The Progeny of Daedalus

by Jeffrey MacLeod

  “Basically, you want us to eavesdrop?” Only Danae could express herself so bluntly, but Jorge seemed to appreciate it and smiled as he nodded in affirmation.

  “Who will the Queen be speaking to?” asked Ilia.

  “The Master of the Labyrinth.”

  “Daedalus!” The name was an eruption of excitement from Leda.

  “Yes,” confirmed Jorge. “Still the clever one, Leda! It is Daedalus who tells Pasiphae how she can visit her son. He created a secret entrance for that purpose. But where it is, no one alive can say.”

  “So we will be the first to find it in how long?” Leda asked.

  “Well, as far as I know none have entered since Daedalus returned his wings and hid them there,” answered Jorge. “So that’s a very long time.”

  “That’s so cool!” said Danae, her smile accurately reflecting her sisters’ shared sentiments.

  “Will there be all sorts of treasure down there?” Leda asked. “We play this board game where adventurers go into dungeons and they are always full of treasure…” She paused for a moment before adding with a thoughtful shrug; “…and monsters.”

  Her sisters groaned. Leda retorted with a smile that was a mixture of embarrassment, stubbornness and defiance. Jorge regarded her affectionately and, to Danae’s interminable exasperation, he validated her question with a serious answer.

  “Who knows? I never heard of the Kings using it as a treasure house, so I doubt it. But there are almost certainly things long-forgotten down there in the darkness.” He turned to Dad. “I presume you are well-prepared?”

  “Well enough, I think. We have torches and spare batteries, matches and paper, some food and water, a multi-purpose knife…umm…a compass, a small coil of rope. And our phones of course, if they work – they have GPS and cameras and all sorts of things. I think we’ll be ok.”

  “And string Dad!” Leda reminded him.

  “Oh yes, of course!” He turned back to Jorge. “We haven’t forgotten the story of Theseus. We have maybe a kilometre of fine thread to ensure we can find the way out – as long as it doesn’t break!”

  Jorge’s smiled; he seemed to gain some degree of satisfaction in the knowledge that ancient legends had been taken into account in their preparations.

  “Very well,” he responded. He then turned to the girls: “time to do your thing my young ladies.”

  They exchanged excited glances then started looking around them.

  “What should we touch, do you think?” asked Leda.

  “It’s hard to choose,” Ilia added, “because I can’t tell what is real and what I’m seeing with The Sight.” She pointed at the floor; “the dolphin flooring looks real, but I know it isn’t there. It was just plain floor the other day.”

  Dad and Jorge looked around as well.

  “That great big urn thing there is real, girls,” said Dad, pointing. “Can you see it?”

  “The one with the big plant in it?” Leda asked, stepping towards it.

  “Probably, except I can’t see any plants. But it’s this one.” Dad took three steps across the room and reached out and grabbed the rim of a huge clay urn; it was so big that Leda could have hidden completely inside it.

  The girls followed him over. They paused and looked at each other with anticipation.

  “Ready?” said Ilia. Her sisters nodded. Then they all reached out together and grabbed the rim of the urn…

  Fleeting images. Jumbled voices. Light and dark. Heat waves and cold winds wash over them. They search. Strangely, each one finds themselves alone.

  Ilia pauses several times. Numerous scenes, numerous moments, hunting for that one specific pebble on the beach. Figures flash by, richly dressed or in simple tunics, speaking or silent, in various tempers and company. She sees any number of Queens, she thinks, who must have lived over a great span of years, but none are right…

  Danae does not need to pause; she knows what she was looking for. People and scenes file by as orderly as marching soldiers. She is on a mission, like trying to find one particular piece of clothing in a Sale on dozens of racks, but certain that she will recognise what she is after the moment she sees it. She concentrates hard and refuses to be distracted by the countless fascinating scenes in which she finds herself. But none of them are what she is looking for. In fact, she cannot even identify Queen Pasiphae herself. She is frustrated. It has never been this difficult…

  Leda has no system; she relies on luck. Consequently – and much to the irritation of her sisters when she later told them – she finds herself in precisely the right place at precisely the right time.

  It is the same room that they had all been in a moment before, except now she is without her family. She is still holding the urn, although such a large fern is growing out of it that Leda finds herself in among the fronds. Remarkably, unlike any of her previous experiences, this particular object she can not only see, but she can feel. It is slightly prickly, pushing against the soft skin of her face, and is perilously close to poking her in the eye. She wants to move away but the experience is so disconcerting that, between this and the voices she can hear, it causes her to freeze. This does not seem right. The whispered voices come from directly ahead; without moving, she takes the scene in.

  The room is dimly lit and the turquoise floor is a darker blue in the light of the braziers, the dolphins an ashen grey. Considering it is referred to as the Queen’s Chamber, it seems strange that there is no bed – although there are two comfortable carved chairs. Those chairs are empty. In the opposite corner stands a man and a woman in close conversation. Ilia would have recognised him immediately from her encounter in the throne room – it is Daedalus. As Leda had expected to see nothing other than the inventor and the Queen the moment she touched the urn, she rightly assumes his identity. His rich robes glisten with the precious metals woven into the heavy silks and his oiled black beard and hair fall in ringlets that gleam red in the light of the glowing embers.

  Opposite him, of course, is the Queen. And no matter how much his rich garments shine in the darkness, hers outshine his by far. Her flowing dress and robes are exquisite, embroidered and encrusted with gems that reflect the faint light in multifaceted twinkles. She literally shimmers at the slightest movement. As she speaks her hands talk with her, frantically, and the delicate fingers adorned with golden rings dance a dance of excess. Her opulent hair, like glossy ink in the darkness, is piled up in a great cascade of falling tresses, like a restrained willow, and strings of pearls on silver chains flow through the rivers of her raven locks. Her cheekbones are high and wide, sharpened to chisels in the indirect light, her lips succulent like ripe fruit, her eyebrows shaped to perfection.

  Leda is stunned. She has never seen anything so magnificent. Despite that, it is only a few moments before she notices that the Queen’s manner does not befit her appearance. She listens carefully and, as always, despite the fact that this language must be long dead, Leda understands.

  “But I must,” she mutters with fierce restraint, leaning in on Daedalus who, as he is not a big man, sways back before the Queen’s urgency. “I must!” she repeats.

  Because he is your son, Leda rationalises in thought, assuming the subject of the conversation as easily as she has accepted the identity of the characters before her.

  “He is my Son!” Pasiphae continues, almost as if she is Leda’s marionette. Leda smiles at this coincidence; it is like watching a film that you know very well, anticipating correctly the dialogue of the characters. It is only her innocence that allows her to be this accepting.

  “I know, my Queen,” Daedalus quivers. “But it would cost me my life should the King learn of this. And yours as well,” he adds hopefully, realising that his life is not much of a bargaining tool at this precise moment, but that hers might be.

  “It may,” she admits, her tone so soft and even that it is menacing, “but if you do not tell me, then I can tell you with certainty that your life will be forfeit.” Her eyes bore into h
im like daggers; Leda has no doubt that her threat is real. She finds it quite horrible to witness such lethal intent and she shudders; the spell of her immobility broken she now responds to the discomfort of the fern fronds that are pressing into her. She shifts gradual and tentative, away from the pressing foliage; as she does so the foliage responds, settling back into position, rustling slightly.

  The Queen’s head snaps around.

  Leda seizes her breath.

  “What is that?” the Queen hisses, her eyes roaming around the room. Daedalus’ eyes search also, although terror has turned his to saucers.

  Impossible! This has never happened. It cannot happen. How can she feel these things? How can she move these things? How can they hear her? The Sight has always been a one-way experience, but that rule now seems shattered.

  At least they cannot see her, Leda accepts with relief. That is clear. She is not well hidden, in relatively clear sight, yet the two of them seem to look right through her. The fern is still moving a little, however, and they appear to have noticed that. Nonetheless, she remains frozen. She does not like this. She squeezes her eyes shut, hoping it will all go away. She would let go of the urn immediately, but she is too scared to move.

  Daedalus steps past the Queen and takes a couple more paces towards Leda’s side of the room. There are two doorways to her left and, clearly seeing nothing within the room, Daedalus steps over to these and disappears through each, one at a time, before returning.

  “Nothing,” he says to the Queen, shaking his head; but Pasiphae does not look reassured.

  “Minos’ spies will be watching me, after the…” She does not finish her sentence, but there is clearly no need. Everyone in the room knows what she means. Pasiphae looks deflated for a moment, almost as if in pain, but then her intensity returns. “Now I swear to you, King’s pawn, that if you do not show me how to access my son’s prison, you will not see another full moon. Death will come to you in the darkness, with my will driving it.”

  Daedalus’ shoulders slump in submission; he is powerless. Leda has never considered the true relationship between this legendary inventor and the people that owned him, but it is clear that he does not relinquish his talents willingly; instead he dances between the threats of powerful people, people who can end his life in an instant. There seems no love lost between Daedalus and either Pasiphae or Minos.

  “I will show you, my Queen. It seems the Fates have for me no empathy, and I must bow to each and every demand.” But then he looks at her sternly for the first time, holding her eye, for a moment her equal. “I will show you my creation. I will show you my genius. Your son, Asterion, is in a house with no locked doors, a house with no locks at all, and its doors – which are many – stand open day and night for man and beast to enter; and yet from it there is no escape. It is a prison of the mind, a prison of perception. The exits span the world. It could be in any land that you come across a weathered archway, an open cave, a door ajar, and within you find yourself in your son’s House. But there is one entrance here, within the palace, such that the King might enter and taunt your cursed offspring. That is not locked except by knowledge; through secrecy it is impregnable. But I can show you the secret, and with this you can enter. But I warn you,” and here Daedalus’ intimidating index finger thrusts towards his Queen most irreverently, “you should expect no great welcome from your son. He is imprisoned like a beast, and like his father his temperament is bestial. All that have entered he has slain, and their bodies litter the galleries, polluting the pools of standing water. He will show you no different mercy. For he owes you no debts, and recognises no authority but the singular Sun above, and the singular Lord of his House.” Daedalus’ eyes are even wider now, reflecting the animalistic nature of her child. But he is her child and for all a son’s faults, what mother can see them?

  She seems unperturbed.

  “Take me.”

  Daedalus regards her momentarily then, after taking a long, deep breath, he sighs it back out in resignation, nods slightly and turns away. No more needs saying. The Queen follows him as he passes through the next room and disappears up the broad steps of the Grand Staircase, out of sight.

  Leda hesitates only for a moment. There is so much going on in her little head. She is petrified, first and foremost. The way she is affecting this place, interacting with it, is far outside her experience or expectations of The Sight. That they had nearly seen her, or heard her, or saw some impact that she had generated in their time – this is terrifying. Dad is not here. Her sisters are not here. She is alone.

  But, if she keeps her cool, she can learn the secret of the entrance to the Labyrinth of Daedalus.

  She lets go of the urn.

  She does not think about it at that moment, as she is too intent on following Daedalus and the Queen, but the fact that she remains here should concern her. In this experience she is no longer touching the object that provides the connection to this world; how will she return? The ground rules for their experiences of The Sight seem to be shattered and there is almost no knowing what to expect. But her excitement overcomes everything else; the wings of Daedalus might be within their grasp, and she will have to be the one to unlock the secret.

  Taking a deep breath she composes herself, then follows as quietly and carefully as her little ballet-dancer’s feet will allow, out of the Queen’s chamber, through the next room and up the Great Staircase in pursuit. She is utterly silent – like a hobbit on its best behaviour. At the top of the stair she is just in time to see the Queen disappearing around the corner of a long, broad corridor. It runs north-south, but Leda is not aware of directions. She does not want to lose them, or she may become lost in this palace and perhaps even be discovered. She trots after them as fast as she can without breaking the silence.

  Where the Queen had turned Leda discovers a doorway into the great courtyard, lit by a full moon and roofed by the most incredible swathe of stars above. This is a world without pollution, either light or atmospheric, and she has never seen a night sky to rival this one. It takes her breath away, but only momentarily. Remembering her quest, she peers out into the dim courtyard in search of her quarry. There! She can see both Daedalus and the Queen now, in the middle of the courtyard just skirting a fountain, the water of which glimmers like milk bubbling in the moonlight.

  The water is not the only thing gleaming in the incandescence of the moon. By the fountain is a hulking shape, which Leda had subconsciously dismissed as a statue of an armoured figure, the apices and edges of the great curved bronze plates glinting. Suddenly Leda realises her mistake; that is not a statue. As the Queen and Daedalus pass by, it moves stiffly and bows as much as it is able in its constricting metal encasement. It is an armoured guard. She pauses to consider him from the shadows of the doorway; it is such a strange figure. Hulking bronze plates enclose his torso, accentuating his shoulders. His head is almost buried in a central bronze cylinder and atop his head a horned helm pokes out like a lid to a huge cooking pot. He holds a great spear and bulky shield. It reminds her of some mechanical futuristic warrior you might see in films wearing power armour and sporting some sort of laser blaster, or perhaps a Transformer that can shift from tank to humanoid form. But this is 2000BC; what is this thing? She is not to know, but it is the same type of guard that Ilia had seen in the throne room, encased in heavy shaped sheets of bronze that form Dendra armour, one of the bulkiest and clumsiest forms of protection ever devised.

  She has no time to ponder it further. Her prey are on the far side of the courtyard. Keeping to the shadows she scuttles after them, easily skirting the guard on the opposite side of the fountain. As she does so she notices that there are several more such hulking shapes in the courtyard; the King’s guard keeping watch through the night. On the far side Daedalus, still leading, is making for something Leda recognises; four doorways side by side. That is The Throne Room. He disappears into the left one and Pasiphae soon after him, but their lithe pursuer is catching up and not n
ow far behind.

  As soon as Leda enters she can hear their voices echoing; on the other side of the antechamber they are ascending the Lightwell, down which moonlight pours like an ethereal waterfall of ghostly luminescence. Silently, she crosses the anteroom and pauses at the base of the stairs; Daedalus and the Queen are still ascending, step by step, just arriving at the landing of the first floor. Leda is aware that she needs to be careful here as she does not know if they will be able to hear her, or perhaps even see her. Crouching low she keeps in the shadows on the outer edge of the staircase and creeps up after them. They are out of sight now, somewhere on the first floor. Nimbly duckwalking in a full squat, as only a little girl can, she ascends step after step to the topmost stair and, keeping out of the moonlight, she pauses, watching in the deep shadows.

  She does not have to wait even a moment. Clearly Daedalus and the Queen are both in want of haste and he has taken Pasiphae directly to the secret trigger. They are standing before something that Leda recognises immediately – the Bull-Leaping fresco. Daedalus is already reaching towards it. Even though he is whispering, Leda can hear him clearly.

  “Fittingly, the bull is the key.” He places his palm flat over the bull’s head, then sweeps his hand to the right. “You must stroke the bull,” he explains, “from nose to tail, thrice.” He repeats the motion twice more.

  Leda is so startled that she nearly stands up.

  She feels a shudder. A shudder in the stone steps under her feet. It travels up her legs and permeates her body.

  There is also a shudder in the stone wall she is pressed against. It travels from shoulder to her finger tips and into her chest. It blends into the tremor rising through her legs.

  Accompanying it is a grinding noise that sets her hair on end; stone on stone. It is a horrible confluence of two immutable surfaces, one against the other. Neither can win. It reverberates up the Lightwell, and is somehow so substantial that it makes the air tremble along with the earth. She takes a short gasping intake of breath in her fright; she sucks the tremor into her lungs.