Dark of the Moon

ARIADNE

chapter 17

I HAVE NEVER believed she was the daughter of Velchanos, you know." The thin, sour voice was familiar, but what it said was so strange that for a moment, I wondered if I had dreamt it. It was followed by an answering murmur whose words I didn't understand but which sounded shocked.

I pushed myself up on one elbow, being careful to remain hidden on the long couch in one of the palace's many sitting rooms. I had fallen asleep there after yet another late-night birth. My mother had grown so heavy and awkward that she had allowed me to deliver the baby, a sweet little girl, by myself, and even when we returned to the palace I was so excited that I barely slept.

The first woman went on. "Remember how poor the harvest was before she was born? Velchanos let hardly any rain fall, and the people would have starved if the fish hadn't been especially abundant that summer. Surely he was showing us that he had nothing to do with her conception." The speaker was Damia, the oldest of the priestesses now that her closest friend and ally, Thoösa, had been removed from her post when I became a woman and took her place.

The other person spoke again. "Have you said anything about this to She-Who-Is-Goddess?" This voice, too, was now familiar: Perialla, another of the priestesses. She was close to my mother's age and was a quiet, somewhat dull woman who had always been kind to me.

A snort in reply. "More than once. She dismisses the idea, says she couldn't have been mistaken. She just knew, she says, that she saw the god in Kilix that spring."

"But you don't think so?"

"You know how she is, how she has always been from girlhood. Can't bear to be wrong. Never could. Velchanos punished her by hiding himself—still is punishing her."

"Oh, surely not." Perialla sounded almost pleading. "It's been so long, and she was so young when she offended Goddess. And you of all people should hope that Kilix was the correct choice."

I held my breath. With any luck, they would talk about why Goddess was angry with my mother. But luck was against me, for Damia said only, "Her offense was too grave; it can never be forgiven. He punished her with the boy, with Minos-Who-Will-Be. No question about his parentage! The crops have never been so abundant as they were that year. No, he's the son of Velchanos, all right. Remember the feasting the fall after his conception?"

Perialla must have nodded, for Damia went on, "She-Who-Is never showed the baby, kept him bundled away, and then when she finally had to reveal him on his first birthday, she refused to see what everyone else did, that he was a monster and should have been exposed at birth." Perialla's horrified gasp didn't stop that bitter voice. "That was what the god wanted. It was a test for her, one she failed by keeping him alive, the same as she failed her earlier test."

"What test?" I longed to ask.

Damia lowered her voice, and I strained to hear. "I've heard rumors that the Minos is training an apprentice. Of course, he'd have to keep this secret—if She-Who-Is were to hear of it, she'd say it was sacrilege, since a true son of Karia and Velchanos is alive."

"Who is this apprentice?"

Before Damia could answer, the voice of my mother's maid broke in. "Mistresses, She-Who-Is-Goddess is waiting for you in her chamber." Iaera managed to sound respectful while still expressing urgency. Skirts rustled as the two women rose and hurried out, their shoes tapping on the floor. I knew I should follow after them, but instead I lay back on the sofa.

They doubted me? They thought that I was not the daughter of the god, that my mother had been wrong when she said she saw Velchanos manifest himself in the shepherd Kilix at the Planting Festival before my birth? The crops had been poor in the year of my conception, but so many things could explain that: a misread omen, an irreverent act in the god's cave, even the whim of Velchanos. It didn't have to mean that my mother had chosen wrongly, that the man who was my father had been just that—merely a man, and not Velchanos made flesh. And even if she had made a mistake, no shame falls to She-Who-Is-Goddess; it is up to the god to reveal himself. If he doesn't, She-Who-Is-Goddess must try to guess which man's body is housing Her husband. It's not her fault if he has hidden himself too cunningly. How like a man, I'd always thought of the way Velchanos disguised himself. Capricious, unreliable, wanting to surprise, like a little boy.

But if she had been wrong, then who was I?

I fought back the panic rising in my throat. I had to tell my mother what I had overheard, and she would make it right. She would punish Damia for her evil words and would assure me that I was the legitimate daughter of Velchanos. Then, even as I rose, I remembered that Damia had claimed she had already spoken to my mother, who had denied the accusation. I sank back and chewed on a fingernail.

This was just one more new piece of information that confused me about our customs on Krete. The first had come in my conversation with Theseus. Obviously, our ritual at the Planting Festival was not followed in Athens. Perhaps they did not even sacrifice the god every spring and yet they had fertile fields with a yield of crops in the fall, so why was it necessary here?

Was it necessary here?

And what was my part in it?

The sun moved to a new section of the sky, and one of his rays pierced my vision, reminding me that the day was passing. The priestesses would be waiting for me in my mother's chamber to instruct me in the rituals of the dark of the moon. But I couldn't face them now, especially poison-tongued Damia. How many of the priestesses thought that I was merely a girl born to my mother as a mortal woman and not as Goddess, and to Kilix and not Velchanos? That would make Kilix my father, and Kilix's daughter, who worked in the palace as a weaver, my sister.

This was a strange thought, and an even stranger one followed it: if I was the daughter of Kilix but Asterion was the son ofVelchanos, he was not my brother.

No. Not possible. None of it was possible. I loved Asterion more than I loved anyone except my mother. I could not lose him, and I knew it would be even worse for him to lose me.

This time, I didn't care if other people were in the corridors as I ran, then walked, then ran again to the Minos's quarters. I reached the inner courtyard and stood in its entrance to catch my breath. It was a sunny, open space, large enough for several trees whose fat, tight buds showed how close we were to the Planting Festival. Birds in the small cages that hung from the boughs were singing, their odd little faces showing nothing of what they felt as their beaks opened and shut and notes came out of them. I always wondered if the Minos's birds were happy to be safe from hawks and cranes or if they were sad to be locked in those cages, secure and comfortable though they were.

The courtyard was paved with pale stone polished so smooth that it was dangerous to walk on after a rain. I knew this well; until two years earlier, I had spent most of my waking hours in this place, and every night during the Festivals, I, too, used to sleep in the Minos's compound. I would play with the children of the Minos and the children of She-Who-I s-Goddess and then curl up with my best friends among them in one of the rooms that opened onto the courtyard, snuggling against another warm body. Those were my favorite nights of the year.

But that happy girl was a stranger to me now as I stood and looked at the activity. As always, the Minos was surrounded by children. He sat on a low stone bench, showing the little girl on his lap how to handle her pet rabbit so that she wouldn't injure it. An even smaller boy hung over the Minos's shoulder and eyed his sister or cousin stroking the soft brown fur. At the Minos's feet, two boys laughed as they played some game that involved counting stones, and in a corner, Timandra, formerly my best friend, tuned the strings of a lyre. We had sworn that when we became women, we would still be friends, and after the ceremony, when they had received their new, secret adult names (I had no need of one, as my new name would be She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess), I ran to her. But she turned her back on me and hadn't spoken to me since.

I missed seeing Enops and Glaukos, who, now that they were old enough to dance with the bull, would have moved to the men's quarters. I didn't miss Simo, who also had gone to be trained for bull dancing. Simo had always delighted in tormenting me, and even after I became She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, he found ways to hurt my feelings that stopped just short of the disrespect that would cause him punishment.

I hung back. Until recently, I had been one of the children petted by the gentle man whose long hair was streaked with gray. Now I wasn't sure of my welcome, especially when I saw Kodros, the Minos's spoiled daughter, approach and whisper something in Timandra's ear. Until I became She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, Kodros had made my life miserable with teasing and hidden pinches and hair pulling. Now the two of them stared at me, and Timandra giggled.

The Minos caught sight of me, and a broad smile creased his face. "Dear child!" He swung the little boy to the floor and stood, the girl and her rabbit in the crook of his arm. He came to embrace me, shooed children off the bench like pigeons, and settled us together there, his strong arm around my shoulders. The little girl squirmed out of his embrace and ran with her pet to join Timandra and Kodros where they stood whispering together, glancing at me.

I leaned into my uncle gratefully, trying to forget that I was She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess and imagining that I was once more a child who played and slept in a heap with other girls, and ate meals in a rowdy group of children, and sang songs and told secrets and had friends, and quarreled and made up with those friends.

Yet just a few moons away was my second Planting Festival as She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, and I was looking forward to it with the same ferocity as a child eager for the first taste of spring lamb. It is the holiest time of the year and the most enjoyable, with feasting and dancing and games and laughter. Then there is no difference between She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, someone to be feared, and the daughter of a shepherdess, someone to join in friendly conversation and games. And of course there was always the chance that this year, Goddess would relent, would forgive my mother for her unspoken offense. That would bring me so much joy that I wouldn't care if I never had a friend again.

The Minos didn't seem to notice my preoccupation. "My bride is lovely, isn't she? And so sweet. Even Orthia adores her." He sounded as eager as a boy with a new plaything. "She applied a liniment to Orthia's shoulders that finally took the ache from them." He shook his head in wonderment. Even my mother had not been able to soothe the aching old body of the Minos's senior wife. Now, in such a short time, Prokris had eased her pain.

When I didn't answer, the Minos looked searchingly into my face. "What is it?" His kindness brought tears, when worry and anxiety and the cruelty of my former playmates had produced only stony hardness. I wept into his shoulder as he stroked my hair. When my tears were spent, he asked, "What's troubling you, little sister?"

I told him what I had overheard and studied his face. He didn't seem surprised. "You knew of this?" I asked.

He nodded. "There are always whispers about She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess. People fear you, and fear breeds all sorts of other things—jealousy, hatred, false flattery."

"But you—you're the Minos! Surely you know who I am!"

"I hope I do." His voice, usually merry, was grave. "But Pasiphaë..." The sound of her name, so commonplace, so like the name of any woman on Krete, made her seem smaller and vulnerable and made me seem like the daughter of an ordinary woman. I felt as though Poseidon the Earth Shaker had moved the ground beneath my feet. Everything I thought I knew, the person I thought I was, all had changed.

When I could trust my voice again, I asked, "When did people start questioning my—questioning me?"

"Before you were born," he answered. "There was that trouble at the Planting Festival a few years earlier, and then—"

"Trouble? What trouble?"

"Pasiphaë hasn't told you?" I shook my head. "Then I mustn't. But you should ask her."

"Does it have something to do with why Goddess is angry?"

He stroked my hair again and tucked a curl behind my ear. "It has everything to do with it." I waited for him to go on, but he was silent.

I sat up, suddenly resenting the feel of his arm around me, which a moment before had been so soothing. "So, how do I know if I'm She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess or someone else?"

"You can't know it now." His voice was somber. "You won't know for years, I hope. Not until Pasiphaë becomes Goddess Forever and you undergo the Ordeal of the Snakes."

"There's an ordeal? What happens?" I had carried snakes into the Goddess sanctuary, and I had seen my mother emerge later, clutching one in either hand, but I had never thought to ask what happened in between.

The Minos patted my hand. I'm sure he meant to be comforting, but I found his touch irritating. "You'll find out," he said quietly. "You'll find out soon enough."