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CHAPTER 11

Although Ariadne realized that Pasiphae would probably bar her from visiting Asterion, immediately after her confrontation she had no idea what a large hole the prohibition would make in her life. Nor did the knowledge of how much time she'd spent with Asterion, of how she'd used him to assuage her own loneliness, come to her at once. She hardly recognized that loneliness until the scab was pulled off the unhealed wound of her separation from Dionysus when she had Called him at the ritual and been actively rejected.

She had become accustomed to passive rejection. For two years, the scrying bowl had rippled, flashed, and gone dark and Ariadne knew that Dionysus had refused to answer her. She expected no more for this ritual; however this time the bowl cleared and she saw golden hair and white skin. For a moment her heart almost stopped with joy—and then she saw a strange face looking back at her.

The face was male but pretty as a girl's with long, golden hair and full pouting lips. It watched her throughout the completion of the ritual, giving her time to recognize that the prettiness was not nice; the eyes were too small and the nose was thin so that a tinge of viciousness marred the expression. And then she realized she knew the face from Dionysus' description.

"I am Lord Dionysus' priestess at Knossos," she said silently, not knowing whether Dionysus had told Bacchus anything about her. "I am instructed to Call the god for the ritual at this time of year. May I speak to Dionysus?"

Bacchus shook his head so that his golden curls danced and he smiled with a kind of glee, showing small, sharp teeth. "No. He doesn't wish to speak to you. He's still angry with you—oh, very angry. You are also to cease from Calling him. You disturb his sleep. I'll know if there are offerings, so there's no need for you to use the scrying bowl at all. Dionysus says you may watch over your precious brother."

The words did something to her heart so that the silver flower that enclosed it tightened painfully. "But I can't—" she cried, about to explain that there was no way for her to avoid using the scrying bowl. Her duty as a priestess demanded she perform the rituals and Calling was part of the ritual—only she wasn't permitted to finish. The scrying bowl went dark.

Half blind with tears, she rose, removed her clothes, and lay down on the icy altar. Only then did she hear the hopeful murmurs of her priestesses, who had understood by the delay as she held the scrying bowl that she was speaking and being answered. Since Dionysus had been the one to answer in the past, they were eagerly watching the painting, expecting Dionysus to appear before it. Ariadne got up at once and dressed. The god wouldn't come. He'd never come. Swallowing sobs, she waved a symbol of blessing at the few people in the shrine and fled to her chamber, knelt in front of his chair, laid her head on the seat, and wept.

By the time she rang for breakfast, she was cried out and in her misery had come to a decision. She would ignore Bacchus' order and Call her god at the times she should. If that made him angrier, perhaps he'd come to make her mad. At least she would see him.

For some reason that defiant decision cheered her up. She ate her breakfast and before her mood could slip into sadness again, Hagne appeared with a servant carrying a small old chest.

"It was right at the back of the old storeroom in the very darkest corner, covered with some boards," Hagne said, "almost as if someone wanted to hide it. So I thought . . . I thought there might be something special in it."

"Let's open it at once," Ariadne said, directing the servant to put it down and fetch tools.

If it were only a precious cache of jewels, she thought, she'd have an excuse to flout Bacchus' order immediately, but when the servant knelt to examine the lock and see what tools he would need, it became apparent that the chest wasn't locked at all. Ariadne and Hagne both sighed with disappointment, but Ariadne signaled for the man to open the box anyway.

Within was a bundle of threadbare silk garments, disintegrated too much even to be used as rags. Ariadne was just about to direct that they be discarded without further examination, when the servant lifted them out to see what was below and suddenly held the bundle toward her.

"Something is within, Lady," he murmured.

Ariadne looked at the bundle of rags and smiled. She was aware of a warmth, a sense of comfort, coming from what the servant held. She rose and came forward to take it from him, unaware that her hand had risen to her forehead in salute and that she had then knelt and held out her arms for the bundle. She gestured for the table that sat beside Dionysus' chair and laid the bundle on that to unwrap.

As the silks fell away, shredding more than unfolding, a gleaming black statuette was exposed. Without a sound Ariadne set it upright, first bowed her head, and then raised it and stared. It was an extremely simple, even stark, image of a woman. One could make out only a tall form, not obviously clothed but yet not naked, slender and yet with abundant breasts and full hips. The face was a mystery of hollows, the head crowned with a circlet of doves.

"Mother," Ariadne whispered, and felt a flicker of warmth, as if a finger had touched her cheek.

She rose then, surprised to see that Hagne and the servant were also kneeling. They got to their feet when she did, looking astonished at finding themselves down on their knees, but Ariadne made no comment, only telling them to take away the chest and the rotting silks. When they had left the room, she carried the statuette into her bedchamber and realized that there was a niche in the wall just opposite the bed. The statuette fit into it perfectly.

The image must have come from there, Ariadne thought. Who'd dared to remove it? And why? Dionysus? He was a jealous god; he had told her that. But the pang of anxiety she felt didn't last long. Dionysus had given her permission to dance for the Mother and said that everyone honored the Mother. And the comfort that flowed from the dark form was too precious to give up.

A small cup for incense was hollowed into the front of the niche. Ariadne put a ball of the stuff into the cup and pointed a finger to light it. As the smoke curled up, she examined the statuette more closely. It was clearly ancient, in a primitive style only seen in the deep caves used even before the palaces had been built. So old and so strong.

"Thank you for giving me the comfort of your presence, Mother," she murmured, and unable to resist, danced a few steps of the Welcome she would perform more fully only two days later when the moon was full. She could have sworn when she made a last bow that a shadow shifted among the hollows of the face so that it seemed to be smiling.

Returning briskly, completely refreshed, to the main chamber, she summoned both Hagne and Dido, telling the latter to bring the novices. She'd been teaching them simple supporting roles in the praise dance and now reviewed them to be sure they were move perfect. Then with the two older priestesses, she discussed what she and the girls would wear for the awakening ritual. By the time they had settled on the white dress flounced in gold and had the children try on their simpler costumes, it was time to eat.

Ariadne slipped asleep that night smiling, the last image she saw before she snuffed out her light, the dark form back where it belonged. Her chamber was suffused with peace, with hope.

Unfortunately what had been offered to her did not seem to extend over to her parents. After that first quarrel over Asterion's attendance at the Mother's festival when the child was three months old, they had seemed to settle into a kind of unity. If it wasn't as close as it had been before Asterion had been conceived, at least they were not so distant as to cast a pall over the ritual.

Tonight was different, worse, perhaps, than that first quarrel. They nearly spat the words that were supposed to be full of tenderness and exultation at each other. Ariadne felt leaden, oppressed. She was gasping with exhaustion when she sank down to wait for the moon to rise and there were no golden ribbons from which to draw warmth and strength.

"Forgive them. Forgive them," she prayed, but she could think of no reason to offer the Goddess to forgive and no excuse for her parents' behavior.

This night was dedicated to the Mother and all other problems should be set aside. Ariadne had buried her own sorrow and dismay when Dionysus no longer came to watch her dance. Why couldn't her mother and father think of the joy and the hope of renewal at the turning of the year? A warm breeze out of season fanned her hair as she pleaded for mercy without justice and gave her strength enough to finish her dance. She, as representative of the people of Crete, was loved and the Mother would let the earth awaken and new life begin, but the Goddess was not happy.

Ariadne expected that Phaidra would be at the shrine soon to discuss what had happened, but she didn't come. Less acutely aware of Phaidra's absence than she should have been because a surprising number of offerings had been delivered—a few stealthily but more quite openly—Ariadne did not inquire further. She wondered instead whether the Bull God's influence was waning. Perhaps that was why her mother was so desperate to force her to acknowledge and dance for him?

For almost a ten-day, Ariadne was quite busy arranging the gifts on the altar and placing any perishable material in stasis. She was vaguely aware that she no longer suffered cold and fatigue when doing magic, even the draining stasis spell, and if she did feel chilled she had only to go look at the black statuette to be warmed. That was a most pleasant surprise; an unpleasant one was when everything was taken from the altar. Dionysus had never before been greedy and had usually left behind most of the offerings for the use of the shrine.

It saddened her because she thought it another sign of his continued anger, but the warmth of the Mother that flowed from the dark image saved her from despair. However, once the flurry of activity generated by the offerings was over, Ariadne realized she had nothing to do. She couldn't, as Bacchus had sneeringly suggested, watch over her brother because she was forbidden to enter the palace. She'd tried once and a guard, although his face twisted with anxiety, had turned her away.

Now Ariadne came face-to-face with the results of her defiance of Pasiphae. Idleness began to plague her, and she began to seek occupation. Her first move was to practice the magic that Dionysus had taught her, but it came easily to her now and she was quite proficient enough to awe her priests and priestesses and any worshipers who came to the shrine. She examined the accounts that the priests kept—not that there was much in them anymore. She checked on the lessons that Dido was giving the novices and discovered that one, Sappho, could scry. She exercised her in that ability.

Somehow the days passed and it was time to bless the vines. She did the vineyards around Knossos, aware of shadowy forms watching her pass in her white gown and saluting, fist to forehead, when they saw her glowing staff. No one watched in Minos' vineyard; Ariadne hesitated before she blessed them but in the end she passed through. She wasn't so eager to be with Asterion as to punish her family over Pasiphae's prohibition. Perhaps Asterion would forget her; it would almost be a relief. If she never went near him again, would Dionysus forgive her?

She had no answer for that, but she had duties enough now. As she had, four times each year, she set out to visit the other shrines to Dionysus. These, she discovered, were far more prosperous than the shrine at Knossos. There were one or two temples going up to the Bull God, one near Phaistos and another near Mallia, but Pasiphae had not dared try to bring Asterion to them, so response to the new deity was tepid. The worship of Dionysus was still strong in the outlying places, since the harvests of grapes and the wine pressed from them were marvelous. More people watched her pass; she heard snatches of praise songs.

Still she wasn't sorry to tell her servants to turn her chariot toward home. In each place, although she was treated with honor, she was asked when the god would manifest himself to them again as he did the first time she came. It was Dionysus they wanted to see, not her, even though they knew she carried his blessing. She had no answer for them; her pride wouldn't let her say he was angry with her and would come no more.

When she arrived at the shrine at Knossos, she was relieved to hear from Hagne that her sister had come several times. Phaidra's long absence had been a worry at the back of her mind. Still, she was less than thrilled that as soon as she had washed and eaten, Hagne asked if she could send a messenger to the palace. Phaidra had demanded most anxiously to be told as soon as Ariadne was at home.

Ariadne sighed. She wasn't really in the mood to hear Phaidra complain—or gossip—but said one of the boy novices should bring Phaidra the news. The child was back too fast. He hadn't seen Phaidra, he admitted. The guard hadn't allowed him to seek her. Ariadne shrugged. She would hear her sister's troubles and gossip soon enough.

The idle thought was all too true. Ariadne had just finished her simple evening meal and was wondering what she should do until it was time for bed, when she heard Phaidra's voice.

"You must send for her." Phaidra was sobbing. "Is there no way you can send her a message to come home?"

"I'm here, love," Ariadne said, coming out into the courtyard.

She stopped abruptly and drew breath. Phaidra looked haggard and her eyes were staring wide.

"Oh, thank the Mother!" Phaidra leapt forward and seized her arm. "Come. You must come at once. The Bull God has gone completely mad."

"Oh, poor Asterion!" Ariadne exclaimed, allowing Phaidra to pull her a few steps forward. Then she stopped and shook her head. "They won't let me in."

"They will now," Phaidra cried, tugging at her. "Father has countermanded mother's order—and this time mother won't fight him. I tell you, the Bull God's gone mad."

Ariadne called behind her for someone to bring a cloak. "But why?" she asked as she hurried out with Phaidra, running along the road in response to her sister's demand. "What have they done to him? He was actually getting to like the ceremonies."

"It's because you haven't come to see him. He began to cry for `Ridne' the day of the praise-dance for the Mother and bellow your name as if he thought you would hear him. Father wanted to send for you, but mother said she'd never allow you to see him again until you acknowledged him as a god and danced worship."

"That's true," Ariadne said, stopping suddenly and jerking Phaidra to a halt beside her. "I'll gladly go to Asterion and soothe him if I can, but I won't call him a god and I won't dance for him. If that's what mother demands—"

"No." Phaidra pulled her forward again. "She must allow you to see him now. You see, she promised that if he went to the temple for the vine-quickening ceremonies she has devised, that you would come to see him again—she sets them for a few days after you've been out blessing the vines . . . as if that will fool anyone. He was angry when you didn't come at once, but mother told him you were visiting Prokris. Then today she wanted him to come to the temple and . . . and he went mad. He said—well, as much as he could—that he'd never go to the temple again until you came. So they tried to force him . . ."

"Fools!" Ariadne exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, they're fools. He nearly killed two of them."

"Oh, poor child—"

"Child!" Phaidra screeched. "You should see him. He's a foot taller than I and growing stronger by the minute."

"He's still a child, Phaidra," Ariadne snapped. "I don't care how tall he is or how strong. He's two years and two months old. It's because you all forget he's nothing but a baby that you have all this trouble with him. All two-year-olds are difficult."

"I tell you two men are nearly dead. One likely maimed for life. Two more are so bruised, they can barely walk—"

"That's because Asterion is strong as a man and has the sense only of a two-year-old. The fools always hit him instead of tempting him to do what they want in a way that will make him like to do it. If they aren't cleverer than a two-year-old . . . Does he ever strike at you, Phaidra?"

"No, but he pushes me away and says I'm not Ridne." Phaidra's voice was redolent of resentment.

Ariadne ignored that, knowing it was because Phaidra would never touch Asterion, never offer him affection even though she fed him and sometimes even played with him. "But he doesn't hurt you," she insisted, concentrating on what was important.

"No . . ." Phaidra drew out the word doubtfully. "Although sometimes," she added, as they entered the palace and threaded their way through the passages, "when he says, `Where Ridne?' I don't like the look in his eyes."

"He's probably trying—"

Ariadne stopped abruptly after they passed her father's apartments and the sound of Asterion's bellowing reached them. She wondered how Pasiphae, who was much closer could bear it but only began to run, stopping, shocked at the volume of sound coming through his closed door. Closed and barred.

"What is the need for this?" she cried.

"He's trying to get out," one attendant said, his voice quavering. He was badly bruised all along one side of his body, as if he'd been thrown against a wall or to the ground with great force.

"You idiot!" Ariadne exclaimed. "How are you going to feed him? How am I going to get in to calm him?"

"I won't open the door. I won't! He'll rush out and kill us before he even sees you. He tried to kill the queen."

What the man said was all too likely. A two-year-old in a tantrum isn't the most reasonable of creatures. It was indeed likely that Asterion might do considerable damage—to her as well as to his attendants—if he got out.

"Asterion!" Ariadne shouted, pressing herself against the door. "Asterion, be quiet. It's Ariadne. If you are quiet, I'll come in and play with you."

The effort, although she repeated it several times, was a waste. Her voice could hardly be heard above Asterion's bellowing even on this side of the door; it must have been completely obliterated on the other. She was at her wits' end, weeping a little as she remembered how Dionysus had come to help her in the past. Fortunately thinking of him recalled to her mind a trick of magic he had taught her to impress those in a large temple or an open shrine. She could make her voice go far from her and sound in a person's ear.

"Asterion," she sent out. "Asterion, Ariadne is here. If you stop yelling and sit down quietly, I'll come in and play with you. But you mustn't be angry any more. I was far away, love. I couldn't come right away. But I'm here now."

About half way through the speech, the bawling began to diminish. By the end, it had stopped.

"Will you sit still while I come in, love?" Ariadne called through the door.

"Sitting," Asterion roared. "Ridne come in. No one else."

Without waiting for help, Ariadne pushed up the bar securing the door, opened it just enough to enter, and ran in. Asterion leapt to his feet and rushed at her, enveloping her in his arms, crying, "Ridne. Ridne."

Swallowing hard, Ariadne returned his embrace. He was now a head taller than she, he smelled like an overworked ox, and his arms were so strong she had to beg him to be gentle. He relaxed his grip at once, bending his head down toward her, but sidelong so the horns would not touch her.

"No hurt Ridne," he said. "Love Ridne."

"Yes, and I love you too, Asterion." She kissed his cheek, tears of pity hanging in her eyes because she didn't really love him, only pitied him.

His bull's mouth tried to imitate a smile. "Ridne stay? Play?"

"Yes, I'll play with you. Go get the toys you want to show me."

He went to the side of the chamber and lifted a whole chest. Her eyes widened; it would have taken two normal men to lift that weight, but Asterion carried it and put it down beside her without apparent effort. Ariadne swallowed and sank to the floor as he opened the chest. He was making happy, chortling noises. She decided that this would be a good time to reprimand him. It was close enough to the time that he'd misbehaved that he would remember, but in his first joy over seeing her he might be more amenable than a two-year-old usually was.

"Asterion, you've been very naughty, hurting your servants."

"Lied! She lies! Promised Ridne."

"But I've come, dear." It was unlikely that Asterion could remember how long it was since Pasiphae made the promise. "I was far away. I didn't know you wanted me. I came home last night and, see, I've come at once to you."

"Went to temple. No Ridne came." He shook his heavy head. "No Ridne. No temple."

"But you like to go to the temple now, Asterion. You like to see the priests and priestesses dance."

"People come after. Too long. Seat hurts."

"If I speak to mother, love, and she promises to make the ceremony of offering shorter, will you go to the temple when she asks?"

He looked at her, looked away. Plainly he didn't wish to answer. Ariadne felt it would be unwise to push him too hard. Asterion took several tops from the chest and began to spin them one after the other so cleverly that they interwove in a complicated pattern. Ariadne watched. Strength and dexterity seemed to be his Gifts, but what good were they? What he needed was understanding to match his growth of body. As the idea came into her mind so did the blasphemous thought that none of the gods seemed to have much in the way of either understanding or wisdom. Only the Mother . . .

How could a god lack wisdom? The question sent a chill down Ariadne's back. She pushed the rebellious thought away and gave her attention to Asterion, clapping her hands and uttering cries of praise as he pulled a snakelike toy with segments that glittered through the path of the whirling tops. Those he kept in action by snatching each as it barely began to wobble and spinning it again. Then he got his wagon and pulled that around the perimeter of the spinning tops to add to the glitter and the noise. After a time, however, he picked up each wobbler and tossed it into the wagon.

Ariadne searched in the chest and brought out several puzzles. Asterion didn't like these so much, but he did put the large pieces where they belonged—if Ariadne chose the piece and showed him the spot. She noted sadly that he still didn't seem to make any sense out of the distinctive shapes. Nor could he send a ball through a simple maze. It wasn't any fault in his ability to make the ball go anywhere he wanted. He just didn't seem able to grasp the clear, if physically convoluted, pattern to bring it home.

Since those games had annoyed him, Ariadne found one she had never been able to master herself. It consisted of a ball and a paddle with a cup at the base. The idea was to start with the ball in the cup, toss it out so that it could be hit with the paddle, and then catch it in the cup and repeat. The paddle could be used to bounce the ball off the floor or the walls. Ariadne could do it a few times; then she either failed to hit it or catch it. Asterion just went on and on, chasing the ball around the room as paddle strokes sent it up, down, and across, sometimes even awry. Unerringly he caught the ball each time.

"Oh, love, you're making me dizzy," Ariadne cried at last. "Aren't you hungry? It's surely time for the midday meal."

"Temple in afternoon," he said, catching the ball one last time and giving the toy to Ariadne.

"You will go, won't you?" she asked. "I can't stay and play longer today anyhow. I have other duties. Won't you let your servants come in and bring your food and dress you?"

"Shorter time?"

"Not this ceremony, love. Just be a little patient until I have a chance to speak to the queen. But I won't tell you lies. If she won't shorten the making of offerings, I'll tell you true."

"Ridne never lies. Come tomorrow? Please?"

"Oh, Asterion—" she put her arms around him and hugged him tight, kissed his cheek "—I don't know. I'll try to come. I will try."

"Ridne come. Bull God go to temple."

Possibly the attendant waiting outside the chamber heard what Asterion had said; his voice was loud and penetrating even when he wasn't deliberately shouting. In any case, there was no problem about her admission to Asterion the next day or at any other time. His attendants, who had been indifferent, sullen, or actively hostile in the past, now welcomed her with smiles and bows. She ventured a few words of advice on Asterion's management. And, although Pasiphae wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't even look at her, Ariadne was able to pass Asterion's request for shorter offering ceremonies to her through Phaidra.

Whether the processions were curtailed for that reason or because the original fervor of worship was wearing thin, Ariadne didn't know and didn't care. Asterion went to the ceremonies without complaint and seemed content. His condition improved too; his fur gleamed with brushing and his odor decreased. He still greeted her with shrieks of joy, but she felt there was less desperation in his voice. And one attendant even thanked her for reminding them that Asterion was no more than a baby despite his size.

Relative peace descended on palace, temple, and shrine, and the vines that Ariadne had blessed were blossoming with even more than their usual abundance. Two years of bountiful harvests and wines that fermented sweet and rich were bringing prosperity to Crete. Even if no one had dared scant the Bull God—and a few did dare—there was enough to spare for an offering to honor Dionysus. More sacrifices arrived at the shrine every day. As the spring equinox approached, Ariadne began to worry about what would happen at the ritual because Pasiphae had arranged ceremonies at the Bull God's temple on the same day. Ariadne didn't really believe her mother had accepted defeat on the subject of her daughter's service; however, the one disturbance that occurred wasn't caused by Asterion or Pasiphae.

Bacchus' face appeared in Ariadne's scrying bowl again when she Called Dionysus and he snarled that she'd been ordered not to Call the god ever again. Less shocked and unprepared this time, Ariadne snapped back that she had no choice. As high priestess she must perform the ritual, and the ritual demanded a Calling of the god.

"Tell Dionysus that if he wishes me to stop Calling him, he must come and change the ritual himself. I haven't the power to do that."

A look of such frustrated fury, mingled with fear, appeared on Bacchus' face at her words, that Ariadne suddenly began to wonder if Dionysus even knew of Bacchus' order that she stop Calling him. Was it possible for a god not to know what his own servants were doing? She was hardly aware of undressing, lying on the altar, then rising and dressing again.

Then a less frightening notion occurred to her. Was it possible that Dionysus' anger against her had been kept alive by a companion jealous of the god's attention? Hadn't Pasiphae brought the Bull God upon Knossos because she was envious of Ariadne's contact with a god?

Ariadne was enough cheered by the idea that Dionysus' rage was not self-sustaining that she actually looked at the worshipers in the court. She was surprised by how much larger the group was than she expected, and even more surprised to see among them her brother Androgeos. He was the favorite of all her siblings, but it was not an unadulterated joy to see him there because she suspected he had not come to worship.

Just before she gave a blessing to the crowd, he caught her eye and made a small gesture to indicate he wished to wait and speak to her when she had dismissed the others, which confirmed her suspicions. As the gate closed behind the last person, Androgeos came forward and saluted her courteously.

"Won't Queen Pasiphae be furious if she hears you were at my ritual instead of at hers?" Ariadne asked.

"No, because she sent me to see whether the god came and, if he didn't, to try to convince you to join the Bull God's ritual."

"Ritual? That's a blasphemy," Ariadne said coldly. "Asterion is no god, and you know it, and King Minos knows it, and I'm reasonably sure even Queen Pasiphae knows it, no matter how blind an eye she turns."

Androgeos sighed. "The service you would give would have little enough to do with the Bull God. It's no pleasure to me either to prostrate myself before a mindless monster and call it a god, but—"

"He's not mindless," Ariadne protested. "He's only two years old! Do you think you were so wise and perfect when you were two years old?"

"I know he's two years old! Pasiphae makes a great point that he was born out of her body only two years ago. He's as tall as I and stronger . . . and that's the only miracle she can claim for him."

"Well, his size does prove he's Poseidon's get and must be cherished. But worshiped? No. At least, not by me."

"There are other reasons," Androgeos said urgently.

Ariadne saw she wouldn't escape argument so easily. She sighed and gestured for Androgeos to follow her down the corridor. Since it was daylight and she knew the way well, no lamps were alight; however, it was dim in the passage and Androgeos, being a stranger, stumbled. Ariadne immediately waved at the lamps, which lit. She opened the door and entered her apartment, stepping back so her brother could come in.

"And those reasons?" she asked, gesturing at the door, which closed.

Androgeos didn't answer at once, looking around at the now sparsely furnished and elegant room. A few sets of marvelously carved chairs were grouped around low, round, matching wood tables. Another set, two chairs and a loveseat, flanked an oblong table of ivory. Toward the back of the room, nearest to the light well was a cushioned single chair with a low stool and a gilded table beside it. On the table was a golden bowl.

"Please sit," she said, pointing at the loveseat and then at a brazier in which the charcoal immediately began to burn.

Androgeos stared, looking from the glowing coals to his sister's face. Doubt showed in his expression, but after a moment his mouth set hard and he sat down. Ariadne sighed and took the chair opposite.

"You're looking very well, Ariadne," Androgeos began. "You've grown quite beautiful, and it seems you've gained some power of your own. Nonetheless, Dionysus hasn't returned for two years. If he'd wished to keep his worshipers and contest the influence of the Bull God, he'd have done it sooner."

"Why should he? Do you think Crete is important to him? Doesn't Egypt grow grapes? Greece? Sicily? Biblos and Babylon? Dionysus has enough to do without caring about Crete. He gave me the power to bless the grapes and he gave his warning when Asterion was born. If Knossos won't listen, the grief will fall on their heads, not his."

"But don't you see that you can prevent any grief from coming to us?"

"It's too late, I fear," Ariadne said. "I don't think that anything can shield Knossos now."

"Yes. You can. The miracle of the grapes is renewed every year. If you danced at the Bull God's temple—"

"No." The answer was flat, uncompromising. "I dance for the Mother. I am priestess for and perform the ritual for the god Dionysus. I will worship no other god."

"Why not?" Androgeos was annoyed. "Everyone brings offerings to many shrines."

"That's quite different. I, too, might bring doves to Aphrodite's shrine to pray for success with a lover, as a private person, as the girl Ariadne. I wouldn't perform any ritual of worship as a priestess."

"This is a matter of trade and politics, not worship," Androgeos pointed out. "Did you know that mother has invited envoys from many nations and city-states to come and see the Bull God made flesh?"

Ariadne shrugged. "Let them look. Asterion is real enough—"

"Real, yes, but no god. He—he has no presence. I was here when Dionysus appeared. I—I knew—" He stopped abruptly, then went on as if he were still speaking of Asterion. "The envoys from Egypt already have doubts. They were astounded on first seeing him and prostrated themselves on the ground, intoning hymns . . . which started him bellowing because he wanted his dancers. They were startled and withdrew, fearing they had offended somehow, but the second time they came, although they had come with rich gifts to appease him . . . they weren't quite so impressed. You know their ideas of the ka and the ba. I heard one say the beast had no ka, that it was soulless."

Sighing, Ariadne said sadly, "He's only a baby. If only mother weren't so impatient. As he gets older, he'll learn to behave in a more dignified fashion . . . I think."

"It will be long too late. The Egyptians have great influence. If they say we worship a false god—"

"Why should they? They don't say the gods of the Greeks are false, even though they're far different from their own. Why should they deny Knossos its god?"

"Because it's a travesty of their own, which are also animal-headed? Because they don't wish to share their kind of god with us?" Androgeos shook his head. "It doesn't matter why. We need the respect, even the fear, of Egypt and others to assist in treaty making and trade agreements. Fear of our god—a god made manifest in the flesh and attending to our affairs—is less expensive and perhaps less dangerous than a large army and a great fleet of fighting ships."

"Well, perhaps . . . But I don't see what this has to do with me."

"A god works miracles, sometimes by his own hand, sometimes through his priests or priestesses. You work miracles. If you are the Bull God's priestess, then perhaps his deficiencies will be less noticed. If his mere priestess can work wonders, they'll believe he must be a true god."

"First, I don't work miracles. The blessing of the grapes—"

"I saw you light the lamps, the brazier, close the door without touching any of them."

Ariadne shook her head. "That's magic, not a god-given Gift. I wouldn't cheapen worship with such tricks."

"All the more then should you be willing to `conjure' for the good of Crete. You aren't offering true worship so you'll be doing nothing offensive to your god."

"You can only say that because you don't know Dionysus. He certainly would take offense—violent offense."

"How will he know if he never comes?" Androgeos asked, almost sneering. Ariadne shuddered and drew back a little into her chair. Misinterpreting her reaction, Androgeos said, "Very well, if you won't dance, then you won't, but if you would simply stand beside the Bull God and, say, light the torches with a gesture—"

Although Androgeos' question had awakened a persistent anxiety strongly enough to send a chill over Ariadne's flesh—shouldn't a god know what his priestess was doing whether or not he was present physically? Yet Ariadne had good evidence—from Dionysus' own lips—that he did not know, that he hadn't even known that his favorite priestess, the first Ariadne, had died. But it didn't matter whether Dionysus ever knew she had supported the worship of the Bull God. The thought made her sick with revulsion.

"No!"

"You spend hours with him every day. Why won't you spend a little more time and do your people a great good? If we can only confirm the Bull God as a true deity, the profit to Knossos would be enormous."

"Profit," Ariadne said flatly. So Minos was involved.

"Yes, profit," Androgeos returned. "Do you think anyone cares for the actual blessing of the grapes? They care for the juice they will press from them, the wine they will ferment and sell for . . . yes . . . profit."

"Don't talk like a fool," Ariadne snapped. "I have no scorn of profit. Nor am I in any doubt about the value of treaties and trade agreements. A rich people is a happy people. But I tell you, there will be no profit in trying to make Asterion appear what he is not."

Androgeos' lips twisted. "You speak as Mouth?"

"No, I speak as a person of common sense who isn't caught up in a crazy dream. What will happen when a treaty or trade agreement is violated? Do you expect poor Asterion to shake the earth or cast lightning?"

"If crops were blighted—"

Androgeos bit his lip. Clearly he hadn't intended to say so much and, indeed, it revealed how Minos and Pasiphae had planned to draw her step by step into becoming a priestess of the Bull God.

Ariadne stood up. "You're mad! I'm not Demeter. I can't do such a thing, and if I could, I wouldn't!"

Androgeos did not stir. "I tell you that not only mother but father is set on the idea of confirming the Bull God as a deity." His tone was threatening.

Ariadne laughed. "King Minos intends to attack the high priestess of Dionysus? He'll put me in prison? He'll torture me? What will he do when the grapes rot on the vine and the wine is bitter as gall? What will he do if Dionysus—despite the fact that he hasn't come to the ritual—runs through Crete as he ran though Thebes?" She shrugged. "There's nothing with which you can bribe me or threaten me. I'll always be kind to Asterion because he's my little brother, because he loves me and needs me. I will not encourage the belief that he is a god."

"You will bring upon Knossos the destruction you Mouthed."

Ariadne again shrugged her indifference. "Perhaps. Perhaps if Queen Pasiphae hadn't chosen me to be Dionysus' priestess, the god wouldn't have answered the Call; Pasiphae wouldn't have become envious and coupled with Poseidon; Asterion would never have been born. So perhaps I am responsible. But nothing I do or don't do now will have any effect. If you want magical trickery and much finer than I can do, go to Daidalos. He will create much more convincing and spectacular miracles."

"You don't understand. Father hasn't spoken one word to Daidalos since . . . since the Bull God was conceived and has taken away many of his stipends and privileges—"

"Then this is a good time for them to be reconciled. King Minos shouldn't blame a servant for yielding to Pasiphae, to whom he, himself, yielded." She looked away for a moment and then looked back. "And I fear that Daidalos' arts will be urgently needed if the king and queen continue to tread the path they are now walking."

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Framed