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

spread wide his feathered arms and launched himself off the tower; Icarus followed. Away they flew, father and son, sailing through the skies like great white eagles, across the sea toward Athens, away from Kefti, away from me.

I sat silent for a long moment. Then I stood up and began to gather together what was needed to build two sets of wings.

The guards eyed my pile of materials. “That Daedalus is a deep one,” they murmured to each other. “He’s more a magician than anything else, or so they say.”

Still, even putting their heads together and thinking hard, they couldn’t imagine what mischief Daedalus could devise with several sacks of feathers, a pot of glue, a small quantity of fabric, some leather strips, and a pile of miscellaneous wood pieces—for I had dismantled the frameworks already constructed, in order to disguise their purpose.

“What’s this for?” demanded one of the guards.

I had an answer to that question ready.

“I thought that Daedalus, and Icarus too, if he so desires, could make feathered masks for the ceremony of the Blessing of the Boats.”

“Hmmm . . .” The Blessing of the Boats was a midsummer ritual marked by much festivity and gaiety—most of the palace-dwellers as well as the residents of Knossos Town would go masked that night to the celebration after the blessing. The heaps of feathers and wood were far greater than needed for such a task, but I hoped the guards would not realize that.

“Since you are being so kind,” I added, “Daedalus might like to give you the results of his labor for the occasion.”

“I would indeed,” Daedalus called down from the window. I could tell by the emphasis that he had understood the real purpose of my choice of supplies.

“Can’t see much harm in that,” observed the first guard tentatively.

“Nor can I,” said the second, scratching his head.

“Oh, let him have it,” said the first. One guard therefore remained at the foot of the tower keeping an eye on me, while the other unlocked the door and toiled up the stairs with the collection.

“I thank you, my lady,” Daedalus said, bowing to me through the window. “You are more than kind. This ought to be a sufficiency of materials to complete the task. We are grateful to you.”

Icarus poked his head out of another window. “No, father,” he said mildly, “You are mistaken. There are feathers enough, but I do not believe that we have an adequate supply of wood. There is a little grove of trees that yields this particular sort of wood—strong, but light and pliable—just beyond the clearing where we took his Highness, Lord Asterius, to amuse himself not long ago.”

He looked at me intently, infusing his next words with meaning.

“I wish to make not two masks, Princess, but three. I would make a mask for you as well, that you might remember my father and me when we are gone. When you wore it, it might seem as though you were still in our company.”

I understood him. He was proposing that not two but three sets of wings be crafted, so that I might accompany them in their flight.

“Will you do it, my lady?” he asked.

“I will think on it,” I said slowly. “I can promise no more than that.”

“And with that I must be satisfied,” he replied courteously. “But do not forget that your mother’s life hangs by a thread, which may be severed at any moment. If you think too long, the opportunity to give you this material evidence of our love and gratitude may be lost.”

I nodded and left them to their labor. I had much to consider.

The most likely outcome of such a mad scheme was destruction. Human beings are not meant to fly through the air. I tried to imagine what such a death would be like. I shuddered to think of the moment of impact. Yet this was a noble doom. I am not beautiful, as I think I have said, but that particular death would make me so—in the tales told afterward, at least.

And if we did not die, if we succeeded? Why, then, I would be a stranger without family or possessions in an alien place where they did not even speak my language, wholly dependent upon Icarus and Daedalus.

Oh, Ariadne! I thought. What has befallen you, my sister? If I knew your fate I might learn from it to shape my own.

Yet even as I thought this, I knew that Ariadne’s fate, whether good or bad, could be no guide for mine. Icarus and Theseus were two different men, as Ariadne and I were two different women.

Icarus would protect me to the best of his ability in that strange world across the sea. I had no fear of that. But, although he spoke of his love in wishing me to join him, he also spoke of his gratitude.

Ariadne is proud, but in this matter I am prouder still. She did not seem to care why Theseus married her, so long as he did it.

The thought that Icarus might marry me for gratitude alone stuck in my throat like a stone. The suspicion that his every kiss and caress proceeded not from love of me but from a love of his own honor—in time that would kill my happiness. I could be satisfied only by seeing an ardor equal to my own reflected in my husband’s eyes.

He loved me, I knew, at least a little. But did he love me enough to quiet my pride?

I would be a burden to him; I could not be otherwise. Life in Athens would be difficult at first; he had never set foot there and knew the language imperfectly. And he was little more than a boy.

If I stayed at home I would be left to face my sister Acalle’s anger alone. She would not have me put to death—I was her heir until she married and bore a daughter. But if she learned of my involvement, she would have to take