The Flame in the Maze (10 page)

The marks of her days stretched almost halfway around the altar chamber: rows of them, some straight, some angled, like patterns she'd seen painted onto clay in Athens. She counted them silently every morning when she made a new mark, at first simply because she needed to remind herself that the days were passing, and then because she forgot how many there'd been. She was often surprised, as she murmured the numbers. Ninety . . . One hundred seventy-two . . . Two hundred fifty-four . . . Sometimes, after Asterion had returned from yet more wanderings, he stood at the wall beside her and stared at the marks, his gaze dipping and rising, his lips moving, as if he were counting too. He never spoke, and neither did she.

She dreamed of people, on the five hundred sixtieth night. Her mistress, her father, her sister, the boy who'd always frightened her with his godmarked teeth, which looked like a rat's and could chew through anything, even metal, or the leather of her belt: she dreamed that they were all falling. Some of them flailed; others held their limbs out straight and still, like starfish on a rock. As they got closer she saw their gaping mouths. They were silent. All she heard was wind, filling her ears as if she were the one falling. When her sister's blood-smeared hands were about to graze Polymnia's face, she woke with a gasp and dragged her own hands through her tangled hair.

I need to be ready
, she thought as she scrambled to her feet in the empty chamber.
I need to know exactly how to get back to the mountain's door, because more Athenians will fall, someday soon, and we'll need them. He needs them
now—
he's weak; he chokes down dates and fish but they're not enough;
it's been too long since Kosmas—and why
why
have I found no one else?

When she closed her eyes, she remembered how they'd first approached the altar room—she, Kosmas, Zenais, Ligeia, Asterion. The corridor had been low, with a crystal roof and walls. Kosmas's head had brushed it, as had Asterion's horns, which had made an awful, slow, screeching sound. Polymnia had tipped her own head back and seen the blurred underside of something moist and wide, with tapered ends: a slug, perhaps, the size of her hand, oozing a dark trail along the crystal above her. They'd emerged between the two columns that were carved with bees and butterflies—a part of her had noticed them as she was running to catch up with Kosmas, who'd been shouting about food and water.

She went to stand between these columns and laid her fingers on the butterflies' blue-and-red painted wings. The corridor beyond wasn't made of crystal: it was stone, with a fissure that ran through its floor and seeped golden light. So she waited. After a time, she went back to the altar and ate a fig. She sat on the top step and stared at the corridor. Asterion's hooves clattered, and she straightened, turning to see if he'd appear—but he didn't, and the sound faded. She remembered with a smile how the old, frightened Polymnia had thought he'd never return, after Kosmas. Asterion left the altar chamber all the time now, but
this
Polymnia knew to be patient. It might take him days or weeks, but the corridors always moved in a way that led him back to her—or perhaps it was his god who showed him where to go.

The sun faded as the sound of his hooves had; the six shafts of light wavered farther and farther up the walls, until they vanished and the tiny bits of sky beyond the pipes went dark. The sun was back again when the corridor finally changed. She felt the stone beneath her thrum as invisible gears began to turn, and she returned to the columns, which vibrated beneath her palms. As the crystal corridor eased into view she wondered again how Daedalus had done it: perhaps walls and ceilings and floors spun like great wheels, one within the other, measured precisely to meet the altar chamber's doorways? Perhaps the corridors swung on cables that loosened and tightened? It made her head hurt to think about.

When the gears had stopped moving, she stepped into the hallway. She saw Kosmas's obsidian scratches immediately, because they were as clear as if he'd just made them. She imagined that the old Polymnia might have thought about what his face had looked like as he'd dragged the point along their path—thought about his intent blue gaze and his half-smile. This Polymnia didn't need memories.

The scratches wended along the crystal walls, then painted stone ones; they led her up the ramp Ligeia had led them down, long ago. This ramp was rough stone, not polished, and, though she scuffed her palms and knees, she had no trouble crawling up it. In the chamber above, she stood for a moment and remembered the only important thing: Asterion, a boy except for the horns, stepping timidly into their midst. Ligeia had called him a monster. Not long after, he'd cried out Polymnia's name, and she'd followed him, though she hadn't thought she would.

She followed the scratches into the blue corridor she knew would end in a row of jars. It seemed to take longer to walk back to them than it had to walk away—but maybe she was just tired. Maybe her fear, right after the fall, had made everything seem blurry, outside of time.
Be stronger
, she commanded herself.
Walk faster
.
You're better than that other Polymnia was.

At last the jars were there, in their perfect row—but the sections of ledge weren't. She wrapped her hands around the lip of the jar Zenais had held onto and gazed up the wall. The little golden lights shone on the undersides of the ledges, very far above—except that all the pieces looked like one, from here. She let go of the jar and seized one of the cables that ran up the wall. She tugged, though only half-heartedly; Master Daedalus had devised a method of getting the pieces back up, and she wouldn't be able to get them down on her own—and maybe not even with help. No—it would be the new Athenians who'd make them move again. All those frightened, wounded Athenians.

Polymnia didn't notice that she was grinding her hand along the metal cable, and she didn't notice when she started to bleed.

She was sleeping, when the door in the mountain opened.

She'd wondered how she'd know, or if she'd know; after all, the altar chamber was very deep within the stone. But the shuddering ran even deeper. She sat up, pressing her palms against the floor. The chamber was bright with morning light. The water glinted as it fell. She was alone; the bull-god had been gone for days. She'd heard him bellow once or twice, and another time she'd heard the drumming of his hooves. Now she stood up on trembling legs and heard only gears and stone and, threaded through these, screaming and sobbing.
So close
, she thought, even though she knew it wasn't true—that the Goddess and Daedalus had seen to it that sounds were never where they seemed to be.

The crystal corridor shone beyond the columns: the
right
corridor.
Thank you, Great Goddess—thank you—I will sacrifice to you very soon. . . .
To the air she sang, in a voice that didn't tremble at all, “Come back, my dearest god! Come back; I'll just be hunting.” She slipped her tattered robe on and was away before the song's silver tendrils had dissolved.

Polymnia had counted on at least three Athenians, but had dreamed of four or five. Instead, though she could still hear screams and cries all around her, there was just one girl, hunkered on the ground by one of the ledges, clutching her ankle. Her cheeks were streaked with oozing cuts. Polymnia gazed at the blood as the girl gazed at her, silent and gaping.
This will do for now
, Polymnia thought.
There will be more. I simply have to be patient.

“Don't be afraid.” Polymnia's voice was raspy; it almost hurt, leaving her throat, though she'd started speaking the numbers of the days aloud, to try to remember how speaking felt.

The girl threw herself at Polymnia, sobbing and grasping her robe with blood-smeared hands. The stubble on the girl's skull prickled Polymnia's skin but she didn't shiver. She smiled.

“Hush, my sweet,” she sang, and the girl went still and heavy in her arms. The silver of Polymnia's voice wrapped around them both.

“What's your name?” she asked, when she'd finished singing.

The girl sniffled. “Korinna,” she murmured.

“Well, Korinna, I'm Polymnia, and I'm going to take care of you. No need to fret.”

It was easier than she'd thought it would be. She was back in her mistress's house, comforting her mistress's child, making guests sigh and sit back in their cushioned chairs. Polymnia was dressed in the finest dyed linen, her belly full, the last of the sun turning her unbound hair to fire. The wind smelled like flowers.

Korinna said, “But I broke my ankle, I think.” Her words were slurred: pain, shock, the sudden, sweet lethargy of a godmarked melody.

“That's fine, little one. That's fine. I'll take care of you. Come, now: up and lean on me. Yes: just like that. Lean on me and we'll walk to a place I know, where you'll forget your pain.”

“Thank you,” Korinna whispered.

When they came to the lake of fire, Korinna's eyes went very wide. Polymnia had decided, after months and years of consideration, that it would have to be here: she didn't want to soil the altar chamber, and many of the corridors were too narrow and dim. Also, this was the heart of the Goddess. Master Daedalus's words said so—and Polymnia would have known, in any case.

“What is this place?”

Polymnia could hardly hear the girl. She remembered the first time she'd seen the fire. She remembered how she'd hardly been able to breathe because of the smothering heat; how she'd hardly been able to drag herself across the bridge to the blackened island.

“Hush,” she said—and this time Korinna looked at her with terror, not relief. She whirled away from the passage's end and tried to push past Polymnia, but Polymnia grasped her clean, smooth robe and pulled her in close.

“You'll forget your pain. I promise.” Her tongue was so clumsy, so unaccustomed to making words; she just repeated ones she'd already said, as if this would be easier.

Korinna struggled a bit, when Polymnia began to tug her toward the bridge. By the time their feet touched the hot stone, the girl had gone limp. By the time the bridge gave way to black earth, Polymnia was carrying her. She felt as strong as a priestess bearing a calf across her shoulders; she felt the Goddess and Artemis beside her, within her, making her greater than she'd ever been.

Korinna didn't make a sound when Polymnia laid her on the circle of cool, white stone that sat atop the soot and obsidian flakes. The girl's head rolled back and forth near the spiral of words.

Polymnia smiled. “You are my prayer,” she said to Korinna, who moaned and squirmed weakly. White bone glinted from the torn skin of her ankle. “Just like Zenais,” Polymnia said—because now her voice was as strong as the rest of her. “Like Zenais, except that you'll suffer no more than this.”

Korinna seemed so weak—and yet when Polymnia raised her obsidian blade she flung herself sideways, screaming a thin, piercing scream, and Polymnia had to drop the blade to grab her. “Be still, little dove,” she sang breathlessly, “be still and go to sleep; for you there'll be no need of morning.”

Korinna's body sagged. Her eyelids dipped. They fluttered a little when her throat opened—but only a little.

Polymnia's father had taught her so much about dead things. She remembered him now, as she hadn't in a very long time. The smell of fresh blood made her think of him. She remembered his face as he bent down to shift her hands on the haft of the skinning knife. She remembered
his
hands, which were always slick with blood, but somehow never slippery. The light had been muddy, in the slaughterhouse. She'd had to do so much by touch.

“Be firm,” he'd told her in his low, whistly voice. “Be sure, before you cut, where the blade will lead you. Otherwise it will cut
you
.” And he'd hold his left hand up, and she'd see his three fingers and two stubs wiggling at her in the murky air, and she'd nod and bend to the carcass.

“Over here, girl,” he'd say. “This one's restive.” She'd leave the skinning tools and go to where the cow was, stamping and bellowing and tossing its head so that no cut would have been clean.

She was always embarrassed, at first. They weren't alone, after all; there were other people in the room, skinning rank, fresh things that hung or lay in patches of filth that would suck at your heels and trip you. But her father would brandish his three fingers and his long, curved knife and flash his crooked teeth at her and command her over and over to sing, and she would, in the end, because everything frightened her until she was singing, and because he'd beat her if she didn't.

Silver came out of her mouth. It came out in ribbons that turned to sheets like summer rain. It swept through her body, as cool and clean as the blood was warm and filthy. The cow would go still and quiet; it would make no sound at all, even when the knife made its long, deep cut.

Later, as they worked side-by-side, her father would say, “Now sing again. The gods didn't mark you so you'd sit skinning dead animals—but you're doing that for now, and you should get their attention. Remind them, so they take notice and lift us both out of this muck. Sing, girl.”

Her hands moved on the wet flesh beneath her but the rest of her was far away—too far for embarrassment or fear. Artemis and Apollo had
both
blessed her, folk said. They'd sung their marks into her ear when she was born.

“You're too good for us,” her father said, gesturing from himself to her little sister, who was unmarked and always sick and had no skill at butchering. “Your godmarked voice and your fine red hair—someday your gods will see to it that we're all taken away from here.” Leaning over dead beasts in the slaughterhouse, she'd wanted to believe him. She hadn't, though. She'd doubted Artemis and Apollo and her father.

Now she leaned over rank, fresh things and thought how wrong that old Polymnia had been.

She traced the girl's blood into Master Daedalus's words. She traced entirely new patterns, too: other, smaller spirals and lines of bull's horns, crimson on the white. She sang of Daedalus and Asterion, Kosmas and Zenais and Korinna. She sang of cattle and pigs and sheep. The flames around the island flickered with her godmarked silver.

When she was finished painting, she slid out of her soiled robe and spread it out on the stone. She stacked as many pieces of meat in it as she thought she'd be able to carry and tied the cloth ends together. Korinna's clean robe she plucked carefully up and wedged beneath one of her armpits, where it would get only a little dirtier. She set the rest of the meat in long rows across each of the bridges. By the time she returned for it, it would be cooked.
He'll like that
, she thought.
It'll be such a treat.

When she returned to the altar chamber, he was waiting for her.

In the months that followed, Polymnia searched every tunnel and chamber she knew, and several she'd somehow missed, in her other wanderings. In the chamber of stalactites she found four Athenians so frightened and wounded that she had to sing to them right there, instead of luring them to the Goddess's heart. It took days to bring the first three, bit by bit, to the altar chamber. When she was nearly finished her last trip with the fourth, the corridors took so long to reshape themselves into the familiar pattern that everything she was carrying had spoiled by the time she set it down on the snake altar. She raged, ripping and tearing, retching at the smell—and he didn't come, of course. In the end she gathered it all back up and tossed it into the lake of fire.

As she was leaving the lake, she heard a wolf's howl.
You
—but the name wouldn't come, wouldn't . . .
Ligeia,
she thought at last, with a rush of relief and anger.
Where have
you
been hiding, all this time?
The howl climbed and climbed, then trailed into a whine, and silence.
I'm glad you're still alive
, she thought.
I'll enjoy hunting you.

In a low, tiny chamber she'd never seen before, she found a body that had obviously been there for a long time: just bones, with bits of hair and cloth hanging off them. There were gnaw marks on the bones, and she wondered whether they were from his teeth—but no, he'd never have been able to fit into the space, not even if he'd been mostly human.
Who, then?
she thought with a stab of anger.
Who stole this from my bull-god's mouth? And where are all the others? Fourteen each time, and I've found only a handful of these.
She imagined tiny white lizards burrowing into flesh and re-emerging from nostrils or ears. She imagined tiny white spiders picking their way daintily over whatever was left, when the skin was gone.

She began to wedge stones and thick shards of broken pottery into the spaces where there were cables, between altar room and passages, and passages and other doorways. Sometimes the gears ground and stone moved and her bits and pieces held; other times they didn't, and the corridors changed with even more shrieking, and a rat-a-tat popping of rock and clay.

By the time she dug the thousandth mark into the altar chamber wall, there were many more pieces of stone to move around. He always dislodged some, in the frenzy of strength after he fed, and when she went to put them back, she always seemed to have more than she'd started with. She imagined that she was the Great Daedalus, as she worked—him, only greater. Her materials were far more interesting than his: she had large rounded stones, which added a wonderful sort of texture to the walls, and smooth, slender branches that wove snugly. She'd run her hands over them, once they were firmly set, and imagine that her old mistress was beside her. Her old mistress, and King Aegeus too.

“Such artistry!” the king would say, and her mistress would nod.

“Indeed—two godmarks—have you ever heard of such a thing? I've decided not to sell her, after all. Child: come, now, and we'll walk by the sea, and you'll sing birds down into our hands, and I'll shower you with gold and bright dyed cloth, and you'll never, ever leave—no—you and your Asterion will stay here with me forever.”