Page 69 of This Divine Revelry

Dionysus swirls the wine in his cup and arches a brow at Theseus. ‘You never miss a bleat, do you?’

‘What sort of man settles his disagreements like this? Meet me on the battlefield if you –’

‘The battlefield?’ I ask, with half a giggle like this is all so silly. ‘That’s hardly your style, is it? You beat my father with subterfuge.’

I give my father a small smile – which is difficult to hold in the face of his softly simmering anger. ‘If you had met my father with blades, you never would have walked away alive, let alone sailed off to Athens. He’d have bested you in seconds.’

My father’s fury flares – though he doesn’t seem to know where to place it. That I have said he was bested. That it was by trickery. The implication this is some sort of surrender.

It seems to take great effort, but he swallows back biting words and saws into the meat on his plate. ‘A winning man does not crawl back. I was betrayed. He was saved. You are an embarrassment to both our houses and one we now seek to rectify.’ His gaze wanders to Phaedra, then cuts right back to me. ‘And there are a number of ways that might happen.’

Theseus’s eye twitches but he forces himself to nod. ‘I quite agree.’

‘Oh,’ I say quickly, jumping on a chance to change tack. Theseus begins absent-mindedly munching on a stalk of asparagus like a donkey with a spear of wheat, and I plough on. ‘I was so very sorry to hear of your father’s death. It must be so difficult to take up the throne of the greatest empire in the Aegean while grieving.’

‘Crete,’ my father snarls, ‘is the greatest empire in the Aegean.’

‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I –’

‘Do you see any other woman here talking, Ariadne?’ Deucalion demands from the other end of the table. My mother flinches. ‘I do not care to hear another word from you unless it is to grovel for our forgiveness.’

It is my father’s words echoing in Deucalion’s.

And then, across the table, Glaucus bashes his knife into his cup. ‘Quiet, Ariadne!’ he declares.

Something within me cracks. I never stood a chance with Deucalion, already grown before I was born.

But I have sung Glaucus to sleep, kissed his skimmed knees and soothed his tears with the same stories of witches I once clung to. My one glimmer of hope for the future of Crete was the line of succession leading to a boy who knew women belonged in legends too.

I don’t understand how this is a world where men will leave girls on islands for the sake of a story, where gods can lose their powers if someone else seizes their tale and where one whisper of a girl can ruin her – but where years of heartfelt fables can be so readily replaced by animosity. Where a story can mean so much, but also so little.

Theseus raises his cup. ‘What an excellent reminder of what we are here for. Princess Phaedra is a truly becoming young woman. I am honoured to make her my queen.’

Dionysus leans in. ‘Yes, and how delightful to settle the matter with a marriage rather than with blades. It truly signals to the world that you are a man of peace, King Minos.’

His tone is upbeat and jovial, but my father grows further incensed. Peace to him is an insult. It means forgiving slights. Not punishing your enemies. Letting those who wrong you do it again and again.

It is the last sort of word he would wish to be associated with.

‘What dowry are you providing for Phaedra?’ I ask, and then, even though I know it is too far – that it bends the limits of my father’s hospitality – I add: ‘I assume such peace is worth any payment.’

There it is – Phaedra and the money accompanying her – not a mere marriage, but a settlement. A defeat.

‘That is none of your business,’ my father growls. His knuckles pale as he clutches the arms of his chair. But it’s not me he’s glaring at – it’s Theseus.

‘Ariadne,’ Deucalion warns. ‘One more –’

‘Of course,’ I say, ducking my head as though bashful. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m just very excited. My beloved sister and the hero of Greece? Think of the stories they will tell. Oh, they’ll have children so powerful they could sit upon both thrones – if you do not have children of your own, dear brother.’

Deucalion’s eyes flick, quick and cold, between them – realizing what should have been apparent immediately: that the throne he is so anxiously awaiting might never be his.

That this union could swallow Crete whole.

My father whisks Deucalion off almost immediately, their plates still half full. Theseus sulks off after.

‘Ariadne, a word, please,’ Phaedra barks, stopping only to glower at Dionysus.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I’ll leave you be. Perhaps I might take Prince Glaucus to his rooms?’