Dark of the Moon (3 page)

After the near dark of the underground chamber, the daylight coming in between the columns was almost dazzling. I inhaled deeply to clear my lungs. We kept Asterion as clean as we were able, but a full bath was impossible unless we made him so drunk that he lost either his fear or the ability to fight, and the odors of his dank chamber were never pleasant. Here, the early-spring air mingled with the aroma of warm bread, and I suddenly realized that it was a long time since I had eaten.

The morning light was weak, and the shapes on the walls appeared almost real, not mere figures painted by a long-dead artist in the days when my mother's grandmother had been She-Who-Is-Goddess. The dimness hid the artist's brush strokes on the parade of slim-hipped young women and men who bore platters of springtime fruits and greens and who led tiny white lambs so new that their large eyes appeared to look with wonder at the world they were soon to leave. I almost expected to see the celebrants' legs move in the solemn procession, to smell the heavy scent of flowers in the garlands draped over the columns behind them, to hear their voices lifted in song in praise of Goddess. She stood facing them, bare breasted, a smile on Her lips, clutching two writhing snakes whose painted tongues seemed almost to flicker in and out of their painted mouths.

I caught sight of the Athenian woman. She was seated on a bench near the opening between two large columns, eating the flatbread that Cook made by spreading dough directly onto the coals of the huge kitchen fireplace. At the sight of its crusty top and its bottom darkened by ash, my stomach gave a loud gurgle. Cook, who was entering, laughed and patted the bench where the woman destined to be the Minos's newest wife was sitting. I, too, sat down but wished I didn't feel so awkward. I didn't often see strangers, at least not to talk to, and I didn't know how to behave. Cook handed me my own piece of bread wrapped in a white cloth, along with a pot of fig preserves and a wooden spoon, taking care not to touch me. I knocked off the cinders and took a bite.

That pot reminded me of the honey jar, which I pulled from my robe and handed to Cook. Then I spooned preserves into the crescent that my teeth had left in the bread. The sweetness of the figs combined with the bitterness of the slightly blackened crust was one of my favorite treats.

"Sorry," I said around a mouthful as Cook looked into the jar's emptiness.

"A small price to pay if it kept her safe." Cook nodded at the young woman.

"I'm very grateful." She bit off a piece of bread glistening with golden preserves and washed it down with a swallow of what looked like honey water.

Her musical accent made even these conventional words sound lovely. From close up, she was even prettier than I had thought her before, when she had stood motionless in my brother's grip. Her brown hair, so different from the black ringlets of most of the people I knew, looked as soft as rabbit's fur. Her clear eyes were the nameless blue-green-gray of the sea, and her oval face shone with clear brightness. Her small teeth were white and even.

She was looking at me quizzically. I dropped my gaze and asked, "Why did you go down there, anyway?"

Her laugh was merry. "My mother always says that I'm as curious as a mouse. I wanted to see him—the Minotauros."

I choked on the piece of bread that was halfway down my throat. How dare she call my brother by that name? It made him sound like the son of the Minos and a bull. Cook stood behind me as I spluttered.

Before I had become a woman, Cook would have pounded my back to help me, but of course he couldn't strike She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess, so I coughed and wheezed. When at last I could breathe shallowly without my breath catching, I glanced up and saw the warning frown that Cook was shooting over my head at the Athenian woman.

She seemed about to say something more, but then one of the Minos's eunuchs poked his head through the door. "He's asking for the new one." He looked from her to me, and I nodded. My pleasure in the girl's company was spoiled, anyway.

My companion rose and straightened her fine linen gown, which was arranged in narrow pleats in the style of mainland women, a thin belt emphasizing her small waist. I stood too and saw that she was examining my clothes as carefully as I was hers. I looked down at my serviceable robe, the one I always wore to child births. It fit appropriately but was stained from my work. The dark red smear was new, and once again I thought of that dead woman and her dead babies. I looked back at the girl and opened my mouth to speak.

Then an image rose up and floated in front of her face. I couldn't make it out clearly, but I could tell that it was evil, a miasma that stank of treachery and arrogance and murder.

I closed my eyes and ordered the vision to depart. When I opened them again, it was gone, but so was the girl. She was following the Minos's servant down a long corridor open to the rapidly warming sun, her slender form flickering as she passed through the shadows of the columns. I tried to call out, to warn her to beware of whatever it was that I had seen, but my throat clamped shut and I watched her until she disappeared.

I AROSE after noon, still groggy, and went to find my mother. Iaera stood in her doorway, blocking my way. At my inquiring look, she said, "A messenger from the Pythia—She-Who-Is-Goddess at Delphi—came with the Athenians. She's been in there since midday."

I settled myself on a stool. Every She-Who-Is-Goddess is sister to every other one, although they never meet in person, as crossing the sea would strip them of their divinity and render them mere priestesses. They exchange news and greetings and even spells, I understood. Someday I would be part of that sisterhood as well.

A small woman scurried out. I rose and attempted to greet her, but she hastened away without meeting my gaze.

My mother was seated at a table facing the sun, now low in the sky, with two skeins of yarn in front of her. Instead of joining them together in the complicated series of knots that meant she was casting a spell, she gazed off into the distance, her hands idle. I knew better than to interrupt her reverie, so I stood and waited.

The yarn was of two shades of green and so must have something to do with the Planting Festival. The black ball that kept Asterion confined under the palace lay locked tight in the fragrant cedar chest at the foot of her bed, along with others in which magic was still working. The most precious of them, as large as a baby's head and pure white, lay inside the chest in its own casket made of gleaming dark wood as hard as bronze. It was decorated with very powerful gold symbols whose meaning had been lost to time. More than once I had seen my mother seated at her work table, this box open in front of her as she stared at the white ball. I could tell that she was trying to understand the way it was wound. She did not dare unwind it to find out, of course. It held the power of She-Who-Is-Goddess. Nobody said what would happen if it was destroyed, but it would surely be a catastrophe.

Occasionally, my mother would call me to her and have me hold pieces of yarn as she worked them up, over, and around each other, all the while staring at the white ball as though she would unlock its secret with her gaze.

This white ball was rarely touched. One time in her life, each She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess held it during the ritual in which she became She-Who-Is-Goddess. I had a very hazy notion of what else happened during the ceremony. Only two priestesses remained who had officiated when my mother became She-Who-Is-Goddess. They occasionally dropped hints and seemed to delight in making me nervous.

"Child?" My mother's voice sounded tired. "Have you finally slept enough?" Her tone held no rebuke, but her pale and drained face shamed me. I saw that she had one of her headaches, so without being asked I moved behind her and pulled the pins out of her hair. It came down in soft waves. She dropped her work, sighed, and leaned back against me, her eyes closed. I gently rubbed her temples, where a few silver strands showed among the black. After some minutes she asked, "What's she like?"

"Who?"

"The new one." Her voice held no emotion. "The Minos's new wife."

"Pleasant." I fumbled for words. My mother didn't usually show much interest in the Minos's wives beyond making sure they were comfortable and had enough to eat. "Pretty."

"I saw that. As did Asterion."

I stopped rubbing her head. "He can't help it, Mother."

"No, he can't."

I ran my fingers under her hair again and pressed where I somehow could tell it hurt. She sighed and relaxed. "She's from Athens." My mother didn't answer, so I tried again. "Athens, Mother!"

She sat up abruptly and tied back her hair. "And so? Athens is a city like any other."

"How do you know?" Of course, my mother had never left the island of Krete. "I hear it has a mountain right in the middle of the city and the people worship Athena and Erechtheus—they must be very strong if they have two gods! The fields of Attika are beautiful, they say, and the beaches are of yellow sand. Think of it, yellow sand instead of black! You could walk on it all day without burning your feet."

She looked at me gravely but did not respond. She didn't have to remind me of the consequences that would attend a sea voyage.

"The trip must not have taken very long, Mother—she looked fresh and well when she stepped off the boat..." I realized I had betrayed myself and stopped. "I mean, I
hear
she looked fresh," I said lamely as my mother's face clouded over.

"What were you doing down by the docks?" I had no answer. "Daughter, don't you know that that is the one place that's dangerous for us—for you and me? All sorts of people are on the ships that come in. Some are decent folk and respect us, but many do not."

"Goddess will protect me," I muttered, and instantly recognized my mistake.

"You know Goddess is angry with me."

What my mother had done to offend Goddess I did not know, but Her wrath had started before I was born and continued despite everything we did to appease Her. My mother and I danced at every new moon, not just before the Festivals; countless snow-white heifers had had their throats slit on Goddess's altar, their tender meat feeding the twelve priestesses who served Her; my mother tended the white Goddess-shaped stone in the shrine as carefully as a new mother tends to her firstborn, rubbing it with oil until it gleamed, wrapping it in rich robes purchased from traders who traveled from so far away that they spoke a language no one could comprehend.

Yet Goddess continued to visit my mother with punishment, most notably through Asterion. More than one man had offered to sacrifice himself to the wrath of Goddess by killing my brother, but my mother always refused. It was not her love for him that stopped her; the real problem was that no other could take his place. My brother was Minos-Who-Will-Be. Without a Minos, our city of Knossos would fall, and with it, the island of Krete. This we knew as surely as we knew that the sun rose and set once every day and that the moon disappeared and reappeared thirteen times every year.

My mother broke the silence. "I should go to the Minos's quarters and make sure the girl has everything she needs."

"I'll go." I tried to hide my eagerness. "I've been sleeping all day, and you've been working."

"She who is served by all serves all," she murmured.

I nodded at the familiar phrase. "And you have a headache. I'll go and make sure the new one is settling in, and while I'm there I'll see how Glaukos is." The rosy-cheeked child always ran to me when I visited and tugged at my hand to beg me to play with him. His right eye looked to the side as if watching something that no one else could see, something in another world. Worse, he favored his left hand, which made everyone uneasy. It was not natural, but despite his nurses' attempts to make him use his right hand, he persisted.

She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess has to help people, of course, to be kind to them and assure their safety. But she must not grow close to them, not to the children of mortal parents, no matter who those parents were. Glaukos had been conceived by my mother when she was a mortal woman, not Goddess, and his father was a man, not the god Velchanos, so Glaukos was not my brother. If my mother knew that I was growing attached to any one of the children who lived in the Minos's quarters—even if that child was hers—she would forbid me to visit.

"So, may I go to the Minos's quarters and see to the new wife?"

"You liked her, did you?"

I nodded. "I think she might be..." I hesitated; it was not a word I said often. "I think she might become a friend." I didn't want to hear what my mother had said so many times before:
You don't need a friend. You have me and Asterion, and if it pleases Goddess, you will have other brothers and sisters. And now you have your duties as priestess. You don't have time for friends.
She gave me permission, though, with a reminder to walk with dignity.

I dreaded going through the palace. It was not only that the dark and twisting corridors took longer than a direct route would have; it was not only that the halls and chambers were tedious in their familiarity. No, the real reason was that it was full of people who would be talking to one another, sometimes laughing, and both the talk and the laughter would cease as soon as they saw me. I always longed to tell them that I, too, liked conversation and a funny story and a hand on my arm as a confidence is told, but of course I couldn't. So I would lower my eyes to the ground, acknowledge their bows with a quick nod, and hurry on.

This time I thought I would be lucky enough to reach the Minos's quarters without meeting anyone. Two women carrying plucked partridges pretended not to notice me and ducked into a chamber until I passed, as though that had been their destination all along. The room they had entered was where the scribes sat all day incising marks into clay tablets, and there was no need for partridges in there. I couldn't resist glancing behind me, and I saw them emerge hurriedly and scurry down to where they were truly going, no doubt eager to tell people of their near encounter with She-Who-Will-Be-Goddess.