by Kyla Stone
His eyes narrow. He rubs the slight stubble on his chin and studies me. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain. I wait in silence, pretending my heart is not galloping in my chest.
Finally, he nods. “If you fulfill your promises, I’ll fulfill mine.”
In this way, Theseus and I make our arrangements. He returns to the feast, his broad shoulders flung back, his gold hair glinting in the firelight.
I ignore the strange tug inside me. He is a means to an end. Nothing more.
Theseus will be dead soon enough.
I still must prepare the rest of my plans before tomorrow. I need to find Daedalus. I didn’t lie when I told Theseus I know the maze-maker—Daedalus, the infamous Athenian master craftsman and inventor, who built the great maze for my father. Only Daedalus holds the secrets of the Labyrinth.
But I haven’t seen him in a long time, for he is locked deep within the bowels of the palace. My father put him there.
I know exactly where the maze-maker is. Whether he will even speak to me is another matter.
Chapter Seven
Daedalus’s chambers are located five flights beneath the storerooms, nearly within the Labyrinth itself. The air changes the deeper I go, growing cold and slightly damp. Everything smells musty. Down here, there are no frescos or colorful tiles to brighten the dingy stone walls.
My sandals slap against the limestone floor, the only sound but for the dull roars of the Minotaur. The guards haven’t fed him for days, possibly weeks.
I shudder, but I keep moving. I pass storerooms crowded with enormous urns of olive oil, sacks of grain, jugs of wine, and shelves of olives, figs, and bread bound in vine leaves.
Eventually, I reach Daedalus’s chambers. The outer door is impenetrable, built of cypress wood at least a handspan’s width in thickness, the bronze handles wrapped in chains. A single guard leans indolently against the wall next to the door, half-asleep.
“I wish to enter,” I command.
The guard rubs his eyes and groans, but he obeys. The chains clang as he unwinds them and shoves the heavy door open with a sluggish shove. This guard doesn’t care who goes in, only who comes out. “I’ll accompany you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “This is a private matter. I will be fine.”
The lethargic guard is happy to return to his nap, so he merely shrugs, remaining outside as I enter. The chambers themselves are large and well-appointed, with torches lit along the stone walls and rugs and cushions scattered across the floor.
Clattering, banging sounds echo from a room to the right. Through the doorway, I can see the room is a workshop, with a long wooden table scattered with an assortment of tools. Stacks of wood, flat sheaths of various precious metals, stones and gems of different sizes, clay pipes, and a hundred other small items jumble in heaps in every corner.
Even imprisoned, my father expects Daedalus to create for him. It was Daedalus who invented the clay pipes that provide running water and a sewage system within the palace. It was Daedalus who suggested warming giant terracotta tubs filled with water on the palace rooftops, so the nobles may enjoy hot baths. He designed a handsaw for easily cutting through wood, a compass, and a dozen other inventions.
But more than anything he’s created, he is infamous for the Labyrinth.
And of course, the rumors still swirl that he built the wooden cow for Queen Pasiphae so she could mate with the king’s great white bull. As punishment from the gods, their unholy union spawned the monster that is my brother.
It isn’t true, but the people don’t care. They believe it anyway. My mother is blameless; it’s not her fault she birthed a half-man, half-bull creature, but the people always want someone to blame. It was my father who invented the rumor of the wooden cow; he’s as creative as he is vindictive.
Daedalus doesn’t notice me. He’s bent over his worktable, feverishly working on something I can’t quite make out. But his son sees me.
Icarus leaps from his cushion on the floor, where he was doodling on papyrus, and scowls at me. “What are you doing here?”
The last time I spoke with Icarus, he was a scrawny boy with a mass of unruly curls whose head only came to my chin. “You’ve grown up.”
He’s still scrawny, but he’s also tall like his father. His face is lean, his nose long and slightly hooked, his full lips pressed into a grim, bloodless line. “Get out.”
When Daedalus first began working on the Labyrinth, my father gave him and Icarus sumptuous chambers at the north end of the palace, living alongside several of the noble families. Icarus and I used to frolic in the courtyard, in the fields, and in the olive groves. With Asterion locked within the palace walls, I played with Icarus, whiling away long hours with childish boxing and racing games. My heart aches at the memories.
I stare at the crumpled papyrus on the floor. The drawing is of a man-headed bird soaring over the sea, the sun reflecting off the creature’s long, elegant feathers. The details are realistic, the rendering incredible.
Icarus catches me looking and snatches up the papyrus, holding it protectively behind his back. He always was a beautiful artist. And a dreamer.
“Icarus—”
“Just tell us why you’re here,” he snarls.
Daedalus finally notices his son’s angry voice. He smiles in polite surprise, rises, and gives a small bow. “Princess Ariadne, we’re honored by your presence. What may we do for you?”
I smile back gratefully. “I have a rather large request.”
Icarus’s scowl deepens. “Send her away, Father.”
Daedalus rubs his long, slender fingers together. Like his son, his face is lean, but wrinkles scour his pale skin. Gray streaks his brown hair, hanging lank around his shoulders. “Shall we discover the request first? We seldom have visitors.”
I scramble for something kind to say. “Your chambers are lovely.”
“A cage gilded is still a cage,” Daedalus says gently.
Icarus snorts.
Guilt pricks me. They’re trapped here because of my father, because of my family. I prepared myself for anger, but Daedalus’s sad resignation threatens to undo me.
“You may speak the truth, Princess Ariadne,” Daedalus says. “There isn’t anyone for us to tell.”
I take a deep breath. “I need to know the secret of the Labyrinth.”
He raises his gray eyebrows. “Do you know why we’ve been locked in these rooms all this time?”
“My—King Minos doesn’t want you to build a Labyrinth for anyone else. And he’s afraid you’ll tell someone the secret of the Labyrinth—the way to escape.”
“Many kings kill their palace architects to keep the secret of their palace’s weaknesses sealed forever.”
“I’m sure King Minos wouldn’t...” But my voice trails off as the Minotaur’s bellow rumbles through the room. My hand strays to my scar. Of course he would. My father is a generous king with his people, but he is also petty, vindictive, jealous, and cruel. I know this better than anyone.
The only reason Daedalus and Icarus aren’t already dead is because Daedalus continues to invent useful things. The moment he ceases to be useful...
Icarus’s face darkens in fury. “What makes you think we’ll tell you anything? Your family ruined my life!”
I wipe my damp palms on my skirts. How badly I wish to flee these ugly, cramped walls, to run from this place and never think of Icarus’s anger and resentment again. But I deserve his hatred for what my father has done. I know that. “I’m truly sorry. If I can change your circumstances, I would. I’m here because I need your help. In exchange, I’ll try to help you, if it’s within my power as a princess of Crete.”
“We want nothing from you!” Icarus spits, his features contorting. His hands ball into fists at his sides, crumpling his beautiful drawing.
I straighten my shoulders. I’m sorry, but I do not fear him. I’m still Ariadne, Princess of Crete, the greatest kingdom in the known world. “Take care, Icarus, to whom you s
peak.”
Daedalus places a restraining hand on his son’s arm. “Icarus! You must control your emotions. How many times have we spoken of this?”
Icarus slumps, furious but defeated. “Just go. Never show your face here again.”
“This isn’t the right way.” Daedalus turns to me. “Why do you want the secret of the Labyrinth? Tell me everything.”
I stand beside Daedalus at his worktable while Icarus glowers in another chamber. Daedalus holds a round, polished crystal to his right eye and squints at the papyrus he was leaning over when I first arrived.
The drawings on the papyrus depict detailed outlines of an eagle’s wings. On the other end of the table, two metal frames with harnesses lay side by side. A dozen beeswax candles provide additional light, their wax dripping into tiny golden bowls.
“My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” he says. “If only I could fashion something to connect two crystals for both eyes and somehow attach it to the head.”
“That would be a fine invention for a master inventor,” I say politely.
He carefully places the crystal on the worktable. “Another time, I suppose.” In the light from the torch sconces, he looks like he’d aged even more since I told him my plan. I haven’t forgotten that he’s Athenian by blood, that his sympathies lie with the tributes. I tell him what I told Theseus—the monster must die, and I’ll help Theseus kill him.
“You’ll need a dagger to give to Theseus,” Daedalus says. “Wear this beneath your skirts. They’ll check the tributes but will not think to check you. Better yet, bring one for yourself as well.” He hands me two slim bronze daggers with ivory inlaid handles. He digs around beneath his workbench, pulls out several lengths of thin leather, and quickly fashions small straps, attaching them to two leather sheaths.
I lift my flounced skirts and strap the harnesses to my thighs. They’re bulky and uncomfortable, chafing against my skin, but they work. “I’ll have a satchel made for food and torches.”
“Good. Bring as many as you can. You must have light.”
“What about the secret to the Labyrinth? How do we get out?”
He shakes his head gravely. “When King Minos imprisoned me, he burned the blueprints. The Labyrinth is so large and complex, not even I could memorize it. Part of it was built with the bones of the old palaces, disturbing the spirits of the underworld. There are doorways that lead to the caves deep within the earth, haunted by wraiths and daemons…and other things.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “There’s no map?”
Daedalus doesn’t speak for the space of several breaths. An unreadable expression shadows his face. I wait silently for him to tell me what I need to know.
He scrabbles around his workbench, searching for something, before he thrusts a ball of white thread into my hand. “You’ll need this for your journey.”
I frown at him. “I despise sewing.”
“It’s made with special fibers, which can be broken by no man. It’s weighted in the middle. Place this on the ground, and the ball of thread will always roll true. The center of the Labyrinth—the Minotaur’s lair—leads always down.”
I shove the ball of thread into a pocket in my skirt. “And to get back out? You must have built a secret escape.”
“The Labyrinth will disorient and bewilder. It will change and shift. There’s no map, no path I can send you on to reach it, but someone of great courage and perseverance may find it.”
“There must be something you can tell me,” I say desperately. There’s no point in returning my brother to his human form, only to be trapped within the maze. “Please.”
He frowns, nodding to himself, then finally stands and rubs his back with a wince. “Come with me.”
I follow him from his workshop through a chamber painted with image after image of birds swooping over the sea, the sun burning brightly above them.
Abruptly, I smell fresh air. A cool breeze brushes my skin. My confusion clears as Daedalus leads me through an archway into a small, open-air courtyard enclosed by vine-choked walls the height of my chest.
The sky is dark, the night cloudless, the stars glittering like specks of silver. The wind snatches my hair and blows it across my face. How can Daedalus have this balcony when he’s a prisoner? But then I look over the wall.
Because the palace is built on a great hill, Daedalus’s chambers are underground, carved out of the rock, except for this small overhang. The cliff face is at least the height of a hundred men stacked on top of each other. To jump or attempt to climb means certain death.
“I begged the king for this small allowance,” Daedalus says. “Without sun or fresh air, we would wither like a blossom plucked from the earth that nourishes it.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Daedalus turns back to me. His gaze drops from my face to the thick white scar tracing my collarbone. “Are you certain of this, Princess Ariadne?”
“Yes.”
A bright star slashes through the darkness. It arcs over us, searing the night like a burning brand.
“Is it a sign?” I ask, shivering. It’s suddenly cold. “A portent of what’s to come?”
“It may be. Asterion, after all, means ‘ruler of the stars.’”
My breath catches. Ruler of the stars. How can he rule the stars from a Labyrinth beneath the earth? Could it be true that the goddess has charted a fate for him still? I stare at the spot where the star plummeted before disappearing, snuffed out.
“What can I do for you, to thank you for your kindness?”
He gestures at the expanse of stars above us. “Someday, King Minos will grow tired of me. Or I will do something to displease him, and he’ll take Icarus from me. I couldn’t bear that. I’ve used everything that I know to devise a plan. A desperate, risky plan. Much like yours. But like yours, there’s a chance it will work. And for that, the risk is worth everything.”
“How?”
“It’s the dynamics of soaring, rather than strength or propulsion, that’s the key. It’s the air that must do the work. I need pig bladders to stitch together and stretch like a canvas. And feathers.”
“Wings,” I breathe, finally understanding the harnesses on his workbench. “You mean to fly. But that’s…impossible.”
“Mortals have flown before,” Daedalus says grimly. “Perseus borrowed his winged sandals from the god Hermes. Bellerophon rode the winged horse Pegasus.”
“But the gods—”
“We’ll soar and live, or we’ll fall and perish. Either way, we decide our fate.”
“Where is the line between the gods’ will and our own?”
“This is the great mystery.”
Before I can respond, there’s a sudden commotion from within Daedalus’s workshop. Icarus yells as a different guard storms onto the balcony. This guard is older and surlier. The young, sleepy-eyed soldier from earlier trails after him, fear on his face.
“There are no unsupervised visitors,” the surly guard growls. “Not even a princess!”
I force myself not to shrink back. “How dare you speak to me in such a way? I’m the daughter of King Minos. You’ll fear for your own life when he hears of this—”
“Don’t play your games with me, Princess.” The guard plants his feet, his burly arms folded over his bare chest. His scarred lips curl in derision as he glares down at me, his harsh expression not unlike my father’s. “I’ve been a royal guardsman for twenty summers. You don’t think I know the king doesn’t bend the rules for you?”
My ploy hasn’t worked. We can’t speak freely now, when this guard will whisper every word we say into my father’s ear. I’ve wasted too much time. It’s a mistake, one I can only hope won’t prove fatal once I’m in the Labyrinth. I hide my disappointment and turn to Daedalus. “I can help you with your invention. I’ll get what you requested before sunset tomorrow.”
Daedalus looks down the rock-strewn hills, the moonlight barely a shimmer over distant shrubs and rocky outcroppin
gs. He plucks a white flower from a vine trailing along the wall and twirls the stem between his fingers. “Those that are trapped need something—however small—of beauty. Beauty is hope. And without hope, all things die.”
Daedalus gestures toward a trellis leaning against the wall of the balcony. More green vines wind around it, the twining stems bursting with dozens of the fragile white flowers. “These were imported from halfway around the world. The moonflower blooms in darkness. It needs only the faintest light to survive.”
“The flowers are very beautiful,” I say, forcing calm indifference into my voice. He’s giving me what information he can. It’s up to me to decipher it.
“There are many dark places in the world,” Daedalus says softly. “But just like in the human heart, there are glimpses of light.”
The guard shifts, clearing his throat in a rumble of displeasure.
Daedalus grimaces. “I’m afraid you must hurry if you’re to be on your way.”
“But I’m not ready—”
He rests his hand on my shoulder. “I trust that you are strong enough, Princess Ariadne.”
The guard watches me suspiciously. If I’m not careful, he’ll report me to my father, and then this will all be for naught. I’ll get no more answers here. I still don’t know the Labyrinth’s secrets. I don’t know how to get out. But the rest is up to me.
“Thank you,” I say fervently, gripping Daedalus’s arm.
When I leave Daedalus’s chambers, Icarus refuses to speak to me. But at least he’ll be free. He won’t waste away in this gilded dungeon. He won’t be killed by my vindictive father.
Icarus will fly. And so can I.
Chapter Eight
In only a few moments, I will enter the Labyrinth.
A storm brews on the horizon. The sky is a soft, muffled gray, fog drifting along the rocky outcroppings and low, craggy hills. The sea churns, the warships in the harbor bobbing like children’s toys.
The fourteen Athenian tributes march between the people. Their faces are drained of color, their paleness matching their pure white tunics. They wear leather satchels strapped across their shoulders, packed with four days’ worth of food and water. Meals to take with them on their journey to the underworld, the priestesses say. The Minotaur enjoys his meat fresh, my father says.