Dark of the Moon (25 page)

Ariadne is silent as I run to the door and fling it open only to see two large guards blocking it, with spears crossed over the opening. Artemis growls.

"You require something, my lord?" one of the men asks. I can't see his eyes through the slits in his boar-tusk helmet, but I hear his amusement. I can tell he knows that what I require is escape.

"Wine" is all I can think to say. I close the door and retrace my steps.

SOMEONE MURMURED outside the door. It opened, and Prokris entered, carrying a tray with a wine flask and two cups. The Ariadne part of me, which was growing stronger at every heartbeat, wanted to run to her, but the waning Goddess in me insisted I sit still and not show my weakness to a mortal.

"Prokris," Theseus began, but she interrupted him.

"I know." She put the tray on a low table. "I heard. They plan to do it in three days."

"You seem very calm." His bitterness startled me and allowed Ariadne to push Goddess aside a bit more. "I'll just have to stop them," Theseus continued. "I'll tell them that as a foreigner, I didn't know what it meant to be chosen and I refuse the honor."

"No," I said. They both looked at me. I was weary to the marrow, my arm ached, and thirst raged in my throat, but I forced myself to speak. "It's not something you can accept or refuse. If you're Velchanos, that's who you are. You have no choice."

"But I'm not Velchanos!" he protested.

"You are."

"I would know it if I were."

I shook my head and reached for the wine. There was no point in arguing. I drained the cup and lay back on the pile of cushions, exhausted, my head whirling.
I should have done something,
I thought miserably. But what? It had not been my choice to be She-Who-Will-Be and then She-Who-Is-Goddess and, finally, Goddess; it had not been my choice that Theseus had come to Knossos so close to the Festival; and it certainly had not been my choice that the god would pick Theseus to host him. I had not chosen him. I might have been momentarily shaken by his kiss, but now I felt nothing more for him than I did for any other man. Pity, certainly; friendship, perhaps; gratitude that from our first meeting, he had treated me as myself and not as She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess; but nothing like what my mother had said about Nikanor: "the one I loved above all others."

No, it had been the will of Velchanos thatTheseus should be his incarnation on earth. Everything important in my life had been willed long before I was born, as was everything that would happen from now on. Theseus would be my consort for three days, and then he would make the fields fertile. The Minos would—

I sat up in a panic.

"What is it?" Theseus asked.

I tried to calm myself and to answer evenly, but my voice caught in my throat. "There is no Minos." My uncle, who had just become Minos-Who-Was, must even now be planning the removal of his belongings from the palace to the cottage, with its orchard that had lain untended since the last Minos-Who-Was reached the end of his earthly days. A new Minos was going to have to open the pathway to Theseus's blood and would have to make me Goddess again at Harvest and then Birth of the Sun. Someday, that same Minos would turn my future daughter into She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess and then She-Who-Is-Goddess.

Asterion could never, never do any of those things, and Knossos would fall.

Every Minos was a mortal man; at his death, he would be richly buried and deeply mourned, but his body would rot, and his spirit would go only where the spirits of all virtuous women and men go, not to the eternal moon. The Minos's business was not my business, and until recently I had never worried about the problem of his succession. Surely
he
had, though.

Prokris stirred uneasily and stood. "Someone will wonder where I am," she said. "I'm supposed to be feasting with the other wives." I strode to the door and flung it open. The startled guards leaped to attention, crossing their spears again. Prokris ducked under the long shafts and hurried down the hall. "Bring me Minos-Who-Was," I commanded.

"Minos-Who-W-w-w-?" stammered the taller of them.

The shorter guard, evidently cleverer than his colleague, nodded comprehension. "Immediately, mistress." He knocked the back of his hand on his forehead and sped down the corridor. Theseus looked bewildered as I paced, supporting my left wrist with my right hand. I felt more clearheaded than I had in a long time—maybe since the day my mother had gone to join our Mothers.

For only the second time in my memory, my uncle ran into the chamber of She-Who-Is-Goddess, but this time
I
was She-Who-Is-Goddess, not my mother, and I was alive, not lying drained of blood on the bed. "What is it?" He looked from me to Theseus. "Has it gotten worse? The effect should be almost gone by now."

I held out my wrist for his inspection. "I think it's getting better," I said, and relief spread across his face. He sat down heavily on my mother's stool and rested his face in his hands.

"Uncle." He didn't answer. "Uncle, I need to know—have you been training a new Minos?"

"This is not a matter I can discuss, not even with She-Who-Is-Goddess." His voice was muffled behind his hands, but even so, I could tell that he sounded uncertain, and I pressed my advantage.

"You must tell me. For the next three days, I am not She-Who-Is, but Goddess Herself." He lifted his head and looked at me with respect and a little fear. Love he had always shown; pride, too; but this was new. I went on. "I know that some doubt my parentage, and I will need a strong Minos to defend me."

"My successor has proven himself the chosen of the god," he said.
Oh no. Simo.
"But I'm afraid the people will never accept him. Not while Asterion lives. I was planning to tell them during this year's Festival. Your mother had approved it. She was going to adopt him as Her son while she was Goddess, and then he would have been as legitimate as Asterion, and when the time came for him to become Minos, it would have been an easy transition. But then..." His voice trailed off.
But then she died before she could do it,
I knew he was going to say.

"Couldn't you announce it now?" Theseus asked.

"Pasiphaë can no longer adopt him, now that she is with her Mothers." He sighed heavily. "It would have pleased her. The boy was born of her, although he was not the son of Goddess and Velchanos. Still—"

"He
what?
" His words drove all traces of Goddess from me.
Simo? Born of my mother?
He must be the boy born before Athis. So he hadn't died, as I'd assumed. Why had she never told me? I tried to absorb this as the Minos continued. I hardly heard his words.

"And I am no longer Minos," he told Theseus. "I stopped being Minos the moment Goddess appeared in front of the people bearing the white ball in her hands."

"But I—" I stopped.

The Minos looked keenly at me. "But you what, child?" I couldn't tell him about the Goddess ball, so I shook my head and poured another sip of wine.

He kept his gaze on me while he addressed Theseus. "We can't make such a change now. You must have your time as Velchanos, and then, before the final ritual"—he delicately avoided saying what that was—"while Ariadne is still Goddess, she will announce the adoption. As Minos-Who-Was, I can continue to counsel and train the boy." He laid a gentle hand on my arm. "I will do what I can to protect Asterion, but afterward..." He shook his head.

Theseus had grown red. Now he broke out, "I know what you mean by 'afterward,' old man, and you're going to have to change your plans. I'm not going to submit to having my throat cut by you or some boy or anyone else. You'll have to find a Kretan who's willing to die for the people of Krete, because it won't be me."

Minos-Who-Was stood. I suddenly saw him as a stooped, tired old man, as Theseus had called him. When his power left him, he seemed to have lost a palm's width in height. He rested his hand on the door handle, and before he opened it, he said, "I'm afraid you have no choice. Not every man chosen by Velchanos has gone willingly to the altar, and over time we have developed ways of making sure that the god's will is done."

He pushed the door open. The guards uncrossed their spears to allow him to pass. Theseus started to bolt after him, but the shorter of the guards shoved him square in the chest and sent him sprawling. As the door closed, we heard them break into raucous laughter.

Artemis laid her head on my lap, and I stroked her soft fur. The marks she had left on my wrist were long gone, but I could almost see them still, ringing the bone in a perfect crescent. I bent over and whispered into the cream-colored ear fringed with long hairs, "You weren't trying to harm me. You were warning me, weren't you? Warning me to keep away from him?" Her tail waved gently, but whether it was an answer or merely a response to my attention, I'll never know.

"You people are determined to kill me one way or another." Theseus was red with rage. "And when your Minotauros showed no interest in eating me, you hatched this plot."

"That's not how it is," I said helplessly. "I'm sorry." My apology sounded pitiful even to me, and I didn't take offense at his derisive snort. "Why would we want to kill you? I thought you understood—and even if you didn't, there was nothing you could do about it. The god led you to Knossos. He chose you to be the one to take his body. There was
nothing
you could do about it."

He glared at me. "Do you really believe that? Do you believe that everything happens because it's willed to happen? That nothing we mortals do can change what the gods have ordained?"

I almost said, "I'm not a mortal," but I didn't want to risk his scorn. Instead I said, "But that's what the gods do, what the gods
are.
Your life is fated to end three days from now, and even if you run, it
will
end then. You'll drown at sea or be eaten by lions, or you'll be killed by the guards. Your destiny demands it. Surely it's better to end your life in this way, honoring the gods and giving life to the people of Knossos, rather than in some pointless accident."
Like Nikanor,
I thought, and my heart lay heavy in the hollow of my chest.

"How do you know my life isn't destined to end three
years
from now? Or thirty years? Or fifty? And if I run, I'll be able to fulfill
that
destiny."

I touched his arm. He shook me off and flung open the door. The guards must have been expecting this, because they were crouched in the opening with their spears pointing inward. "You can't kill me," Theseus said with a sneer. "I have to live for three more days. Don't you know that? If you kill me now, how will your god fertilize your fields?"

The larger guard, in one swift movement, pinned Theseus's arms behind him while the other whipped a long piece of rope out of the pouch on his belt. Theseus shouted curses at them, their mothers, their grandfathers, their children born and unborn. Silently and expertly, they bent his knees so that they could tie his ankles together with his wrists at his back. They wrapped the end of the rope around his neck in such a way that if he moved his arms more than a hair, it would tighten, strangling him. Even I, who had much expertise with knots, admired their skill.

They laid Theseus on the bed. He propped himself up on his elbow immediately, his curses never slowing. They pushed him down again. Their contempt was obvious. "He's not from Krete," I wanted to remind them. "He didn't know." But of course they were aware of this, and of course they didn't care, as long as the god performed his duty.

Clearly, I had no chance now of bearing the god's child at the next Birth of the Sun. This was not unusual; my mother, after all, would not have conceived a child this year, if she had lived. Goddess sometimes prefers She-Who-Is-Goddess to wait. It didn't matter. Many years stretched ahead of me to choose a man and then watch him die, choose another man and watch him die too, every year for the rest of my earthly life. This was how it had been since time was time.

The guards didn't bother to gag Theseus. Why should they? As long as he stayed here until the final day of the Festival, there was no danger in what he said to anyone, especially me. The guards knew that Goddess would not be swayed by anything said by the imperfect body that Velchanos had chosen. Of course the mortal part of my husband would fight against dying, would be reluctant to leave the world in its perfect spring, in its promise of many more springs to come. Unless he was a very pious person who accepted his fate with no question, the chosen man would try to persuade me to let him go. This was to be expected, and Goddess, much as She might pity the mortal part of Her husband, would never help him escape.

And even if I wanted to help Theseus, untying him wouldn't accomplish anything. The guards would be relieved by two others before these were tired. The men of Knossos considered it a great honor to keep vigil over the bridal chamber of Goddess and Velchanos, and it was not difficult to find volunteers.

Theseus appeared to grow weary of cursing and lay with his back to me. After a moment, he said quietly, "Would you mind loosening the ropes around my ankles? My feet are going numb."

I felt like I weighed twice what I had that morning, and like I had aged twenty years since then. Wearily, I bent over my husband. The restraints did appear too tight, but my attempts to loosen them were futile. My left hand was still useless, and the rope was thick and hard. "I can't," I said. He didn't answer.

I sat down helplessly, wishing I could do something to ease his pain, both in his body and in his heart. I heard voices and running feet from somewhere far away, in the depths of the palace. I was transported back to a time long ago—no, it had been only the length of a few moons—when my mother and I had walked under Goddess and Her stars, back from the hut where the woman and her tiny babies had died. I swayed as the memory rushed over me. That night, too, hurrying feet and muffled cries had disturbed the darkness.

I raised my head and listened. Theseus appeared not to hear anything out of the ordinary, but then, unlike me, he had not lain awake night after night here, growing to know the sounds of the palace the way a midwife knows the sounds of a woman in labor and can tell by a change in her breathing that something has gone horribly wrong.