by Kyla Stone
Labyrinth of Shadows
A Historical Fantasy Mythology Retelling
Kyla Stone
Paper Moon Press
Labyrinth of Shadows
Copyright © 2018 by Kyla Stone All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblances to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover design by Amalia Chitulescu
Book formatting by Vellum
First Printed in 2018
ISBN 978-1-945410-23-9
Paper Moon Press
Atlanta, Georgia
www.PaperMoonPress.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Also by Kyla Stone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kyla Stone
No Safe Haven Chapter One
No Safe Haven Chapter Two
No Safe Haven Chapter Three
Also by Kyla Stone
Beneath the Skin
Before You Break
Real Solutions for Adult Acne
Rising Storm
Falling Stars
Burning Skies
Breaking World
Raging Light
No Safe Haven
Labyrinth of Shadows
Chapter One
The ground trembles beneath my feet. Deep within the tunnels below the palace, the monster roars. Instinctively, my fingers drift to the thick, ropy scar stretching from my armpit to the hollow of my throat.
The slave sweeping the stone street murmurs a silent prayer to the goddess. Several nearby commoners scowl. An old woman shudders and pulls a child closer to her side.
No one looks at me. They wouldn’t dare.
I am Ariadne, princess of Crete. Daughter to a tyrant king and a mad queen. Sister to the monster.
The only survivor of the Minotaur.
Red flashes behind my eyes. My mind fills with the familiar, dreaded memories—matted, rust-colored fur; the crazed, reddened eyes; and blood, blood everywhere—in my hair, streaking my arms, filling my mouth as I scream and scream and scream.
“Princess Ariadne!” Tarina shakes my arm. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine. It’s just the nightmare again.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod, shivering though it’s a sunny day, and rub my scar.
Tarina swats my hand away. “The king ordered me to make you stop that horrible habit, on pain of death.”
I raise my eyebrows, pretending I’m not bothered by the shuddering roars. “Whose death?”
“Mine. Not yours.” She smiles grimly, only half in jest.
Like me, Tarina is lean and lithe, her muscles defined beneath her olive-toned skin. But there, our similarities end. Framed by an oval face, her nose and thick eyebrows are straight and strong. She looks regal—more a princess than I do, though she is no princess.
Tarina is my Egyptian slave. She is also my dearest friend.
She knows that I can’t keep from rubbing my scar, just as I can’t keep the nightmare from haunting my sleep. I seem compelled to touch it every time I think of him.
The monster—my brother.
I can’t think of this. Not now. I have other, more pressing things to concern me this morning.
I should already be down at the docks, greeting the royal retinue, dressed in my best festival finery, my hair oiled and gleaming, the royal circlet of Crete set upon the crown of my head.
The tributes arrive today.
Tarina studies me, tilting her head in that birdlike way of hers, and frowns. “Your hands,” she murmurs.
I glance down at the blood leaking from the fresh half-moon cuts marring my palms, already scarred and scabbed with a dozen similar marks, for I dig my nails into my flesh whenever I suffer from the nightmare.
The same nightmare that has stalked me since it happened, a shadow always crouched in the dark corners of my mind, waiting to devour me.
I wipe my palms on my flounced skirts and close my hands into fists to hide the marks. “It’s nothing.”
“As usual, you do great injury to the truth.” Tarina pauses, concern radiating from her dark eyes. “Are you ready?”
We’ve just come from the arena. I still feel gritty sand between my toes. Today was our last training session; tonight, the Spring Harvest Festival begins, a three-day celebration of the goddess, the mother of all lesser gods. There will be glorious feats of strength and valor, including the divine dance of the bulls.
I am not only a princess; I am a bull-dancer, chosen for my grace and skill to perform acrobatic feats in the arena with the sacred bulls of Crete.
Tomorrow, I dance with the king-bull. If I succeed, I’ll earn the adoration and respect of the kingdom. If I fail, I’ll be gored to death.
Either outcome brings glory to the goddess, though I prefer to live. I wish I could say I feel no terror, that I’ll challenge the bull like a warrior, but that would be a lie.
My life is full of lies.
“I will be.” I push the dark thoughts from my mind. “Come on.”
Lifting my skirts so they don’t brush the ground, Tarina and I dash through the streets of Knossos, past the elaborate tile-roofed houses sprawling on either side of the wide stone streets and through the merchant square bustling with vendors hawking their wares, the sweet smell of roasted meats wafting through the air.
We hurry beneath the looming shadow of the palace and rush along the docks, nodding curtly to the stiff, formal greetings tossed my way. The air is full of the sounds of traders, the scent of fish, and the salty tang of the sea.
High overhead, gulls wheel and screech. Slaves and servants load and unload cargo while captains, traders, and merchants haggle over pricing. Sturdy longboats bring in ivory and papyrus, gold, tin, and copper, precious jewels, dyes and perfumes, and other cargo from kingdoms as far-flung as Egypt, Syria, Cyprus, and Iberia.
“You’re late,” my mother snaps as I push through the procession of lords and ladies crowding the wharf. Tarina hangs behind with the other slaves holding parasols and waving elaborate fans.
Queen Pasiphae’s luxurious black mane is pulled away from her face with a silver band inlaid with precious carnelian jewels. Her lips are stained red, her skin bone-pale. Hers is a hard beauty, cold as a winter’s dawn.
I force myself not to cringe beneath her withering glare. Why is she here? My mother never comes to the docks, though she always sends a maidservant to bring her a report of the tributes. “I apologize, my queen.”
She’s still staring at me, her lip curled in displeasure.
I look down at myself. After practicing, Tarina quickly dressed me in the training room. I’m wearing a flounced, brightly colored skirt that falls to my ankles, each tier dyed in vibrant saffron yellow, madder red, and Tyrian purple and embroidered in silver thread.
I tug at my short-sleeved bodice open to the navel, patterned in bold geometric designs, and sewn with shining gold discs. My thick black hair is bound with azure faience beads, the necklace about my throat adorned with flattened gold pendants.
She gestures at my head. I finger the linen strip still binding one section of my hair, forgotten in our reckless rush to the docks. “Oh, I—”
“Where is your circlet?”
My cheeks redden in shame. I managed to remember several of my gold rings, but I forgot the circlet. Again. “I’m sorry.”
She winds one of her small black snakes between her fingers. Its tongue flickers, tasting the bright spring air. She’s no longer a priestess, but she still wears the snakes. Even the high priestess binds her arms only in snakes cast in gold and silver. But my mother insists on wearing living serpents winding up her arms, curling around her wrists, roping her forearms.
Maybe they serve as a reminder of her bitterness over her fate—mother to four children, three of them failures: a dead prince, a monster, and a cursed daughter.
“You are not befitting your station.” My mother’s voice is full of venom.
I shouldn’t speak, shouldn’t mumble any pathetic excuses, but I can’t help myself. “I was practicing for the sacred dance, my queen—”
“Do not shame us further,” she hisses.
I fall silent, chagrined.
From his position at the head of the procession, my father rakes his eyes over me with a single glance and turns away in disgust. I feel his desire to strike me like a thrumming in the air, the same way I can feel when a bull is about to charge.
I curl my hands into fists to hide the cuts on my palms and slip into my place next to my mother and my father, the king and queen of Crete. On my other side, my younger sister, beloved Princess Phaedra, bounces eagerly on her heels.
The high priestess, members of the council, and nobles cluster around my father, jostling for position. They all wish to greet this spring’s tributes. More importantly, they wish to gain favor with the king.
Every spring, the Harvest Festival brings royalty from the lesser lands of Zackro, Phaistos, and Khania throughout Crete. I recognize several of the petty kings and members of the noble houses from the mainland kingdoms of Tiryns, Eleusis, Delphi, and Sparta.
Everyone is dressed in their best for the festival. The men wear their finest loincloths and kilts, the fabric intricately designed with bright splashes of color and threaded with emerald and silver whorls.
The women look like colorful peacocks in their flounced dresses of sapphire, ruby, emerald, and saffron. Beads of amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, and green jasper are strung in their dark gleaming hair, and gold and ivory bracelets clink around their wrists.
In the harbor, dozens of merchants’ ships, fishing boats, and the fine naval ships of Crete throng the waterfront in a towering forest of masts. The Athenian ship is long and narrow, with a dozen oars on either side and a scarred prow carved like a snarling lion. Only the mid-sail sets it apart, flapping a mournful, funeral black as the ship curves into the harbor.
The tributes have arrived.
I stand taller, fighting the wave of dizziness flushing through me. The roar of the Minotaur echoes in my head.
“Do you think the boys will be more beautiful than last spring?” Phaedra asks with a sigh. Her circlet is a delicate gold strand crowning her dark hair, a sparkling tear-shaped sapphire dipping over her forehead. At fourteen summers, she looks more and more a queen every day. She clutches a colorful bouquet in her hands.
“What are those for?” I ask.
She brings the flowers—lilies, crocuses, and rock roses—to her nose and breathes deeply. “They’re for the tributes.” She slants her eyes at me with a girlish giggle. “Well, one tribute.”
“You know what fate awaits them,” I say, too sharply.
Phaedra juts her lower lip. She’s beautiful, no matter what expression her face holds. She has the same wild black hair and berry-reddened lips as our mother, though her skin is bronze like mine. “Have you heard? They say there’s a prince of Athens aboard. They say he’s the strongest and most handsome tribute we’ve ever had.”
To prove their fealty to mighty Crete and ensure their protection, each of the lesser kingdoms sends tributes of grain, olive oil, and other goods from Sparta and Ithaca, Cyprus and Mycenae, Corinth and Thebes.
But only Athens pays in human lives. Of all the kingdoms, only Athens is required to pay a blood debt.
Phaedra pinches my arm in excitement, rising up on her toes. “They come!”
Everyone watches as the Athenian ship docks. Dread tightens my gut as two Cretan soldiers disembark and stand on either side of the dock, their bronze-tipped spears slung loosely at their sides. The tributes stumble off the boat as the soldiers prod and poke them, shoving them into a ragged line.
Seven boys stand before us, all young, toned, and handsome, along with seven lovely girls, all dressed in simple linen tunics. A few have bronze skin and dark hair, like the Cretans. A few more are brown, like the Ethiopians. The rest boast light skin and wheat-fair hair, except for one girl with wild curls the hue of copper.
They are barbarians. I should hate every last one of them.
Seven summers ago, their people butchered my eldest brother—Androgeus, heir to the throne, the shining sun of Crete, a boy I loved dearly. I tell myself they deserve this, but the words ring hollow in my head. I pluck one of the gold rings from my fingers and squeeze it in my hand until the edges dig into my skin.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be reminded all over again of the horror that awaits the tributes, the terrible monstrosity that is my own brother, my own blood.
Shame and anxiety twist in my belly, but there’s nothing I can do.
The high priestess clucks her tongue and whispers something in my father’s ear. She is withered with age, but her black eyes flicker dark and cunning. She wears the traditional headdress and robe opened at the navel, her flounced layered skirts embroidered with blood-red thread.
My father strides forward, his royal guard following closely behind him. His fierce expression darkens in his iron-hard face. He’s strong and burly, though silver threads his hair, his features tough and craggy as a boulder.
“What is this?” he growls in his deep, rasping voice. “Do you think to deceive me?”
The Athenian ship’s captain cowers before my father’s guard. “Deceive you how, esteemed King Minos?”
My father grasps a blond boy’s chin, forcing his head this way and that. His thick brows lower as he scowls. “These are the most beautiful youth of Athens? The sons and daughters of the noble houses? What tricks do you devise? You think I will not notice that the quality
of the stock lessens every spring?”
“N-n-no, sir.” The Athenian captain pales, licks his lips, and glances nervously at the ivory-pommeled sword attached to the nearest Cretan soldier’s hip. “If there is some error, s-s-surely w-we can come to some agreement.”
The copper-haired girl next to the blond boy raises her chin, her eyes flashing with defiance. “There are hardly any royal children left to choose from.”
King Minos raises his hand as if to slap her. She flinches. He smiles instead, white teeth gleaming through his bristling beard. I know that cruel smile well, know the sharp sting of his displeasure. “I have half a mind to take fourteen more. This time, of my choosing.”
“Will I appease you, my lord?” The tributes part, and a young man steps forward. A full head taller than any of the others and taller than my father himself, his golden hair shines in the afternoon sunlight. His shoulders are broad, well-defined muscles flexing beneath his tunic.
My father rubs his grizzled chin, his gaze narrowed. “Who are you?”
“King Aegeus sends his deepest apologies,” the tall boy says. His booming voice rings clear and deep over the clamor of the harbor. “He hopes the gift of his only son will soften your disappointment.”
