Labyrinth of Shadows

by Kyla Stone

  I will not have that life with Theseus. I look up at him, yearning and desire and regret twisting my insides. I long to leap up, to wrap myself in his arms, to press my cheek against the steady beat of his heart, to accept what love he offers, even if it is not enough. And it is not enough.

  Love—real love—is as much about sacrifice as anything else. If you aren’t willing to sacrifice for love, it isn’t real. But not the kind of sacrifice that always takes, that diminishes the one who offers it. But the kind of sacrifice that makes you whole.

  Asterion showed me that. In sacrificing himself, he freed us both. Tarina showed me that love. And Kalliope, in her own way.

  But not my mother. Not my father. And as much as it pains my heart—not Theseus. Even now, Theseus chooses honor and prestige and glory over me. He will choose glory first for the rest of his life. I know it. I see it in his face.

  I’ve spent my life giving away pieces of myself in broken chunks, desperate to earn my father’s approval, my mother’s affection, desperate to be loved. I will no longer give away the broken pieces. I will not be second-best in my own life. Not anymore.

  I know what love is now. And I know what it isn’t. And I will never again accept anything less than the real thing.

  I will not live that life, a pretty thing in a pretty cage.

  I will not.

  “I am no longer a princess.” I turn my back on my brother’s body, on Theseus. “And I will be no queen.”

  Chapter Sixty

  We walk in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts, our own grief. Clad only in my loincloth, I try not to shiver as I limp along. Theseus offers his arm, but I don’t take it.

  The darkness recedes before us. It’s not as sinister as before; it’s no longer alive.

  I hold the ball of thread Theseus handed me. The other end is attached to the column beside the concealed door in the courtyard. I wind the thread slowly around my fist as we make our way back through the blackness, through the winding corridors and twisting passages of the Labyrinth. Much of the thread has been unwound, and yet the ball looks the same size as when we began this journey—what feels like a lifetime ago.

  When we reach the courtyard, the storm has ceased. The stones glimmer wetly, the rain only a mournful drizzle. The light of the moon is a faint, watery gray, barely visible through the scrim of clouds above us.

  The secret doorway in the exterior wall is still open, beckoning.

  Theseus gestures for me to go first. “The rest have already gone down to the beach.”

  The bones are still slick, but Eryx’s idea works. I descend the ladder, the wind lashing loose strands of hair into my face, the bones clattering against the cliff face, swaying wildly.

  My muscles tremble, my ankle and side aching, my fingers scraped and throbbing from the wet and the cold as I seize each bone, gripping them with all my strength to keep from slipping and plummeting to the jagged rocks below.

  But the thread is strong, just as Daedalus said it would be. It holds.

  I jump the last few feet, landing hard on the rock-strewn slope of the mountain. Boulders hover like great sleeping giants. The sea hisses, the waves crashing against the cliffs below.

  I wait for Theseus. He doesn’t look at me. I long to reach out to him, to slip my hand in his, to draw him close, breathe him in, kiss him like I’ve never kissed him before.

  But that time has passed. We both must live with our choices now.

  I blink back the stinging in my eyes. I made the right choice. I know I’ll survive this pain. I know I will be all right, even though it doesn’t feel like it now.

  I keep my gaze on the hazardous ground as we carefully climb down the mountainside, picking our way among the boulders and jutting rocks and scrub brush, slip-sliding over steep stones slick with moss and rain.

  On the narrow sliver of beach, the remaining tributes huddle together, shivering, hugging each other for warmth and comfort. Their tunics are dirty and ragged, their faces gaunt and smudged with dirt, their bodies scratched and bruised.

  They swarm Theseus before his feet even touches the wet sand. He raises the dagger in one hand, the blade black with my brother’s blood.

  “Mighty Theseus slew the monster!” Gallus steps protectively beside Theseus, taking his rightful place as the prince’s brother-in-arms. He grins broadly and slaps Theseus on the back. “Well done!”

  He doesn’t even spare a glance at me. He doesn’t need to. I am no longer a threat.

  Eryx nods at me. “I’m glad you made it out,” he says mildly.

  Charis gives me a hesitant smile. Leda is more reticent, watching me carefully.

  “Tell us the tale! How did you slay the monster?” Gallus asks, his eyes shining with adoration, with devotion.

  Theseus looks down at me. I stare at him, waiting for what he’ll do. He can still change his mind. He can still do the right thing. Guilt flashes in his gaze for an instant. Guilt, and something like regret. Then his expression shifts, his beautiful features carefully blank, his eyes distant and aloof. He has already closed himself to me.

  He turns back to Gallus, Eryx, Charis, and Leda—the survivors, the only ones left. They lean toward him like flowers toward the sun, their faces filled with awe and adoration. They are his, and he is theirs. “It is a story fit for a legend! Does anyone have a parchment and stylus to write it down for the poets?”

  Gallus laughs heartily.

  Theseus squares his shoulders. The moonlight silvers his curls. His eyes burn with blue fire. “I stalked the beast in the dark, trailing the blood from the wound I’d given him. When he turned to face me at last, I leapt upon him, using all of my strength to wrestle the monster to the ground...”

  He radiates strength and power and light. And goodness—even now, as he spins the myth that will bind him to his fate—a great king, a mighty hero—it is a falsehood, but one even I might believe if I did not know the truth, if I did not sink the dagger into Asterion’s warm, beating heart myself.

  My ribs ache. A deep, intense pain throbs through me. I am hollowed out, emptied. As Theseus continues his tale, I turn away from the group and limp across the sand to the shoreline. The great waves look black in the moonlight, broken by a reef just beyond the cove.

  I walk into the sea. The dark water is bitterly cold, stinging my blisters and numbing my feet. A soft, spitting rain wets my skin. I lift my face, closing my eyes, drinking it all in. Every sensation, every sight, every sound is beautiful, filling me with a quiet, astonished joy.

  I want to hug the sky. I want to hug the whole world.

  I am here. I am alive.

  After a while, Theseus’s voice goes silent. I feel a presence behind me and turn.

  Leda kicks at the sand. She’s barefoot, several blisters on her heels popped and bleeding. She grimaces and stomps into the water, coming to a stop beside me. Damp and slick, her copper curls cling, against her face. “Charis fell asleep. But I couldn’t.”

  I understand what she doesn’t say, not when we’re so close. I feel the same way.

  I face her, starting to clench my fists, but then I relax my hands. I finger the scabbed half-moons carved into my palms. No more. No more hurting myself. No more nightmares. “Are you here to banish me? There’s nowhere else for me to go.”

  Her tight smile glints in the dark. “Why would I do that when I’ve grown rather fond of you?”

  I stare at her. “You don’t despise me?”

  For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Her lips are cracked, her full cheeks hollowed out, her shoulders slumped. The tunic that once clung to her curves whips loosely in the wind. “I saw your face when Kalliope...when she died. You never wanted that to happen.”

  I think again of how similar Kalliope and I are, how tough and brave she was. Kalliope deserved to live. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d saved her.”

  Leda is quiet for a while. “Charis says you have a good heart. She believes we should give you another chance. So do I.”

 
; I blink back sudden tears. “I—thank you.”

  She stands beside me and gazes out over the water. “When do you think the ship will come?”

  “Soon.” It must be soon, for we won’t last long. We may die of thirst or starve on the far side of the mountain, unable to climb the steep cliffs or swim the violent, storm-tossed seas. But I refuse to believe that we came this far, fought this hard, and endured this much for nothing.

  I doubt the gods, I doubt fate, but I do not doubt Tarina. She won’t allow the Athenian captain to give up so easily. She is my friend. She loves me, and I her, and she’ll do all in her power to save me. I believe this with all my heart.

  “What will you do first when you get back to the world?” she asks me.

  I think for a moment. “Sleep.”

  She grunts. “I recommend a good bath. Particularly for you.”

  I choke out a laugh.

  Together, Leda and I sit in the sand and watch the narrow strip of sea through the break in the cliffs. The waves crash against the rocks. The wind blows in our faces, tangling our hair. The salty air smells tangy and wild. It smells like freedom.

  We do not speak. We don’t need to. I feel her solidness, her comforting warmth, and she mine. That is enough. Eryx, Gallus, and Charis sleep, curled against each other on the sand. I sense Theseus’s presence behind me. He’s awake, alert and watching over his people, just like always.

  I push away the hurt. I am content here with Leda, with my friend.

  Gradually, the sky lightens in shades of indigo. The stars wink out and the moon fades. Helio lifts the sun from the sea, painting the sky in vivid pink, tangerine, crimson, and violet.

  My exhausted eyes are half-closed, my head resting against Leda’s shoulder, when she leaps up, almost knocking me to the sand.

  “I see it!” she cries. “Our ship! I see it!”

  I clamber to my feet and shade my eyes with my hand. Just past the break in the jagged rocks, a ship sails into view. The Seafarer is small, its planks scarred, black sail flapping. It’s nothing like the huge, sleek, majestic vessels of the Cretan navy.

  But it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Two days after the Seafarer rescues us, we dock at Naxos, a small island between Crete and Athens. Naxos is beautiful, bursting with rich vineyards and carpeted in lush greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance towers Mount Zas, where an eagle first gave the Athenian’s god Zeus the gift of thunder, Charis explains.

  Two servants greet us at the docks. Once they learn who we are—rather, who Theseus is—they quickly lead us along a winding dirt road between rows of verdant olive trees on one side and lemon trees along the other. We crest a shallow hill to find a grand villa gleaming white in the sun, surrounded by soft green hills dotted with grazing sheep and wild goats.

  Vasilios, the lord of Naxos, a great, burly man with a mane of tangled blonde hair and a bristling beard hanging to his chest brings us into his home and graciously offers us everything we need. We bathe (and bathe again and wash our hair five times) and dress in tunics of fine white linen in the Athenian tradition. Servants tend to our wounds. They feed us small bits of hard bread and simple wine until our stomachs can handle food again. And then we sleep for a full day and part of another.

  When we awake, the villa is bustling with preparations for a great feast. Servants braid our hair and drape our necks with flowered wreaths of orchids, poppies, and roses. The lord’s daughters weave crowns of ivy for Leda, Charis, and me to wear in honor of their god Dionysus.

  On Naxos, they worship Dionysus more than any other, the god of artistic inspiration and good harvests, of wine and ecstasy—and fertility, Leda tells me with a wry, mischievous grin.

  “I’d like to meet this god,” I say, elbowing Charis. “He sounds more fun than the others.”

  Charis blushes, and Leda laughs, full and deep and beautiful.

  Vasilios and his wife, Desma, have their servants prepare a feast fit for kings. We drink delicious spiced wine and eat hearty bread, chunks of cheese, ripe pomegranates dripping with purple juice, and succulent salted fish—a favorite on the island—until our stomachs nearly burst. Theseus and Gallus regale them with the stories of the Labyrinth. I focus on Tarina, Charis, and Leda, for I’m well trained in ignoring painful rumors and half-truths.

  I know how people are, how they loved to believe the cruel rumors my father spread about my mother and the wooden cow, choosing a malicious but tantalizing lie over the difficult truth—that their gallant king is arrogant and vicious; that their gods are petty, barbaric, undeserving of worship; that blame and guilt do not always land where they should.

  Asterion’s story will be twisted and distorted, warped and perverted, until it is barely a shadow of itself. This will happen whether Theseus spreads the lies or someone else does.

  And they will. They want their princesses pretty and demure; they want their monsters to be monstrous.

  I thought I’d be angrier. But I’m not. I spent far too much of my life anxious over how others thought of me—my mother, my father, the people of Crete. I’m done with that now. Those who love me know who I am.

  After we are sated, we move to a wide, open courtyard of flagstone surrounded by white pillars. Vasilios gathers his advisers along with the local nobles and their families to celebrate with us. Servants pass around goblets of spiced wine on silver trays. Musicians play the double pipes and hand drums.

  I instruct the Athenians in a traditional, sacred Cretan dance, with a unique twist I invent myself. We dance to honor our dead and celebrate our freedom. We imitate the twists and turns of the Labyrinth, turning forward and then backward, twirling and twining, circling each other, both celebrating and grieving, linked together as we grasp each other’s wrists.

  I used to dance in worship of the goddess. But now I dance for myself. I dance for Nikolaos and his beautiful voice. I dance for Demetrios, Selene, Zephyra, and proud Kalliope, but most of all for Asterion.

  I dance for all of us, for what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained—for joy and sorrow, life and death.

  I finish dancing and retreat to a flagstone half-wall beneath a large shade tree and lean against it, breathing hard. I still tire easily. My ankle hurts, my ribs ache—but I don’t care. My hair is clean, my stomach full. The air is sweet, and all around me lie the green of hills and the sharp blue of water and sky. I don’t want to close my eyes for even a moment in case I miss something.

  In the center of the courtyard, Theseus dances with one of Vasilios’s little daughters, a lovely girl of eight or nine summers with blonde hair as wild as her father’s. She is standing on Theseus’s feet and gazing up at him like he’s Zeus in human form.

  He has nearly returned to his hale and healthy self, ruddy and strong, powerful enough to wrestle the sun. His hair is a golden crown upon his regal head, his bare chest gleaming hard and perfect as marble but for the shallow slashes and cuts, all healing to scabs now. He grins, his whole face lighting up.

  I look away. My gaze drifts to Tarina, dancing with Eryx, her every move supple and rippling with grace. Eryx bumbles woodenly, stepping on her bare toes and apologizing profusely. She only laughs and grabs his hand. His brown cheeks darken, flushed but happy.

  She twirls and catches my eye, tilting her head in that birdlike way of hers as she flashes me a brilliant white smile. I smile back, my heart filled with joy at her happiness.

  When we climbed aboard the Seafarer, dirty and weak and starving, Tarina was the first to greet us. She threw herself at me, shouting my name, wrapping her arms around my waist as I collapsed, dizzy with exhausted relief. I clutched at her like I was drowning.

  It wasn’t until after the Athenian crew had fed me some thin gruel and bread, clothed me in a fresh tunic, and wrapped a cloak around my shoulders that I was able to speak to her alone.

  We sat side by side on the scarred deck, pressed against the side of the ship. The Seafarer pl
owed through the waves, the oars dipping, dark sailcloth fluttering, sea spray surging on either side. The swell lifted the boat, and Tarina’s face turned an unfortunate, sallow shade of green.

  “Are you unwell?” I asked her.

  “Seasickness. It’s—nothing.” Tarina swallowed and gripped my hand.

  “You saved us,” I said.

  “I believed I would drown a hundred times. But I thought of you in—in that place, and I knew I couldn’t give up.”

  “Thank you.” My words couldn’t begin to encompass my gratefulness.

  “I did everything as you asked. I went to the Athenian captain and told him the plan, offering him enough gold to convince him, along with your signet ring, in case the tale of a slave wasn’t proof enough.”

  “And what of Daedalus and Icarus?”

  “Once we agreed to set sail that first night, I hurried to the market, purchased every stretched pig bladder they had, ordered more, and delivered them to Daedalus’s chambers.”

  “How did you get past the guards?”

  “It was simple,” Tarina scoffed. “I bundled them in grain sacks and brought them right in. I’m a slave. The guard hardly looked at me as I passed.”

  “And did Daedalus find a use for them?”

  Tarina nodded. “Just before we departed the harbor, I heard the news. They say Daedalus and his son disappeared, right from their chambers.”

  I imagined them gliding low over the sea, great wings spread, soaring their way to freedom. “Thank you.”

  “Your father was furious. He tore the palace apart. He suspected Daedalus had some part in your escape into the Labyrinth.”

  I touched her arm. “We owe you our lives. Me, Daedalus and Icarus, Theseus and the Athenians.”

  The ship rocked, and Tarina swallowed again, her olive skin ashen, her mouth puckering. “I only did what was asked of me.”

  “Tarina,” I said softly. “I want you to know that you’ve paid your debts to me a hundredfold. More than that, you are my truest friend. For this, I grant you your freedom.”