Lost in the Labyrinth by Patrice Kindl (ereader with android txt) 📗

deal less jewelry displayed, but twelve years had come and gone since Androgeus had died in foreign lands, and people could not help but look forward to the festivities of the morrow with a cheerful face.

It might seem odd, this lengthy mourning for the death of a male child, but sons are always useful, and my parents had loved Androgeus dearly. I believe that much of the joy vanished from their lives when he did.

Today, however, both of my parents looked well content. The restoration of Glaucus almost on the anniversary of Androgeus’s death seemed to have made gloom impossible. I wondered if this would be the beginning of forgetting for them both.

My mother wore her traditional mourning garments, but like many in the crowd she had decked herself with jewelry, and her eyes shone behind the mask of the Grieving Mother with a brightness not due to tears. My father, I noticed, bent down his head to speak with her, and she lowered her mask and smiled up at him. I could not catch the words, but the tone seemed unguarded and cheerful, as if they were exchanging family pleasantries. My spirits rose and I rocked the whimpering Molus on my knee to quiet him.

The musicians began to play a sorrowful dirge as a sign that the ceremony was about to begin. The crowd, recognizing its cue, groaned and cried and bewailed the death of Androgeus. Those who most hoped for royal favor tore at their elegant costumes. Some fell down on the ground and rubbed dirt into their faces and hair.

The new Athenians entered the Bull Court under guard.

Remembering what Icarus had said, I wondered what this must be like for them. If they believed that they were victims to be sacrificed to some dreadful beast, they would be terrified indeed. All were young, of about my age or a little older. I watched on, a girl with brown hair and small, delicate hands and feet. At first glimpse, I saw no signs of fear, but then as I studied her I realized that she had traveled far beyond fear, into that country where death comes as a welcome friend. I pitied her, and blamed the captain of the ship for not telling these wretched people their true fate. How long and sorrowful the journey must have been!

And now this great, mourning crowd was hardly a cheerful introduction to their new lives. I for one would be glad when the brief ceremony was over and I did not have to think of their dread any longer.

The young woman I had been watching was pushed forward by two guards, each carrying a sacred Labrys, the double-bladed ax consecrated to the Goddess. The Labrys is to be found everywhere in the palace, both in reality and in representation. It is carved, over and over again, into the walls of the Labyrinth. That is what the word labyrinth means: “Hall of the Double Ax.” The girl stumbled and was steadied by one of the guards. She was made to come and stand before the queen.

Once before my mother, each guard rapped the Athenian girl smartly with the butt end of his Labrys—not the glittering blade end, but the blunt shaft—first on the back of her neck and then on the back of her knees. The rap on the back of her knees caused her to fall prostrate on the floor. It was a symbolic execution, payment for the death of Androgeus. In prior years my mother had received her tribute in silence, motionless behind her mask. Today she nodded her head, as though to hurry the ritual along.

The girl lay motionless for a moment until prodded by the guards. She lifted her head slightly and looked warily about, as though awaiting the final stroke of the Labrys, this time with the blade end. One of the guards prodded her again and motioned her to get up. Slowly she climbed to her feet and lifted her eyes to his. He pointed to a place by the wall away from the other prisoners and she fled, half fainting.

After a few of the Athenians had been thus presented, I thought I could sense a slight lessening of tension among those remaining as they realized that the ones who had gone before had come to no actual harm. They seemed glad enough to cooperate with the guards, to mimic death, since death had passed them by.

The last Athenian, a man a little older than Icarus, was brought before the queen. As the ceremony was so nearly over I turned my attention to Phaedra. After our fright of three days ago, I was determined not to lose her in the crowd as it dispersed. I was preparing to lead her away when a sudden interruption in the ceremony occurred.

The young man refused to fall down. He stood erect before my mother and called out something loudly in his own language. It was not, by the tenor of his voice, either a plea for mercy or a threat of violence. Outraged, the two guards struck at him furiously, over and over again, until he fell.

I took a firm grip of Phaedra’s hand and hurried her away, wondering what the man had said. I knew some words of the Hellenic language through listening when Icarus spoke to the Athenians, but these words I did not recognize, and they were pronounced with a mainland accent. He was a great fool if he thought that any words of his would alter his fate, save for the worse. And why, when the others had safely survived the Presentation, did he seek to cause trouble?

That night at the feast, I sought to have myself placed near the captain of the ship that had brought the Athenians. I should have remained at the high table with the royal family, but no one objected. Compared to Ariadne I was unimportant and therefore allowed greater liberty.

I had not forgotten Icarus’s dreams, you see, and