Dark of the Moon

chapter 4

I RAN DOWN the hall without noticing where I was heading, trying only to distance myself from that merry band. Suddenly I found myself in the Arena of Velchanos. The enormous hall was lit by slanting light coming through windows placed near the high ceiling, and although no bulls were present, their smell lingered in the straw and dirt. A group of boys clustered against the far wall. Some were small, still with the round belly of childhood, and few appeared to have even the beginnings of a beard. Simo, an unpleasant boy I had known since my childhood, surveyed the stands seeming to consider the people soon to be sitting there barely worthy of his notice. Next to him stood his friend Enops, who was a little older than me, and at the end of the line was little Glaukos. I liked Enops, whose easygoing way with me had become tempered with respect when I became She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess. Glaukos was sweet, and I didn't like the thought of him dancing near the sharp horns of the huge bull that would soon be in this arena.

A man stood with them, his back turned to me. I recognized him from the long white scar that wrapped around his ribs: Lysias, the greatest of the bull dancers in his day, who had survived being chosen by the god. The god had gored him during his first Planting Festival ritual, and now Lysias trained boys who were to put themselves to the test.

I should not have been there. Even though these boys were merely training and were not yet ready to meet the god, preparation for the men's rituals were as sacred as those for the women's, and a violation would cause a great deal of bother, as the area would have to be resanctified. Ever since I had become She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, my mere presence was enough to disrupt the balance of a sacred space. But so far, I had escaped their notice, and I hesitated to attract attention by moving.

Then I saw that I was not alone in the viewing stands. A man stood a few yards away, resting his elbows on the fence that divided the practice area from the spectators' benches. He, too, had his back to me, and his stocky form and broad shoulders were not familiar. I thought he must be an outlander; Kretan men were almost always more slender than this stranger. At the man's feet lay a large dog with wavy, cream-colored fur. Its long ears hung down, instead of being pricked up like those of our dogs, giving it the appearance of a giant puppy. The dog caught sight of me and rose on its long legs. It trotted to my hiding place and fixed me with its eyes. I am fond of dogs, so I extended my hand. It sniffed my fingers, its plumed tail waving gently.

"Who are you?" I whispered, and the dark eyes looked at me as though wanting to answer. I had just made up my mind to slip away when the dog's head shot out and its teeth clamped on my wrist. A deep voice exclaimed something, and a large brown hand clouted the dog's head away. The dog cringed and squirmed on its belly to its master, licking the hand that had struck it, reminding me of the one thing I didn't like about dogs.

"Did she hurt you?" the man asked. No, it was a boy, but he was mostly grown. He had the darkened skin of one who spends time outdoors. His brown hair and short beard—the beard confirmed that he was not from Krete, where most men are clean-shaven—were streaked with a lighter color where the sun had touched them. His teeth flashed white as he spoke. Despite his hair being cut in an odd way—short in front and hanging down past his shoulders in back—he was handsome. To my surprise he looked directly at me, and I recognized him as the boy I had seen at the port the day before.

I glanced at my wrist. Red marks that would turn bluish purple appeared on both sides, but the skin had not been broken.

"Did the dog hurt you?" the boy repeated, his lilting voice sounding impatient. I was unaccustomed to being directly addressed by anyone, especially a stranger and a foreigner, and I didn't know how to answer. I shook my head and clutched my wrist in my other hand, trying to think what to say—Had the dog hurt me? Was a ring of bruises an injury?—when five of the Minos's guards ran up to us, their long hair flying behind them.

"What happened?" asked Gnipho, the senior of the guards present. Gray streaks ran through the long hair under his cap, which was decorated with two small horns indicating his seniority, and the cloak thrown over his wiry form bore the double stripe of an officer.

"The dog was playing," the boy said gruffly. "Grabbed the young lady's arm in her teeth. No harm done."

"The young la—" Gnipho stopped, looking appalled at hearing me referred to in such an offhand manner. He went on stiffly, his eyes fixed on the ground near my feet, "She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess was not hurt?"

"No," I said.

"I will report as much. Guard, kill the animal."

A younger man grabbed the dog's collar from behind and pressed his knee into her back. He let go of the collar to seize the animal's muzzle, and the dog's body convulsed in an effort to free herself, as a whine escaped her. The guard pulled her head back sharply, stretching the long neck, while reaching for the knife in his belt with his free hand. The boy made a sound of protest and stepped forward, but in an instant the other three guards were holding their spears at his throat.

"No," a voice said. It took me a moment to realize that it was mine.

The men paused in their various tasks and glanced at me before hurriedly removing their gaze to the floor, the air, a point in the distance. Only the dog's owner kept his eyes fixed on me. They were as black as sand, and they glittered as a hint of a smile crinkled the lids.

"I'm not harmed," I said. "The dog was merely playing. Release it."

They hesitated. I let go of my wrist and allowed my right hand to drift up, fingers curling. The guards stared at it, and fear loosened their limbs even as their knuckles turned white with the strength of their grips on their weapons. The men around the dog's owner lowered their spears and stepped back. "Release it," I said again, and this time the guard holding the big dog stepped back and allowed her to rise. She surged to her feet and moved next to her master, pressing against his legs. His hand came down and rested on her head. It looked brown and sinewy among the bright waves.

I dropped my arm. "Leave," I said. The guards bowed and backed away, turning when they were barely seven paces distant, and fled. They stopped and regrouped in the doorway, but at least they were out of earshot. It was the best I could hope for; I could order them to go farther away, but if I did, my mother would surely hear of it.

The boy kept his hand on the dog's head. He looked at me again, this time up and down my whole body, appraising me. I flushed. I knew I should be angry, but instead I felt oddly excited and even pleased that he was looking at me the way I had seen men look at other girls—not at the floor in front of my feet, not at a point somewhere above my head.

"What was it he called you?" His voice was amused, and I flushed again. Now he would behave like the others. Perhaps he would even drop to the ground and lay his forehead on my feet and beg for forgiveness. Somehow, I didn't want to see that broad form bent in humility at my knees.

"I am She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess." I waited for him to stammer an apology at the very least, now that he knew who I was. Instead, his face continued to hold a half smile as his fingers lightly stroked the head of the dog.

"Is that what everybody calls you?"

"What else?"

He shrugged. "What does your mother call you?"

This was where I made my first mistake. My second, really; the first was not withdrawing from the practice arena as soon as I'd seen where I was. Perhaps if I hadn't offended the god by remaining, he would have averted all the disaster that was to follow and tonight I would still be at home, on Krete, dancing on the ancient floor under the crescent moon while holding my daughter's small hand and showing her the steps that have been passed down from She-Who-Is-Goddess to She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess since time was time.

But that's not how it happened. I told the stranger my name. And at that moment everything began to unravel, the way a tug on an end of yarn makes the whole ball, once firm and round, turn into a meaningless, useless tangle.