Lost in the Labyrinth

Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston

Copyright © 2002 by Patrice Kindl

All rights reserved For information about permission to reproduce selections from this
book, write to Permissions. Houghton Mifflin Company. 215 Park Avenue South.
New York. New York 10003.

www.houghconmifflinbooks.com

The text of this book is set in 12.5-point Gill Facia

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kindl. Patrice.
Lost in the labyrinth : a novel / by Patrice Kindl.
p cm
Summary Fourteen-year-old Princess Xenodice tries to prevent the death of her half-
brother. the Minotaur, at the hands of the Athenian prince. Theseus, who is aided by
Icarus. Daedalus, and her sister Ariadne.
ISBN 0-618-16684-X (hardcover)
[l. Mythology. Greek—Fiction. 2. Ariadne (Greek mythology)—Fiction. 3. Theseus (Greek
mythology)—Fiction. 4 Daedelus (Greek mythology)—Fiction 5. Icarus (Greek mythology)—
Fiction. 6 Minotaur (Greek mythology)—Fiction 7 Crete (Greece)—
History—To 67 B.C.—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K5665 Lo 2002
[Fic]—dc21
2002000406

Manufactured in the United States of America
QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

To my parents, Katy and Fred Kindl,
remembering days in Crete

ARIADNE, DESCENDING 1

1 KNOSSOS 2

2 ICARUS 13

3 LOST 27

4 AND RETURNED 40

5 BULL RIDER. 56

6 THE PRESENTATION 68

7 THE FESTIVAL OF THE BULLS 81

8 MY FATHER'S SON 97

9 THESEUS 112

10 IN THE WORKSHOP 126

11 A CLEW OF THREAD 140

12 MY WORLD UNMADE 153

13 ICARUS, RISING 167

ARIADNE, DESCENDING 180

AUTHORS NOTE 189

GENEALOGY 192

FURTHER READING 194

L
AST NIGHT
I
SAW MY SISTER, WHO IS DEAD
. S
HE STOOD AT THE END OF
a long corridor, weeping.

I did not know her until I drew near. There are some here in the Labyrinth who are strangers to me. I thought her a new servant beaten for disobedience, and I looked at her closely only when she did not move as I approached.

Her body
was just
beginning to be big with child, a child who never saw the light of day. Her neck was encircled by the rope with which she had hanged herself, yet her face
was not
distorted and discolored, as the faces of the hanged are, and I could see her features clearly.

"
Can it really be you, Ariadne, come back
after
all this time?" I whispered.

She did not answer, but began
slowly to
sink through the floor.

"X
ENODICE
! C
OME TO ME THIS INSTANT OR
I
WILL SLAP YOU
! Come this very moment!"

"Yes, Ariadne," I said, dodging from behind a large oil jar. "It is I, Xenodice. I am here. What is your will?" I removed a large cobweb from my elbow.

"Get me some figs. Not last year's figs, but this year's. Nice, plump, fresh figs, newly gathered. You might gather them yourself Xenodice."

I tried to refuse, knowing full well that it was useless. "Our mother the queen," I pointed out, "has forbidden us to pick the new figs. Indeed, she has threatened us with terrible punishments if we go anywhere near the figs."

"That," said Ariadne, "is why I want you to do it."

"Oh, but Ariadne!"

My other sisters and brothers each had a slave girl or boy whom they occasionally treated in this way, but nothing seemed to please my sister Ariadne so well as to torment me, her own flesh and blood. She was nearly two years older than I, sixteen to my fourteen on that spring morning. She never ceased to hold that one year and ten months' seniority over my head like a double-bladed ax poised to strike.

When we were small we had been playmates, and she had often been my defense against the rough play of our older brothers. Now she considered herself a young woman and me a child, and she summoned me only when she wanted something As always, when Ariadne said "Go," I went, and when Ariadne said "Come," I came.

"I won't do it," I said now, without much conviction. She narrowed her eyes.

"Don't pinch!" I cried. "I'll do it—I will indeed, Ariadne!"

There are a hundred thousand eyes in and about the Labyrinth, and the orchards of the queen do not go unwatched. This was the spring fig crop, the fruits fewer but larger than those of fall. They were doubly precious because we all, palace folk and commoners alike, had been eating old, dried figs for many months. Yet by the goodness of the Lady, to whom I whispered a hurried prayer, I was not caught gathering the fruit, though my heart trembled like a bird in my throat all the while.

Ariadne ate so many figs that I thought she would be sick, but she was not. We had both known that in the end I would do whatever she commanded. I argued only to prevent her from taking me entirely for granted.

"Let's go and see Asterius," she next proposed. "He would like some figs, I am sure."

"But its time for our dancing lesson," I said.

"I only suggested it because
you
are so fond of him," said Ariadne. "You always say that I am not good enough to our brother. And now that I wish to do him a kindness you throw up all sorts of objections. You are cruel, Xenodice."

"I am not," I said hotly. "Why do you want to go, anyway?" Ariadne loved dancing lessons, at which she excelled.

She shrugged and walked on. "I told you."

"You merely want to get me into trouble with our mother," I said, trotting along behind her. "She'll not be angry with you; I will be the one to suffer. We could go to our dancing lesson now and see Asterius when it is over. It isn't necessary to go—" I realized with resignation that we were already late for our lesson. The scent of hay and the sound of buzzing flies informed me that we were nearing that portion of the Labyrinth that housed my brother Asterius.

My brother, Asterius.

It is difficult to know what to say about him to you who do not know him. He is very strange. We are used to him and he does not surprise us. When envoys come to our mother's court from Byblos and Lukka and the faraway land of Egypt, they always ask to see her peculiar son. And when they do see him, they are horrified. I do not like to be present when they first catch sight of him.

He is not clever—how could he be?—but I think that he grasps some idea of the way they feel from their expressions. He lifts his massive head, scenting them. And he groans. His groans frighten the envoys, but they break my heart. I think that he suffers when our mother allows strangers to look at him. Once a year she causes him to be displayed before the whole court during the bull dancing ceremonies, and afterward he seems to go almost mad for several days. I wish she would not do it.

Ariadne says that I am a fool. She says that of course our mother wants him to be seen; it helps to prove that the Queen of Kefti is more than mortal. What mortal woman, after all, could have given birth to such a son? Nothing like our brother Asterius has ever been seen before.

All of this is true, of course, but still I think it unkind.

I have heard that the Athenians, those who come here to be his servants, call him the Minotaur. I do not know why. It means "bull of Minos." King Minos is my father, but he is not the father of my half-brother, Asterius. How, then, is my brother the bull of Minos? It makes no sense.

I think it is because those Athenians believe that men are everything and women are nothing. When they first come here they think that it is my father who rules this land and not my mother, which is remarkably stupid of them. Why would the Lady Who Created All Things allow a man to rule our land? Men have not the gift of creation; they have many talents, but that is not one of them. No wonder the Athenians are poor and ignorant savages who know no better path to glory than to pillage and destroy the civilizations of others.

My brother Asterius stood alone inside a light well, staring up through the five stories of the Labyrinth to the sky. His attendants, those selfsame Athenians of which I spoke, sat a little way ofF on sacks of grain and bales of straw, playing games of chance and arguing among themselves until they perceived us, whereupon they stood and saluted us. The girls, I noticed, had made chains of flowers and draped them about my brothers head and neck. A flower chain had caught on his left horn and hung crookedly, making him look ridiculous.

I stepped forward, clapping my hands angrily. I pointed to the ring of flowers, which dipped down over his eye. "Take it ofF," I ordered.

To my fury, they did not immediately obey but looked to Ariadne for instructions.

"Yes," she agreed. "Take it off. He looks as though he has drunk too much wine."

In any event, they did not have to bestir themselves. Hearing our voices, Asterius wheeled about and trotted toward us. Or toward me, rather. He frisked about me for a moment, making those soft grunting sounds of his that expressed pleasure and contentment. Then he held out his cupped hands, begging for the treat he knew I had for him. I dropped one of the fruits into his palm and simultaneously snatched the silly floral decoration off his horn.

Ariadne ignored him, as he ignored her. She was staring at the Athenians, I realized.

There were thirteen of them, too many to serve my brother's simple needs, so they were often idle, as now. There had been fourteen, seven boys and seven girls, when they sailed into Knossos Harbor a year ago, but one of the girls died of an inflamed stomach during the last rainy season. Their time of service in the Labyrinth was nearly over. They had learned a few words of our language and something of our ways. Soon, perhaps even today or tomorrow, another shipload of Athenians would arrive and our mother would give these as servants to various noble houses that had deserved her thanks over the year. Possessing an Athenian servant from the Queen's Labyrinth was a matter of considerable prestige, I believe; people fought to deserve the distinction.

Ariadne looked her full on our brother's servants and then abruptly demanded to know if I would ever be done playing with Asterius. "We are very late for our lessons," she said severely, as though our tardiness was my fault rather than hers. "Leave off fondling that creature and come along."

Annoyed, I turned my back on her and gave my brother a leisurely scratch behind the ears. At last I stopped and indicated that I was ready to leave. But I thought about the Athenians and wondered why Ariadne seemed so curious about them.

Our mother received more youths in tribute each year from Athens than I would have thought necessary, although it was true that as Asterius matured he was becoming harder to manage. Ariadne, who knew everything, had explained.

"She demanded one Athenian child for every year of our brother Androgeus's life at the time he died," Ariadne said. "She was mad with grief when he was killed. She declared that even if the Athenians had offered each year a mound as high as a man of silver and gold, ebony and ivory, bolts of finest linens and silk, she would not have taken it in payment for his death. She might have been satisfied with the death of the firstborn child
of
the King of Athens, but Aegeus had no child, either first or last. And so she has received each year seven maidens and seven youths, and those the most beloved of their families."

"I know that. I was there when it happened," I protested.

"You were a baby," said Ariadne. "You don't remember anything. You don't even remember Androgeus."

"I do! I remember him perfectly well. And if I was a baby, then you were a baby too."

"Oh, no. I am two years older, and I remember."

"A year and ten months older!"

"A year and ten months makes all the difference in the world," she said pityingly.

To speak the truth, Androgeus is only a faint memory to me. He lives in my mind as a bright and shining image, a memory of warmth and laughter, and that is all. He died when I was two years old. But Ariadne was less than four, so I do not see how she could remember so very much more.

Perhaps you are becoming confused about my family. I must confess that there are many of us, and we all seem born to lead remarkable lives. My mother raised ten children. Androgeus was first born and best loved. They say that he could charm the birds from the sky and the sun from a cloud. He was a golden child, merry and clever, strong and brave of heart. My parents both doted upon him, my father as much as my mother.

He died by the treachery of the Athenians while a guest in their country, and when my father heard of it he laid waste all of Athens. My mother, Queen Pasiphae, then required that seven sons and seven daughters of Athens be sent as tribute each year. I also know that she blamed my father for taking her beloved son away from her and then leaving him to meet his death at the Athenian court. She never afterward forgave him, although she at length accepted him again as her husband and consort.

I have heard it said that Androgeus died on the horns of a terrible wild bull. The Keftiu are a people much preoccupied with bulls, and to me it seems a fitting death for a son of our royal house.

Ariadne no doubt knows the whole story, but I will not ask her. Once upon a time she would have told me had I wished to know. But now she would only tease me with her knowledge and my lack of it. Someday I will hear the servants speak of it, and then I will know without troubling Ariadne.

After Androgeus, Acalle was the second born. She is twenty-two years old if she still lives. She disappeared half a year ago—some say she ran away with the King of Libya, some say with a god—and we have not seen her since. Everyone was furious, as Acalle was to be queen when our mother died. Now Ariadne will be queen. Still, Acalle may come back someday. I tremble to think how angry Ariadne will be if Acalle returns to claim the crown.