Read The Door in the Mountain Online

Authors: Caitlin Sweet

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Legends; Myths; Fables, #Greek & Roman

The Door in the Mountain (14 page)

BOOK: The Door in the Mountain
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“You’re right,” Glaucus said. “I’ll have no luck with them, even if they
are
about to die.”

And the youths are fine, themselves
, Ariadne thought, squinting beneath her hand at the seven young men. Such crisp, clean tunics (for Athenians, it was said, considered loincloths immodest), and all of them were tall except one, whose shoulders, at least, were broad.

It took a long time for the priestess to ferry them all to shore. Their wrists were bound with silver cord, so they had to be lifted over the side of the Athenian ship and into the waiting altar-boat. Four of them crossed at a time. Ariadne expected that some of the observers would drift away, but they didn’t: they remained, murmuring as the Athenians were set on the black pebbles of the beach, and quiet in between, when the only sound was the seahorse’s snuffling and the surging of water as it drew the boat forward.

When all of them were across, the priestess led them through the crowd and up the cliff stairs. A child screeched, and then a gull. Ariadne stepped to the cliff’s edge and peered down. She saw heads, bent in concentration, and feet lifting and falling—and a girl with long, straight, red hair, spinning on her narrow step and lunging toward the open air. Even as the people below stirred and gasped, the priestess leapt, too. She landed on the girl’s step just as her bare feet were about to leave the stone. The priestess grasped the girl’s shift in both hands and pulled her sharply back. They fell together, their shoulders knocking hard against the cliff.

“She’s got spirit,” Glaucus said.

Ariadne snorted again. “Anyone who’s afraid of dying should.”

The cheering began again and didn’t stop, not even when all fourteen were standing before the king and queen. This time Pasiphae didn’t call for silence. She smiled at the priestess, and she smiled at the Athenians. (The red-headed girl was crying two perfect, soundless rivulets of tears.) Ariadne couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her mother so happy.

“I bid you welcome,” the queen said in a voice so low it cut through all the other noise. “I and the Great Goddess who is mother to us all. We honour the journey you have just made and the one that awaits you.”

One of the young men was very handsome. He lifted his head, as Ariadne looked at him, and he looked back at her from beneath his tousled brown hair. His eyes were a blue she’d never seen anywhere but the sky. She took her lower lip gently between her teeth and smiled at him. His own full lips were slightly parted; she imagined him breathless from the climb, and his nearness to her.

“Come,” Minos said. Ariadne saw some of Athenians gazing at the smoke that came from his mouth and the flame that coursed beneath his skin and fingernails. She saw their sweat and snot, their clenched fists, their shoulders, either rounded or thrust pitifully back.
Thank you, Androgeus
, she thought.

She managed to slip up beside the king, when he turned to lead them all back to the summer palace. He gestured to the soldiers who lined the road, and held up his arms to watch the coursing of his own fiery blood. He didn’t notice her.

“Father.”

He blinked. “Ariadne.” He spoke the word thickly, as if it belonged to another language.

She laughed lightly. “What—no longer ‘Little Queen’, am I?”

He blinked again and frowned at her. Red light ran along the furrows in his brow like incandescent threads. “Little Queen?” he repeated. “Little Queen . . . ?”

A long, cold shiver slid up Ariadne’s back.
Father
, she thought,
what is
wrong
with you?
“So,” she said lightly, “when will we be taking these Athenian wretches to the mountain?”

He smiled into the air above her head. “The gods know,” he said. She waited, but he said nothing more.

“And Daedalus and Icarus. Asterion—when will you move him from Apollo’s cave to the other?”

Minos tipped his head back. He closed his eyes and swerved into Ariadne and laughed as he stumbled and righted himself. She pressed her arm, which ached where his own hot skin had touched it.

“The gods know all,” he said, his eyes open again and fixed on the gauze of cloud that hung above the palace walls. “They speak to me, and I to them.”

“Speak to
me
!” Ariadne cried. “Please, Father: you haven’t even looked at me in days!”—but he was striding ahead, so quickly that she faltered.

“Not doing your bidding any more, is he?” Glaucus said—and then he was past her; they all were, Cretans and Athenians alike, and Ariadne stood alone, breathing smoke and strange, hot tears.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For three days the palace rang with the sounds of flutes and laughter and the singing of amphorae and goblets as they met, with wine between. It seemed like one feast that went on and on because every time Chara followed Ariadne past the courtyard, she thought she saw the same people: Pasiphae and Phaidra, Minos, the Athenians with their bound hands being fed from gold plates by novice priestesses. Ariadne didn’t join them.

“They are too taken up in their own affairs to miss me,” she said on the third morning, as Chara was twisting her curls into rows of tiny, delicate knots. “So I will not go to them.”

She paced her chamber instead, once the knots were done. It made Chara dizzy to watch her; these quarters were much smaller than the royal rooms at Knossos.

“Why has even Icarus not sought me out, now that we are closer to him?”

“Because he and the great Daedalus are probably doing very important things, at the Goddess’s mountain. Where you sent him.”

“Yes, of course. And tell me,”—turning, smiling coldly—“have you managed to guess where the great Asterion has been hidden? Go ahead: speak. I won’t beat you just for
guessing
.”

Chara slid her gaze to the fresco on the wall behind Ariadne. It was made of different shades of green: green for sea grass and water, dragonflies, fish with great fans for wings. Chara thought these walls were even more beautiful than the ones in Ariadne’s chamber at Knossos, though Ariadne claimed that they bored her.

“No, Princess. Please do not tease me.”

“You poor thing. I am sorry. And I will tell you something, so that you will not think me too unkind.” She smiled and touched Chara’s cheek with a fingernail. “Asterion will join us for the procession to the mountain.”

The fresco blurred, for a moment—the many greens, running and spinning—and then was so abruptly clear and bright that Chara had to close her eyes.

“He will be contained, of course,” Ariadne’s voice said, from a distance. “In a litter. You will not be able to tussle with him in the dirt, as you used to.”

“Of course.” Chara’s ears hummed; she could hardly hear her own words.

“It will be tantalizing to all, for no one except his guards and the queen have seen him in nearly a year.”

Chara watched her own hands arranging combs and vials on the table. Straight lines; metal and glass. When she spoke again, the words were as clear as all the fresco greens.

“Even you have not seen him this year?”

The princess snorted. “Why would I have wished to? Only my mother is weak enough to miss him. My mother and you.”

Chara had crept to the queen’s chamber door at night, after the palanquin had borne Asterion away. One night, two, three—knowing the mother would seek out the son; hoping to follow. And yet the queen never emerged from between the two scarlet pillars of her doorway while Chara watched.
Enough
, she’d thought on the last night, as she scuttled toward deeper shadows as priestesses or guards approached.
This isn’t how you’ll find him.

“Wherever he is,” she said now, her eyes cast down but wide, all the same, “the gods will keep him safe.”

Ariadne laughed, and Chara raised her head. The princess fanned one of her skirt’s pleats before her. It looked like a small blue sail filling with wind. “They say my brother
is
a god—and he did a very poor job of keeping himself safe, not long ago.”

Chara imagined retorting,
And how was he to keep himself safe when he was barely more than a baby and you set him alight?
She felt these sounds filling her mouth, but before she could blurt them or bite them back, a slave appeared in the doorway.

“Princess,” he said, his hands up in the sign of the Bull. “The king summons you.”

Chara saw Ariadne’s eyes go bright and her hands tighten—but just for a moment. She blinked, loosened her fingers, lifted her chin.

“And why does he summon me, after all these days?”

The slave lowered his eyes. “He wishes you to dance, my Lady. For the Athenian sacrifices.”

Ariadne whirled so that her back was to him. Chara watched her smile.

“Very well,” she said. “After all, my royal father commands it, and my people will be expecting it. Chara—find me my dancing dress.”

The red-haired Athenian girl cried again as Ariadne danced. The others looked quiet and composed, sitting on the benches on either side of the thrones—no more snot or clenched fists. In fact, the blue-eyed boy Chara knew had caught Ariadne’s fancy smiled as a novice leaned over his bound wrists and set a piece of honeycomb on his tongue. But the red-haired girl cried and shook her head, and her piece of honeycomb flew from her mouth and stuck to the wall.

He’s nearby
, Chara thought later that night, twisting from her back to her side on the low bed.
I’ll see him tomorrow.
Tomorrow
. May Poseidon’s oldest fishes send me patience—or sleep, at least. . . .
But they didn’t.

The morning sun was so strong that it hurt her dry, aching eyes. Ariadne insisted that she redo her hair knots several times, and Chara did, her hands steady and sure, as if they had no connection at all to her heart. By the time the knots were done and breakfast eaten (by the princess, at least), the courtyard was full of voices and music.

“Oh, child,” Ariadne sighed, leaning out beyond two pillars that overlooked the crowd, “is it not a perfect day for a sacrifice?”

The Athenians were standing in two rows just inside the main gate. Chara saw them immediately—not because of the girl’s red hair, but because there
was
no hair. One of the other slaves had told Chara that all of their heads would be shaved by the priestesses’ razors during the night, in the privacy of a chamber far below the earth. Now all she saw of them was dark leather masks, covering them from crowns to just beneath noses. The masks were topped with bronze bull horns. Though they shone in the sunlight, they looked nothing like Asterion’s.

The princess descended the steps to the courtyard so lightly that she seemed already to be dancing. Chara followed almost as quickly, but far less gracefully. Colours blurred by her: the dark blue and scarlet of the columns; the white and gold of the friezes with their black shell patterns; Ariadne’s layered skirts, which were all of these colours and green, too (for it matched her eyes so well). Chara’s vision swam even more once they reached the courtyard, which was awash in embroidered banners and girdles and drums with metal rims that caught the light.

Minos and Pasiphae went out onto the road first. The Athenians, in their rows, were next, flanked by priests on one side and priestesses on the other.

When Chara fell back to walk behind Ariadne, the princess said, “No, no: walk
beside
me, today.” Her smile was sly and sparkling.

She smiles at me that way because she knows everything that’s going to happen,
Chara thought, and dread chilled her, even as her skin throbbed with heat.

The procession made its way along the eastern road, which curved slowly north and up. Chara had loved this walk the other times she’d accompanied the royal family to the Goddess’s mountain shrine. Clumps of cypresses covered the slopes to the left of the road. Olive groves fell away sharply to the right in rows that were silver, then green, then silver again as the wind touched them. Beyond the olives and the parched, red ground was the flat and endless gleam of the sea.

She hardly noticed these things today.
No Asterion yet
, Chara thought.
Where
is
he? When will he . . . oh, stop. Stop, and see if you can guess who the red-haired girl is, now that she has no hair. . . .

Despite the masks, the girl was easy to find. Some of the Athenians were standing straight, taking measured steps. She was weaving, stumbling sideways and back. As Chara watched, she pitched forward and fell to her knees, and a priest hauled her up by her wrist bonds.

“Wretched thing,” Ariadne said. “She discredits her country and her gods.” She chuckled.

Chara felt a wave of heat and nausea. “She’s afraid.”

The princess didn’t so much as glance at her. “The others may also be afraid, but they, at least, are being dignified about it. This is a great and wonderful destiny. She is obviously not worthy of it.”

She had a home
, Chara thought, as dancers spun by.
She had red hair. She has a name.
I wish I knew her name.

Someone far behind them cried, “All praise to the Goddess!” and someone else with a deeper voice answered, “And the Bull-god who guides us to her mountain home!” Ariadne laughed as people cheered. Flutes and horns played a flourish of notes that echoed as another cheer went up.

“Princess,” Chara said, “you have never enjoyed the people’s worship of your brother. Why has this changed today?” Her tone was polite, as it always was now, but Chara felt a twinge of fear:
Too bold?

Ariadne turned her green eyes to Chara. She arched her brows, considering. “Servant of mine,” she said at last, “I have never enjoyed it when you speak to me, yet this has also changed today. Who knows when I may regain my senses? Take care.”

“Mistress,” Chara said, and turned her head away. The road was winding its way into a cleft between two peaks; she saw cool, shadowed walls dotted with bushes and twisted trees and bright pink spills of flowers. Even though there was already music around her, she hummed: a tune she and Asterion had made up, crouching on a beach not so far from here, watching anemones and snails in a tidal pool.

The procession left the canyon at midday, when there were no more shadows. “Halt!” the queen cried then, in a voice that soared above all the other sounds. Music and voices fell silent. The crowd fanned out past the edges of the road. Beside Chara, Ariadne gave a low laugh.

“See what is waiting here for us!” Pasiphae went on, and swept her bronze-ringed arm at the road ahead—but Chara had already seen.

The palanquin that had borne Asterion away from Knossos was standing there, on its blue-and-gold legs. No priestesses or priests stood beside it: it was alone and still, though the bull’s head painted on its side was so lifelike that it might have been nodding.

“Marked blood of Zeus,” Glaucus murmured, but Chara hardly heard him. Her own blood was rising, pressing against her ears and forehead from the inside.

The queen went to the palanquin and laid both hands and her brow against it before she faced her people. “My son is here.” She wasn’t shouting now, but her words rang. “He will journey with us. Poseidon’s son will bless the Great Goddess’s sacrifices.”

Two of the Athenians dropped to their knees. The girl who’d had red hair swayed—but Chara was swaying too, just enough to blur the palanquin’s lines and colours.

“Come, Wife!” Minos called, and held out his hand to her. “The Goddess waits for us all.”

Pasiphae returned to the front of the procession. Slaves passed her—four of them, brawny and sweat-slicked. They each seized a long wooden handle. One of them grunted, and all four heaved upward. The wooden box listed, straightened, swivelled so that its front was facing the road. Palanquin and slaves lurched forward. Minos and Pasiphae followed it.

“Ah, girl.” Ariadne whispered the words into Chara’s ear, and Chara shrank away from them—the triumph in them, and their heat on her neck. “Is that not better? There he is. Your beloved Asterion: there he is.”

Don’t look at her. Don’t even look at the box. Not now, when there’s nothing to be done.

“Ah, girl . . . you poor, poor girl: he’s so close, but you cannot get to him. . . .”

Hours passed. Chara’s bare feet were red with dust and her hair clung to her neck. She tried not to look up, but had to, when people jostled her from behind. She saw priestesses tipping waterskins to the Athenians’ mouths as they walked; the formerly red-haired girl choked and wrenched her head away and water spattered the dust. Pasiphae put her hand on the palanquin’s side and kept it there.

She’s holding his hand
, Chara thought, and shook her head. So dizzy—so hot and sticky with sweat that she wished she, too, could shave all her hair off. Leave her curls in the dust, like footprints.

The sun was slanting west when the procession halted. “Gods,” Ariadne said, “look at that.” Chara stumbled a little as she lifted her gaze from her feet. She looked up and up some more, to where the peak met the sky. Golden clouds wreathed its sides and ragged top—but no: not clouds. Smoke. The Goddess’s breath, curling lazily up as she slept, inside the mountain.

“No tree anymore,” the princess whispered. “No owl . . .”

There was a double door in the stone, covering the place where the opening to the cave had been. The door was taller than all three storeys of the palace at Knossos. It was made of black metal, and its halves were closed with a gigantic lock—surely far too big for any key. But this was Daedalus’s work, after all—and he stood before it, bouncing on his heels like an eager child as everyone else pointed and gasped. Icarus was beside him, hunched, poking at the ground with his boot toe.

“Bird-boy,” Ariadne said. She was still many paces away from him, but Icarus’s head came up anyway, as if he’d heard her. His eyes lingered on her for a moment, then darted to Chara. She smiled at him, and he at her. His eyes leapt again, this time to the palanquin. She saw him swallow and blink.

BOOK: The Door in the Mountain
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