by Kyla Stone
Both Gallus and Theseus look at me.
“How?” Theseus asks, surprised and maybe a little impressed.
I stiffen. My hand falls over my thigh, instinctively protecting the dagger. Part of me berates myself for using it. But I couldn’t just stand by and let one of the tributes die when I could do something to stop it, even if they are barbarians. I couldn’t do it.
Leda sees something in my face, because she quickly says, “with the torch.”
Theseus grunts in approval.
Gallus’s eyes narrow with suspicion, but he says nothing. In the chaos, with the jostling and wavering torchlight, no one saw me use the dagger. No one but Leda. And for some reason I can’t fathom, she’s choosing to protect me. Maybe she knows Gallus would take it if he knew. Maybe she thinks I can hold my own and should keep it, girl or no. Whatever her reason, I give her a grateful smile.
“We should put out the second torch to conserve it,” Theseus says heavily. “It’s time to move.”
Charis lifts her trembling chin, trying to be brave. “We’re ready.”
Theseus gives her a gruff hug. “No one else dies. I promise.”
I glance back at the solid stone door with a shudder, trepidation filling me. If we don’t figure out the ciphers, it’ll be worse the next time. The next door that closes unexpectedly may cut off our only escape, trapping us in this place to rot—or be eaten.
.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Theseus stalks down the passageway. “Tell us where to go, Princess.”
We continue on. At each fork, the ball of thread directs our path. The passageways twist and turn. Some paths slant sharply down; others contain stairs ascending upward. It begins to feel as if we are doubling back over ourselves, or maybe we are twisting back beneath the passageway we just passed through.
In the damp, cold, and silence, we march for hours. Theseus allows only a few short periods to rest and relieve ourselves; then we are moving again. The darkness breathes beside us, behind us, above us. It’s a living thing, stalking us, creeping ever closer, waiting, always waiting for that perfect moment to lunge in and devour us, one by one.
After a while, we pass through a narrow archway and enter a large chamber, wide enough that the torchlight doesn’t reach all the way to the far walls.
Behind us, someone screams.
Theseus swings around. “What is it?”
Charis points, trembling, her face leached of color.
A pile of bones lies at her feet. She tripped over a caved-in skull. A human skull.
My stomach lurches. Beside me, Charis doubles over and vomits. Zephyra covers her mouth with her hands. Leda stiffens, her face going hard. Little Nikolaos whimpers softly, and Kalliope draws him close to her. She tries to look stoic, but her eyes are glassy, her mouth twisting in revulsion and horror. Even Gallus appears unsettled.
“What do you make of this?” Theseus asks Eryx. He is the only one unflustered. He’s regained his composure in the span since Selene’s death. Once again, he is the calm, steady leader, the courageous, fearless hero.
Eryx squats down, his expression intent as he studies the bones. “Can you bring the torch closer?”
Theseus does as he asks, squatting next to him. Eryx picks up a long, thick bone and turns it in his hands. He picks through several smaller bones, an arm with the hand and tiny finger-bones lying next to it. They are tinged yellow and stripped clean.
“These are at least a few summers old,” Eryx says, a line forming between his brows. He doesn’t appear scared or sickened. He is too busy observing, examining, studying. “Someone tall. See? You can tell by the length of the thigh-bone.”
“Please stop,” Charis says in a small, aching voice.
Zephyra clutches the front of her tunic, twisting the fabric with white-knuckled fingers. “My cousin Sophronios was chosen two summers ago. He broke his leg as a child falling from a tree. Are there—are there break marks on the bones?”
Eryx turns the bones over in his hands. He bites his lower lip, eyes narrowed. “Not this one.”
Zephyra lets out a shaky breath.
Charis shakes her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Put it down, Eryx. Please. They are—the bones are—sacred.”
Kalliope moves close to me. “Charis’s brother was a tribute,” she whispers in my ear. Her voice is raw with bitterness. “The lottery is supposed to spare families from being chosen twice. But her father owed the king a debt.”
I try to fight it, but I can’t help it. Guilt spears me. Acid roils in my stomach. “I’m sorry—”
“No one wants to hear you speak,” Kalliope says, louder.
Theseus’s jaw clenches. He rises to his feet. “Let’s go.”
“We’ve all lost someone. Besides, this could be anyone.” Gallus leans down and plucks the thigh bone from Eryx’s hands.
“Don’t trouble the bones of the dead,” Charis begs. “You’ll disturb their journey in the underworld.”
Gallus’s expression hardens. “If these were my bones, I’d want the living to use whatever parts of me they could.”
Leda raises her eyebrows, impressed. “You mean to use them—”
“As clubs,” Gallus finishes. “Theseus shouldn’t be the only one with a weapon. What if that abomination leapt out at us right now? We can do something if we’re armed. If we had these bones before…” he lets his voice trail off, leaving the rest unsaid. We would have saved Selene.
I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep myself from slapping him, or worse. I hold my tongue.
I must remember my quest above all. I must remember why I’m here.
Gallus hefts the thigh bone. “We have strength in numbers. There are eight of us left.”
“Nine,” I say.
‘What?” He whirls on me, face twisted in the flickering torchlight.
“There are nine of us.”
He sneers. “Don’t deceive yourself, Cretan. You’ll never be one of us.”
I wipe my palms on my tunic. I can’t let him goad me into making a fool of myself—or worse, a critical error. “It is simple arithmetic, nothing more.”
Kalliope reaches out her hand. “I’ll take the other thigh bone.”
Gallus hands it to her, and she practices a swing and a thrust, an intent, fierce expression crossing her face. She looks like one of the Amazonian warrior women, bold and ferocious, the light glinting off the planes of her face, glittering in her eyes.
“And me as well,” Leda says. Charis shoots her a scandalized look, but Leda only shrugs. “I plan to stay alive long enough to ask forgiveness of the dead.”
The torch in Theseus’s hand flares and dims. The shadows on the walls deepen. Everyone watches the flame shrink and waver, the darkness closing in around us. I can barely make out the shape of the people next to me. Their faces are faint smudges of fear and dread. The torch will go out soon.
Nikolaos makes a frantic sound in the back of his throat.
“Hush,” Kalliope says, but not unkindly. Her expression softens, and she strokes Nikolaos’s blond curls with her free hand, the thigh bone hanging loosely at her side. “Theseus will protect us.”
“You have nothing to fear,” Theseus says, though we have plenty to fear. Still, his words are somehow reassuring. He has that way about him, giving off an air of strength, confidence, and power.
Theseus gestures at me. “When this torch goes out, we will light the next one. We must continue our journey.”
Zephyra sags to the floor next to the bones. “I can’t keep walking!”
Nikolaos wraps his small arms across his chest, shivering. He doesn’t speak, but his face is lined with weariness, shadows catching the hollows beneath his eyes like bruises.
“We’re all tired,” Eryx says mildly.
“Maybe we can rest,” Charis pleads, her gaze on Theseus. “For just a short while?”
“Sleep?” Gallus asks incredulously, flinging his arms to take in the shivering darkness,
the damp, looming walls, the dank air. “How could anyone sleep in this place?”
Leda tugs at her sandals with a wince. “My feet are bleeding.”
“I can’t walk a step more!” Zephyra whines.
Zephyra is weak. Nikolaos and Charis are soft. They all are, the pampered sons and daughters of nobles.
So are you, the voice in my head whispers. I might be a princess, accustomed to silks and jewels and velvet cushions, but I’m also a bull-dancer. I train in sand and sweat and blood. I’m strong, my arms and legs lean and hardened, straight and tough as a bronze-tipped spear.
I’m trained to survive, to ignore pain, to endure sore muscles and sprained ankles and bruised ribs. I can walk all day and all night if I must.
I can show compassion and take the side of the tributes, or I can show strength and resolve. Theseus respects strength, and it is Theseus I need most right now. I turn away from Nikolaos and Zephyra, so I don’t have to see their exhausted faces. “We should keep going.”
Theseus gives a sharp, approving nod. “We go, then. It can’t be much further.”
Kalliope wipes her sweaty hair off her forehead. She moves to Theseus’s side and presses against him, beseeching, her eyes wide and round. Gone is the fierce expression she wore when she hefted the thigh bone. Now she is all charm and grace. “I’m so tired, Theseus. Can’t we rest for a few moments?”
The torch nearly gutters out, the remaining light barely reaching Theseus’s face. The other tributes fall into darkness. Several gasp. Nikolaos moans deep in his throat.
“Please, Theseus,” Kalliope says softly. “We will be stronger once we sleep.”
Theseus rubs the back of his neck and sighs again. “Very well. Find places next to each other and sit down against the wall over there. Eat a bit. Conserve your wine. Two of us will take watch.”
“What about the last torch?” Leda asks.
“We will not waste what precious light we have on resting,” Theseus spits. For a moment, he’s silent. When he speaks again, he is calmer, steady. “I will keep the fresh torch beside me and light it at the faintest sound.”
He loathes having to adjust for the others’ weakness. And yet, he gave in easily enough to Kalliope. I cannot beguile like her, but I’ll do my best not to appear weak for any reason. I’ll earn his respect, then his trust. Everything depends on it.
The tributes sink down against the far wall. The torch is only a glowing coal. The heavy blackness descends like a thick, suffocating curtain.
“I’ll watch with you, Theseus,” Kalliope offers.
“As will I.” Gallus’s ragged voice drifts out of the dark.
“The princess will take first watch with me,” Theseus says.
I feel their disapproval radiating through the darkness.
Kalliope clears her throat. “Are you certain—”
“You’re not going soft on her, are you?” Gallus asks, derision dripping in his voice. “A filthy Cretan rat. And an ugly one at that.”
I stiffen but hold my tongue, pushing the anger to someplace down deep inside me.
“Of course not. I mean merely to keep a close watch on her.” Theseus grabs me roughly by the arm. “Over here.”
I ignore the low grumbling of the others and allow Theseus to guide me a little way from the rest of the tributes. The others fumble in their leather satchels, feeling for figs and other dried fruits, nuts, and flatbread with goat cheese wrapped in vine leaves.
I ease down against the wall, my muscles groaning in protest. My lower back aches. My ribs are still sore, and my arm hurts, though less than before. The wall is rough and ridged, sharp corners digging into my shoulders. The air is damp, sour, and cloying.
I ignore the discomfort and unroll the linen bandage from the cut on my arm. I feel it carefully. The bleeding has stopped, the wound closed. It’s healing. I leave the wrapping in a pile on the floor beside me.
My stomach rumbles at the sweet scent of food, my mouth watering. My tongue is a dry, swollen lump. Suddenly, all I can think of is filling the hollowness in my belly. I feel around inside my satchel and pull out a dry square of flatbread, two figs, and a soft, smooth chunk of goat cheese. I nibble a corner of the goat cheese, the taste sharp and delicious on my tongue, forcing myself not to shove the whole thing in my mouth.
The darkness fills with the sounds of shifting of bodies and low murmured voices. A distant roar echoes through the chamber. The Minotaur. Everyone stiffens, craning their ears. But he doesn’t sound any closer.
I blink and close my eyes. There is no difference. The sooty blackness surrounds me, consumes me. I swallow my cheese and take a deep breath—breathing in the darkness, breathing it out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“How much longer do you think it will take?” Theseus asks in a low voice.
“Soon,” I say, though there is no way to know.
Theseus sighs heavily. “This place weighs on the spirit. I don’t like it.”
We are silent for several moments. I stare into the blackness, my eyes burning.
“You surprise me, Princess,” Theseus murmurs.
“What?”
“You complain less than Gallus, and he is twice your weight and excels as a wrestler and javelin thrower in the games. You’re hardly taller than a child, and yet you easily keep pace. You held your own with the deadly worms. It confounds me.”
My lips twist. “Is that a compliment I hear beneath your insults?”
He snorts. “Take it as you like.”
I cross my arms over my chest, indignant despite my best intentions. “Is it really so surprising? You watched me in the arena. If I wished, I could somersault over your head.”
“I suppose it surprises me that King Minos would allow it. You’re just a girl, far too delicate for such a thing.”
I bristle. “Girls are not so delicate as you think. You would prefer your women fragile and beautiful, waiting eagerly at the hearth for your triumphant return?”
“What is so wrong with that?” There is amusement in his voice, which somehow makes his words worse.
“Everything!” I fume. Maybe these Athenians truly are as brutish and backward as my father claims. “King Minos may be a tyrant in your view, he may sometimes be petty and cruel, but he is a fair and generous king to his people. In Crete, women are artisans and potters, goldsmiths and healers, priestesses and judges. And bull-dancers, for the mother goddess rules over all lesser gods, male and female.”
He makes a dismissive sound. “It was a girl I saw who spilled her blood on the sand. A girl I watched who stood there and did nothing while death charged her.”
I clench my jaw, shame hot in my face. “You understand nothing.”
“Were you afraid when the bull came for you?”
“Wouldn’t you have been?”
“Why would you do such a thing?” he asks, dodging my question.
It is difficult to explain…how it feels to put your mind to something, to train and work for it, then do it, something only a handful of others can do. I swallow, hesitating. Even as frustrated as I am at him, I want to make him understand. I want to make him see. “In the palace—I am nothing. I am shunned, scorned, though no one would ever say so to my face. The arena is different. In the arena, I’m not the cursed princess. I’m myself, my best self. I can do anything…at least, I could. Until the goddess withdrew her blessing.”
“But the gods spared you.”
“Yes. My mother says the same.” Doubt laces my voice as I remember her words, the blazing intensity of her gaze. “Still, it was Tarina who risked her life for mine.”
“The end is written from the beginning.” He speaks with such absolute certainty, without even a hint of doubt. “The gods—the fates—choose our paths.”
A part of me envies his faith. I taste bitterness on my tongue. “Then why strain and struggle? Why fight? Why try to change anything that already is?”
“Only fight for the will of the gods,” Theseus says
, his voice rising in his conviction. “Only change what the gods have already fated.”
It is a simple thing for him, when the gods willed him into princehood, when he believes those same gods will his victory over the Minotaur, when fate has given him a kingdom.
I’ve watched fate steal my mother’s love, my father’s approval, and the lives of two brothers—one doomed to the underworld, the other trapped in the body of a monster. The goddess abandoned me in the arena after I gave her everything—all my training and dedication, my sweat, my tears, my blood.
“What if you can?” I whisper, as if the goddess might hear me deep in the bowels of the earth. I remember Daedalus’s words, the way he looked at me—as if he pitied me. To complete the mission my mother gave me, I will have to defy at least one god: Poseidon, Earth-Shaker. The god who cursed my brother into a monstrous form, the same god who sired and blessed Theseus. “What if it’s written as it happens? What if we hold our own stylus?”
Theseus is silent for a moment. “That’s blasphemy, especially coming from a priestess.”
“An initiate,” I correct, a pain between my ribs that has nothing to do with a bruise. “A priestess in training. But I’m not—I’m nothing now.”
“You are still a princess.”
“What good is that down here?” Even my lineage seems lost, too distant to remember. It’s so easily forgotten, like the memory of light. In this consuming darkness, I can barely remember the golden orb of the sun in the bright, bright sky.
“Do not lose hope. I’ll slay the monster. I’ll save us. We’ll return to the world of the living, victorious and triumphant, and you’ll be my wife—no mere princess but the queen of Athens, living out your days in lavish comfort, adored by all.”
I snort, wanting to dismiss the thought—especially the last part—as an impossible dream. But my heart thumps inside my chest, heat flaring up my throat, spreading across my cheeks. For once, I’m grateful for the darkness. “And yet this is how you treat your future bride? With mockery and derision? With barely restrained contempt?”
