagger blade, she dug between them, hoping to find the root of white asphodel, or perhaps, with luck, a few leaves of wild parsley.

“How did you do it this time?”

She scrambled to her feet, pressing her back against the trunk. It was so like Menoetius, to appear when she’d finally managed to stop thinking of him.

A sudden breeze sent the high branches swaying.

Only a half-rotted log lay between them.

His eyes betrayed relief, though his mouth told a different story, of anger. Impatience.

He reached over the log and clasped her wrist.

Her grip on the dagger loosened. It fell into the snow.

“Why do you have to make everything so difficult?”

“Why did you tell me Chrysaleon was dead?”

His brows rose. She saw him stiffen. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“He is here.” She moved away from the tree trunk, pulling her hand free. The forest’s breath seemed to catch then a breeze brushed against her, cold enough to raise goose bumps.

“That cannot be.” Menoetius frowned.

She retrieved the knife then ran from him back to the stream, her emotions so jumbled she thought she might rend into pieces.

Chrysaleon had returned during her absence. He reclined against the rock where she had dried her hair, sharpening his knife on the edge of a wet stone. When he saw her face, he threw down the stone and jumped to his feet. “What is it?”

The tree canopy gave a drawn-out sigh.

Menoetius stepped clear of the forest, his bow dangling in one hand.

A grin spread across Chrysaleon’s face, erasing the frown of concern. He stepped away from Aridela. “Finally,” he said.

“I thought you dead, son of Idómeneus.”

“Themiste took me out of Harpalycus’s prison through secret tunnels. The Cretans know much of healing, and returned me from the land of shadows.”

“Did Selene send you here?”

“No, I came on my own. She’s nearby, though. She’s been searching for you a long while.” His eyes narrowed. “Explain why you trussed my queen like a goat.”

Menoetius flushed. His gaze dropped. “She was always running away. I couldn’t hunt or collect water for worry over what she might try next. Once she nearly went over a cliff. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Chrysaleon squinted at him, his jaw muscles working. Aridela held her breath.

But he slapped his brother on the back and gave a hearty laugh. “I know well how stubborn and troublesome she can be. She said as much herself.” He turned away, adding, “I killed a badger. It was all I could find. Come, share our supper. Tomorrow we will find Selene.”

He crossed to his budding fire and laid a few more sticks on the flames. “Aridela told me how she refused to eat, so I hold you blameless, but if we bring her back so skinny, I fear what her people will do to us. Her bones are about to split her skin open.”

Aridela remained beside the boulder. She stared at Menoetius. He returned it. She couldn’t begin to read his thoughts.

He knew her duty. Yet sickening guilt and loss made her feel she’d done everything wrong.

I didn’t want to cheat you, Menoetius, she told him with her eyes. Forgive me….

Aridela has returned! She sits on a footstool next to me, holding her hands to the hot coals, pretending she’s cold so she won’t have to spin. All the people feel the power she has brought. They walk straighter. Hope brightens their eyes as though they already see our victory. I pray their sight is true.

Chrysaleon reclines on the cave floor next to her. Since their return they cannot be parted. He touches her constantly in some way or other, and her gaze upon him is transparent with delight. Here, in this deep underground place where our people have prayed, danced, sacrificed and made offerings for time beyond memory, love is strong. Desire is strong. It affects me. I ache for what I alone of all the inhabitants of Kaphtor am denied.

Harpalycus kills five people each day, sometimes children. He vows to continue these atrocities until I am returned to him. His warriors seize women and imprison them for the master’s brutal pleasure. My spies tell me he’s grown dependent on our wine, which is far more potent than what they ferment on the plains of Argolis. He staggers, rants, and froths. Sometimes his faithful dog, Proitos, must restrain him. Most nights, I hear, the drink steals his senses and he lies in unconscious stupor.

Men will speak of their honor as though it is the most important aspect of their lives. But I have too often witnessed their inclination to seize advantage of their foe’s weakest moment. Brutal earthshakings devastated Kaphtor. Cruel mountains of water destroyed the harbors of Amnisos, Tamara, Elasa and Kydonia. Blizzards of ash smothered crops and killed animals. Harpalycus chose his time well. With few men he conquered our palaces and cities. He vanquished us in our sleep, during a celebration when guards were few and we thought ourselves safe. Now he locks away the remaining stores of grain and we starve. Will he hold us? My visions give no answers, but as long as I breathe, I will resist.

Kaphtor’s people are courageous, but they cannot endure this suffering much longer.

We have smuggled weapons from Labyrinthos. Aridela and I sift through the growing piles of javelins, swords, spears, arrows, and shields. She and the two men who shadow her, Chrysaleon and Menoetius, describe to me the skills of conquest and warfare, sometimes demonstrating the best way to kill a foe. I see their stark desire to engage, but Chrysaleon has advised us to wait a few more days. “My father will come,” he insists. It is hard. Everyone grows restless and impatient.

I see something else as well, between Aridela and Menoetius. Something they pretend isn’t there. Something Chrysaleon, in his spoiled arrogance, hasn’t seen. I consider the many days and nights spent in the mountain cave with only each other for company, and I wonder.

Catching how they glance at each other then away, I remember the long-ago morning when Menoetius carried Aridela from the shrine and was thrown into our prison for his trouble. I remember how devastated she was when he left Kaphtor to go back to his home on the mainland.

These warriors from the north, these ‘Kindred Kings,’ are strong and ruthless. Every year they find new places to conquer, to assert their authority and their gods. They become ever more entrenched. It is the same to the east, where countless legions of invading tribes swarm the countryside. Everywhere they go, they crush Mother Goddess and replace her with the war-hungry male gods who support their desire for power. To our south there is Egypt, a strange conglomeration where the female is revered but only males rule. How can our tiny island hold out against these ever-expanding dynasties? Long have they eyed us with greed and envy. They covet our land, our artisans, and perhaps our women most of all, to enslave and dominate. They want to destroy our glory and replace it with their own.

Again I ponder Damasen’s words in the long-ago vision. ‘You will know when the time comes,’ he said. ‘Aridela and her sister are as one. Iphiboë must open the path, so Aridela can walk alone into the dark.’

Was this prophecy fulfilled when Iphiboë died and Aridela suffered alone at the hands of the Usurper?

Prince Chrysaleon lingers in my mind as well, along with his claim of being the thinara king. If we triumph in this war, but he remains Aridela’s consort…

Will we have defeated our enemy?

“Ships, my lady! They come.”

The messenger fell to his knees. Tears streaked his face.

Aridela jumped off her stool. Apathetically spinning wool when the man entered, she dropped the distaff, paying no attention as it clattered to the floor and rolled away.

“No one sails the seas in the Moon of Drenching Rain,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I swear it’s true,” he cried. “Their sails bear the gryphon.”

She exchanged a glance with Chrysaleon, then Themiste. She had told them of Harpalycus’s boast that King Eurysthenes of Pylos, ‘The Gryphon,’ had promised many warriors to bolster the invasion. She knew they had argued and bartered. Then winter set in. She had half-believed, half-hoped Eurysthenes wouldn’t or couldn’t appear for at least another month; not until the rough seas calmed.

“Come,” Chrysaleon said. “We will see what is to be seen.”

The three armed themselves. They left the cave by the secret way and hiked over stony hills to a vantage point above Amnisos.

A thick wet mist, rolling in from the sea, prevented Aridela from counting the exact number of battle-ships anchored some distance from land’s edge. There seemed to be dozens. As one ship then another floated eerily in and out of the fog, she glimpsed men leaning over the sides, pointing toward land. Every now and then she caught snatches of their shouts.

Indeed, the sails bore the Pylos gryphon. Chrysaleon scowled his fury.

Phalanxes of men marched into sight on the road from Labyrinthos, armed with spears and carrying ox-hide shields stolen from Kaphtor’s weapons reserves. A single chariot ranged in front, followed by four rows of foot soldiers holding smaller, round shields and javelins. Mist and drizzle made determining the numbers of this approaching army impossible, but Aridela guessed they were about three hundred.

“Harpalycus is in the chariot.” Aridela stared at the man who had tortured her for so long. Hatred made her stomach churn. The soldiers following the Usurper carried their weapons upright, in ceremonial stance. Their plumed helmets rode high. They strode without shouting, haste, or alarm.

Chrysaleon’s fists clenched.

The warriors lined up in precise rows on either side of, and behind, the chariot. Harpalycus handed the reins to the man standing next to him and stepped out. He wore no helmet and was dressed in fine Cretan armor, tooled in bronze, a bull’s head in front and back, horns curling over the shoulders. He wore a treasure in gold that would dazzle the eye if the sun were shining.

Tenders carried the incoming warriors to shore. These legions scrambled like a nest of uncovered snakes as they disembarked and waded onto dry ground, but they quickly formed into organized units.

Aridela bit her lip, trying not to believe all was lost.

Harpalycus, flanked by one man, walked toward the commander of the Pylos army, distinguishable by a crimson cloak and personal guard.

“Eurysthenes,” Chrysaleon muttered when the commander removed his ornate helmet and exposed his grizzled hair. “Many times has he been a guest on the citadel. My father and he contracted a union between my sister Bateia and his son.” He ground fist against palm and gritted his teeth.

“How did Harpalycus gain his support?” Themiste asked.

Chrysaleon shook his head. “He must have promised something very great, especially to bring them in winter.”

Eurysthenes’ spearmen gathered in thick rows, their long pointed weapons resembling a forest of sharp-tipped trees. More landed, and more again.

Harpalycus’s men were forced to back up in order to make room on the beach for the incoming warriors. The two armies faced each other in silence.

Still Harpalycus and Eurysthenes spoke. Harpalycus beckoned his guard forward. The man bowed low and offered a welcoming bowl to Eurysthenes, who accepted it and quaffed the wine.

“What can we do?” Themiste asked. “This might be merely the beginning. What if more ships are landing even now in other harbors? There are so many.”

Aridela clasped the oracle’s hand. “We will never give up.”

Harpalycus gestured toward the partially reconstructed pier. He and Eurysthenes strolled to a pile of rubble and stared at the heavy gray seas. Harpalycus swept out his hand. Perhaps he spoke of the wall of water that had raged against the land, leaving nothing but mud and broken bits of lives, of memories.

His arm faltered. Aridela looked up, following his gaze.

She gasped.

A ship’s prow… and another, broke through mist. Two by two they came, edging around the point. The fog couldn’t fully stifle the drummers’ beat.

These white sails bore Mycenae’s royal lion head etched in crimson dye.

Aridela and Themiste glanced at one another, puzzled.

Was Idómeneus coming to help her people, or to rescue his son and conquer the island for himself? He could even be in league with Harpalycus. Helice and the council had suspected Mycenae of duplicity. Their warnings crept through Aridela’s mind.

“Chrysaleon?” she asked.

“Look.” He pointed.

Eurysthenes had drawn his sword. Harpalycus leaped away from him, fumbling for his own.

The warriors from Labyrinthos began to shuffle. Their meticulous line broke. Helmets swung back and forth as men peered from the arriving ships to the formidable rows of armed men facing them.

Eurysthenes’ warriors attacked with a united roar. Spears flew in a whistling cloud of death. Mainland phalanxes pushed Harpalycus’s men back. Archers rushed on each side like waves borne on a hurricane. Sword-blades cracked against ox-hide. Arrows hummed. Screams ripped through the air as countless soldiers fell in the initial onslaught.

Aridela seized Chrysaleon’s forearm.

He grinned, confident now and easy. “Eurysthenes supports my father. It was a trick.” He laughed.

“Quickly, Themiste,” Aridela said. “Run back to the cave. Get Menoetius and Selene. Tell our people the time has come. Today, we fight. Today, we rout Harpalycus.”

“Yes.” Themiste wiped at her tears. “What will you do?”

Aridela faced Chrysaleon, thankful to see the same fierce desire blazing in his eyes that she felt.

He bent his head. They kissed.

Holding hands, they ran down the slope to the sand.

Rocky hills magnified the fury of shouting, clash of blades, and whine of arrows, making it seem an army of divine proportions fought upon Kaphtor’s shore.

Both Chrysaleon and Aridela carried swords and were protected by hard leather armor over linen tunics, but they had brought no helmets, and were soon recognized. Eurysthenes’ men called their eager support to Chrysaleon. Someone threw him a spear. Word rippled that the Crown Prince of Mycenae lived and fought with them.

Harpalycus’s men also recognized them.

“Kill the Cretan queen,” shouted one, pointing at Aridela, but before he could do or say anything else, he sank to the ground, a spear protruding from his stomach. Aridela looked around and saw Selene. Somber-faced, she held Aridela’s gaze for only an instant before turning to fight someone else.

Led to battle by Selene and Menoetius, Kaphtor’s survivors poured over the hills in a screaming mass. They were not many, but they fought with all the pent-up vengeful rage that had festered for months under Harpalycus’s cruel regime.

Aridela never stopped searching for Harpalycus. Finally she glimpsed him, backed up to the water’s edge, fending off one of King Eurysthenes’ guards. The king himself lay on the ground, unconscious or dead.

She caught Chrysaleon’s attention and pointed.

He nodded and moved with her. Side by side, they slashed a path toward their nemesis.

A youth emerged from the mist near Chrysaleon. His green eyes were made intensely startling and ferocious by a frame of bronzed blood-spattered skin, black brows, and wild, unbound black hair.

“Gelanor,” Chrysaleon shouted. They clasped arms then turned simultaneously as three enemy warriors attacked them.

So struck was Aridela by this dark, younger version of her consort that she lost her concentration. One of Harpalycus’s soldiers slipped in with a brutal yell of victory and punched her in the chest with the butt of his knife.

She fell. For what seemed an eternity, she could do nothing but gasp like a land-bound fish.

The warrior’s eyes narrowed. He raised and turned the dagger, starting to grin.

Shock displaced his triumph as he flew off his feet like a bird taking wing. Chrysaleon and the black-haired youth stood on either side, lifting her attacker by the arms. Selene and Menoetius circled, cutting down any who sought to breach this strange tableau.

Chrysaleon thrust his sword into the warrior’s side and dropped him in a convulsing heap. He held out a hand to her and smiled.

Aridela tried to keep any tremble from her return smile as she clasped his hand and let him pull her up. Death had breathed upon her, and hadn’t left her unaffected. She took the dagger from the fallen warrior’s hand. It was a Cretan ceremonial knife—the curved obsidian blade flaked to such an edge that the lightest graze across her finger split the skin and drew blood. The ivory grip was carved into an exquisite likeness of Athene, standing upon the pillar of life, divinatory owl upon her shoulder.

“This knife was made for a queen,” she said, gazing coldly down at the dying soldier. He stared back, his eyes dulling and his gasps growing fainter. “You sully it with your touch.”

The handsome youth who fought with Chrysaleon swiveled to parry a sword-thrust and didn’t look her way again.

Aridela lifted her face into the misting rain. “Ololu, ololu,” she shouted. Her breath exhaled in clouds from the chill yet she wiped sweat from her eyes. Selene, who seemed determined to remain close, briefly clasped her shoulder.

Kaphtor’s warriors echoed the call and cheered as their queen held up the knife.

The press of men thickened as soldiers from Idómeneus’s ships landed. Rain clouds gave off a frothy-red tint. Aridela searched again for Harpalycus but couldn’t find him.

Chrysaleon seemed impervious to injury, guarded, perhaps, by the devotion of his god Poseidon. When an arrow pierced the fleshy backside of his thigh, he broke off the shaft and continued with hardly a limp.

Aridela saw one of the guards who had often dragged her to Harpalycus’s bedchamber in Natho. He had watched a few of his master’s rapes, and his eyes had held lust. Succumbing to the fire of blood-rage, she lunged away from Chrysaleon, lifting her sword in both hands. He was a big man, with massive shoulders and a jutting brown beard. She saw by his sneer that he recognized her as well. He counter-attacked, sending his blade whistling sideways toward her neck.

She braced, ready to parry his swing, but a third blade slipped between them, grinding and screeching as it halted the thrust of her enemy’s.

With the strength of just one arm, Menoetius forced the warrior’s sword backward toward the man wielding it.

“Traitor,” the guard shouted. He barreled into Menoetius and shoved him. “You should be fighting with us.”

Drawing the dagger that had nearly killed her, Aridela stabbed it into the man’s neck beneath the edge of his helmet.

He fell, his back arching.

She made sure he was dead before she wiped his blood from her face.

As she and Menoetius glanced at each other, she found herself reliving the day they had peered over limitless space at the summit of the world. Looking over the dizzying drop-off left her frozen with terror. She had mourned the loss of her courage, and doubted it could ever return.

As she stood on the battlefield, the blood of the slain warrior staining her flesh and Menoetius’s eyes upon her, courage and confidence flooded in a tremendous surge, leaving her tingling. She inwardly pictured the battle won, the people of Kaphtor free and triumphant.

The enemy pressed close. Many wanted to kill Aridela, no doubt hoping to score points with Harpalycus and demoralize the Cretans. There was no time to give Menoetius anything but the briefest smile. As she turned to engage her next opponent, she hoped the bitterness between them had begun to mend.

Selene’s teeth bared like a wolf’s as she flew from one warrior to the next, leaving behind a swath of writhing death. Blood covered her face, her arms, and congealed in her hair, but it was mostly the blood of the enemy.

There came an odd pause. Shivers touched the nape of Aridela’s neck.

The roar of battle ebbed, leaving one sound—Harpalycus’s snarl as he cut through the royal guard, his eyes fixed on her consort.

Two enemy warriors had engaged Chrysaleon. His back was turned, his full attention taken as he parried, thrust, and cut.

Desperation transported Aridela through a clot of men. She slashed at them almost absently. Harpalycus engulfed her entire vision.

Yet she had fallen some distance behind. Harpalycus’s sword-blade rose as he raced closer to Chrysaleon.

Screaming, Aridela shot like an arrow through the space that cleared before her.

Harpalycus aimed for the area beneath Chrysaleon’s ribs. With such power behind it, the thrust would pierce his armor. So engrossed was the Butcher of Kaphtor that he didn’t turn at Aridela’s scream. He didn’t see her coming. His desire to murder his childhood foe made him deaf to all distractions.

Her entire weight struck him in the back.

His sword flew from his hand as his spine bowed. She held onto her sword, but lost the knife and fell off balance, landing hard on the side of her head. Dirt stung her eyes. Her ability to think and act vanished in a deluge of pain.

As she lay gasping, he seized her legs and rolled her over on her back. He straddled her hips, grinning. Pinning her sword hand to the ground, he picked up the dagger she had dropped and without any pause to gloat, stabbed her just above her breast.

The obsidian blade was so sharp it sliced her leather breastplate as though it had no more substance than a cloud.

A sonorous hum pushed everything else from her mind. All that remained was Harpalycus’s satisfied smile. His hot breath stole hers as he bent close over her face.

“My Cretan whore,” he said in his own language, knowing she would understand. He had used the title many times.

Despair weighted her bones. The earth pulled at her. Was she going to die here, defeated, slain by the man she hated most?

He released his grip on the dagger, leaving it in her. Still smiling, he straightened. He lifted his arm and motioned to someone.

In one instinctive movement, Aridela extracted the dagger from her flesh with her right hand and thrust it into his throat, into the soft, vulnerable spot to the left of his larynx.

She sliced back and forth then withdrew the blade.

Blood gushed over her face.

His eyes widened. He grabbed at the knife, gasping, but as his lifeblood spurted he slumped and rolled to the side. He wasn’t yet done, though. One hand seized her thigh. The noxious stench of smoldering ashes made her gag. Her eyes filled with stinging water. For the briefest instant, she thought she saw a blackish-green cloud rise from his torn throat. There was a sickening drag on her senses, reminiscent of Themiste’s mind link; she felt her thoughts and experiences being drawn to the surface and for some unknown length of time she merged with Harpalycus, with his hatred and loathing, and she understood what drove him. She saw him creep, naked, into the bedchamber of Iros, his sister, slit the throat of the nurse, and stand by the bed, panting as he drew back the blanket. She saw through his eyes the day his father learned the truth. He flayed Harpalycus with a horsewhip, screaming curses and contempt. She floated within Harpalycus as he descended stone steps to a dank underground chamber where Proitos waited, along with a pile of dead bodies, scurrying shiny black beetles, and vials of a stinking tarry substance. She watched Harpalycus vow revenge upon the priest who betrayed his misdeeds to his father. She heard him tell Proitos that Iros was to be given to Chrysaleon, and she felt herself suffocating in his rage.

Then a spear, shining and bright white as the face of the moon, thrust between them, and the awful connection snapped. A woman, surrounded by a blaze of glistening light, fury upon her face, shouted, “Release the child of Velchanos!”

Harpalycus cringed. His hand fell free but he reached out again with the other, this time clawing at the leg of a soldier who stumbled past.

The blinding specter vanished.

Again there was a stench and black-greenish haze. The man Harpalycus had seized fell, choking. He stopped moving and lay still as though dead, but then, as Aridela gazed in shock, he rose, glanced at her, and ran away, disappearing swiftly into the mist.

Aridela fought the urge to close her eyes, to slip into the quiet peace of death. Instead she dragged herself onto her knees, shuddering, pressing one hand against the puncture in her chest, and crouched over Harpalycus’s body.

His mouth hung lax; his head fell to the side. Thick pinkish goo mingled with the blood at his throat, like rotted meat turned to jelly.

“I will feed your carcass to the sea,” she screamed.

He didn’t hear.

He was dead.

Nausea and dizziness made her retch. Blood flowed between her fingers from the wound above her breast. She felt herself falling into pieces like a broken pot. Her mind detached from her body, disintegrated, washed away in the rain.

“Take me, Athene,” she whispered, and sank into an emotionless, unfeeling void.

After the battle, we victors returned to Labyrinthos, carrying Harpalycus’s severed head on the tip of a spear. The remainder of the usurper’s soldiers have been unearthed and put to the sword. Our cities belong to us again.

The bodies of Helice and Laodámeia were brought to us. Harpalycus had left them in the cave where he slaughtered them. They were amazingly preserved, perhaps because of the dryness in the cave and the frozen weather. Aridela, though she was weak and had to lean on my arm, waited with me upon the quay as they arrived. She insisted on helping me purify their remains. While I washed Laodámeia, she cleansed her mother’s body and arranged her hair. She dressed Helice in a gown stiff with gold. I set my favorite copper mirror into Laodámeia’s hand, and around her throat I fastened a necklace left to me by my mother. Her most unique and prized possession, it is shaped into a fragile chambered shell.

Helice was placed in a sarcophagus decorated with cuckoos and partridges. Aridela made the carriers wait while she leaned down and whispered something into her mother’s ear. She remained there, trembling, eyes closed; I stood by, longing to comfort her, grieving, thinking of all this child has endured.

Hundreds followed the procession to a site not far from the palace walls.

Our Zagreus and his brother designed their tombs. In their land, important folk are buried in massive graves such as this, which they call monuments.

The grave lies beneath a shaft dug into the slope of a hill. The two sarcophagi were lowered onto a bed of pebbles. The men were careful with the placement, so that the faces of our beloved dead are forever turned toward holy Mount Juktas. After setting the head of a white bull at the grave’s entrance, we returned to the city, where Aridela ordered the sacrifice of ten more bulls.

I will sorely miss Laodámeia. She was my friend and confidant. I never fully realized how I depended on her. Her crusty voice woke me each morning as she brought me milk. Laodámeia rubbed my skin with soothing oils when I ached from chewing the laurel leaves. I’ll miss her astute observations, which she never hesitated to share with me.

Chrysaleon has searched the prisons, trying to find an entrance to the caves in his death-dream. I showed him the secret corridors we used to spirit him away. The old paintings on the stone walls caused much excitement. “I saw these,” he shouted. “This is the way to the land of Velchanos.”

I didn’t like to crush his hopes. I felt weighted with grief as I led him through every corridor, clear to the exit outside the city.

He examined the walls for cracks that might indicate hidden doorways. Disappointment shadowed his face when at last Aridela convinced him to give up. “Why would we keep such a secret from you?” she asked. “You are Kaphtor’s hero. If there were an underground corridor into the land of Velchanos, my love, I would gladly share this knowledge.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “you saw these paintings as we carried you from your cell. I did think you unconscious, but maybe not. It would explain why they seem familiar.”

Chrysaleon has an angry frown. He doesn’t like our answers. Though he’s powerfully built, with a man’s full beard and massive arms that can wield our heavy shields, I see hints of a sulky child within him.

Something curious happened after our forces defeated Harpalycus on the beach at Amnisos. We converged upon Knossos and the palace. There we found Proitos, Harpalycus’s eunuch-slave, fast asleep in his master’s bed.

Our soldiers surrounded him, ready to impale this blubbery creature if he so much as twitched. But before orders could be given or anything done, a stooped, gray-headed man, leaning upon a stick, pushed his way into the center of the room. He was dressed in a fine tunic and had his hair styled the way men of Mycenae favor. I took him for an old nobleman, and this notion persisted because he spoke in an authoritative manner, ordering the soldiers to step back from the bed but to keep their weapons ready, and under no circumstances allow Proitos to touch any of them.

This man then turned to me. He introduced himself with a wobbly bow as Alexiare, Chrysaleon’s slave. He claimed to be acting on the orders of King Idómeneus, explaining only that this cowering, sweaty man was more dangerous than he seemed. He had no interest in how we dealt with the rest of Harpalycus’s men, but insisted no one be allowed near Proitos, and moreover ordered that he be taken out onto the plain and killed by a spearman standing a good distance away.

Other matters demanded my attention, so I left them as they prodded Harpalycus’s lackey from the chamber. Later, I interrogated one of the guards who went with them. He told me Alexiare spoke to Proitos. With a puzzled shrug, the guard said Proitos made a mad claim. He told Alexiare that Harpalycus the Butcher is not dead. I made him repeat the words exactly as they’d been spoken. “You think my lord is dead, but you will see, to your sorrow.” Alexiare asked Proitos who Harpalycus had ‘consumed,’ and promised to show mercy if he told. But Proitos could not, or would not say. Alexiare accused Proitos of conjuring tales to save himself. He informed Proitos that Harpalycus’s head now resides on the point of a spear, and asked if he would like to see it for himself. The guard reported that Proitos appeared despondent, but seemed to rally. He lifted his head and stated with surety, “I know my master. He found a way.”

I made it to the field as the spearmen took aim. I myself heard Proitos curse Alexiare. He swore he would return and take his vengeance, but Alexiare only shook his head, his expression almost sympathetic. Then Proitos called Alexiare ‘Father,’ and begged him to hold his hand while he died, but Alexiare wouldn’t approach him. Secrets curled around these two like smoke, causing me to feel dizzy.

I might be more concerned about all this, but I have seen Harpalycus’s body. He is, without a doubt, dead. And now so is Proitos.

Only later, in the midst of instructing one of my priestesses, did I remember Alexiare. He was the old man who accompanied Menoetius to our island years ago, and passed himself off as that youth’s father. That must be why he seemed so familiar when I first saw him. Alexiare has a harmless, respectful demeanor. He is an aged, unwell man who has much trouble walking. Some injury left him with barely any voice. Yet he avoids me with youthful alacrity. He never lets me look into his eyes.

He makes me uneasy.

Something about him, I cannot pinpoint what, strikes at my mind like a slam of cymbals.

Chrysaleon walked along the dirt-packed roads of Knossos, contemplating the changes inflicted on this once-great island.

Snow covered the ground as far as he could see. Where carts ran and litters were carried, it decomposed to ugly gray slush. The air was unrelentingly chill. Several days of moist coolness coupled with watery sunlight had encouraged the almond trees to put forth blooms, which then blackened in sudden nighttime freezes.

A contingent of his father’s soldiers were collecting the abandoned dead and carrying them into the country to be burned. The majority, he was told, were children.

The peasants he encountered were dirty and pinched. Their eyes followed him. When any approached, begging, he sent them to Labyrinthos with the promise of food. Others seemed too far gone to care. He passed a woman sitting at the edge of a narrow alley, hunched over the body of an infant on her lap. She made no response to his queries.

Idómeneus and Eurysthenes brought more than triumphant fighting forces to Crete. After the battle was won and order reestablished, the men hauled jars of grain, dried fruit, olives, honey and wine off the ships. These were transported to Labyrinthos, along with oxen, sheep and goats, piglets, and wickets of quail.

It was Alexiare, apparently, who had conceived the idea that Kaphtor would need such things, and he who persuaded Idómeneus to be generous.

His premonitions about the disarray Harpalycus would leave behind proved farsighted. Aridela’s first act upon being restored to her palace was to search for food, but the storage jars that survived the collapse of walls had been used to feed Harpalycus’s armies and were depleted. Precious oil and other riches were shipped away to his father’s citadel at Tiryns.

Ash obliterated crops in the east. To the west, where the fall of ash was minimal, flourishing corn and barley now withered under pervasive frosts. The future of Crete seemed set for ruin.

Aridela, Themiste, and what remained of the council stood in silence at their first glimpse of the palace storehouses. Once crammed with worked gold, precious jewels and trade goods, they now held little but dust and rat droppings.

Harpalycus hadn’t found some of the deeper storerooms, however. When Aridela and her council discovered this, it was cause for rejoicing.

At this time in the wheel of the year, Kaphtor customarily blossomed after a short, invigorating winter. Only mountain summits and slopes would continue to hold snow. Fed by spring rains and snowmelt, almond trees would explode with blooms. Carpets of wildflowers and poppies would glorify the plains from one coast to the other. This was normally the much-anticipated season of Velchanos’s rebirth, the prayed-for result of the king sacrifice, and was celebrated with feasting and festivals.

As he explored the barren wynds, Chrysaleon thought back to the day—marveling that it was scarcely seven months ago—he and Menoetius stepped onto the quay at Amnisos. The shouts of vendors reverberated off the buildings. Sweaty children darted, laughing, all sticky hands and mischievous eyes. Ripe fruit intoxicated the senses. Brightly dyed pennants lined every avenue, while awnings promised cool shade. His mind recreated the heady scents of jasmine, aromatic herbs, and baking bread.

Foreigners had swarmed the streets, dark-bearded men swathed in flowing robes, leading their veiled giggling wives, who paused to admire the myriad wares on display. Nobles, adorned to impress, reclined in litters. The constant entertainment of bull leapings, games of luck and skill, acrobatics, wagering, and competitions, made the days before the Games pass quickly. Artisans disrupted the peace with their hammering, the clack of potter’s wheels, and ring of bronze being shaped.

Chrysaleon’s nostalgic memories faded as he passed a villa he knew had belonged to Lycus, the bull dancer who died trying to rescue Aridela. It stood deserted now, its pennants gone, the walls dirty and flaked. One wall had collapsed. Clay pots, once boasting fragrant flowers, lay shattered or empty, half-buried in slush.

Spotting a Mycenaean soldier near the arch leading into the courtyard, he paused, curious. The warrior, wearing inlaid leather armor over a warm quilted tunic, turned and walked toward him. He had his arm, and most of his cloak, around the shorter figure of a woman, and walked slowly to accommodate her. She leaned against him, allowing him to support her; his attention was so engrossed that he never noticed his prince across the lane, watching.

Though Chrysaleon had no idea what lay between these two, he had a sudden, sickening realization. The man might keep her. They might even marry. He looked old enough to satisfy Mycenaean law, which didn’t allow common soldiers to wed until they reached their thirties. If they wished, they could live out their lives together. She appeared ill, but the soldier was probably taking her to his barrack where she would receive food and medicines.

Chrysaleon, Crete’s royal beloved prince, who wore the king’s signet ring and bore the sacred title of Zagreus, had no such choices. Six more cycles of the moon were all he could look forward to. On the day he’d killed Helice’s consort, he experienced a vision of an oak grove, of maddened women, their faces disguised by masks. Perhaps it had been a moera-formed image of his own future death, for he’d learned that when the midsummer moon next grew full, in the month called Moon of White Light, he would meet his successor not in the ruined labyrinth beneath the palace, but in a clearing surrounded by oaks and olive groves. There his blood would be spilled. Women made mad by laurel and the cara mushroom would gorge upon his flesh. Kaphtor’s soil would swallow him as though he’d never existed, and Aridela would take his murderer into her bed.

His muscles clenched. Fury ripped through him. He forced himself to wander on and leave the villa behind.

A few more turns brought him nearer to Labyrinthos and a scene of activity. Servants rushed, laden with wooden casks, tables, cloth, and clay urns. Builders and architects shouted at laborers. Giant new pillars, some already painted red with bright blue stripes around their capitals, lay on the ground, ready to be hoisted into place. Slipping past all this, he stepped into the courtyard.

He scanned the area, searching for Aridela, and quickly found her. Dressed in heavy warm robes, she sat on a low balcony watching the bustle. Neoma and Selene stood beside her, absorbed in conversation with one of the palace’s architects. They appeared to be studying something, probably plans for rebuilding.

The chill, noise, and busyness died away. His resentment evaporated, replaced by quiet. The words Damasen spoke in his death-dream returned.

Love for your queen brings infinite pain as well as joy.

Her lost necklace with the crescent moons and blue lapis bead lay in one hand, a mass of metal warmed by his flesh. Stepping out into clear view, he sent his love flying to her on shafts of invisible arrows. Before long she turned, feeling his gaze as he wanted her to, searching the courtyard until she found him.

His heartbeat quickened; his limbs tingled. Truly, he had never known such passion over a woman, not even the first time he’d experienced the act of love. On the night of the Destruction, he had given Aridela his vow that not even death could part them. He knew now, as he returned her smile, that he’d never uttered words with more deliberate intent. His hands clenched as he repeated the oath.

Not even death.

He walked closer.

She rose, leaned over the balustrade, and tossed a cluster of anemones over the edge. They floated to him as though directed by a god. Where had she found them, in this land where flowers had become rare and precious?

Aridela, with a body nearly as delicate as the blooms she gave, had pulled a dagger from her flesh and used it to slay the warrior Harpalycus. Their glorious victory would be praised in song for as long as the sun rose in the heavens. How perfect she was, this unique, irresistible combination of strength and frailty, cold pride and warm succor, giver of life and divine slayer.

He relived the spilled blood, the sweat and froth of battle. His mind recreated the queen fighting with her people, and that agonizing panic when he saw her slumped over Harpalycus’s body. Sending desperate prayers and reckless promises to every god he could think of, he leaped to her side.

The amount of blood flooding from the dagger wound terrified him. Her face was deathly white. He pressed his hands hard against the puncture.

“Is she dead?” Menoetius shouted.

Aridela’s eyelids flickered. “Butcher,” she whispered.

“No. Not yet.” Chrysaleon motioned to Gelanor and several others to carry her to safety.

After that, he could only guess her fate as he, Menoetius, Selene, the Cretans, and the mainland armies finished off the enemy on the beach of Amnisos.

Exhausted, bloody, limping, he sought out the cluster of people surrounding the queen. He shoved them aside and knelt.

Padding made from a tunic was wrapped around her torso, thicker where herbs were packed on the injury. Rhené, her arms slimed with blood to the elbows, bundled the fine bone needles she’d used to stitch the wound.

“She’ll live.” Themiste laid a hand on his forearm. “My Lady did guide the blade into the one spot that wouldn’t take her life.”

“Are we victorious?” Aridela peered up at him. Harpalycus’s blood was still stuck in her hair, smeared on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her voice was small and weak. When he nodded, she stretched out her hand. “I want to see.”

Ignoring Rhené’s protests, Chrysaleon lifted her into the crook of his arm.

Cheers rose as he carried her across the sand, over the bodies of Kaphtor’s enemies. Her people crowded close, reaching out to touch her. She held a spear aloft in her right hand and shouted the call of triumph.

They circled the battlefield three times. Aridela asked for a sword, and when it was brought, she offered it to Chrysaleon.

He cut off Harpalycus’s head and rammed it onto the end of her spear.

Cheering resounded against the surrounding hills. They called Chrysaleon Kaphtor’s greatest hero, and bowed low before him.

The adoration from that day echoed in his head as he stood in the palace courtyard and gazed at Aridela. Just above her left breast, hidden by her robes, lay the reddened, puckering wound where Harpalycus had stabbed her.

It had been so close to her heart, yet, guided by Athene, it slipped between the vessels that if severed, would have killed her in a matter of three breaths.

Crete’s queen appeared fragile to the uneducated eye, a girl just budding into womanhood.

The cloud cover broke. Shafts of sunlight cartwheeled over the courtyard, transforming the dismal scene into one of heady color.

“Here.” He tossed the silver chain. It glinted as it flew to her waiting hands.

“My necklace,” she cried. Delight warmed her still-thin, pale face.

“I’m coming up,” he said, forcing thoughts of his grim future out of his head.

Infinite pain as well as joy. Let today be joy.

In 1965, not far from Knossos, archaeologists discovered an undisturbed chamber next to a plundered larger tomb. Here they uncovered the remains of a woman, dressed in a lavish amount of gold jewelry. One of the signet rings she wore depicts a female in the traditional fancy skirts of the time. The engraved woman stands between two men; one appears to be dancing in a celebratory fashion around a shrine. He is holding a tree, some kind of plant, or perhaps bull roarers. The other man is kneeling. In 1975, in a second valuable discovery, yet another lady was found. The gold necklace she wore was crafted into the likeness of a paper-nautilus shell. Lying on her side, she faced Mount Juktas and held in her hands a copper mirror.

Christos Tsountas discovered the famous Vapheio cups, which portray the Cretan method of capturing wild bulls.

While still quite young, Rebecca Lochlann began envisioning an epic story, a new kind of myth, one built upon the foundation of Greek classics and continuing through the centuries right up into the present and future.

This has become her life's work, although she didn't exactly intend it to be that way when she started.

The Child of the Erinyes is mythic fantasy fiction, “Loads of testosterone, slaughter, and crazy magic,” says one reader. (With a love story, of course.)

It took about fifteen years to research the Bronze Age segment of the series, and encompassed rare historical documents, mythology, archaeology, ancient writing, ancient religions, and vulcanology.

The Year-god's Daughter is her debut novel: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes. The Thinara King is Book Two. Book Three, In the Moon of Asterion, ends the Bronze Age segment of the series, and kicks off the next phase in the lives of Aridela, Chrysaleon, Menoetius, Selene, Themiste, and the rest.

Rebecca believes that certain rare individuals, either blessed or tortured, voluntarily or involuntarily, are woven by fate or the Immortals into the labyrinth of time, and that deities sometimes speak to us through dreams and visions, gently prompting us to tell their lost stories.

Rebecca’s website offers more details into the history, characters, research, and the arc of the series.

Like Rebecca’s Facebook Author Page to receive updates and publishing schedules.

Send her an email at: rebeccalochlann@gmail.com

Please consider leaving a review with your thoughts at the point of purchase. A line or two can make a big difference and is much appreciated.

To all my wonderful writing buds, only some of whom are listed here:

Gemi Sasson, Val-Rae Christensen, Sulari Gentill, Cheri Lasota, Lorri Proctor, Greta van der Rol, Linda Orvis and all the members of Refiner’s Fire.

To April Hamilton. I will always be grateful to you.

To those who support me in other ways, and without whom I could not have made this happen:

Lance Ganey, Peter Vancoillie, and John Shrimpf.

Those who fate (or Phantom) brought together at The Place that Shall Not Be Named:

Angel, Kenci, Jenn and Christi.

To the generous readers who have interviewed me, written reviews, invited me to be a member of their beautiful organizations, and who gave me the nerve to continue:

Melissa Conway, Lavender Ironside, Past Times Books, Annia Lekka-Blazoudaki, Susan Mahoney, Hannah Davis, Dolores McCabe, Linda Mahoney, and the Historical Fiction Authors Cooperative.

Paul Raymond

I finished this even with your frequent interruptions to give me love and attention.

Kathryn
who told me what cover to use and stopped me from spiraling into the madness of indecision.

And Brian, who has taken care of her.

The Child of the Erinyes

If you enjoyed The Thinara King and would like to see what happens next, please look for the third installment.

Read on for a preview of:

We are free!

The Butcher is dead!

Our queen is restored to her throne!

Kaphtor thunders with these shouts. The people make merry as we reclaim our island and take stock.

Though the worst seems to be over, I remain uneasy. I want to return to a time before these barbarians unleashed disaster upon us. I will not draw an easy breath until Chrysaleon’s blood spills beneath the moon of midsummer. On that night, I will drink mead and dance in the light of Iakchos. I fear him. I distrust him. None of us are safe while he lives. Yet, I confess this secret, as I must, to the Oracle Log:

I am drawn to him as I have never been drawn to any man.

Every row of benches around Knossos’s bullring groaned under the weight of multitudes. Those who couldn’t fit inside crowded thick as schools of anchovies across the plain. All wanted to partake in this triple-tiered festival—Queen Aridela’s seventeenth birthday, the annual observance of Velchanos’s rebirth, and the feting of their mainland liberators.

Just over half a month had passed since the glorious victory over Harpalycus, cursed prince of Tiryns, the Usurper and Oppressor of Kaphtor.

His head now rotted on the tip of a spear outside the palace of Labyrinthos.

In underground chambers beneath the ring, Aridela and her friends were nearly ready to begin the victory celebration.

“You look wondrous.” Neoma gave Aridela a spontaneous hug. “This is the first day I’ve seen color in your cheeks.”

“You as well,” Aridela said. “Freedom and victory have revived us.”

Neoma touched the shallow dent in her forehead, a permanent reminder of the night when stones fell like spears from the sky. “I thought this would make things difficult, but the opposite is true. My lovers are so many I cannot choose between them.” She laughed. “I suppose it could be because I am the queen’s cousin.”

“For some men, that could be a hindrance rather than an advantage.”

The Phrygian warrior, Selene, a princess in her own right, possessor of sea-colored eyes and cream-colored hair, peered at them from the doorway. “The people are waiting. Are you ready?”

As Aridela turned, yes on the tip of her tongue, dizziness spiraled through her head, leaving her ears humming, her eyesight spackled, and her balance in jeopardy. She was more annoyed than surprised. Such attacks were frequent since she’d been stabbed. Ending the life of the infant in her womb had made it worse. The royal healer, Rhené, blamed an excessive loss of blood, and was dosing her patient with noxious concoctions of half-raw meat and boiled ox bones in an effort to rebuild her strength.

This bout of vertigo, though, felt different. Usually she either fainted or vomited, but this time, hallucinations flooded Aridela’s mind—dazzling, terrible flashes from the two months she spent as Harpalycus’s captive and personal plaything. Grabbing Neoma’s shoulder to keep from falling, her heart skipped and raced as she relived his drunken assaults, the cold, the filth of the straw mat in her cell, the cruel eunuch’s daily beatings, the leather thongs biting into her wrists.

Chilling echoes replaced the lively chattering around her. Deep within, as if dredged from her soul, another voice drowned them out.

We will make ourselves barren. No more children. No more love. Not until they all lie dead. Then we will begin again.

The chamber walls melted like wet paint, vanishing into a different scene. One amongst a crowd, Aridela huddled on the side of a hill, soaked by cold rain. Above, on the summit where her voice would carry, a woman with long dark hair shouted these words. Some members of the crowd wept. Some were angry. Many cheered and raised their fists.

If we are barren, Aridela wanted to ask, how can we begin again?

Neoma brought Aridela back to the present by clasping her chin and gazing somberly into her eyes. “What’s happened? Is it the wound?”

Selene’s brow furrowed as she crossed the space between them. “Are you strong enough to do this? You’re shaking.”

Aridela breathed the comforting scents of dust, wood, sweat, and unguents that for centuries had permeated the walls of these chambers. Her hand rose to the healing puncture above her heart. Harpalycus had done his best to end her life, yet through Athene’s divine intercession, she had survived. She had triumphed. In the end, it was Harpalycus who failed, who lost everything, who breathed his last in the blood and muck of battle.

The strange, otherworldly vision made no sense, and this was not a day for somber thoughts or reflection. “Yes,” she said, gripping her old friend’s hand. “I’m strong enough. I’m ready to begin life at last, to see Kaphtor begin again.” An exhilarating shiver ran up the back of her neck as she pictured her mother. Be happy, isoke, Helice would say if she were here. Iphiboë felt close as well. Her beloved sister, a nervous, shy girl terrified of lying with a man, had willingly sacrificed herself to calm the Lady’s anger and bring mercy to their people. In throwing herself to her death, she’d become Kaphtor’s most cherished treasure.

Squaring her shoulders and filling her lungs with air, Aridela managed to shake off the nauseating whirl in her head.

Cheering and the stamp of feet vibrated the ground as Aridela followed Selene into the ring. Leaves and flowers fashioned from feathers and cloth rained over them. Aridela held Selene’s waist, Neoma held Aridela’s, another woman held Neoma’s, and so on. Together they formed a long, winding, triumphal line. In imitation of the divine serpent, they would weave through the opened sections of the labyrinth, leaving behind a fresh, clean skin, and later, when night fell, smoke from reverent offerings would be sent into the heavens from every mountain sanctuary.

Though the people cheered, Aridela felt a change in mood, a darkened spirit. Who could miss how sunlight bounced off amber and obsidian where once it was gold and lapis? Real flowers remained scarce, so these poor substitutes of cloth were thrown. Hunters searched for meat yet found little. Sickness stole more lives every day. The harbors were bereft of Kaphtor’s famed fleet. Now they were crowded with ships belonging to King Idómeneus, King Eurysthenes, and the defeated Harpalycus.

She, too, careened between despondency and elation. After many tears and arguments, she had convinced Rhené to put an end to her pregnancy, just six days after the battle. The healer couldn’t manage the task during Harpalycus’s occupation because she had no medicines, and she flatly refused to attempt pricking Aridela’s womb with a sharpened instrument, declaring the queen would surely die.

Rhené again balked after the battle because of the near-fatal knife wound above Aridela’s heart. She relented only because she couldn’t argue with the fact that the longer they waited, the more risky any method would become.

After prodding and poking her, Rhené declared the child unlikely to be Chrysaleon’s, claiming a lack of hardness she said would be typical in a woman’s third month, but she was forced to speculate, as Aridela could not recall whether her monthly kaliara had ever flowed after Harpalycus made her his prisoner. The royal augurers had no better luck divining an answer from the portents and entrails.

Kaphtor’s queen choked down foul-tasting brews and endured a suppository of birthwort. After a day and night of ripping cramps, pain that left her helplessly screaming, and profuse bleeding that Rhené and her attendants all but failed to stop, she lapsed into unconsciousness. While she floated ever closer to the land of the dead, and her moera, her destiny in the mortal world, floundered, the unwanted baby was expelled.

Had she stopped the life of Harpalycus’s offspring, or Chrysaleon’s? The answer always twined away in a bewildering black maze. One was understandable, even necessary, the other a blistering torment. Only the Immortals would ever know the answer.

As she and her sisters danced around the arena, Aridela waved and blew kisses to the audience. The crowd returned her effort with deafening cheers. Her task, as queen, was to revive their confidence, no matter what personal grief she suffered. She, Themiste, and Chrysaleon, with the intercession of a mollified Lady Athene, would reinvigorate their island, and they all could start over.

The women circled the perimeter of the bullring seven times while the spectators made a thundering drumbeat with their feet. Continuing through the wynds of Knossos, the dancers shed layers of their skirts and threw bits of cloth representing snakeskin.

They crossed the viaduct and glided through the olive groves, accompanied by swarms of boisterous admirers.

At the palace, they entered the processional corridor and danced their way past newly painted frescoes of smiling youths, their arms filled with rich offerings. On they went, circling columns, spinning across terraces, and marching over balconies draped with banners.

Their supporters thronged the courtyard as the cavalcade wove down the steps to the underground, where laborers had cleared rubble and hoisted support pillars to create pathways for them.

Deeper and deeper the women danced, singing songs of purification. They stopped only to put out bowls of milk for the holy snakes.

Up and out they climbed, back through the courtyard to the north gate, past the charging bull fresco, which still bore cracks across its middle.

Tomorrow morning, the foreign kings and their armies would depart. They’d enjoyed half a month as Kaphtor’s acclaimed guests while waiting for King Eurysthenes to recover from his wounds. Tonight they would be feasted. Though the meal couldn’t compare to Kaphtor’s feasts of old, even now skilled cooks were roasting ibex, poaching seafood, baking bread from mainland grain, and collecting bowls of dried fruit.

Chrysaleon had announced his intent to accompany his father back to Mycenae, “To settle old affairs,” he told Aridela. He also wanted to see what damage had been wrought throughout the islands.

His decision added to Aridela’s despondency. The Zagreus was never supposed to leave Kaphtor. They couldn’t conceive his child if he was gone. And they’d already lost so much time. Now they would lose more. Worse, he’d failed to disguise his eagerness to be away, to engage in a new adventure apart from her.

When dusk fell, King Idómeneus was lifted onto the royal dais in the feasting hall. Placing his thin, cold hands over Aridela’s and Chrysaleon’s, he blessed them.

“Our lands are now joined,” he said, his voice quavering. “May your womb be fruitful. May the isle of Kaphtor return to its former glory.”

Aridela smiled and bowed as courtesy demanded, though she knew his words were a blatant lie. She and many others had overheard the vicious encounter between Chrysaleon, Menoetius, and their father. The very night of Kaphtor’s triumph, with Harpalycus dead, his army in ruins, his surviving warriors hiding in any cranny they could find, Idómeneus had summoned his two sons and proceeded to berate them. The king’s healers had raced past Aridela in the corridor at Labyrinthos, pausing for no more than the briefest salutation.

They mean to slaughter you like a pig, Idómeneus had raged. Do your vows to me mean nothing? All this for lust of a woman. To Menoetius he shouted, You promised me you would protect your brother.

At Idómeneus’s peremptory gesture, Aridela leaned closer and allowed him to kiss one cheek, then the other. His watery eyes remained bitter, yet she couldn’t muster any animosity. Only compassion, which she tried her best to hide.

The scent of death lingered on his flesh. No matter what his healers proclaimed, Aridela felt certain Idómeneus did not have long to live. Chrysaleon had told her of Harpalycus’s boast that he’d had the king poisoned with hellebore. The poor man’s unhealthy color, palsy, and emaciation gave weight to the claim.

The mainland nobles drummed their cups against the tabletops as she and Chrysaleon stood before them, holding hands.

Few, she suspected, displayed true feelings.

Gelanor, Chrysaleon’s younger brother, sat to Aridela’s left at the high table. His gaze leaped from the dancers to the wall hangings to the tables thick with nobles. Being but three months older than she and fascinated with everything of Kaphtor, he had quickly become friend and confidant.

“My mother named him before she died,” Chrysaleon said. “He lives up to her vision, laughing so often, over anything at all, we suspect his mind is weak.”

Gelanor sneered and sent his brother a crude gesture.

“And you have a sister?” Aridela asked.

“Bateia. She is betrothed to King Eurysthenes’ son.”

“My lady.” Gelanor leaned in closer. “There’s a story that Goddess Athene buries the moon in your mountains when it vanishes from the heavens. Is this true?”

The words swept Aridela back to the day she leapt the bull. How long ago it all seemed. Chrysaleon had regaled her with Alexiare’s tales. She told him of her father, and showed him her prized necklace, the charm she’d thought lost forever.

She touched the silver links at her throat and met Chrysaleon’s warm gaze. Back where it belongs.

That was the day she asked him to remain, to fight in Kaphtor’s Games and find glory, for one year, as sacred king.

“I vow it is true,” she said to Gelanor. “Every year hunting parties make their searches, but no mortal has a chance of finding the Lady’s hiding place.”

Chrysaleon’s faint, intimate smile told Aridela he recalled that distant day as well, when life was simple and pleasant. When she was carefree, happy, newly in love, and quite ignorant of what horrors were about to descend.

Now that he was clean and richly attired, Gelanor hardly resembled the blood-spattered warrior she’d fought beside on the battlefield. Surrounded by laughter, dancing, and rich food, his innocence and naivety were evident, but earlier, during the formal speeches, his face had worn an ominous frown as he stood next to his father’s litter.

She was queen of Kaphtor again because of these men. Honor, gratitude, and gifts were being heaped upon them. Yet in six short months she would reward all they had done by overseeing Chrysaleon’s ritual murder.

Aridela lowered her gaze and tried to fight off queasiness. She doubted it had anything to do with a supper swimming in rich sauces.

If only her mother were here. Helice would know how to handle this delicate situation. She would find a way to satisfy Idómeneus, Gelanor, Chrysaleon—even the Immortal Goddess.

Duty and obligation lay heavy as a yoke over her shoulders on this night meant for joy.

She didn’t want Chrysaleon to die. Yet she dared not confess this selfish desire to anyone. She could do nothing to save him. Instead, she must stand with her head lifted and her grief hidden as his blood seeped into the earth, as he looked his last upon her, as his manhood was carried to the sea.

Blinking back tears, knowing she must extinguish thoughts offensive to the ever-watching Goddess, she turned to her consort. “Are you taking your slave with you to Mycenae, my lord, or leaving him here with me?”

“I can’t leave him here,” Chrysaleon said. “That old man is far more trouble than he seems, and loves to interfere in matters beyond his station. Who knows what mischief he would cause while I’m gone? Change your mind and come with me. It will be a short stay—a fortnight, no more.” He added, low, “We can use that time to begin a child,” and kissed her palm.

They’d already discussed the impossibility of this. Rather than restating tired arguments, Aridela said, “Would that not make your many citadel women jealous?”

Startled surprise, followed by a hint of uneasiness, flickered across his face.

She turned away, giggling.

Aridela’s stewards had scoured Labyrinthos and Knossos to obtain offerings for King Idómeneus, King Eurysthenes, Prince Gelanor, their officers and men. Merchants who squirreled away their wealth to protect it from Harpalycus donated it now in hopes of gaining favor with the queen. Presented with much fanfare were gifts of golden tripods, carved signet rings portraying full-breasted Athene with lions at her side, miniature bulls carved from crystal and onyx, bolts of Egyptian linen, and delicate quartz jars filled with Cretan oils.

Idómeneus in his turn gave Aridela an exquisite painting made especially for her. It depicted Athene brandishing a spear on the summit of a hill, flanked by two lionesses. The High King told her it was a likeness of the stone carving that towered over the main gate into his citadel.

The night wore on. Many left for other entertainments and the feasting hall grew quiet. Idómeneus was carried off to his bed. Aridela and Chrysaleon made excuses and slipped away to stroll through the neglected palace garden.

Lavender-jeweled light had begun to streak from the east, bringing a new dawn’s subtle promise. “I will bring it back,” she said, struck with fervor at the beauty. “I will make Kaphtor as great—no, greater—than it ever was.”

Chrysaleon pressed her arm against his side. They walked on without speaking, their steps making no sound on the dirt footpaths.

As they detoured around the skeleton of a dead bush, they nearly ran into Menoetius. Leaning against a stone pillar, the last remaining piece of an elaborate arch that once framed the outer entry into the garden, he was staring into the sky. He straightened at their appearance, obviously as startled as they.

Guilt prompted Aridela to step away from Chrysaleon. She fancied Menoetius noticed, and felt her cheeks flush.

After Chrysaleon took her from the cave in the Araden mountains, Menoetius returned to Selene. He hardly spoke to Aridela. In fact, she’d scarcely seen him since the battle. Obedient as always, he bowed to Chrysaleon’s wishes and hers, unspoken though they were.

Chrysaleon cuffed Menoetius on the shoulder, oblivious or dismissive of the tense atmosphere between his consort and half brother. “Where have you been hiding?” he said. “I can never find you these days. Is that milky Amazon girl roping you to her bed?”

In this brief space before sunrise, the sky turned deeply purple, like a vast royal robe soaked in the precious dye Crete’s fishermen extracted from snails. Such rich color made it hard to determine any subtleties, yet Aridela acutely sensed Menoetius’s desire to escape.

“Leave off, Chrysaleon,” he said. “I don’t ask what you do with your time.”

“Let every foolish wench on Crete invite you to her bed. Why should I care? I alone possess the queen of women.”

“Chrysaleon.” Aridela’s attempt at criticism was interrupted when he plucked her into his arms and swung her in a dizzying circle. So close were they to Menoetius that her heel struck his shin.

Setting her down and holding her fast, Chrysaleon gave her a long, suffocating kiss, effectively halting her sputtered protests. He lifted his head and shouted, his words bouncing off the crumbling walls. “The queen of Crete belongs to me. She is mine alone.”

“You show me little respect, Zagreus,” she said, her face burning with embarrassment.

“My property. My chattel. My slave.” Lowering his voice, he added, “My wife, my love, for as long as the pyramids stand in Egypt.”

“An earthshaking could bring those down tomorrow. What of you? Are you my property and slave?”

He dropped to one knee and pressed her right hand to his forehead before kissing it. “Command me.”

Tears stung her eyes as she drew him upright. “Who will make me laugh while you’re gone?”

Chrysaleon squeezed her hands, but she thought she caught the slightest hint of that anticipation she’d noticed when he first told her he meant to go.

Menoetius stepped away, drawing Aridela’s attention. She turned toward him, startled and guilty.

He offered a rigid bow. “I leave you to your privacy,” he said, and stalked toward the palace, swiftly vanishing into murky violet shadows.

Aridela realized what she’d said and how it must have sounded. Again, her face burned. She was glad the dim light disguised it.

“Not him.” Chrysaleon shrugged. “Women find my brother alluring because he frightens them, makes them shiver and feel alive. They fantasize about taming the ugly beast of Mycenae. But when his true nature is revealed, they run away as fast as they can.”

He wagged a finger at her. “Stop frowning like that or I’ll think you’re one of those simpleminded females.”

“I assure you I am not simpleminded.”

He laughed. “Until recently I suspected my father preferred the bastard over his true son. I was ravaged by jealousy. He’s older than me, you know, by a few breaths.”

Aridela nodded. Menoetius had described how the brothers came into the world almost simultaneously, from different mothers—one the queen of Mycenae, the other a slave.

Tilting his head up, Chrysaleon contemplated the sky. “At last I know differently. My father is angry and must shout his curses, yet I saw his pride. He’s disavowed Menoetius, though, for allowing me to compete. Menoetius has become a man with no home. It is me Idómeneus values.”

Aridela stiffened. “I will not stand for this. Menoetius has twice saved my life. If your father cannot see his worth, his home will be here, with us.”

Chrysaleon kissed her again, and guided her backward, into the still-deep shadows behind the ruined arch. As he drew her to the ground, he said, “I suspect you’re too soft to be a queen. Did I say I was disavowing Menoetius? He’s still my brother, as far as I’m concerned. And my father will forgive him when he calms down. He always does.”

A small, pale lizard, the kind with bumps that looked like armor, skittered across the pillar. She couldn’t help smiling as it paused and seemed to peer at them. She’d caught one when she was little and kept it as a pet, toting it around on her shoulder with a tiny leather leash.

It seemed a good omen.

“I overheard King Idómeneus the night of the battle,” she said between kisses. “He was so angry. I feared for you. I truly thought he might have you both killed.”

“If you knew him better, you’d understand.” Chrysaleon hiked up her tunic as he nuzzled her throat. “His anger is what made it clear. He wishes Menoetius, not me, was facing death at the midsummer moon. That was the plan, you know. Menoetius was supposed to compete in your Games. My father considered him expendable.”

His callous statement brought back the confession Menoetius made when they were living in the Araden mountains. If Chrysaleon hadn’t disobeyed our father, I could have won the Games. I could have become your consort. Only the gods will ever know what difference it might have made.

Chrysaleon lifted his face from hers long enough to add, “Be cheered it was me who fought for you and won.” He grinned. “My humorless brother would have made your life as grim as the ash-buried isle of Callisti.”

CONTENTS

THE THINARA KING

THE ABYSS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

SHADOWS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Author’s Note

About the Author

Thank You

IN THE MOON OF ASTERION

Chapter 1