The Flame in the Maze (12 page)

Theseus and Melaina edged closer to the corridor's turning. “You next,” Alphaios said to Chara, and she thought she saw him flush, in the passage's strange, underwater glow. She smiled at him and went after Melaina.

“Ready?” Theseus said, craning back to look at them. Melaina nodded; Chara tightened her hand around Icarus's string; Alphaios was motionless. Just as Theseus was putting out his foot, they heard a sound.

“Someone's crying,” Melaina said. Sniffling and sobbing, a gulp, more sobbing. “Godsblood,” she said, much more loudly, “it's
Phoibe.
”

“No,” Alphaios said, “that's not her light: it's never steady like that, and never white—it's some sort of trap, and—”

Chara stepped past them all. She'd narrowed her eyes in anticipation, but the light was so blinding that she had to put her hands over her face. By the time she'd let them fall and blinked the world back into focus, Alphaios and Melaina were already past her, kneeling on either side of the crying girl, who was almost invisible within her own glow.

“What happened to your godlight, Phoibe?” Alphaios said, but the girl wasn't looking at him: her gleaming white eyes were fixed on Theseus.

“Oh, my Lord: I'm so glad you're here!” The words stirred the light, like fish making paths in water. “I don't know what happened to my godmark—it must be because I'm so afraid; it's stronger, and it hurts, and I was all alone—and I
heard
things; things coming to hurt me . . .”

“Quietly,” Theseus said, and again Chara imagined his mind-voice, thrumming in Phoibe's bones and blood, warming and steadying. The white trembled around them. Silver forked within it, thin, then spreading to streams that ran together. Within moments, the white had become a soft, fading gold—and moments after that, all that was left were silver ribbons, rippling lazily in the air above Phoibe's head. She gasped and fell forward, and Theseus caught her.

“We will be triumphant,” he said quietly, one hand on either side of her face, gazing into her eyes (which, Chara saw, were brown). “The Princess Ariadne has risked her own life to help us: she has given me two gifts that will see the beast dead and us away from here.”

No
, Chara thought,
no, no: not that first one.

“All hail the wondrous Cretan princess,” Melaina muttered, but Theseus didn't move his gaze from Phoibe's.

“You will help us, Phoibe: your godmark will see us safely through any darkness we may find.” He smiled. “And you won't be alone anymore.”

“Oh, noble Theseus,” Melaina warbled, clasping her hands beneath her chin—and Theseus rose, very suddenly, and twisted to seize her by the shoulders.

“Melaina,” he said, in a cold, flat voice Chara hadn't heard before, “this place, it seems, is full of light: Daedalus's, and now Phoibe's. It seems we have no need of someone who offers only darkness. So,” he went on, gripping her chin as she tried to turn away from him, “take care, or you may find your
self
alone.”

Chara could hardly hear Melaina when she spoke, also in an unfamiliar voice. “But my Lord—you promised me—”

He let her go, and she stumbled backward. “Those of you who wish to continue on together: follow me.”

He took Phoibe's hand and lifted her to her feet. She leaned on him, and they walked the length of the oval chamber, to a doorway framed by two black columns. Alphaios scrambled to his feet and went after them.

“Melaina?” Chara said. The girl stared at her—through her—and didn't move. Chara walked to the columns and hesitated there—and suddenly Melaina was behind her.

“Faster, slave-girl,” she snapped, “or we'll leave you behind.” She brushed Icarus's string, as she swept past Chara, and it made a long, tremulous sound. Chara followed it.

There were so many sounds. A dripping that made Chara's dry mouth drier, as she imagined water. Hissing steam. Skittering pebbles—and, once, a different skittering: the claws of white lizards surging up and across the corridor's wall. Phoibe shrieked and kindled her godlight. Melaina laughed. Theseus lunged for the creatures, his mind-voice shouting wordlessly in Chara's head as they flowed away from his hands and vanished.

One day or night, a wolf howled.

They were standing close together, because the chamber they were in was so small. The ceiling was low and rough with tiny stalactites; Theseus had to bend his head to his chest so they didn't catch at his hair. The walls, though, were ringed with squat, smooth columns. Phoibe's soft light showed that the walls between them were painted with images of the sea: waves rolling into a harbour, with birds perched atop them; writhing octopus arms and plants beneath. Tiny bright buildings lined the harbour.

“Great Goddess,” Alphaios whispered as the howl faded. “What was
that
?”

Chara watched Melaina slip her hand into Theseus's, watched him shake his free and edge away from her.

“We should really have a blade,” Phoibe said in a rush. “All of us should—not just you, my Prince.”

“Of
course
we should.” Melaina rolled her eyes as she spoke. Phoibe's godlight trembled for a moment—long wavering lines that grew and broke against the stone.

Theseus was leaning against a column, now. Chara saw him nod.

“I suppose that's me, then,” said Alphaios. He got onto his knees and scuffed his way into the circle of light, his hands patting at the chamber's hard-packed earthen floor.

“Something that once lived but's now dead,” he murmured. He was smiling, leaning forward into the silver-orange glow. He plucked something from the ground. “This'll do.”

Melaina clutched his hand and pried it free. “An empty snail shell? Maybe the great Master Daedalus wished to mock us, by putting it here with these paintings. Maybe he wanted us to despair.”

Or maybe he was thinking only of Athens,
Chara thought.
Of his home, and yours. Because the buildings in the paintings aren't Cretan.

“I've never seen such a big shell,” Phoibe said. It
was
big: apple-sized, with a pointed tip that cast a formidable shadow on the earth-and-stone wall.
I'd have given it to Asterion
, Chara thought,
like I gave him all those other ones, at the summer palace, when he'd turned back into a boy again after being a god.

“Hush.” Theseus's body didn't move, but this one word stilled them all. “Let Alphaios use his godmark in peace.”

Alphaios took the shell from Melaina. He set it on the ground in front of him and laid his palms on it.
Now for the silver
, Chara thought—and there it was, coursing from his skin just as it did from every other godmarked person's.
I've never been jealous before, but now I am, because they have godmarks and I have nothing at all except some rhymes and hope born only of myself—and look where we are.

The shell warped and twisted in his hands. It was molten metal, then writhing vines; it twined between his fingers and onto the earth, where it bubbled like a pool of silver lava. Melaina leaned closer; Phoibe drew back. Theseus pushed himself away from the column, very slowly, and stood above them all.

Alphaios whimpered. His eyes were wide, staring at a place beyond the rest of them. The silver curled and grew, straightened and tapered to a glinting point. Edges sharpened. Chara let her breath out noiselessly, between her teeth—not that anyone would have heard it over the grinding of the metal.

“Well,” Melaina said, as the grinding stopped. “Look at that—Alphaios can actually
do
something. Why haven't you done anything before now? We could have used better food on the boat, and we could certainly use some—”

“Shut up,” Alphaios whispered. His eyes were closed. One of his hands was on the knife—for it was that, or nearly. A long, thin blade with a lumpy pommel, which he curled his fingers around. The silver in the metal and his skin dimmed. He opened his eyes. “I can't make food—I told you that! I turn dead things into other dead things—”

“Well, dead cows are delicious,” Melaina interrupted—and then the wolf howl came again, much closer.

The silver of Theseus's weapon shone as it turned from dagger to sword, one tapering section at a time. “Phoibe,” he said, “make as much light as you can, the moment you see the beast.”

Only it wasn't a beast: it was a girl.

She stumbled into the chamber, and her howl twisted into a human cry as Phoibe's light flooded over all of them. She doubled over, holding her arms above her head. Her hair was a dark, tangled mass; her robe was blackened with dirt and maybe blood.

“Enough,” Theseus murmured, and Phoibe's light dimmed from blinding noon to starlight. He stepped toward the girl, who straightened and met his gaze.

“What is your name?” he said. Chara watched her eyes dart and widen and knew that he was using his mind-voice—the prince calming and awing his subject.

“Ligeia.” Her whisper was so broken that it took Chara a moment to understand the word.

“Ligeia,” Theseus repeated, and smiled—though Chara saw the fingers of his right hand tighten around the sword's hilt, and the fingers of his left around the ball of string. Melaina frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.

“When did you fall?” he said.

Ligeia thrust at a hank of hair, and it stuck out above her filthy ear. “With the first ones.” Her voice was a little stronger, but still splintered.
She doesn't use it any more
, Chara thought, and felt a chill run through her, despite the mountain's heat.

Theseus's eyes were dark—with anger, Chara knew, because she felt him say, ::
You see? You see what your king has done to the youth of my city? You see why I am here?
:: The words dragged through her like claws. When he collapsed the sword back into a dagger, each
snick
made her start.

“How have you survived this long, here?” he said gently, motioning at Phoibe to dim her godlight even more. Phoibe did, with a small, tired moan.

Ligeia blinked at him. “I found a stream. The water's hot, but I know how to gather it.”

“And what do you eat?” Melaina demanded, limping forward to stand beside Theseus.

“I eat . . .” Ligeia's brown eyes darted. “I eat dead things. The beast's dead things. What he leaves when he's done with them.” She swallowed. “There are other things, in the round chamber, but I only go there when it's safe. The bits are mostly enough.”

“What round—” Melaina started to say, but Chara interrupted.

“Have you seen him kill?” she demanded. Her chest was hot and tight and the blood sang so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear herself.

Ligeia's eyes swivelled to Chara. She squinted. “You don't sound Athenian,” she said.

“
Have you seen him kill?
”

::
Chara,
:: Theseus snapped, but she clenched her fists and didn't turn to him.

“No,” Ligeia said. “But he leaves bits. In piles. Bits he doesn't want. I know it's him, though. I could tell he was trouble; I should've killed him in his sleep. Shouldn't have listened to
her
.”

“To her?” Theseus said.

Ligeia stared at him as if she hadn't seen him clearly before now. “Who're
you
? Why is your voice in my head?”

“Why, he's Prince Theseus of Athens,” Melaina said. “Hadn't you heard tell of his wondrous godmarked mind-voice? The voice he uses to bind his subjects to his will? The one he apparently used to woo Princess Ariadne of Crete?”

Theseus didn't look at her, and he didn't speak—not aloud, anyway.

Ligeia shrugged. “I've heard some of those things. A long time ago. And what's
that
?” she said, gesturing to the ball of silver string in Theseus's hand.

“Melaina?” he said, cocking his head at her. “Would you like to answer again?”

Melaina said nothing.

“I'll answer,” said Chara, and saw the muscles in Theseus's arms tense. Her head was still pounding. “It's string fashioned by the Great Daedalus of Athens and Crete. It's godmarked—never runs out. Or never yet—and I've seen it tested since I was a child, when it belonged to my friend Icarus. The other end of it is attached to the wall beneath the entrance to this place. Once we find whoever else is in here,” she went on, finally turning to Theseus, “we'll follow it back and use it to climb up to the door.”

Ligeia cackled, on and on, until she had to bend over and lean on her own knees. Alphaios raised his new blade and held it shakily out.

“No,” she finally gasped. “No getting out. And special string'll be useless, anyway, when the hallways change.”

“Huh,” Melaina said, as Theseus put his hand on Alphaios's and pushed his blade slowly down. “Well, then—no need for you to come with us.”

Chara said, “No—
we'll
come with
you
. Show us where you find these ‘bits' you say he leaves. Show us the places you've found. The water.”

Ligeia sucked in her cheeks. At last she nodded, and pushed again at her mess of hair. “All right,” she said. “I'll take you to the island.”

Gears ground. “Wait,” Ligeia said, and they did, in the blue and gold light of Daedalus-fireflies. Walls groaned and shifted. Dust fell. Tiny white spiders poured out of an old crack and into a new one; Chara heard the whisper of their legs, even though Phoibe was shrieking. When the walls settled, the fireflies were gone, and the corridor ahead of them rippled with reflected flame.

“Do things always change like that?” Phoibe whispered.

Ligeia nodded. Her right shoulder twitched, and she clamped her hand down on it, as if shoulder and hand belonged to different people. “Always. I never know when, but I know which parts leads to which. I know which parts danger's in, and when to stay away. No need for your string at all.”

Theseus smiled and glanced back along the string's gleaming length. “Still,” he said, “we'll keep it.”

“But it can't show you,” Ligeia said, sounding stronger, almost happy, “that the island is
there
.” She pointed toward the red-orange light and smiled, and Chara saw black gaps where teeth had been.

Chara heard Alphaios gasp, when they reached the corridor's end. She stood beside him at the edge of a lake of fire. She wanted to gasp too, but couldn't—the heat leaned against her, and she against it, helplessly.
He won't have been able to bear this heat,
she thought.
Not as a boy. He'll always be the bull; he'll always be hungry and fierce.

Theseus was the first to walk to the bridge that spanned the flames. “The island,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at Ligeia. A droplet of sweat ran from his eyebrow to his cheekbone. The string in his hand looked as if it were on fire too.

She nodded again. This time her left shoulder twitched, and her right hand gripped it.

“Lead us, then, Ligeia,” he said, probably with both of his voices.

She went first, and Theseus after her, then Alphaios, and Phoibe, though she whimpered about the heat, and being afraid. “Well,
slave
?” Melaina said to Chara, hands on hips, as the others shuffled up to the crest of the bridge.

“You first, my Lady,” Chara said, bitterly—because instead of a bald girl in a torn robe, she suddenly saw Ariadne, turning, lifting her skirts and tossing her glossy curls so that they slid across her breasts and shoulders. Ariadne, Melaina: Chara followed, as the flames lapped at her skin and seared away her breath.

The island was a lump made of cinders, ash, and obsidian flakes. Chara guessed that the altar stone at its centre had once been white, but now it was covered in images, some dark red, others nearly black. Chara leaned closer and saw tiny, delicate spirals, and arcing rows of bull's horns.
Blood
, she thought, and,
Asterion: was this you? Gods forgive me for wondering—but now I'm here, and I see . . .
Was it you
?

Ligeia bent and picked up a scorched piece of something. “Here,” she said. “One of the bits.”

Theseus took it from her and held it between his thumb and forefinger. It was mostly black, with some crimson beneath, and it looked like old, cracked leather.

“Eat it,” Ligeia said. “You must be hungry. Or you will be.”

Phoibe stepped forward and seized the thing. She put it between her lips; Melaina made a strangled noise and batted at Phoibe's hand, and the thing fell.

“Don't you realize what you're eating?” Melaina said, and Phoibe frowned. “No, let me be clearer: don't you realize
who
you're eating?”