Lost in the Labyrinth by Patrice Kindl (miss read books .txt) 📕

the goldsmith’s daughter alone, as Ariadne knew quite well. Nearly every woman in all of Knossos had at one time or another found her eyes turning toward Icarus, as flowers will turn toward the sun.

He was so beautiful! I am not myself beautiful, but it is a trait I admire in others, particularly in men.

Ariadne’s gaze had strayed in his direction not a year ago, though she might not be pleased to know that I was aware of it. Everything that concerned Icarus concerned me; I had therefore seen and noted every step of her infatuation with him. I watched her as she came upon him sleeping on a wall one day, his black curls spilling down the stones, his body washed with sunshine. She stood silent for a long moment, contemplating perfection.

Thereafter she was attentive to him, trying to engage him in conversation. He had responded as he always did: he was gentle and courteous, but his eyes were remote. I knew the very moment when she began to doubt her power to ensnare him, the moment when she decided that he was beneath her notice because he did not notice her.

Now Ariadne’s unusual interest in my brother’s servants gave me an excuse to seek Icarus out and talk to him. He was himself more than half Athenian, though one of us, a Keftiu, by birth and training. His mother, Naucrate, had been an Athenian woman, a slave. Minos, our father, had given her to Daedalus the inventor in recognition of his skill, and Daedalus, half Athenian himself, had loved her and married her. It was therefore natural that Icarus would understand the language and customs of my brother’s servants.

I lay in wait for him by the paint-grinding shed, where he often did work for his father.

His face lightened when he saw me. If he did not love me as a man loves a woman, he did at least like me.

“Hello, little mouse,” he said, smiling.

“I am the Princess Xenodice,” I said, “You should not address me so.”

“No?”

“No. And you should stand up and salute me properly. Icarus, why do you suppose that Ariadne is so interested in the Athenians? Not the ones that are coming, but the ones from last year.” I told him of Ariadne making us late for dancing class in order to inspect them. “What is she up to, do you think?”

“Perhaps it is because your mother has promised that Ariadne may choose one as her personal servant when the new lot comes in,” Icarus said. He shook several small charred animal bones out of a leather sack onto his worktable.

“Oh! Has she?”

“I am not certain, but that is what they believe,” he said. “They have been arguing amongst themselves about which one she will pick.”

It was reasonable. Any of them would be pleased to be the trusted servant of the next Queen of the Keftiu. The work of such a one would be light, his bed soft. For the ambitious, there was also the possibility of great political power in the palace.

“And when do the new ones come? Do you know?”

“If you run down to the harbor right now you may see their sail approaching,” he said, beginning to grind the blackened bones with a stone pestle.

“Is that true, or are you saying it to be rid of me?”

“I am grieved that you think I would be so discourteous, Princess.”

“Icarus!”

He smiled. “To tell true, my lady, I don’t know. They will be here soon: today, tomorrow, perhaps in three days’ time. I cannot say what day they left, or what winds they’ve had. There will be plenty of excitement making ready for them down on the wharf. I thought it would amuse you to see it.”

As if I were a spoilt child whining for entertainment! Standing here so close to him as he worked, observing him, and listening to his voice was the only entertainment I could ever want or need. His beautiful, strong fingers were growing smudged with black, I noticed. Making paints for his father meant that yellow, blue, or brown pigment often discolored his nails and stained his hands. I watched for a few moments longer the flexing of the muscles in his arms and back as he worked and then tore my eyes away.

“Yes, well, if you think that the ship will be here soon, perhaps I shall go and look for it,” I said reluctantly. I always left Icarus long before I had drunk my fill of his company. I could not bear for him to wish me gone.

But he had forgotten me during that brief silence; his mind was far away and only recalled to me by an effort of will.

“Do, little one,” he said absently.

Then he spoke again; “I dreamt of the Athenians who are coming. I dreamt that they rode toward us on the gales of a great storm. And one in the ship commanded the storm and bade it bear them along.”

“Oh,” I said. For want of anything else to say, I asked, “What . . . what did she look like, the one who ruled the winds?”

“It was a man, a young man barely older than myself” (Icarus was sixteen, Ariadne’s age). “He seemed—very sure of himself.”

“A man!” I said, surprised. “How should a man use weather magic? Your dream makes no sense, Icarus.”

Icarus smiled at me again, coming out of his abstraction. The sweetness of that smile completely unnerved me; I had to cling to the paint-grinding table for support.

“You’re right, little mouse, little bird. Not all dreams tell true. When I was done dreaming about unnatural male magicians from Athens, I commenced to dream another dream, one even less likely.”

“What dream was that?” I asked uneasily.

“I dreamt—” he paused a moment, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Princess. Dreams are nothing but colored shadows in the mind. I cannot believe they tell the future, whatever the priestesses may say.”

I frowned and bit my lip. I wanted to know his dream.

“When the ship does