Lost in the Labyrinth (14 page)

I could not move. The combined weight of two adult men nearly crushed the life out of me. We lay there, panting.

It was in this humiliating and helpless position that I heard my brother's death cries.

They seemed to go on and on, small sounds, not loud. First a thud and then a smothered cry, over and over again. A final thud and then a sigh. Later I learned that, not content with killing my brother as he lay in a drugged sleep, Theseus had murdered Maira and the guard as well.

If I had been there he would have murdered me, too.

When the killings were over and silence had fallen, the two men who had armed Theseus dragged me, unresisting, away. Behind, I heard many feet running toward the Bull Pen.

T
WO OF MY BROTHERS STILL LIVE: THE YOUNGEST
, G
LAUCUS AND
Molus. The others, Androgeus, Deucalion, Catreus, and Asterius, have fallen to Aegeus or to his son, Theseus. My sister Ariadne is gone, fled with Theseus. Icarus and Daedalus are imprisoned. My mother lies paralyzed in her bed, felled by a seizure that has deprived her of speech and movement. And my father's face bears the marks of my fingernails.

Which of these matters ought I to grieve over first? I cannot tell.

This is how it came to take place.

That night after I was dragged away, the Athenians—those who had arrived with Theseus—rallied to their prince. It was their footsteps I had heard running toward the Bull Pen. They fled from the Labyrinth down to the sea, where Ariadne waited with a ship.

Did Ariadne weep to see her brother's blood staining her lover's hands? I do not know, for I never again saw her among the living. Reflecting on these events in later days, I came to believe that she never intended to lead Theseus to Asterius, but simply to guide him, unarmed, to the place where his compatriots slept. Whatever tale Theseus might choose to tell in Athens, it was my father's gift of the knife that led to the murders, not the clew of thread. Or so I think.

It had no doubt been their hope to steal away in silence, but my screams aroused my brothers Deucalion and Catreus. Not finding my father in his bed, they pursued the Athenians alone, not even pausing to collect a company of soldiers to aid them.

I was not present at the skirmish on the quay, and for that I am thankful. Ariadne may have been innocent in the death of her brother Asterius, but she could not be held blameless in the deaths of Catreus and Deucalion. That ship was fully armed, and Ariadne must have procured the sword that cleaved Catreus from throat to hip and the knife that plunged into Deucalion's heart. Deucalion had not even had time to snatch up a weapon; the Athenians killed an unarmed man.

I myself was thrust half fainting into an empty chamber and there abandoned by my abductors. I did not pursue them; I had not the heart. Fool that I was, I thought that the worst had happened, that no further evil could touch us. I sank down on the floor and remained there, dully weeping, until the sun rose and a maidservant found me. Upon seeing my prostrate body she began to scream.

"Dead! Dead! I have found the Princess Xenodice, and she too is dead!"

"Oh, be quiet!" I said, sitting up. "I'm nothing of the sort."

This further unnerved the girl, who shrieked without cessation until Graia arrived and slapped her soundly across the face.

No one had noticed my absence at first in all the confusion, but when Asterius, Maira, and the manservant were discovered dead, they began to search for me. Strangely, they thought that it was I who had departed with Theseus. It was believed that he had taken me as a hostage in his flight. No one thought to question Ariadne's whereabouts until I asked for her, and only then did it become clear that she and a great quantity of her jewelry, clothing, and other personal possessions were missing.

My mother withstood the blows of that dreadful dawn with remarkable fortitude, or so it appeared at first. The night before, she had retired to bed with nine children under her roof—one restored to her only that day. Before the sun rose again, three of those nine were dead and one departed into exile. Yet as she stood in the Bull Court issuing orders to frightened, angry men, her back was straight and her eyes clear, though her face was as white as alabaster.

My father stood next to her, saying nothing. Even though he was Lawagetas, the commander of the military, even though the crew who pursued the Athenians did so in order to avenge the deaths of two of his sons, still he did not offer to command them. He stood there, his eyes empty and dead. No one asked where he was when the alarm was given or how he had come by the angry red scratches that scored his cheek.

Once, I met his gaze. We stared at each other for a long moment and then looked away. I had no desire to betray my father. It would mean his death, or exile at the least. Even though at that moment I did not think he cared much what happened to him, I did not wish to have that on my conscience.

Acalle stood near our parents, looking little altered after her long absence. If she ever learned what part she had played in this drama, would she feel any guilt? I doubted it. She was a practical sort of person.

"Bring me Daedalus the inventor," my mother commanded at last. I closed my eyes and began to pray.

They both came, he and Icarus, though my mother had asked only for the father. I wondered if I might be sick here in front of all these people.

Before my mother could begin to frame a question, Daedalus spoke.

"I gave the key to your daughter Ariadne," he said, "and helped her to arrange their flight. I am sorry for the death of your sons. Queen. That was never my purpose. If I had known that my act would cause you such grief I would never have done it. I submit to anything you think it proper to impose."

"What
was
your pupose, Daedalus?" my mother asked. She didn't sound angry, but only as though it were a question to which she very much wanted to know the answer.

"My mother's sister married the King of Troezen," explained Daedalus. He too gave the impression that he and the queen were having an interesting but not especially momentous discussion. "The boy Theseus is her grandchild. He and I are related by ties of blood."

Something strange seemed to happen to my mother's face then; it sagged on one side. She passed a hand over it and murmured something in an oddly slurred voice that sounded like, "Blood, so much blood..."

"It isn't true," someone said loudly. When every eye turned to look at me, I knew that the someone was me.

"I took the key and gave it to Ariadne," I said. "She begged me to. She said she loved him, that she was going to have his baby. So I crept into Daedalus's workshop one day when he was gone and I searched and searched until I found it. It was in a safe hidden in the floor," I added, feeling that this detail might carry conviction. "All that I wanted was that no one should die."

Daedalus shook his head.

"No, child," he said, smiling at me. "You know you're not telling the truth."

I lifted my chin. "You are speaking to the Princess Xenodice, Daedalus," I said coldly. "Do not call me a child."

Icarus laughed. It was a strange laugh, happy and carefree. "But how can we call you anything else, little bird, when you tell such outrageous lies? It was I who carried the key to Princess Ariadne and gave it into her keeping. She thanked me for it very prettily."

"Seize them," came a raven's croak. To my shock, I realized that it was my mother who spoke. "Xenodice—" she faltered, and then continued, "go to your quarters." She staggered, and fell heavily against my father.

He jerked to life. "The queen is ill!" he shouted, and the scene dissolved in confusion.

The dead have been conveyed down into the Underworld with as much ceremony and ritual as we could manage under the circumstances. The potters and stone carvers and goldsmiths and silversmiths worked day and night trying to keep pace with three royal funerals. Normally such a rite would be a major social occasion, with much ostentatious grieving and shows of fine feelings on the part of every ambitious noble family, but no one seemed able to put their heart into it this time. The whole court is distracted, wondering what will happen next.

We have settled into a strange state of suspense. My mother still lives, but she does not speak or move. She cannot last long like this—she can swallow nothing more than a little barley water or wine. Every physician in the land, down to the humblest herbal healer, has offered advice—some maintain that an Athenian enchanter ill-wished her, others that her heart burst from grief. Many sacrifices of rare incense, perfumed oils, cows, sheep, and goats have been offered up to the Goddess, but to no avail. The light in the queen's eye is dimming.

Acalle is beginning to assume the reins of government. She spends much of the day conferring with our mother's counselors. The fool Polyidus is less of a fool than one might think. He sees which way the wind blows and has attached himself to her service with the persistence of a barnacle clinging to a storm-lashed rock. He compliments her beauty and sagacity, runs petty errands for her, pours a steady stream of gossip and malice into her ear, and is clearly planning to carve out an important position as intimate advisor to the next queen. I believe—I hope—that she sees through him but all the same finds him useful.

She gets no advice or counsel from our father. He has become an old man, shrunken and frail. When she tries to consult with him he waves her away, and she has ceased asking.

Once, only once, did my father speak of what happened the night that Asterius and the others were killed. He was sitting in his chair of state, staring indifferently at the ground, when I came into the room to fetch some embroidery I had left there. I did not trouble myself to offer him obeisance, and he did not comment on my omission. Indeed, I thought that he would let me leave the room without any remark at all, when he spoke.

"I had intended to send Rhesos ahead of Theseus," he began, as though we had been already engaged in conversation on the matter. "He was to remove you from the Bull Pen. That was why I had to have him along to begin with. You would not have been harmed."

"And Catreus and Deucalion? What about Maira and the servant set to watch the door?" I asked, although I knew that those last two deaths weighed lightly on his heart compared to the others. "What plan had you to safeguard them?"

"If only you had not screamed—"

I looked at him with contempt and left the room.

I wondered which of them, Ariadne or my father, had drugged the wine. Perhaps both of them; Rhesos had seemed quite certain that we all should have "slept like the dead." No wonder my glass tasted so foul! Would any of us have ever wakened in the morning had I drunk my share and other events not intervened?

My mother's last words, or very nearly, had been to order Daedalus and Icarus seized. While she hung suspended in this indeterminate state, alive still yet unable to issue further orders, their fate too hung in suspension. No one had the authority to order either their release or their execution, save perhaps my father, and he did not seem to care.

I knew what my sister Acalle would do the moment my mother was cold, because I asked her.

"Execute them, of course." she said. "They have been fed, clothed, and sheltered by our mother's generosity, and now they have betrayed her."

"That was not charity, but payment for services rendered," I reminded her. "You may come to regret the loss of Daedalus's skills. And Icarus too is gifted beyond his years."

Acalle regarded me steadily. "In a land that teems with artists, magicians, and inventors as the sea teems with fish, I do not think we shall even notice the absence of those two traitors. Don't waste my time, Xenodice. They have dug the pit in which they find themselves." And she turned away.

If my mother had not had the fit that now disabled her, the end result might have been different. She had a value and affection for Daedalus that Acalle had not. My mother would have punished him, certainly, after his ready confession. Yet, in the end, I believe she would have set him free. Perhaps he believed it, too, and had relied upon it.

Unlike Theseus, who had been imprisoned in the deepest part of the Labyrinth, Icarus and Daedalus were being held in the highest. Perhaps their jailers reasoned that since being buried deep had not prevented Theseus from escaping, then being raised up to the topmost tower might prove more effective with these prisoners.

There was no particular secret this time; the tower where they were kept was easily seen by all. So I went to visit them, bringing sweetmeats and fruits as in the past I had done for my brother Asterius.

There were guards this time—something had been learned since Theseus's escape. They were polite and deferential to me but would not allow me to enter, permitting me only to call up to the prisoners as they looked out through barred windows above. The little delicacies were examined carefully, as though a key might be baked within a pastry or inserted inside a dried apricot.

A key to the tower existed, but it hung on a ribbon around Acalle's neck, and I knew there was no chance of purloining it. This tower was actually a small edifice perched on top of the seaward walls of the palace; it had been constructed primarily for the purpose of keeping watch over the harbor and the sea. Only occasionally was it put to use as a place of confinement. It consisted of a small room at the top of a winding stair two stories high. The two flights of stairs on top of the five stories of the palace raised the little room up to a commanding height.

I had visited the tower room before—with Daedalus, oddly enough, who had designed and built it. It seemed queer that he should now be imprisoned in his own construction. The place seemed more a part of the sky than of the earth. Standing up there looking out to sea, one had no sense of being in the Labyrinth.

Two shifts of guards sat with their backs to the sole door to the tower every hour of every day. They were not allowed to accept food or drink from anyone, save one servant who had been warned that she would be held accountable if the guards were drugged.