The Flame in the Maze

by Caitlin Sweet

  “She didn’t wander away,” he said. “Or if she did, she wouldn’t have gone far. How could I have slept so deeply? And for so many hours!”

  Chara winced as his mind-voice growled inside her, low and harsh and wordless. Alphaios sidled up beside her and whispered, “He’s so loud—his godmark—can we stop him?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “Just wait a little. Let him calm down.”

  He didn’t. When the sun’s light was morning-gold, he grasped Polymnia’s wrist and said, “I should not have waited so long; I will go after her.”

  “My Lord,” she said, and put her long-fingered hand on top of his. “She is lost. The mountain has her. Stay here; stay safe.”

  “Safe?” he thundered, aloud and in their heads—in all of them, because they cried out as if they’d been a single person, doubling over and covering their ears, even though this wouldn’t help in the slightest.

  Theseus took Polymnia by the hair that hung at her waist and pulled her in close to him. “Come with me,” he said. “You know these corridors; you will see evidence of her, while I might not.”

  “But my Prince, I will not know where—”

  “Have these corridors moved since I slept? Have they?”

  “No,” she gasped, straining against his grip, waving her hands in the waterfall’s spray so that they glistened.

  “Then we go down this passageway first,” he said, jerking his chin at the one they’d come from. “It is the closest to where she was sleeping. It is the one she had already seen. You will lead me there, and beyond, if we do not find her.”

  Polymnia stared back at him, motionless but breathing, as beautiful as one of Karpos’s godmarked statues. “Very well,” she said, just as Chara was about to throw herself at both of them and scrabble at their eyes or their perfect chins. “But do not expect to find her.”

  “So what do you think?” Alphaios said to Chara, a long, silent time after Theseus and Polymnia had disappeared down the corridor.

  Melaina snorted and threw a piece of fish against the wall. Shards of it fell to the ground and glittered there, salt and light and old, dead flesh. “I think that he should die a death that no one will ever hear of, in Athens or anywhere else.” She smiled, but her lower lip trembled. “I think he should suffer.”

  Chara cleared her throat and glanced at Alphaios, who shrugged back at her. “He may be our only chance of getting off the island,” Chara said. “He’s going to call that ship’s captain with his mind-voice, remember?”

  Alphaios frowned. “But we’ll have to get out of here first. Which won’t be possible, now that there’s no godmarked string.”

  “Oh please,” Melaina said, “as if that was actually going to work! A trinket from a whore of a princess. No—Theseus won’t be the clever one, this time. That Polymnia person will be able to help us find a better way. She’ll show us where to gather big rocks, or we’ll all crack stalagmites off of the floor of that cavern and stack them up to those openings. We’ll build something. We’ll . . .” Her voice trailed to silence. She sat down heavily beside the jar of figs, with her back to them.

  Sunlight rippled on the walls. Chara stared up at it; she tried to imagine cloud and wind, and couldn’t, because the stone pressing against her was so hot, and the air so heavy. She remembered hanging upside down from an olive tree in the grove near the waterfall. She and Asterion both, of course, side-by-side like bats, spying on Glaucus as he tried to kiss the farmer’s daughter. She’d pushed him away and said, “I don’t care if you’re a prince; you look like a toad!” and stormed off down the sloping row of trees.

  Asterion had swung down from the branch, laughing. “Toad!” he said—and then Glaucus looked at him, and Asterion stopped laughing. “Glau—I’m sorry. You’re really quite handsome. Isn’t he, Chara?”

  “Don’t pretend just to comfort me,” Glaucus mumbled. Chara handed him his painted stick. At first he crossed his arms and glared into the distance—but after a moment he took it, and sighed. When Asterion put his arm around the prince’s shoulder, he didn’t shake it away. They walked off together, the three of them. The silver-green leaves rustled and dappled the sun on the earth at their feet.

  Trees, Chara thought now, as she wiped at the sweat that was seeping from every bit of her skin. What if I never see one again?

  Hours after Theseus and Polymnia had left, the corridors shifted. If Phoibe were here, she’d yelp—but the screaming of metal and grinding of stone didn’t frighten Chara anymore. Alphaios crouched next to her. “Polymnia will lead them all back to us,” he said, as a stone wall lifted on the corridor Polymnia and Theseus had gone down. There was a different one there now, which wavered in its own green glow.

  “Careful, Alphaios,” Chara said, as Melaina snorted. “We don’t know anything about her.”

  “You said you did.” He crossed his arms across his chest and scowled.

  “Please,” Melaina said, “she’s not even that beautiful.”

  “She is. She’s far more beautiful than—”

  Chara snapped, “Alphaios: catch,” and tossed him the tiny yellow ball. He caught it in one hand and squeezed so hard that his veins darkened and bulged beneath his taut skin. Then he stood and walked up the steps to the altar and threw it against each column in turn, pivoting and diving when it sailed over his head. Melaina paced from doorway to doorway—limping only a little, now—and peered into the corridors beyond. Chara watched them. She thought, every so often, that she must have slept, because the sunlight had changed without her noticing it.

  The light had just turned a dusky bronze when Theseus’s mind-voice howled. Chara straightened with a cry; Alphaios spun blindly; Melaina hunched over, clutching her head. The howl was wordless, and it tore at Chara’s insides with claws she could almost see, behind her closed eyelids. When she opened them, the world was a crimson-stained blur. Am I seeing what he’s seeing? she thought. Gods and fishes—make it stop.

  “What was that?” Alphaios gasped when there was silence in her head and her vision had eased back to normal. Chara tried to swallow, tried to speak, and ended up shaking her head.

  “My Lord Theseus,” Melaina whispered. “Oh, my love.” She put her back to the column that was carved with bees and slid until she was sitting. She closed her eyes.

  Chara and Alphaios crouched next to one another with their backs to the jar of olives. The yellow ball sat near his toes, but he didn’t touch it. The light above them vanished, and Daedalus’s fireflies sparked and guttered to life in its place. They slept, their heads drooping toward each other.

  It was dawn when footsteps woke Chara. She nudged Alphaios and they fumbled to their feet. Melaina was already up, standing very straight with her hands against two columns.

  “You see?” Alphaios said. “I told you Polymnia would bring them back”—but the words quavered, and he wouldn’t meet Chara’s gaze.

  Polymnia emerged first—and not from the corridor Alphaios, Chara, and Melaina were facing. As they shifted, Theseus walked out behind Polymnia. He was stooped, carrying something Chara couldn’t see, but she shivered anyway. He walked up the steps to the altar and laid the thing down. Chara and Alphaios drew up on either side of him, glancing at each other over his bent back.

  Chara recognized cloth, though it was soaked black with blood. When he unfolded a corner of it she recognized none of what lay within: strips and ribbons and pieces, some of them wet and red, others jagged and yellow-white.

  “What is that?” Alphaios whispered.

  Theseus unfolded another corner. A hand seemed to grope up toward them—a perfect, bloodied hand attached to nothing.

  “Phoibe,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I wanted to leave her there,” Theseus said, as Alphaios vomited half-digested dates and fish onto the altar. “What was left of her. But I also wanted proof, C
hara. For you.”

  She put a hand on Alphaios’s back and turned to look behind her. Polymnia’s hands were clasped lightly; her lips were very slightly curved. There was a streak of blood on her forehead. Her long fingernails were dark underneath: more blood, Chara knew, and turned back to Theseus.

  “It was not Asterion, my Prince.” Her voice was thin. It wasn’t, she thought, it was not—and she felt sick, too, as certainty and doubt knotted together in her gut.

  Melaina gave a sharp laugh. “‘Not Asterion’—surely you must be starting to see how foolish your devotion is.”

  Chara shook her head. “No,” she said. Polymnia smiled at her as the word leapt around them. It was a warm smile—almost delighted—and again Chara felt herself shiver, without understanding why.

  “I will not wait,” Theseus said, rising from the ruin of Phoibe. “I will hunt him now.” ::I am sorry, Chara. I believe what you have told me of his past—but he is beast now, not boy. And he must die.::

  Polymnia touched his arm. “Best let him come to us, my Lord. He will—I promise this. He will come here to drink and sleep—he does it every few weeks.” She gestured at one of the walls, which was covered in marks Chara hadn’t noticed: Long, straight carvings, with bull’s horns scored at intervals among them. “See: it has already been two weeks since he was last here. He will return soon. Eat, Prince Theseus. Rest. I shall dispose of that—I shall give it to the Great Goddess, on her island in the fire.”

  “No,” Theseus said, reaching for the bundle and its dark, wet contents, “I must do it, for I was the one who failed her.” His mind-voice was still in Chara’s head, higher-pitched than usual, as if he were keening.

  “My Lord,” Polymnia said quietly. Melaina was staring venomously at her hair, which looked to Chara like a shining fall of red silk. “In Athens you are a prince. Someday you will be king, there. Here, though,” she smiled gently, “beneath the mountain, I am queen. Heed me now, as I will heed you later.”

  For a long moment, Theseus gazed at her. Finally, Chara thought. He’ll see it too; he’ll see how wrong she is.

  “Very well,” he said at last, straightening. “Give her to the Goddess.”

  Chara was still awake when Polymnia came back. It was deep night, and everyone else was sleeping—even Theseus, who had paced and paced, fists clenched and brows lowered, until the sunlight wavered and died. Asterion roared once, and even though the sound was farther away than it had been, Theseus whirled and brandished Daedalus’s dagger-sword. Many hours passed, but at last he sat at the centre of the altar, the sword across his knees. His head and shoulders drooped.

  Hours after that, Polymnia returned. She crept in silently, but Chara saw her: a shadow except for her hair, which glimmered in the fitful blue and green light of the fireflies. She slid the jar away from the stream of water and knelt with her hands on the ground, where the water was already turning to steam. She looked over her shoulder at Melaina’s sleeping form, and Theseus’s, and Alphaios’s. Chara was closest; she’d settled nearest the spray. Polymnia glanced at her last, and by the time she did, Chara’s own eyes were almost completely closed.

  From beneath her lashes, Chara watched Polymnia slip her robe over her head and hold it, and herself, beneath the water. Good thing Alphaios isn’t seeing this, Chara thought. Polymnia was thin, but muscles clenched in her belly and thighs as she moved, and her breasts were full. How perfect she’d look beside Karpos’s statue of Androgeus—and the thought of Knossos’s stone and sky nearly made Chara groan aloud.

  When Polymnia had washed every bit of cloth and skin, she sang. Chara couldn’t hear anything at first, but she saw the silver seeping out from between her lips, and leaned forward a bit, very carefully. Polymnia’s eyes were closed now. She was smiling, as she sang. The others shifted in their sleep and Polymnia sang louder, until they settled again—even Theseus, who had begun to lift his head. At last Chara heard melody and words—but she was so weary, and the godmarked song was so lulling—that at first she paid them hardly any heed.

  “Patience, singing girl . . . patience, god-born son . . . I’ll bring them all to you, but only one by one. . . .”—and suddenly Chara was awake again, gasping as if she’d been about to drown.

  Polymnia was in front of her. Her gaze was steady, as dark as her smile was bright. “Chara?” she whisper-sang. “What is it, freckled girl? A nightmare?”

  “Yes,” Chara whispered back, desperately trying to smile, herself. “I think so.”

  “Listen, then—and lie down—there, just like that—and do not fret: I will comfort you.”

  This time Polymnia’s song was about wind in leaves and sunlight on sea, and even though she fought not to, Chara fell asleep.

  Days passed, and Asterion didn’t return. He bellowed, now and then, but the sound was very far away, then very close, then far away again. Theseus stopped leaping to his feet whenever he heard it, though his hand still went to Daedalus’s dagger-sword. Polymnia smiled, as she listened; Chara watched her and thought, Asterion: I don’t understand; don’t find us until I do—and though she longed to shout for him until he came to her, she didn’t.

  “Eat,” Polymnia urged them all, many times. “Another food delivery will come soon: eat everything you can now, so that there is more room in the jars.”

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” Melaina snapped once. “Stop trying to fatten me up.”

  On the fifth day, Asterion’s roar was farther away than it had been yet. Polymnia didn’t smile, this time; her delicate brows drew together and she gnawed at her lower lip.

  “He is moving away from here,” Theseus said, his hand once more on the blade as he stared at Polymnia. “Though you said he would return.”

  She said, “He will, my Lord, he will. In the meantime, there is a place near here where lizards gather. I know you will think it unpleasant, but very soon you will need their meat: it will strengthen you as all this food cannot. Come with me, Alphaios. I will show you how to draw them out and catch them.”

  Alphaios sprang to his feet, and so did Chara. “I’ll go with you,” she said quickly.

  Polymnia shook her head, holding a hand to her face to keep her hair away from it. “I thank you, Chara, but two will be enough—any more will frighten the creatures.”

  Alphaios grinned at Chara over his shoulder as he followed Polymnia into a corridor made entirely of crystal. Chara didn’t smile back at him.

  “Looking for lizards,” Melaina said. “How original.”

  Theseus said, “But won’t young master Alphaios be glad”—and Melaina rounded on him and snarled, “Yes, won’t he? Because mustn’t it be nice to have a lover?” Theseus frowned; Chara thought, Chiding her with his mind-voice—and then, as Polymnia and Alphaios disappeared into the crystal’s glow, Enough of the prince and his cast-off betrothed.

  “I’m going after them,” she said as she walked toward the corridor.

  “Oooh!” Melaina cried, “How naughty of you to spy! But I suppose that’s what slaves do.”

  “Chara,” Theseus said, and, ::What are you planning, daughter of Pherenike?::

  “Not what am I planning,” she said, “what is she planning.” And she stepped onto the crystal floor as his words hummed and faded in her bones.

  She expected that one or both of them might come after her, but they didn’t. She also thought she’d have to go slowly, since Polymnia and Alphaios would be only a little bit ahead, but they weren’t: the corridor glinted before her, empty. She walked slowly, glancing up now and then when shadows fell on her—a long, sinuous one that was a snake or worm, and a flurry of smaller ones that looked like frogs—though how could there be frogs, so far from water? She wondered briefly what she would look like, to someone below, and imagined Glaucus sniggering, and Asterion swatting him with the stick that Glaucus had always pretended was a sword.

  Asterion, she thoug
ht, for the thousandth time, I’m here; I’m really here, and so are you.

  She quickened her pace and nearly missed the entrance to a smaller passageway on her left. She stopped and peered down it, bending because it was so low. The walls gleamed in the crimson light that shone from hundreds of tiny holes scattered across the ceiling. She ducked into the passageway—so narrow her shoulders brushed either wall—and took one step, then two, three.

  She froze.

  The walls weren’t made of earth, obsidian, marble, crystal or rock: they were made of bones. Long and short, thick and slender, stacked and woven snugly together. A perfect ribcage bulged against Chara’s right elbow, held in place by leg bones that had been driven into the hard-packed dirt. Some of the bones were a glossy yellow; others were covered in dark patches that looked like moss, but weren’t.

  She walked slowly down the passageway—because she had to see all of it—and soon she was at a place where the bones ended. The real walls continued past them, smooth, painted with rows of temples whose friezes were of temples, and on and on, dizzily into scarlet-speckled darkness. She blinked and focused her gaze on the last piece of bone: a skull that was a deep, wet, fresh red, and whose jaws gaped with a fear Chara recognized.

  “Phoibe,” she whispered, and, louder, “Alphaios!”—and she whirled and stumbled back to the crystal corridor.

  She managed to be quiet, despite her hurry. She can’t know you’re coming, Chara told herself. She might do something sudden—if she hasn’t already.

  The corridor ended in a small, circular chamber with chalk-white walls and a perfectly vaulted ceiling. Alphaios was there, facing away from Chara; Polymnia was behind him with her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “That’s it,” she was murmuring, “seize it by the neck”—and Chara saw that his hand was hovering over a lizard that was almost invisible: white against white. As she hesitated in the doorway, Polymnia’s other hand crept up. Obsidian glinted: black against white.