Keepers of the Labyrinth (2 page)

“I have a feeling s
he will be very much
like her,” Bente sa
id.

Athenia turned a
nd looked across the
antechamber at the
others. Trudy and Co
lleen both stood wit
h bowed heads.

“She
won't be exactly lik
e her,” Trudy mutter
ed. “Not with that s
ort of baggage.”

“Le
t the process take i
ts course and we wil
l judge her skills f
airly,” Bente snappe
d.

Athenia nodded, a
nd folded her hands
into the sleeves of
her sweater. “If she
does not pass, she
does not pass. And s
he'll be none the wi
ser. Regardless, we
will have four new i
nitiates. The best o
f the best.”

Athenia
made her way back t
o the end of the tab
le. “The meeting is
adjourned.
Zeis tolmira.
Live boldly.”

“Zeis tolmira,”
they
said as they departe
d.

1

L
ilith Bennette ran at midnight. She ran at midnight because her mind was moored upon the hour. Unable to slip past it, her eyes blinked open. She got up, placed her shoes on her feet, waved to Dad, who was sitting at the dining room table plucking his guitar, and disappeared into the dark night. Up Caulder's Lane, down the dirt road that led out to Braggs Hill. Past Mr. Garsh's farm stand and through the small town center. She beat the pavement around the bend to the quiet post office and up the stairs of the general store, the sound of her tread turning hollow as she ran over the porch, then down the stairs on the other side. She passed the town's silent sleepers, nestled in their dark-windowed bedrooms. She wound her way along the river's edge, following the trail along Snake's Vein Road. She ran harder up the steep hill before she paused for a moment to take in the view of the village below. Her eyes darted from post office to Olsen's Grain and Supply to St. Patrick's steeple. The moon shuttled out from behind a cloud and illuminated the face of the town clock. 12:30.

Her mind had worked the hour relentlessly for years—three to be exact—trying to solve the impossible riddle. To put the pieces together. The smell of lentil soup in the night. The shuffling. The smoke sounding the alarm. The rope, tied so effectively over the ceiling beam. The word
suicide
that everyone seemed to believe. The funeral, with its religious tones that no one seemed to believe. The smoke of the twenty-one-gun salute. The flag, folded in surrender. The bruised hearts hanging from pins, kissed and given back.

The tears of her father, unable to believe that his Helene would quit on him.

Lil jumped three times, pushing back the tears that sprang into her eyes, and kicked out toward the woods, the ropes course. As she met the tree line, she reached over and set a timer on her wristwatch, told her body to move and her mind to silence. She raced across the balance beam, leaping onto the zip line, and sailed between the trees. Planting her feet at the end, she darted toward the rock wall and jumped to the highest handholds she could reach, climbing, unharnessed and breathing quickly. She crawled over the top of the wall and stood for a moment, gazing between the trees.

From here she could see the airfield and the hangar sheds in the distance. The airplanes sat like awkward birds, wings bathed in moonlight and blanketed in patchworked fog. She glanced at her watch. Already a few seconds behind her normal time. Lil looked to the rope hanging from a high tree branch just seven feet away. Her fingers itched, and she tried to disregard the image of the rope on that night. She hesitated, clearing her thoughts with a long exhale.

The leaves rustled as if carrying the whisper of her mother's voice. “
Min zeis aplos. Ze
is tolmira.
Do not just live. Live boldly.”

Lil swallowed hard, stepped back a few feet, aimed for the rope, ran and jumped. Her hands closed like knots around the fibers, but she didn't linger. She clung with her right fist and reached with her left, grasping another rope and then another until she'd swung to a webbed ladder. Bouncing toward the forest floor, she took off toward the airfield.

She stretched her arms as she soared beyond the shelter of the trees, her reach slicing through pockets of fog as she made her way between planes to the Longhorn. Her mom's plane. They still paid the storage fee, and old Mickey didn't mind not having to find someone else to fill its spot—now a monument more than anything else.

Lil jumped, peering into the cockpit, then reached up, grasped the latch and opened the door. She felt under the seat and pulled the leather-bound journal from the shadows, flipping to the very back and slipping a picture from between the pages. She glanced at it in the moonlight. Her mother when she was younger. Lil's age, she thought, about sixteen. Strong and muscular, with her arm around the waist of a tall woman with silvery hair. They both wore T-shirts and leggings. Their calves and shoes were caked with mud as if they'd just finished a long spring run. They stood on a mountaintop, a rocky vista behind them. And in the shade of a tree, Lil could see an etching of a double-headed ax inscribed on the face of a large, smooth stone. It matched the necklace her mom wore. Her mother had called the ax a labrys. Lil flipped the picture over and looked at the back.

Helene and Bente

Future Leaders International

1990

She folded the picture, reached down and tucked it into her sock, then placed the journal back in its spot, closed the cockpit and circled the airfield. Her watch indicated that it was 12:50. She turned right out of the fenced-in field and headed toward home.

Lil rounded the corner on the east end of Caulder's Lane and slowed her step as she reached her backyard. Her watch beeped 1:00.

“To a new day,” Lil said as she crossed the yard and strode into the dining room.

Her father was standing at the counter, pouring hot water into a ceramic mug. He slid the mug of tea and a glass of cold water across the countertop. “Late night for an early plane ride.”

Lil yawned and took a sip from the glass.

Picking up another mug, her father rubbed at the circles under his eyes as he sat back at the table. “You'll need your rest if you're going to get on a plane in six hours.”

“I'll sleep in the air,” Lil said, downing the rest of the water and taking the chamomile toward the stairs.

The scrapbook was out on the table, and Lil noticed the laptop as her dad flipped it shut.

“Checking e-mails,” he said, sliding the computer away. “Updating your aunt on the farm. She might come visit this fall.”

Lil nodded, though she knew he was lying. Just like her, he was up looking for Mom. In their own ways, they were always trying to find her. To unearth the truth.

Peeling her shoes off, Lil eyed the rifle that had come to sit by the door these past few nights. It had taken the place of her dad's guitar. As if he were waiting for something.

“Fox's getting into the coop again,” he said, nodding toward the gun.

“Ah,” she answered, though she found it suspicious that he hadn't mentioned it previously. He usually mourned any chickens that got plucked from the coop, and stormed around the house, wondering aloud how the fox had made its way in under the radar. How the fox had made its way in despite the extra boards he had put up to keep them out. No, the gun was not there for a fox. Lil would have known about it by now.

Her dad rubbed his hands together. “I'll wake you in three hours”—he spread his arms apart in a grand gesture—“and you shall be off to see the land of your mother.”

Lil appreciated his efforts to keep things upbeat, and she smiled toward the wall as she pushed her shoes against it. She rounded the banister. “Love you. See you in the morning.”

“Lil.”

She looked sideways as her father lowered his hands to the table once more.

“I'm serious. Your mom would be glad you're able to see her homeland. It had a special place in her heart.”

Lil trained her eyes on the stairs. “I know.” She nodded, winding the string of the tea bag around the handle of her mug.

“All right. Get some sleep. I love you, but I'm still waking you in three hours.”

“'Kay.” She headed upstairs and into her room.

Lil set the mug down on her desk and finished filling the duffel bag that was already sitting open on her chair. She'd meant to finish packing earlier, but as always, she'd had things on her mind. She rolled several clean shirts and a few pairs of shorts, and tucked them neatly beside her pants, sweaters and active-wear. She checked her travel kit for shampoo and hair ties and soap. Nothing to exceed three ounces, Lil thought, turning the travel bottles so that the side displaying the size was visible.

She yawned and put down her checklist. The manila envelope that she had received weeks ago peered out at her from beneath the edge of her duffel. She retrieved it, staring at the flowing red ink on the front.
Ms. Lilith Bennett
e.
The brochure landed on top of the pile as she opened the folder and upturned the contents onto her desk. She stared at the images of the bright, whitewashed walls, the blue water, the flowers that, according to this brochure, stretched down lanes, unsuppressed.

Discover Crete,
it said. Discover Mom, Lil thought as she pulled out the official welcome letter.

Lilith Bennette,

Welcome to Future Leaders Internation
al. We are so please
d to have you join u
s at beautiful Melio
s Manor in Crete, Gr
eece. We believe you
r unique leadership
skills will shine he
re on Crete. Get rea
dy for a conference
full of sun, fun, te
am building, invigor
ating discussions an
d enlightening works
hops.

The manor itself looked amazing, with its cobbled walls and sunny flowers lining the walkways, bright blue sky above.
Eco-friendly, ag
rotourism, nature's
haven,
the trifold brochure proclaimed. The pictures that pocked the inside pages showed gardens, sheep, winding roads and beautiful natural vistas. Lil wondered if she would see the same sights as her mother. If she would smell the same smells.

She reached into her sock and pulled out the picture of her mom and Bente, then shuffled the papers until she found the one labeled
Te
acher Biographies.
There it was.
Bente F
ormo.
The exact same spelling as the inscription on the back of the picture. It couldn't be a coincidence, could it? How many people were even named Bente? How many Bentes could possibly be counselors at a Future Leaders International conference in Greece, no less? And why had Mom kept the picture in the back of her journal? Surely they were close.

Lil pressed the picture flat and ran her finger along the necklace her mother was wearing. Even though the charm was too small for Lil to see clearly, she had captured it in her mind's eye. It was circular, double sided and metallic. Lil had wondered what it was made of. One side was etched with a spiral and little symbols. Lil remembered sitting on Mom's lap, tracing the spiral with her finger. The other side, dark like soot, was much simpler—a double-headed ax centered in a circle.

Sometime during the week of the tragedy, Mom's necklace had gone missing. The coroner hadn't seen it. Or so he said. It wasn't in her room, or in the cockpit of her plane, or anywhere around the house. It had simply disappeared. But it was here in this picture. Preserved. Lil wondered if maybe it was a friendship necklace. Or maybe it was something much more important, like the wing insignia Mom had worn on the lapel of her uniform. Something to do with honor.

She would ask Bente. Bente would know.

Lil tucked the flattened picture underneath the paper clip in her registration packet.

She looked down at her watch. The number flipped from 1:44 to 1:45. She closed the folder and dropped it into her duffel bag, then jumped into bed and counted herself into dreams.

2

A
res Slynn heard the phone in his Fifth Avenue apartment ring before he reached his door. He groaned as he pushed his grocery bag into the crook of his right arm and fumbled to get his keys out of his pocket. He jingled the other keys free of the first, opened the door and wandered into the kitchen without giving the incoming call the benefit of a glance. He just couldn't. Not after the day he'd had. It was constant interactions. Constant meetings at the university. Everyone seemed to need him: the students, the faculty, the incompetent lab assistants. Of course, this was a curse of being a teacher who inspired people the way Ares did. He didn't expect others to reach his level of aptitude.

Who could possibly require his time now? As if understanding his train of thought, the ringing stopped. He peered through the doorway at the screen, a momentary green glow in the shadowy living room, then breathed a sigh of relief as it went dark without indicating a voice mail. He dropped the grocery bag onto the table and placed the teakettle on the front burner.

The papery deli bag crinkled as he pulled out the baguette and laid it on the cutting board. He selected a wheel of Brie from the refrigerator and inhaled the aroma as he unwrapped it. His stomach growled and his mouth begged for a slice, but Ares restrained himself. It was better at room temperature, anyway. He took the time to wipe off every corner of the kitchen sink while the water in the teakettle came to a rolling boil. Then he made a cup of weak tea, submerging the tea bag only three times before discarding it in the trash. He placed a lemon wedge in the cup, then sipped the detoxifying mixture.

He made his way to his favorite chair in the living room, setting the tea on a side table and pulling a chenille blanket over his shoulders. He took his noise-canceling headphones from the chair arm and selected Beethoven's “Moonlight Sonata” on his iPad. The notes soared into his ears, and Ares felt the tension leave his body. He leaned his head back against his chair and listened, slowly scanning for any knots that might be hiding inside his muscles. City life, he thought as he stretched his fingers, curled his wrists and then dropped his hands into his lap. After ten minutes of relaxation, he reached between the cushion and armrest and retrieved his journal, feeling the familiar weight in his hands.

Ares had had this type of journal since childhood. It was one that his mother had required him to begin. His journal of truths. Each day he would write down and reflect on a famous quote or philosophy that had appealed to him in some way. He flipped the pages, spotting names as he went: Socrates, Carnegie, Sartre, Plato. His fingers paused on the page, and he read his favorite quote: “It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness.” Seneca. He felt fireworks fly up his spine as the words rang with the music. He knew this quote to be true. He'd paved his own road. Never had he been given chances. Never had his greatness been acknowledged in his youth. He had fought tooth and nail for it. All Zephylites were required to build themselves into true men and women. To become more than their forebears. And just like these people, Ares would have his name in the history books. Only he would reach farther, be greater, leave a legacy like no one had before.

His thumb flicked the page, and he wondered if he should call a meeting tonight. He heard the dull sound of the phone ringing once more, barely audible over the sonata. He looked at the wireless receiver next to his chair.
Number unavailable,
it said. Perhaps it wasn't the college? But it couldn't be one of the Zephylites, for he knew all their numbers, and none were unlisted. As he lifted his hand from the page and reached for the phone, the noise ceased and the screen went dark. He lowered his hand, waiting for the beep of the voice mail to tell him there was a message, but once again silence followed.

Ares picked up his pen and flipped to an empty page. He had long ago decided that he might add his own quotes to the anthology of greatness, so he had recently abandoned the old philosophers and scientists and looked within. He twirled a pen between his thumb and index finger and thought. Then, with great purpose, he bit the tip of his pen, unclipped the cap and began to write.

May one self-mad
e man lead the world
to glory. May his t
eachings be great. H
is pen mighty. His l
edger bright. His mi
nd clear. His body a
nd will strong. Then
, and only then, wil
l his name go down i
n history, and those
who are wise enough
to follow find thei
r feet in footprints
of gold.

He pressed the pen between the pages, slid his book back between the cushion and the armrest and let the music envelop him.

As the sonata wore down, his stomach begged for nourishment. He went into the kitchen and sliced into the room-temperature Brie, placing a gooey triangle onto his plate. He neatly sawed off a few pieces of bread and wiped the crumbs from the counter into his hand. He sat down at the table and flipped on the kitchenette light.

As he lifted his first slice of bread and Brie to his lips, the phone rang again, making his hand jerk so violently, the Brie dove from his grasp and landed upside down on his plate.

He groaned, hurried into the living room, lifted the receiver and slammed the Call button as he brought the phone to his ear. “What is it then?” he shouted.

“Ares?” a hushed voice said.

Ares cocked his head to the side. The voice was thick, low and had obviously been mechanically enhanced. But the stranger had used his Zephylite name. He had only received one call like this before.

“Perhaps,” he said, careful not to sound too eager, though he did begin to salivate as he flipped the bread and Brie over. “And who is this?”

“That is not of importance. What is of importance is the information I am about to give you.”

“Do you always make such presumptions?” Ares said, but he did not hang up the phone. Instead, he walked back to the table and sat once more.

“A new recruitment session will be taking place at Melios Manor this week. The teachers will be distracted with the leadership conference”—the voice faded for a moment and Ares squinted, trying to grasp every word—“the nebulous chamber.”

Ares' eyes shot open. “Who is this?”

“It means . . . the Icar—”

“I know what it means,” he said, his lips sliding into a smile like a snake, stretching the width of his face. He placed his hand on the End button, silencing the phone before the speaker could continue. He felt his hair rise around the back of his neck as though electricity had suddenly filled the air.

He strode into the darkening living room and retrieved a box from beneath the coffee table. He set it down in front of him and lifted the cover. Pulling a round emblem with a jagged line from within the shadows of the box, he placed the chain around his neck so that the pendant dropped just over his heart. A leather scroll had been tucked in the corner of the box, and he gently lifted it, unwinding it. He picked up the phone, noting the dial tone before he punched the numbers.

The line rang twice.

“Come on, come on,” Ares said, taking a breath, willing Horatio or Felice to pick up.

Rrrrrrrrring.
Rrrrrrrrring.

“Hello?” a voice said.

“Felice?”

“Yes?”

“It's Ares. Meet me at the ward. It concerns the Icarus Folio.” He heard a gasp at the other end.

Yes, it would be easy to persuade them to go on a sacred quest. He had guided them, prepared them for this from youth and he knew their faith was deep. He knew they had nearly memorized the writings of Hexalodorous. He knew their childlike zeal. Especially the eldest. “Bring Horatio and Byron. Call the others.”

He hung up the phone and reached for his jacket. He did not need food now. This. This could sustain him forever.