I appeal to you—I beg and implore you: help me.
(I have enclosed a sketch of myself, done by Daedalus’s apprentice, Karpos, at my command. I hope that my need will be as stark upon my face as it is within my breast.)
Humbly and hopefully yours,
Ariadne, Daughter of Minos, King of Crete
“Girl,” Ariadne snapped, “why are you writing so slowly?” She frowned, and cocked her head to one side. Her bandaged hands twitched and she pressed them lightly together in front of her. “Do my words upset you? I ask you to write of Asterion’s demise—does it make you miss him?”
Chara raised her head. Her charcoal was still poised above the tray balanced on her lap. “No,” she said, and paused. “It makes me think of a time when I was foolish. It makes me ashamed.”
The princess smiled a full, satisfied smile. “Good,” she said. “Because if you were sad—if you did miss him and thought to tell someone of what you know—I would kill you.”
Forgive me for lying, Asterion, Chara thought. But the lies will help me find you. And she smiled, too, after she bent to stroke Ariadne’s name-lines onto the paper.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Oh, Asterion. It’s nearly time.
I’ve written many things to you, these past two years, just as I did in the two years before those, but I’ve saved almost none of them. If someone found my other writings behind our jars I’d be laughed at and probably banished for denigrating the royal family. But if someone found a record of my plan . . .
Well, that thought frightened me so badly that I burned all the words I ever wrote about it. Now, though, I must write again. Nothing that will give me away. Just words to bring you closer, once more, before everything changes.
Prince Theseus arrived yesterday.
No one knew it was Theseus, of course. No one other than Ariadne and me. She’d cornered me earlier in the day, before we all went out to meet the ship. She pressed me against a pillar and said, “Remember: I’ll kill you if you speak of what you know.” I said, “I would not, Princess.” She scowled at me. (She’s lucky there weren’t any burns on her face. She hides the ones on her arms with long, filmy sleeves that some other women in the palace are now wearing too, and she wears a closed bodice to hide the ones on her breasts, and her hands she shoves inside the folds of her skirts as much as she can.) After a moment she blew out her breath (and so did I, silently) and stepped back and we went with the others to the cliff.
Fourteen more Athenians for the mountain, and we Cretans were just as hungry to watch them arrive as we had been the other twenty-eight. Even the king made an appearance. He’d been gone for months this time, leaving your mother to rule. Your mother and Karpos, who’s now far more likely to be found in the receiving chambers and money rooms of the palace than he is in his workshops. Your mother lets him hang about. He’s very polite to her. She probably finds this a strange new thing.
Oh: Ariadne tried to get Karpos to marry her. She had me summon him, and I was in the corridor afterward and heard everything. She proposed that he make her his queen. He said no. She asked him why, because wouldn’t they make the loveliest royal couple in the history of everything? He said he’d never love her. She said most royal couples didn’t love each other, but that he could want her, and that that would be enough. No, he said, he’d never want her either, for he loved and wanted a young soldier in her father’s army, and before that he’d loved and wanted a kitchen boy. Ariadne cried out that this was wonderful—she’d simply rule by his side and they could each take lovers. Karpos said he would have to like her for this to happen. “No, Princess,” he said as she sobbed. “I’ll take no queen.” Right after that she had me write the message to Theseus. (I’ve wondered, since: why didn’t she have Karpos killed? She probably would have got away with it, as she has so many other things. Maybe this island really has become intolerable to her. Maybe that part, at least, is true.)
Anyway: the king came back from wherever he was to receive the Athenians, and Karpos stood beside him. Karpos was clean and handsome and stood up very tall. The king was stooped. His loin cloth was soot-black and full of holes and his beard was long and matted. In several places on his cheeks it had burned away and you could see the skin beneath, all pink and puckered. His godmark’s so strong that his body isn’t able to contain it anymore. He’s withering under the flame that’s always dancing on his flesh. (The priestesses have been demanding that Pasiphae lock him up, but she keeps refusing—and not because she’s afraid of what the priests would do. I think she enjoys watching her husband frighten his own people.)
His voice cracked as he called out. As usual, everyone looked afraid. Pasiphae didn’t look anything. She lifted her hands and dribbled water over his arms and he smiled at her as the fire sputtered a bit.
I knew which one was Theseus as soon as the ship was in the harbour. My eyes skimmed over others—all the girls, obviously, and a skinny boy, and one so beautiful that the air around him shimmered with silver, and a dark-haired one who was on his knees, wailing—and found him. He’s not all that tall, but he stood at the ship’s side like a man who’s accustomed to being seen. He has golden hair, wavy, not curled as Cretan men’s is. Muscular arms and thighs. A face that’s handsome but not unusual.
Ariadne gaped at him. No one would find this strange; she’d gaped at the handsome youths in the other two groups, too. She watched him as the priestesses’ breathing, bucking craft brought him across the water. She watched him as he climbed the stairs. At this point I stopped paying attention to either of them—because I have a plan too. And I was looking for the girl I need just as much as Ariadne needs Theseus. I found her. She’s not as tall as I am, but I can make myself shorter. I can make myself invisible. She’s even got curly hair, though that won’t be important, in the end.
Her name’s Sotiria. She told me this as I knelt in front of her that night—last night—and held a cup of wine to her lips. Her eyes darted about when I asked her, but I murmured, “I’m just a slave. No one notices me, so no one will notice you. Tell me your name.”
“Why?” she murmured back. I repeated what I said to Polymnia four years ago, though this time it was a lie. “I don’t know, but it seems important. Please tell me.” And she did, staring into my eyes across the cup.
Theseus and Sotiria. Ariadne and me. You. I can’t let myself think of any other people from now on.
This morning I went with Ariadne to the cells where the Athenians are being kept. I thought I might have to follow her secretly when she went to Theseus, but she told me I should come. She wanted me to carry a pitcher of water. “I wish to serve them myself,” she said to the priestesses who guard the corridor where the cells (little storerooms, really) are. “I wish to do them honour before they die for Crete.”
The wailing boy was first (though he wasn’t wailing this time). Ariadne gestured, already glancing back into the corridor, and I filled a cup for him and held it to his lips. His wrists were bloody where they were rubbing against his bonds. His eyes were huge and pleading. I don’t think anyone has ever seen me as clearly as he and Sotiria have. Anyone except you, that is.
Theseus was in the third cell down, in the middle of the room, as if he’d been waiting for Ariadne. Piles of clay tablets stood along the wall behind him.
“Princess,” he said with a smile that lit his lips and eyes and the air around all of us, “you are lovelier than I expected.”
Ariadne froze, halfway into a curtsey. “But surely Master Karpos’s likeness prepared—” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the empty hallway, and Theseus’s bound hands came up and waved her to silence.
“You are lovelier than any likeness, even a godmarked one.”
I thought, This begins well, and wasn’t sure whether to be frightened or excited.
“Forgive my haste,” Ariadne said, stepping closer to him, “but someone could come at any time, and we mustn’t
be found out. Your godmark—the way you open your mind to others. Try it with me now. I must know that I will be able to hear you, while you are under the mountain.”
“Will you also wish to see me kill something, so that you will be certain I can slay the beast?”
She gave a low laugh. “I have no need to see that. But I shall give you something with which to do this slaying.”
Theseus took another step. He was nearly touching her. “These youths were chosen for their godmarks; there may be no need of anything else. But show me how you would have me kill. Show me this before I use my own godmark, here.”
I was the one who peeked out into the corridor, this time. I saw the priestesses at the entrance, standing still, facing away. Don’t move, I thought at them. Because I need to know this, too.
Ariadne lifted the flap of her girdle. Beneath it, tied around her waist, were two things: Icarus’s ball of string, and a dagger haft.
“Where did you get that?” I didn’t mean to speak; the words just spilled out. Theseus and Ariadne turned to me. He looked mildly surprised, as if he were noticing me for the first time. She looked furious. I kept talking, though. “It’s . . . it was Icarus’s. Did he give it to you before he left?” This idea hurt me.
“Be silent!” she hissed. “There’s no time!” She probably would have said more, or struck me, but she wanted to impress Theseus. So she looked back at him, smiling, a little embarrassed. “You’ll let this out as you walk, in the maze. It’s magical—never runs out, is as strong as iron and as supple as thread. When you’ve killed the bull, you’ll follow the string back to the door. You’ll let me know when you’re there, with your mind-voice. And I’ll open it for you.”
Thank you, I thought. Because I hadn’t been able to come up with that part of my plan, and she’d just given it to me.
“And the killing of the bull,” he said, one golden brow raised. “What of that? Surely you will not tell me that a dagger haft will be enough.”
She held the haft in her palm. “Look,” she said, and pressed down, and the haft grew a stubby portion of blade. She pressed again and another portion snapped out, then another and another, until she was holding a sword. “Daedalus was indeed a master, but even before that, he was an Athenian. He would be honoured to have his creations used by you.”
A footstep sounded in the corridor. Ariadne pressed the sword back into a haft and put it and the ball of string back under her girdle. She leaned until her lips were against his ear and whispered, “They’ll bathe you tonight, and shave your head, and dress you in a white robe. Tomorrow morning I’ll come to you here and give the thread and dagger to you. They will be easy to conceal. No one will touch you again until they push you toward the maze’s door.”
More steps. “Princess?” called a voice, and I stepped nearly to the doorway and said, maybe a bit too loudly, “My Lady, this prisoner has drunk more than his share. We must go to the others now.”
I know it’s difficult to believe, but the glance your sister gave me was almost grateful. She said, “You are right. My tendency toward mercy makes me forget my task.” We stepped out of the cell just as the priestess was reaching it.
“He was greedy,” Ariadne said to her, “and he begged for his freedom with sweet, clever words, but I do not wish him punished for this. The Goddess will mete out her own punishment, or blessing, very soon.”
The priestess peered past her at Theseus, whose head was bowed, but who still managed to look like a prince. “Very well, Lady,” the priestess said, and we moved to the next cell. Sotiria’s—the girl I’d chosen for my part of the plan.
I’ve barely noticed anything since. I’ve walked and talked, served, cleaned and done everything else I usually do, but my mind’s been on my plan. My bigger, better plan. I did pay attention when Ariadne said, in her chamber tonight, “I only wish there had been time for him to test his godmark on me.” I didn’t respond, because she hardly ever expects me to. “Imagine: they’re probably shaving all that glorious golden hair off him right now . . .”
I just kept pinning her own black hair into coils and hoped she’d fall asleep quickly so that I could slip back to Sotiria’s cell and tell her what I had to tell her. And Ariadne did—thank all the octopus’s arms (as you’d say). More than that I cannot write of here. (Except to tell you that Sotiria’s godmark is being able to take other people’s pain from them and suffer it herself. Not just being able to: having to. She has nearly as many scars as you do.)
“Nearly time” the small fish cried
And tickled bigger fish insides. . . .
I’m giddy. Sick. I should try to sleep; I need to sleep.
“Be brave,” the starfish said, “and bold
I’ll give you all my hands to hold. . . .”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Chara. Help me dress.”
“I’m not well.” Chara’s voice shook—a fine touch, though she hadn’t intended it. With heavy-lidded eyes she saw the princess’s face, blurry and close. Back up, she thought. Look away, just for a moment.
“Get up and help me dress!” Ariadne cried. “The procession begins in two hours! And,” she said, in a quieter voice, “I’ve just been to see him. I’ve given him the things. Though we still could not test his mind-voice. . . .” At last she turned—and Chara rolled onto her side, stabbed her finger deep into her throat and vomited the remnants of the previous night’s crab dinner onto the floor. There was a great deal of it; she’d made sure to eat far more than she wanted.
She squeezed her eyes shut as Ariadne gave a cry of disgust. Chara heard her slippers tap as she retreated. “And I suppose you’re too sick to clean up after yourself, too! Gods, but you try my patience. . . .”
“I know,” Chara mumbled, “that you need my help today. . . .” It took her three tries to swallow over the acrid dryness in her throat.
Ariadne snorted. “Do you think I would let you help me with what must be done today? No—but I will probably miss you when I get thirsty.” She made a choking sound. “You stink. This room stinks; I’ll dress in Phaidra’s. Get yourself to the bathing room. I’ll send another slave in to clean this up.”
The moment Ariadne’s footsteps had faded, Chara pushed herself to her feet. Her throat stung and her mouth tasted of sick but she didn’t stop for a cup of water. She ran. At first she ran through empty corridors, but soon she had to take a public one, which was full of palace folk. She slowed to a walk and tried to school her gasping breaths to silence. They were laughing and talking, holding garlands of flowers and shells, gesturing up at the brightening blue of the sky. “A glorious day for the sacrifice,” one woman said as she adjusted a basket of bread on her hip. The man next to her said, “Indeed—the Great Mother will be well pleased,” and the woman replied, “As will the Bull—though I suppose he doesn’t care so much about the weather,” and they both laughed as Chara slipped around them, unnoticed.
The collection of things she’d left in the darkest corner of the grain storeroom was still there. She knelt and picked up the knife. For just a moment she stared at its long, sharp edge. It glinted only a little because the light from the lamp in a far column bracket was so weak. But she wouldn’t need light.
Come on, then, she thought. Do this. Think of Asterion and do it.
She’d chosen the sharpest knife in the kitchen, but it had been made for cutting fish and meat, not hair: it took ages to saw off all her curls. She was nearly panting by the time they lay in soft little mounds around her—but she didn’t pause. She put the knife down and dipped both her hands into the bowl. The water was so cool that she shivered as it ran over her face and down her neck and back. The razor’s bronze was cool, too, and she shivered some more. Stupid girl. Be steady and firm or you’ll cut your own throat.
The sound of the blade scraping over her skull seemed terribly loud at first, and so did the gasping noises she made every time it caught on
her skin. Scriiiitch snick snick scriiitch—like Icarus’s taloned feet dragging on rock. She shaved the right side of her head, then the left, then the middle, then rinsed everything and bit her lip because the water stung her cuts. She ran her hands over the stubble that was left and found tufts she’d missed—and even though she was aching with the need to be away, she shaved them too. The Athenians’ heads would be smooth and clean, glistening with oil.
When her stubble was as even as she could make it, Chara set the razor down beside the knife. She rose and dusted the hair off her thighs and the soles of her feet. She wound the cloth around her head the way her mother had, when they’d been going out into the olive groves; she tied the bundle of figs and cheese and bread to her belt and slung the waterskin across her chest. After that she took a few very deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her hands, which felt numb.
This time she took only shadowed, empty pathways that no one but slaves used. She passed some: a boy bent double beneath a bolt of scarlet cloth, an old woman with shell garlands strung over both her arms, a younger woman carrying nothing, but nearly running. They all nodded to Chara; the hurrying woman smiled a tired, resigned smile that seemed to say, Such a life we have, no?
Chara turned and watched her until she vanished around a corner. This is my home, she thought, or one of them, anyway—and I’m leaving it, and I may never see it again. Tears prickled her throat and eyes, and she thought, No, Freckles—you have no time; just go.
The sun was already high in the eastern sky when she walked out onto the road that led up to the peaks. The procession would take this road, very soon. She would not. She made for the clumps of rocks and cypresses that hid the rising slope. Her bare feet were almost as tough and sure as a goat’s on the rough ground; thank the gods she’d so often refused Ariadne’s demands that she wear boots. Chara ran steadily, even when the sun was directly above and there was no shade to cool her.
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