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CHAPTER 7

Ariadne's first instinct upon being struck was to Call for Dionysus. Not that her mother had never slapped her before, but that she should dare strike her when in full regalia as high priestess was terrible. As swiftly as her anger flared, it died in cold terror. If she Called Dionysus he would come—and her mother would die, likely at the hands of her own maids. She shuddered. Could she ever again nestle trustingly in Dionysus' arms when her mother's blood dyed them?

She righted herself. "I will not Call my lord, who would shed your blood. You were my mother, and kin-blood stains deep. But the blessing on grape and wine will be withheld from this house alone of all on Crete until you come to my lord's shrine, where I will now live, to make sacrifice and restitution. Remember that, Queen Pasiphae."

On the words she swept out of the apartment, barely acknowledging the salute of the guard. She had intended to go back to the chamber she shared with Phaidra, but her feet did not carry her to the stair just outside her mother's bedchamber door, which would have taken her up there. Instead she went directly out through the southern portico, across the grassy area at the back to the road, which took her to Gypsades Hill and her temple. There was nothing she had left behind that she cared about—except Phaidra.

Ariadne bit her lip, remembering that she was abandoning her poor sister to bear her mother's ill will and to pick up all the tasks that had been hers. But there was no going back. She would have to explain what had happened to Phaidra and, if necessary, offer her a sanctuary in the shrine.

When she reached the temple, she sent one of the boy to the palace to seek out her sister and bring her to the shrine. Although the child didn't return with Phaidra until near dusk, the interview wasn't as painful as Ariadne expected.

"I didn't dare come sooner," Phaidra said, after kissing her sister. "What happened? Mother told me you were dead! If your little acolyte hadn't caught me on my way to answer her summons and told me you were here waiting for me, I would've died of fright myself. Whatever did you say to her?"

"I told her a truth she didn't want to hear." Ariadne hesitated and then continued, "Do you remember, Phaidra how frightened you were last ten-day? Do you remember telling me that something dreadful was about to happen?"

"But nothing did happen." Phaidra smiled. "You were right when you scolded me for frightening myself with boggles and loving doom and gloom."

Ariadne took a deep breath. "Something dreadful has happened. The thing mother and Daidalos were doing together was turning mother into a cow so that the bull from the sea would couple with her."

"No," Phaidra said, revulsion clear in face and voice. "That's impossible. I've seen a bull coupling with a cow. No woman could . . ."

"It wasn't the bull," Ariadne said. "It was Poseidon. Lord Dionysus Saw that in a Vision. He knows Poseidon. He said it was Poseidon's revenge, that as father had kept his bull to couple with our cows, he would couple with father's cow."

"Oh!" Phaidra now looked delighted. "If it was the god, then all's well. It's not as if mother took another man to her bed and shamed father. A god . . ."

Ariadne's lips parted, then closed. She'd spoken her warning to Pasiphae and been rejected. In a moon or two, she would speak the same warning to her father—after Dionysus had blessed the budding vines and Minos could see that his were scanty and weak compared with those on the rest of Crete. Perhaps Minos would finally sacrifice the bull and convince Pasiphae she had made a mistake. But there was no sense in frightening Phaidra. There was nothing the child could do, so why make her miserable?

"Father didn't like it," Ariadne then said mildly, "but he and mother must work that out for themselves. It's you I'm worried about. As you know, mother took ill what I said to her and I can't come back to the palace, which means, my love, that all the chores and all mother's demands will fall upon you. What I wanted to tell you was that you can come here and live with me if mother makes you unhappy."

"Oh no." Phaidra smiled and her eyes were bright. "She's been very kind to me, saying I'm now her only daughter and her only support."

"Very well," Ariadne agreed, surprised at her feeling of relief and only then realizing that she didn't want Phaidra there when Dionysus came. Ashamed of herself, she added, "If you're content, then I am also. Just remember that you may come to me for help if you need it."

When she made that offer, Ariadne had no idea that her promise would deeply involve her in the disaster she had fled. For a few ten-days she did worry about receiving an hysterical Phaidra and then having to outface her mother to protect her sister, but that didn't happen. Phaidra did make several visits to Dionysus' shrine, but she came only to giggle and gossip, to report that their mother was so busy with some plans of her own that Phaidra could do much as she pleased, and to assure Ariadne that she wasn't at all missed at the palace.

Had Ariadne not herself been busier and happier than ever before in her life, Phaidra's remarks might have been cruel. As it was, they added another layer of gladness to a life that seemed all delight. The pleasures had begun simply enough the morning after Phaidra's visit when Ariadne got out of bed and realized she had nothing to wear except the far too elaborate consecration gown and that she could no longer hope her father would supply her with a new wardrobe. That drove her first to questioning the priestess who brought her a fast-breaking meal about the possibility of having clothing made from the cloth in the chests and thence to the discovery that all the old priestess's clothing was stored with the extra furniture.

Examination of this treasure trove proved fruitful. At the end of her life, the old priestess had shrunken so that most of the newer clothing was a reasonably good fit for Ariadne. Moreover, in the last months of her life, she had found the heavy flounced formal skirts too much of a burden and that the bodices, which exposed breasts flabby and flapping with age, were no longer flattering. She had had made several straight gowns, elaborately embroidered and of beautiful cloth—and then had taken to her bed and never left it so the gowns had never been worn.

Ariadne immediately adopted all of those, directing that they be well shaken and hung in the fresh air. Much of the remainder of the clothing was too rich for Ariadne's taste, but when she considered that she might have to receive those who wished to worship at Dionysus' shrine and make sacrifice, she reexamined the chest contents. There were two garments she selected to be refreshed with the gowns she planned to use for common wear. One had a straight gold underskirt with at least twenty rows of black flounces trimmed and embroidered in gold; the bodice was also black but up the sides and around the breasts it was densely embroidered with vines. The second was the deep red of wine. This skirt wasn't flounced but stiffened into a firm bell shape with bands of gold—real, beaten gold—engraved with bunches of grapes. The bodice looked at first to be solid gold too, but when Ariadne lifted it she realized it was thin leather, embossed with grapes and lightly gilded.

"She never wore the black one," the priestess attending Ariadne said. "After she ordered it made, she said the color made her sad. And she wore the red one only once. It was too heavy for her. She was very frail in the end."

"She lived a long life," Ariadne said without much sympathy, thinking of the threadbare robes of the attendants and the wizened grapes and sour wine. As she spoke she had lifted out a skirt that was not only dirty but torn. "What is this?" she asked.

The priestess shrugged. "She never threw away anything or—" she hesitated and then went on somewhat uncertainly "—or allowed us to use what she no longer wanted."

A hint? Ariadne hesitated. Her first impulse was always to give, but young as she was, she had already discovered that generosity, far from breeding gratitude, usually only induced greed and resentment. Nonetheless, this seemed reasonable enough and might also serve as a test.

"That's not sensible," she said. "What good are torn, dirty gowns in the bottom of a chest? But I have no more time to spend on this. You may look through all the chests of clothing. Remove what is dirty and torn. Unless it's set with precious stones or gold, you may use what you think will be useful. Lord Dionysus told me to sell the furniture that's been piled in the storeroom and to use that money to have one or more new storerooms carved into the hill. I'm sure that means the more valuable garments that won't befit me must also be sold. He'll come soon to bless the vines and again in the summer to bless the grapes. I suspect that there will be more offerings after each blessing, so we'd better be ready."

"Yes, indeed," the priestess breathed, eyes glowing with fervor, and then, nearly whispering, "When he comes, may we see him?"

Ariadne smiled. "I don't know when he'll come. I'm only his priestess, and he says no more to me than `I will come to bless the vines.' But if you wish and you think the other priestess and priests would wish, I can ask Lord Dionysus if I might present you to him." She hesitated, then added, "Don't be troubled if it isn't this time. He can be a very angry god, and I'll wait until he's calm and pleased before I ask."

"Oh, yes!"

There was no doubt in Ariadne's mind about the sincerity of the priestess's reply. Ariadne suspected that she, her sister priestess and the priests might have been barely touched by an overflow of Dionysus' rage when he thought he had been offered an unfit sacrifice. But she said nothing about that nor made the smallest attempt to reduce the awe the priestess felt. She was sure it was only by virtue of that awe that she was minutely and instantly obeyed. Instead she turned the subject and asked whether among them the priests and priestesses knew who would be likely to buy what the temple had to sell or who could carve the new storerooms into the hill.

She learned that in the past traders came regularly to the temple to buy those offerings that the old priestess didn't wish to keep for herself. They had come after news of Dionysus' appearance had spread, but the priests had sent them away because Ariadne had said all would be offered to the god and this time the god would accept the sacrifices.

"Well," she said, "Lord Dionysus has taken what he wanted and bade me sell the rest, so the traders may be told to come again. Tell me how the old priestess managed her dealings with such men and women."

Although Ariadne had no fondness and little respect for the avaricious grandmother who had lost the favor of the god, she wasn't such a fool as to reject her devices for getting a good bargain. She had even an extra lever with which to pry out a good price. Gowned in lavender embroidered in green vines on which were suspended amethyst grapes, she shook her elaborately coiffed head at the ridiculous offers the first traders made to one they thought a gullible child.

"It's by Lord Dionysus' order that these things are offered for sale. He desires to do good by giving employment to the poor—" she offered a cold smile "—perhaps so that they can afford to buy more wine, in carving out new storerooms in the hillside. Consider then that what you offer for the god's goods must include a sacrifice to him as well as a fair price."

Two of the men paled. They'd been in the crowd and seen Dionysus appear, had been touched by the god-induced fury that could have destroyed them all, and had witnessed how the god cut off sound and then sight from them. To cheat a child was one thing; to cheat such a god another. Prices were hurriedly revised upward until Ariadne nodded graciously, accepting what she felt was fair. She was a little nervous, not wanting to use the traders' fear of Dionysus to gouge them, but was satisfied when she saw pleasure and relief on several faces.

She spent a happy ten-day at this employment, in choosing and having made an entire wardrobe, and in selecting a work gang. Having discussed with the overseer of the gang where she wanted the storerooms and how she wanted them protected from damp and collapse, she had begun to wonder what next to do when she was wakened from sleep by Dionysus' Call.

"I'll come after midday," the voice in her head informed her, and then, with a touch of coldness, "I thought you'd Call me."

"My lord, I was afraid—"

"Never mind. Be waiting at the altar for me."

And he was gone from her consciousness, but the coldness in his voice had brought back to her her dismal failure as a Mouth. She'd managed to put Pasiphae's rejection of her warning out of her mind while she was successfully performing other duties her god had demanded, but now she'd have to confess.

Fortunately it wasn't long until dawn because she slept no more that night nor could she eat what the servants brought her in the morning. When they arrived, she sent the workmen away from the shrine and, after the priestesses had helped her to dress her hair and arrange her black gown, she ordered them to keep strictly to their quarters and make sure the novices and priests did also.

"The Lord Dionysus isn't pleased," she told them. "I have failed as his Mouth. I spoke as he bade me, but I wasn't able to accomplish his purpose."

"We'll keep to our quarters," the older priestess assured her and then, with tears in her eyes, whispered, "Surely he won't punish you for failing. You're so young and of such good heart—"

"Enough!" Ariadne said. "Lord Dionysus is my lord and my god. What he does is right and good to me."

She was kneeling on the altar when he came, facing the painting before which he always appeared. She jumped when he spoke, for she had been kneeling there for some time and had closed her tired eyes.

"Holy Mother," he said. "For what are you dressed?"

"For confession. I have failed you, my lord."

The overlarge blue eyes became even larger and brighter. "Failed me how?"

Ariadne swallowed. "I spoke as you bade me, but it was too late. As you Saw, my mother had already coupled with the bull that was Poseidon and she said she had conceived. I told her that what she carried was a curse, Poseidon's revenge, and she should be rid of it, but she wouldn't heed me. I have failed as your Mouth."

"Oh, that." Dionysus shrugged. "That's no failure. So long as you gave the warning, if she wouldn't listen the consequences will be on her head. The Vision no longer troubles me, so I'm satisfied." He smiled suddenly. "Was that why you didn't Call me, because you were afraid I would blame you for not being able to force the queen of Crete to your will?"

"That and because you told me not to Call you for my own pleasure. It's very hard, my lord, to know when I'm using a duty only to have you near and give me pleasure."

He laughed at that and said, "I promised to bless the vines and I don't like to fail in a promise. I also have a terrible memory and could easily have forgotten you, so you should have Called. If that duty is a pleasure, so much the better for us both."

She smiled in response. "I won't fail again—" and then she frowned. "At least, not in Calling you—and I won't Call at daybreak, I promise."

"No, because . . ." He hesitated, stared into her eyes for a moment, and then looked away. "For now we will bless the vines on a moonless night when there are none to see us." He reached out and took her chin in his hand. "You are too young now to celebrate the blessing as many priestesses do." He laughed again when he saw her worried expression. "And you needn't fear. The vines and the wine will not suffer."

"Oh, thank you my lord. Thank you. You must be the kindest god in the world."

He looked away from her and a slight shiver passed over him. "Not always."

She knew that, had felt his rage, but she touched his hand. "You are kind to me . . . without failing."

He cocked his head as if listening to something she hadn't said aloud, then shook it. "Come down off that stone, child, and tell me why a shadow comes over your face each time you speak of failing."

She tried to rise, but found her legs were numb and he shook his head again and scolded her gently for kneeling for so long. Then he picked her up as if she had no weight at all and carried her into her chamber. By the time he set her down, she could stand, but he wouldn't let her kneel again when he sat in his chair and she fetched cushions to sit beside him. Before she sat down, however, she asked if he had eaten and he said he hadn't.

"I enjoy company when I eat," he said, "and at home I have none."

"I'll very gladly eat with you," Ariadne replied, grinning, "if it pleases you, my lord. To speak the truth, I'm starving, for I feared you'd be very angry with me and had no stomach for my bread and cheese this morning."

"You are responsible for telling my Visions. You aren't responsible for the acts of those whom the Visions concern unless they concern you or this shrine." He blinked, then frowned. "I don't even know if it's possible to act in such a way as to change my Visions." His frown grew blacker. "I don't know why the Visions are sent to me . . ."

Ariadne bent forward and took his hands. "You'll worry less about Visions when your belly is full," she said. "Give me leave to send for the priestesses . . ." She hesitated, saw that he was smiling at her, and added, "They've begged me to allow them to see you. Are you willing for me to present them to you today?"

"So long as they bring a good meal with them," he said.

She didn't reply but went to ring the bell that brought the priestesses to her and instructed the women to bring the platter she had had prepared at the beginning of the ten-day and had put into stasis. When she took the large platter to carry it to Dionysus, she told the priestess to be sure that she and the priests be dressed in their best. After Lord Dionysus had eaten, he had agreed that they should be presented to him.

As she carried the tray in, she dissolved the spell of stasis. Immediately wisps of steam rose from the tureen of soup and from several platters. Dionysus turned his head toward the enticing odors.

"How did you do that?" he asked. "Was a meal ready that you snatched out of the mouths of your household?"

Ariadne laughed merrily. "I'm not so improvident as to feed my household on dishes like these," she said. "We eat well, but these are dainties prepared for a grand state dinner. One of the palace cooks has a soft spot in his heart for me. He heard I was living here instead of in the palace and wasn't invited, so he sent word that he'd save a selection for me. You may be sure I went with the servant and put a stasis on the tray. And here it is."

"You saved it all for me?" Dionysus asked softly.

"Except for a few pieces of meat and stuffed grape leaves," Ariadne replied. "I had to make sure the stasis would work on the hot food, so I put a bit aside and had it for dinner two days after. It was still hot then, so I hoped it would keep until you came, and it seems to have done so."

He looked at her; his lips parted as if to speak, but he said nothing and looked away to pick up a skewer with which he chose a small sizzling roll of hashed stuffing in a pastry shell. Having burnt his tongue and breathed out heavily to cool it, he remarked that the little roll was delicious, skewered another, and told Ariadne to join him. Before she sat, she ladled some soup from the tureen to a bowl. There were several of those and she served herself also. They both ate in appreciative silence for a little while.

"I have a poor memory," Dionysus said suddenly, "but not so bad that I have forgotten your worry over the word `failure.' Were you hoping to distract me with this meal?"

Ariadne caught the slight sharpness in the question and didn't convey to her mouth the slice of sauced meat she had folded into a bite-sized piece with her skewer. "Oh, no, my lord," she said. "Although I do hope that I did what you will think is right, I need your advice on how to proceed further."

"Yes?" Impatience in the tone and flick of the eyes.

"When I told Queen Pasiphae of your Vision, she was very rude. I know that you might have had her torn apart for her lack of respect, but she was my mother, my lord."

Dionysus made a dissatisfied but accepting grunt, then sighed and nodded.

"So I told her that the blessing of vine and wine would be withheld from Knossos alone of all places on Crete until apology and restitution were made."

He was silent, thinking while he chewed slowly, then nodded and said. "I do approve. Although my punishment would have been harsher, a priestess shouldn't shed kin-blood. But if you've pronounced sentence already, about what do you need my advice?"

"My lord," Ariadne said, downcast eyes fixed on her folded hands, "I know what will happen and I am torn two ways. Pasiphae will make no apology nor restitution of any kind, but King Minos will come and plead with me to forgive them both and will offer sacrifice and his own apology." She looked up, her big black eyes pleading. "Please, my lord, I know the queen deserves punishment, but must I ruin Minos and those who were my brothers because she is unmanageable?"

"You mean King Minos will sacrifice and beg pardon but he can't force his wife to do so?"

"That's true, my lord. The queen is the avatar of the Snake Goddess . . . and she is, truly. She always knows who will leap the bulls safely and what the pattern of the bull dances means. By that pattern is the planting done. She knows, too, when the land will shake. The people wouldn't permit her to be scorned or harmed. King Minos really cannot force her."

Dionysus looked away from her, out the window onto the hillside where the long shadows of late afternoon were beginning to fade into a generalized dusk. Ariadne studied his face and saw in it uneasiness mingled with irritation and then, following a sidelong glance at her, resignation.

"Queen Pasiphae emerges then free of any flick of punishment or shadow of blame while everyone else pays for her sins?"

Ariadne sighed. "That's how it often is."

Dionysus uttered a sharp bark of laughter without any mirth in it. "Not this time," he said, and then patted Ariadne, who had drawn in her breath and paled. "No, she won't meet her doom through me. I'll hold my hand. Her death would be a reward to those who let her run amuck and though your heart is soft for love of them, they must suffer too. No, no. I need do nothing. If Queen Pasiphae bears what she carries . . ." He shrugged. "You may make whatever arrangement you think best with King Minos—so long as he knows for whose guilt he is paying. But do you know the bounds of the land that's Minos' own?"

"I know his lands around Knossos," Ariadne said. "He does have other lands in other places on Crete. I don't know those. But the lands around Knossos are the greatest."

"I suppose that will have to . . ." Dionysus' voice faded as an idea came to him. Then he smiled beatifically. "No, we'll withhold my blessing from all his lands. Tonight we will bless the lands near this shrine, ignoring Minos' vines. In the next ten-day you'll travel to each of my other shrines on Crete. You are my chosen high priestess, my Mouth, and all the other priests and priestesses must acknowledge you. I'll come to you at each shrine, and we'll bless those lands, but the priestesses of each shrine will know which are the king's lands, and we'll avoid them."

"Yes," Ariadne sighed, "that will make the lesson sharper."

"You aren't happy. Are you afraid King Minos will try to punish you when he sees his vines alone do not prosper?"

She was surprised at his sensitivity to her feeling, but before she could explain that in this case it was not fear, only sadness because those she loved must suffer, he had put down the skewer he was still holding and looked down into his empty hands.

"Don't fear," he added, as a silvery ball formed between his fingers. "Come here."

She rose without hesitation, even as he spoke, to walk around the little table and kneel at his feet. He looked down at her, staring into her fearless, trustful eyes.

"This is a spell that will bring me to your side whenever you need me. Call and I'll come if any ever threaten you—but don't abuse that power."

He touched the silvery globe to the top of her head while he spoke. Ariadne could feel it flowing over her, slipping under her clothing, tingling slightly and chilling her as it covered her skin. For just a moment she saw the silver mist drift over her small breasts and down her arms to flicker and die around her clasped fingers.

She said, "No, no. I'll be careful. I'll Call only when it's time for blessing the grapes to bring them to full ripeness or for pressing them into wine . . . or in dire need." Then she lowered her head, bit her lip, and at last looked up, holding out her hands. "But . . . but may I never Call to you just for love? Just for the joy you wake in me by being with me? Never?"

He looked at the outstretched, pleading hands; she was reaching toward his but not so bold as to touch them. His lips twisted, almost as if he were in pain, but a moment later he laughed. "Purely for love and joy . . . well, that's no bad thing, that my priestess should love me and joy in me. So you may Call. But not each day or even monthly. Twice or thrice a year—say on your birth day or name day—you may scry me and ask if it's convenient for me to come to you. If nothing holds me . . . perhaps I'll come."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you."

He flicked her nose with a finger, pointed back at the cushions on which she'd been sitting, and began to tell her how they would go about blessing the vines, beginning with the fact that she would have to put on clothing that wasn't covered with flounces, which would catch in every twig. She showed him what she had and he settled on a straight gown of soft, white wool and a pair of sturdy sandals. Then he told her what they would do. By the time he had finished explaining, there was little on the tray or in the flagon, dusk had darkened into true night, and Dionysus had lit the nearest lamp with a flick of his fingers.

The priests and priestesses who came in answer to Ariadne's bell, carried tapers with which, after asking permission, they lit more lamps. Ariadne saw they were dressed in their new best, good cloth, clean and unworn with only simple embroidered patterns of vines and grapes. She remembered then that she had asked permission to present them, and she gestured them all forward to stand before their god. All came stiffly to salute, catching and holding deep breaths.

"Say to them `I see you,' " Ariadne whispered in Dionysus' ear.

"I see you," he said, and then with his erratic perceptiveness seemed to know that wasn't enough. In her mind, as if he were scrying her, Ariadne heard him ask for their names and she answered, without effort, in the same manner.

"Dido, I see you," he said to the elder priestess and to the younger, "I see you, Hagne." Upon which he turned to the priests and said "I see you, Kadmos. I see you, Leiandros."

Breath sighed out of all of them in a trembling gust.

"The Lord Dionysus is a merciful god. As you asked, so you have been acknowledged," Ariadne said before any could speak. "Now you may take the tray and the dishes."

When they were gone, Dionysus turned to Ariadne and asked, "What does that mean? I see you. Of course I saw them. How should I not? They were standing right in front of me."

Ariadne looked startled, then cocked her head in thought. "It's a royal greeting," she said, grinning suddenly. "It's very clever, really. It permits a powerful person to acknowledge recognition of a suitor or a courtier without making any promises."

Dionysus looked back at her with widened eyes, then also grinned. "Well, well, well," he murmured, "that is clever, and I know who'll be most grateful to me for suggesting such a device." He stood up then and caught Ariadne to him in a hug. With an arm still around her, he led her out of the inner chambers to the outer shrine.

The stars were very bright, but still Ariadne hesitated on the threshold, wondering how she would see when she was out in the fields. Dionysus seemed to understand and went back inside, where he took from the wall a hooked staff used for cutting bunches of grapes from high arbors or trees into which they had climbed. A touch set it glowing. Another touch, this on Ariadne's breast, left a glowing patch which, without needing explanation, she somehow sucked inside herself and attached to a leaf of her heartflower. Then Dionysus took her hand—and vanished.

He was there. She could feel his strong grip and the warmth of his body not far from hers, but she couldn't see him. "It's a gift of Hekate's," he said. "She made the spell for Eros, but then she gave it to me also. It takes a lot of power, but I never lacked for that."

"But why don't you wish to be seen, my dear lord? The people love you. They would—"

"They would want to follow me and play games for which, little priestess, you are too young. When you're older . . . I'll see. For now, if people see you walking alone through the vineyard, they'll accept a solemn blessing. And when the vines grow strong and the grapes rich, that will increase your power and, through you, mine. For now, that will be enough."

They went together, his hand in hers, and, though her eyes couldn't make out his form, the silver mist that flowed from her and back into her made him out clearly and "showed" her and "told" her what to do. Soon Dionysus blessed only the right of the lane through which they passed and Ariadne blessed the left with wide swings of her glowing staff. She felt the power flow from her as she felt it flow when she set stasis on any object; but here in the fields, blessing the vines, she didn't feel cold or empty. Warmth flowed into her as fast, faster, than she could cast it over the vines she passed. Her steps quickened, until she was running lightly, surely, along the rows of vines, Dionysus' hand still locked firmly in hers.

Ariadne would've sworn that no one could run all night, not even she who danced for the Mother. Then she had her periods of rest. Whether she'd ever stopped all night long, she didn't know; all she was sure of was that she had passed through every vineyard in the land ruled directly from the Palace of Knossos—except those that belonged to Minos.

In the courtyard of the temple, Dionysus reappeared to her sight, laughing, his eyes alight, for once not with rage but with pure delight.

"How?" she asked him, also laughing with pleasure, "how could I run for stadia and stadia and not feel breathless or tired at all? When I use power to make a stasis, I'm exhausted, cold and weak. Now I'm warm and stronger than before I started. And you aren't tired either."

"That's because when you make a stasis, you're using a spell that is no part of you. The ability to make vines strong is my Gift—and seemingly yours also. A Gift is as much a part of you or me as the beating of our hearts. That doesn't make us tired. Nor does the use of a Gift natural to us."

"But I felt the power flow out of me, as when I make stasis. Only it flowed back in even faster."

He smiled. "The Mother gives us our Gifts. I suppose She provides the power for them when we use them according to Her will."

Ariadne glanced quickly at him and away. Did gods need Gifts from the Mother? Hadn't they all the power— She put the thought aside quickly as Dionysus cocked his head at her and said, "I wish She'd provided a filling for my stomach too. I'm very hungry."

She laughed and said she'd fetch food, no dainty dishes this time but olives and cheese and bread, but as she went to get the meal, conscious of the emptiness of her own belly after so much exercise, she wondered again about the need of a god for the same food that common humans ate. No slaughtered kine were offered to the Mother. Braziers of incense were lit, sweet music of drum, pipe, and sistrum was offered, and the beauty of the dance. The Mother did not eat, and yet Ariadne was very aware of the power of the Mother. What else sustained her to dance and dance or to run all night long as she had just done?

Still, as the days passed, she couldn't doubt the power of Dionysus either, even if he did eat cheese and olives. On five succeeding nights he came to fetch her. On each night, she would be standing in his embrace before the altar of the shrine one moment; in the next, she would be standing with his hands on her shoulders before an utterly strange shrine. Often there was shock and consternation among the priests and priestesses; sometimes Ariadne read anger and envy in the face of the local priestess.

Dionysus gave no one time to incite his wrath, however. He announced who Ariadne was—his chosen high priestess—and he touched the servants of each shrine with a single wave of rage and terror so violent that they fell groveling to the ground. While they lay, he led Ariadne out into the moonless dark and they blessed the fields. The last night, there was a hair-thin crescent of moon. That night, which was almost warm, Ariadne brought the renewing meal out and they ate sitting on the altar. When he was finished, Dionysus touched her face with slightly greasy fingers.

"I won't see you again for a time," he said. "There are other fields and vines to bless than those of Crete. I may make merrier over them, but remember—if you hear lewd tales of me—that I've had greater pleasure with you than in all those bacchanals."

He was gone before she could reply and for a ten-day or two she had little to do and felt very sad, but then the people began to come up Gypsades Hill. The priests and priestesses told her that all through the vineyard leaves were bursting from bud almost with violence; the vines seemed to pulse with the force of their growing. And early and strong there were flowerlets that promised thick bunches of grapes. Only in the vineyard that belonged to the king were there reluctant, blighted leaves, thin growth, and no sign of coming grapes.

The road up Gypsades Hill could be seen from the south side of the Place of Knossos, in fact from the porch that sheltered the king's own apartment. Perhaps Minos himself saw the constant stream of people driving and carrying sacrifices up the road or perhaps those who tended the vines on his lands complained of their sad condition. Whichever was the spark, one moon to the day that Ariadne and Dionysus had blessed the vineyard, her younger brother Glaukos, followed by a glittering retinue, stalked into the shrine.

He demanded Ariadne's own presence from Dido and Kadmos, who had been accepting and recording offerings, and Hagne went to fetch her. Summoned, Ariadne twitched with the impulse to spring to her feet and hurry to perform whatever service her brother demanded. She reminded herself of who and what she was now, and took the time to dress and make sure her hair was properly combed.

Although she kept her face without expression, Ariadne was delighted to see Glaukos' haughty demeanor wilt a trifle when she came from the inner chambers and took her place directly before the painting of Dionysus. She knew that it almost seemed that the hands of the god, thrust forward a little in the painting, rested on her shoulders. Her wine red dress, banded in beaten gold, dazzled her brother's eyes, and he blinked and looked away from her high-dressed hair, wound with gold chains of winking gems, which set off the long curled locks of consecration that fell before her ears down on her budding breasts.

She saw him swallow and his lips thin—doubtless as he reminded himself she was only his little sister, but she said nothing, only waited, staring at him.

At length he cleared his throat. "Third daughter of Minos," he snapped. "Your father summons you to appear before him."

"I am no daughter of Minos'," Ariadne replied evenly and coldly. "In the dawn of the turn of the year, before this very altar, Minos yielded me into the hand of Dionysus, who deigned to accept me. I am the high priestess of Dionysus, his Mouth, with power to bless the vineyards of Crete."

"You haven't blessed them on King Minos' land," Glaukos retorted angrily.

"No, indeed. On Minos' land, the god withheld his blessing."

"But you're Minos' daughter. You were his sacrifice to the god, who you say, deigned to accept you. His vines should be specially favored."

"The house of King Minos has been specially favored through my pleas and intercession. Remember what befell King Pentheus, who offended the god Dionysus and was torn apart by his own people, his mother first among them. Be glad that no worse has befallen Knossos beyond the failure of its vineyard."

Although Glaukos hadn't himself attended the consecration of Ariadne, his elder brother's shaken recounting of what had occurred and Androgeos' new respect for his sister had made an impression. And Glaukos did remember what had happened to King Pentheus. The king and his household all dead, the whole country ravaged by ravening hordes, who killed and tore for no apparent reason, all totally mad. Fifty years had passed, but that poor bloodstained realm was still a shambles avoided by all.

"What are you talking about?" Glaukos asked, burying fear in bluster.

"I am the Mouth of Dionysus. When I came to speak my god's warning, as I am bound to do, I was insulted and assaulted, driven out. You know what Dionysus does to those who reject him. Only by my tears and pleading did I withhold his hand from you all. Accept the cursing of the vines and be grateful. Praise Dionysus, who can be merciful."

Glaukos stared at her for a long moment, then turned and left the shrine, his men following. Ariadne bit her lip, wondering whether she had convinced him and what he would say to her father. She had an answer quickly enough. The very next day, a messenger came from the palace requesting an audience before Dionysus' priestess for King Minos himself.

Ariadne wore black to receive him, and to her relief he came forward alone and saluted her with fist to forehead.

"I see you, King Minos," Ariadne murmured.

His lips twisted at the formal greeting and his hand came down with some force, showing how little he'd expected it. "Are we cursed forever?" he asked angrily. "Are we damned to be ground between the upper millstone of Poseidon's will and the lower one of Dionysus' rage? Don't you see that the failure of the king's vines, and only the king's vines, will make nobles and commons alike look askance at me and shake my rule. You spoke of sacrifice and restitution. What sacrifice? The bull from the sea is already gone. In the morning after Pasiphae . . . did whatever she did, the bull was gone. What restitution? I would make my peace with you but I cannot force Pasiphae to give up what she bears."

"You need make no peace with me. It is Lord Dionysus you have offended."

"Lord Dionysus?" Minos' voice was now uncertain.

"He came to bless the vines, as he promised. And he learned how his Mouth had been received. It is only through my pleas that all of Knossos is not a bloody shambles. Lord Dionysus is not a patient god."

Minos licked his lips. "You know your mother. What could I do? What can I do?"

Nothing, Ariadne thought. But the first sin had been his in keeping the bull from the sea. If it was Poseidon's will that Pasiphae bear what she carried, to thwart the Earth-Shaker might bring much worse upon Crete than a family tragedy. Poseidon might tear the island apart, bury it in the sea. Beyond that she remembered her father's bitter question about whether they must be ground between Poseidon's will and Dionysus' rage. Poseidon's will seemed fixed, but Dionysus was no longer angry, and it was the duty of a Mouth to speak the truth.

She shook her head. "The punishment that befell you has nothing to do with Lord Dionysus' Vision. His warning was given to you in mercy, to save you from a disaster if it was possible. If you don't heed his warning, doubtless you'll suffer, but not by Lord Dionysus' act or will. Lord Dionysus didn't withhold the blessing on the vineyard of Knossos because your wife wishes to carry the curse of Poseidon to fruition or because you wouldn't sacrifice the bull from the sea. Your vineyards were overpassed because Queen Pasiphae insulted his Vision and threatened harm to the Mouth that spoke it."

Minos' eyes had narrowed as Ariadne spoke. She assumed he was angry and she was sorry for him, knowing how hard it must be to swallow reprimand from his own child—a mere daughter and very young at that. Her sympathy didn't last long; Ariadne was appalled when her father's brow lifted and a sneer bent his lips.

"So Dionysus won't contest with Poseidon for power."

For one moment Ariadne was struck dumb with shock. She could never have guessed how Minos would interpret her attempt to soothe him. Then the woman inside her stirred.

"Contest about a curse laid upon a foolish native?" She laughed; the voice was not hers. "Because you were my father before I was consecrated to him Dionysus wished to warn you, but I doubt if he really cares if a double curse falls on you."

Doubt flickered on Minos' face as he remembered his blighted vines in the midst of burgeoning growth. He wasn't so sure Pasiphae's burden was a curse—beyond the fact that the god had cuckolded him—but since Dionysus apparently no longer demanded Pasiphae abort the child, a little humbling was a cheap price to pay if that would restore his vines.

So, when Ariadne began to turn away, he cried, "Wait," and raised his fist to his brow in salute again. "From this time forward," he said, "the Mouth of Dionysus will be welcome and respected in the Place of Knossos and I will double the offerings that are traditional. And I sue humbly for the curse to be removed from my vines so that the peace of the realm may not be troubled."

His voice was smooth, his face expressionless. Ariadne's heart sank. She'd seen that face and heard that voice whenever her father negotiated for advantages with the paraoh of Egypt or the kings of Greece. Behind that blandness was calculation. She'd made matters worse. She'd failed to convince Minos that the fruit of Pasiphae's womb was a curse. She might even have made Poseidon's get desirable—something her father hoped to use as a weapon to keep his people meek and quiet despite Dionysus' displeasure.

Was this matter serious enough to Call to Dionysus? In the privacy of her own chamber, Ariadne stared at the god's chair and shuddered. Must she betray what she feared were her father's intentions? And what if Dionysus, to show his power the greater, killed what was in Pasiphae's womb? Would Poseidon accept that tamely? Would he match power with Dionysus, daring the madness Dionysus could cast upon him? Or would he take the easier path, assume the people of Crete were guilty and break their island apart as he'd done in the past?

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Framed