Labyrinth of Shadows

by Kyla Stone

  She’s already forgiven me. My throat thickens. I would hug her if not for Theseus’s arm keeping me close to him.

  Theseus dips his head to her, acknowledging her respect.

  Gallus clenches the bone club in his fist until his knuckles whiten, but he says nothing more. I eye him warily. I won’t forget his warning. Now that he knows Theseus has chosen me as his bride, potentially usurping Gallus’s own power, his hatred has only been stoked further.

  “Well, then.” Leda squints at the walls of the courtyard. “We can either sit here and whine about death until the monster comes back and gives us our wish, or we can search for this mythical escape. If there’s only the slimmest chance, that’s still a bargain I’ll gladly make.”

  “Leda is right,” Kalliope says darkly. “I prefer to live.”

  I shoot Leda a grateful look. When she looks back at me, I don’t see disgust or hatred. Her expression is the same as it’s always been, soft but guarded, her eyes wryly amused. I haven’t lost her—or Charis or Theseus. Not yet. The relief nearly brings me to my knees.

  “There’s a way out of this place,” I say to them. “We just have to find it.”

  “And quickly.” Theseus squeezes my shoulder and releases me. “The Minotaur is wounded and temporarily sated, not dead. He will come for us. We must be gone when he does.”

  I turn my focus back to escape. We’ve found the source of the moonflowers, we’ve found light in the darkness. Now we need to find the way out.

  I try to think like Daedalus. He’s clever and secretive, a puzzle-maker and riddle-spinner.

  I look around once more and move to the seaward wall, running my hands along the vine-tangled rock at chest-level. “There could be a concealed doorway, like the hidden doors and the archway in Ast—in the Minotaur’s lair.”

  Eryx frowns in concentration, a line forming between his brows. “Look for hidden seams straighter than a natural crack.”

  “And look for more ciphers,” I say. “There will likely be a code.”

  We spread out, examining the floor, the walls, pushing aside the vines and thick, wild ivy, fumbling for concealed doorways, secret locks, and hidden seams, searching for anything that might save us.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A thick cloud drifts over the moon, plunging us into deep shadows. The wind picks up, gusting between the peaks of the mountain. Far below us, the sea crashes and hisses.

  I kneel down on the ground and clear away the grime, dead leaves, and loose stones in the center of the courtyard. Charis and Leda crouch beside me. “There are designs carved into the stone.”

  Theseus rushes over and I point to the etchings in the stone floor, some of stick figures, some elaborate carvings of gods and mortals locked in battle. There are suns and oceans and birds, birds everywhere.

  “These were made by Icarus, too,” I say.

  Daedalus must have brought Icarus to this place often while he oversaw the construction of the Labyrinth. He made sure Icarus had a place open to the sun and air and stars during those long, endless seasons trapped deep beneath the mountain. And Icarus did what he did best. He drew, and he dreamed, and he drew what he dreamed.

  I suck in my breath. All that time I drifted abandoned and alone in the echoing chambers and corridors of the palace, Icarus was below me. Had we longed for the same things? Dreamed the same tortured dreams?

  I return my attention to the carvings on the stone floor. These are the same images as those carved along the archways to the hidden doors—constellations, dozens of them, along with carvings depicting the great heroes of gods and man.

  I trace my fingers over a beautiful carving of two birds with men’s heads soaring above the sun. I still don’t know which story this depicts. I’ve never heard of such a creature before. Is it a harpy? But no, the heads are clearly male, not female. And the wings are beautiful, not garish or ugly.

  Something tickles the back of my mind. I crouch over the bird carving, brushing away more dirt, peering closer. It’s not a picture of a half-man, half-bird creature after all, but a person clad in wings—two men in wings.

  The harnesses in Daedalus’s workroom. The wings he built for himself and his son from wooden frames, stretched pig-bladders, candle wax, and feathers. This carving isn’t of some grand tale of gods and monsters, but Daedalus’s ingenious plan. He must have planned this escape in case my father locked them in the Labyrinth for good. Daedalus and Icarus intended to fly like birds.

  I stand and brush off my knees, heart hammering. I turn slowly, again scanning the courtyard. They were going to fly. But they had to get past the wall, which is too high and steep to climb. Daedalus created a way to go through the wall. He must have.

  “Tear down all the vines. Find the ciphers. It has to be here!”

  With the six of us working together, we make quick work of the moonflower vines. A pile swiftly forms, growing nearly as high as my head. When all the vines are torn down, we examine every ridge and ripple in the rock.

  “Here!” Charis cries hoarsely. She kneels next to the broken column, pointing to a low section of wall hidden in its shadow. I sink to my knees beside her, the others crowding in behind us.

  More carvings scatter across the wall, each no larger than the palm of my hand. My eye is drawn to the image I couldn’t decipher before. What I thought was an eagle with a man’s head is the same figure from the courtyard floor—a man soaring with great outstretched wings, but this time, he has talons instead of feet. In the jagged talons, he clutches the seven-pointed star.

  Asterion. Ruler of the stars. Icarus resented everything Asterion stood for—my brother was the reason his father was ordered to build the Labyrinth Icarus was stuck inside. Icarus represented the winged man; Asterion, the caught star—he dreamed of defeating the ruler of the stars.

  My heart leaps into my throat, my pulse thudding in my ears. I look up at Theseus. “This is it!”

  “Are you certain? The door may not open if we get it wrong.”

  I nod grimly. I’m certain.

  Theseus gestures at me. “Go ahead. You’ve earned it.”

  I spread my fingers across the image, searching for the grooves. It’s the star. Asterion. I push it hard.

  The stone notch depresses, sinking inward. There’s a great grinding, rasping sound as a small door half a man’s height tall and wide appears in the seemingly solid wall of rock. Slowly, it scrapes open.

  Beyond the doorway, the sheer face of a cliff drops steeply.

  I crouch in the doorway and lean out, gripping the lip of the wall to keep my balance. The wind batters me, snarling my hair. Theseus crouches down and grips my wrist to keep me from plunging over the edge. I look down the rock face, which drops at least the height of six or seven men. Much too far to jump without breaking several bones—and possibly our necks as well.

  “We’ll die if we jump!” Kalliope cries, furious tears springing into her eyes.

  “We don’t jump,” I say.

  Past the cliff, the mountain slopes, slanting into a hillside of tumbled boulders, shale ledges, and rocky outcroppings. It’s steep, but not so steep as to be impossible.

  Far below us nestles a narrow, sandy cove. On either side of the small beach, great black waves hurl themselves against the crooked, jutting rocks. Daedalus chose this location wisely. A small boat could slip between the rocks to the shore and back out again. There is a way.

  Wild hope surges in my chest. This will work. The rest of the tributes will be rescued. They will live. Daedalus gave me everything we needed to survive. “We use the thread.”

  Kalliope glares at me. “You wish to climb down a cliff with a piece of string?”

  “It will hold. No man can break it.”

  “You think we’re going to believe you?” Gallus snarls. “You’ll let us fall to our deaths!”

  “It will not fail us.” I hold out the ball of thread. “Test it yourself.”

  Theseus takes it and saws the thread with the dagger.
It doesn’t fray. He frowns, sawing harder. The thread remains untouched. The blade can’t sever it. His eyes widen in surprise—and hope. “Ariadne speaks the truth.”

  Eryx tilts his head, studying the thread. “It’s too thin. We won’t be able to grip it. It’ll slice our hands open.”

  “So, we’ll fall anyway,” Gallus says.

  I grit my teeth, biting back a sharp retort. But he’s right. I look around, frantic for something, anything. My gaze falls on Gallus. He glowers, his eyes as dark and glittering as one of my mother’s snakes. But I don’t care how he’s looking at me; I want what he’s holding.

  “The bones,” I say. “We packed bones in our satchels.”

  “What?” Charis asks.

  “She’s right!” Eryx says. “We can tie the bones at intervals, like the rungs of a ladder. They’ll give us something to hold and something to stand on, to brace our weight as we climb.”

  “Yes!” Theseus exclaims. “And once we reach that point down there—” He points eagerly. “See that outcropping there? It almost looks like a path leading down to the shoreline.”

  “Then what?” Gallus rocks back on his heels, still scowling. “We’re supposed to swim to Athens? Those waves will crush us.”

  “Like I told you before, I had my slave, Tarina, speak with your ship’s captain. They’ve been sailing the coast every day, searching for us. She swore they would continue to do so until the full moon.”

  As one, we look toward the sky.

  Thick, dark clouds drift across the moon. It takes several breathless moments for the clouds to pass, with more billowing behind them. The stars fade to black. A storm is brewing.

  When the moon finally peeks through the cloud cover, my stomach drops. We’ve been in the Labyrinth far longer than I believed possible. The moon is fat, but not full.

  “It’s waning,” Eryx says softly. “The full moon has passed.”

  I shake my head. I won’t accept this. I can’t. “No.”

  “How long has it been?” Charis asks desperately.

  “It’s at least one night past the full moon,” Eryx says.

  “Then we still have a chance.” I refuse to resign myself to hopelessness. I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much. I won’t give up. “I know Tarina. She’ll continue the search.”

  “Your slave?” Gallus’s lip curls. “Maybe she’s already sailed to freedom on our Athenian ship.”

  “She’s my friend.” Of all the things I doubt and fear, Tarina is not one of them. “I have faith in her.”

  “Our captain is also faithful,” Theseus says firmly. “We must get all of you down to the beach. We’ll worry about the ship then.”

  “Hurry,” Eryx says. “The Minotaur will remember his hunger soon enough.”

  I already have the ball of thread out. I begin unwinding the white strands, but it tangles in my unskilled fingers.

  “I can do it,” Leda offers. “My father taught me how to tie knots in ship ropes. This is the same.”

  I hand her the thread. The rest of the tributes bring her their bones, and she does as Eryx instructs. The tributes cram around her, trembling with dread and fear and hope.

  This close to escape, hope is the most terrifying thing of all.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Theseus stands several strides apart from the others, his dagger clenched in his fist. He watches the entrance to the passageway we came through as well as a second tunnel a few paces from the first, guarding us as always.

  I feel his presence like a hum inside me. I can’t forget the press of his lips against mine, the sudden gentleness in his eyes when he looks at me. Or the warmth that swept through me when he claimed me as his bride before the others.

  His gaze fixes on me, his expression hard, his eyes unreadable. “Ariadne.”

  I go to him, the pull almost against my will. My breath catches in my throat. He’s so close, so warm, so alive. He’s the son of a god, a blazing Apollo standing right in front of me.

  “I’m sorry I deceived you,” I force out. “I—”

  “I know. In your place, I would’ve done the same thing.” He gives me a grim smile. “How can I remain angry at my bride?”

  I don’t deserve his mercy. Or his affection. Together, we survived the dark, the hunger, the terror. We survived the deadly worms, the fire, the insidious wraiths. I’ve earned my place at his side.

  For a heartbeat, I can see myself there, for good, for forever. The queen of Athens, wife of Theseus—brave, strong, fierce Theseus.

  My eyes burn. I blink back the sudden wetness. I can’t tell him the whole truth, but suddenly, I want no more deception between us, no more falsehoods. None save one—the most bitter truth of all.

  “You don’t have to marry me,” I say in a strangled voice. “I won’t hold you to it.”

  His smile is wide and genuine, brilliant as the sun piercing through clouds. “Oh, but I want to. It’s you I want, Ariadne.”

  Theseus bends his head toward me.

  I stop breathing. I’ve never felt this, this wanting pushing up through my stomach, flaring through every part of my body. I can’t help myself. I lift my face to his, my lips parting.

  He kisses me. Long and slow and deep. Even exhausted, bone-weary, thirsty and starving, I want him. I want this. I wrap my arms around his neck, digging my fingers into his golden curls. His hair is unwashed, dirty and oily and yet still so beautiful, soft as silk beneath my skin.

  He drags me roughly against him, enfolding me in his embrace. His heart pumps against my chest—warm and strong and alive, so alive. A tremor goes through me, sparks rippling up and down my body, filling me with light from the inside out. I don’t want this to end.

  For this moment, for this heart-shattering breath, I can have him.

  A jagged grief uncurls low in my belly.

  The cost of freeing my brother is higher than I ever thought I’d have to pay.

  A cloud skirts the moon overhead. The courtyard slips into deeper shadows. Dark clouds gather in the night sky, swollen and angry. It’ll rain soon, and hard.

  Doubt grips me. I hear my words coming out of my mouth before I can think them, before I can reel them back. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to go back for the Minotaur.”

  “Kalliope has already begged me a hundred times.” His face darkens as he pulls away from me. “I thought you, of all people, understood this.”

  A sacrifice is required. A life for a life.

  But now, staring into the beautiful storm of Theseus’s eyes, I doubt everything.

  I came here to make things right. But this doesn’t feel right. Not anymore. I meant to release myself of my shame, to win the love of my mother and free my brother, to once and for all right the wrongs of the gods, of my father.

  But what if I’m wrong? What if killing Theseus will make me as much a monster as my father? It will blacken my soul with a stain I can never erase. It will shatter my heart in ways I never imagined when I made that vow to my mother.

  The price of altering fate is steep, my mother’s voice whispers in my ear.

  Longing pierces my chest. I can still change my mind. I can allow Theseus to be the gallant hero and slay the monster. I can let him win me as his bride, his noble prize. I can sail away to Athens with him, to a new future, a different life. I can live a charmed existence of pretty dresses and ladies in waiting and palace feasts, with friends I truly care about, all at Theseus’s side.

  The vision wavers in front of me, shimmering so real, so beautiful, I can almost reach out and touch it.

  “What if you left with the tributes, right now?” I ask with growing desperation, my own duplicity like poison on my tongue.

  My heart aches with a steady, persistent pain, a pulsing bruise that will not heal. Loving Theseus is a betrayal of my brother. Loving my brother is a betrayal of Theseus.

  Whatever I choose, whatever happens—whether my brother dies or Theseus dies—it feels like I’ve already failed, like
I’ve already lost everything that matters.

  He traces my jaw with his fingers. I feel his touch like a line of fire. I reach up and grasp his hand, press my own over his. I see the struggle in his face, the pull of my words.

  “Come with us!”

  He shakes his head, a dark recklessness in his eyes. “I won’t leave this place without avenging my people.”

  “You can lead your people back to Athens in triumph. Wouldn’t that make you hero enough?”

  “And leave with the monster still holding my people hostage? To return without glory? Never.”

  I bite my tongue so hard it bleeds. The sharp, coppery tang seeps into my mouth. “But at least you would return—alive. Would that be so awful?”

  He breathes fast and shallow, his cheeks pinking with anticipation, eyes suddenly blazing. “I’ll return the greatest hero of Athens, or I will not return at all.”

  His gaze goes distant, staring at something over my head.

  He’s imagining it—all of Athens falling at his feet in gratitude and adoration, imagining the stroke of glory, the honor, the stories told around fires and throne rooms spinning into myth, the gazes of awe from hundreds of loyal soldiers, thousands of people clamoring for his touch, for a smile, for the crown of Athens to be placed upon his head.

  “It’s far better to die in a fiery blaze of glory than to live a common, meaningless life,” he says adamantly.

  He’s as stubborn and obstinate as always. He will not yield.

  I swallow my desperation. “And what of love?” I whisper.

  “Love comes with glory.”

  I stare up at him, at his beautiful, tortured eyes. “Does it always? Can’t even a common mortal find love?”

  “Not for me.” He lays his hand gently on my shoulder.

  My scar throbs at his touch. I feel like my skin might catch fire.

  “Love is a prize,” he says. “It only comes to those who prove themselves worthy.”

  Has he never been loved simply for who he is? Or has it always been for the things he’s done, can do, will do, to shed his glory upon others?