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CHAPTER 21

Appalled by what she'd seen and heard, Ariadne fled back to the shrine on Gypsades Hill. Her torment and feeling of betrayal because no one seemed to care for Androgeos, only for their own disrupted plans, flowed outward, and Dionysus was at the shrine before her. He comforted her as well as he could and let her weep herself out for the loss of a brother she'd loved, but he was himself much distressed because the incompleteness of his Vision had prevented her from giving warning of her brother's danger.

Then Ariadne comforted him. She didn't blame him or herself. She reminded him that at the time they had Seen together men fighting in Athens, Dionysus had been saddened by something he didn't understand. Now both knew the Vision had been sent incomplete, and Ariadne was sorely tempted to take the black image of the Mother down from its niche and toss it into the river that flowed between the shrine and the palace.

Ariadne told herself that the disgusting scene she had witnessed in the palace was owing to shock. She returned there the next day, thinking that grief might well flow in when rage was exhausted, but she found little change except that Pasiphae had withdrawn to the secret shrine deep in the bowels of Knossos. That place was all that remained of a stronghold erected by the distant ancestors of the current Minoans. The stronghold itself had been shaken to rubble by Poseidon's rage over some past sin, but the deep room in which a stone phallus stood before a strange obese goddess, both incredibly ancient, remained untouched. The queen had gone alone, her maids said, and Ariadne nodded without comment. She was not wanted or needed.

Minos needed what Ariadne had to offer no more than his wife. He barely spared her a few moments for civil thanks before returning to his plans for wreaking vengeance on Athens. Had he seemed driven by the loss of his son but fearful of the outcome of a war against so strong an adversary as Athens, Ariadne might have spoken of Dionysus' Vision. There was, however, no doubt in Minos' mind of his victory; it was as if he had partaken of Dionysus' Seeing himself. But the worst of all was that under the appearance of grief that he presented, was a hard satisfaction.

"It is as if he were glad Androgeos had been killed so that he could wring from Athens whatever terms he desires without needing to offer them anything in return," she said to Phaidra.

In her sister's chamber she had found red eyes and sad features—but not, she discovered, for the loss of Androgeos.

"What will become of me?" Phaidra wailed. "I'll never find a husband or freedom from this place."

Ariadne shook her head, and left. She passed Glaukos on her way back to the shrine. His face was set and there was grief in it; he and Androgeos, so close in age, had shared many things. But Ariadne saw, beneath the surface grief, a sense of gratification. Androgeos, the elder son, had always been first; unless he was shown to be unfit, he would have inherited his father's throne. And Androgeos hadn't been unfit. Now Glaukos would inherit.

Sick at heart from seeing too much and too clearly, Ariadne hurried back to the sanctuary of Dionysus' shrine. None here had known Androgeos and their formal expressions of grief and sympathy didn't trouble her. They were sincerely sorry for her, and beneath the formality was nothing but a reasonable indifference about someone they didn't know.

Ariadne sighed and dropped onto the cushion beside Dionysus' chair, although they seldom sat that way now. Mostly they shared a sofa or chairs opposite each other across a small table to play some game. As the thoughts passed her mind she sighed again. Even her own grief was muted. Androgeos had been the best and kindest of her brothers, but they'd grown apart. She remembered him mostly as a boy, though to her he had seemed like a god then. He'd protected her from Glaukos, fixed her toys; once—when no one was there to see—had carried a heavy bucket for her. The man had been harder, more fixed in purpose, like his father, Minos.

Well, he'd be avenged. Dionysus always Saw true, and his Vision had showed Minos victorious. Oddly the thought gave Ariadne little satisfaction. She remembered how feeble the defense of Athens had been, how beaten and broken King Aigeus had seemed—and he hadn't even led his fighting men. That was strange. He was old, but not that old.

Ariadne sat up straighter, recalling the Vision, and looked reproachfully across the room at the wall toward the hidden image of the Mother. She understood now why so many Athenians had seemed reluctant to defend themselves and their city. It was a great impiety to kill an invited envoy, and they felt the attack and conquest by Minos was a direct punishment of their sin. Tears pricked her eyes. Likely Androgeos' death had nothing to do with Crete and was designed to humble the Athenians. Perhaps it was Athena's doing? Or Poseidon's? Should she ask Dionysus?

In the end she didn't ask. What could Dionysus do? Punish one of his fellow gods for the death of a common native? Ridiculous. Spite and hatred might follow or outright retaliation, pitting god against god . . . or all the gods against Dionysus. And Androgeos would still be dead.

Later, when Dionysus had come and simply taken her in his arms to hug, then sat down beside her, she realized she didn't want to know. If she went to Olympus as Dionysus wished, the last thing she needed was the knowledge that one of the Olympians had condemned her brother to death, carelessly, without even knowing him or anything about him, for a purpose that had nothing to do with him.

It was a silent evening. Once Dionysus said, "Do you still want a person who can lock and unlock the maze, now that your sister won't be leaving?"

Ariadne nodded. "I think Phaidra will refuse to serve the Minotaur any longer. It was the price she paid to be proposed as a treaty bride. She expected the service to end when she left Knossos. Now, I think, she'll simply refuse and Minos will be too busy with his war to care."

"A woman—a girl, really—will come in a ten-day or so. She's a priestess from the Bull God's temple at Zakro. My priestess there said she has a strong Gift, which will make the binding of the spell to her possible, and that she's a true believer in the Bull God. You can tell her that bringing the food—call it an offering—is a ritual practiced where the Bull God actually appeared."

Although she had some reservations and begged Phaidra to continue attending to their half brother—which Phaidra absolutely refused to do—Ariadne also looked forward to training the new priestess. It was a task that would divert her mind from the comings and goings at the palace, which too clearly spoke of preparations for war. And when Hesper arrived, Ariadne was amused by her fanaticism. Hesper truly believed the Minotaur was a god who had shaken free of the dross flesh with which he had been burdened by his birth and become a pure spirit.

Ariadne had to hide a grin. She couldn't help thinking of that "pure spirit" Dionysus' solid flesh and hearty appetite for bread and cheese and olives. Then her smile twisted wryly. There was nothing dross about his flesh—it was all too attractive. But Ariadne had no intention of arguing with Hesper. She simply used the girl's fanaticism by warning her that the Bull God, like her own god, Dionysus, did from time to time visit his childhood home and appear in his temple.

"However, he doesn't like to be spied on," Ariadne said, "so if you should catch a glimpse of him, immediately invoke the maze and take a few steps away. That way he'll know you respect his privacy. Don't speak to those within the chambers. They are condemned criminals selected to be scapegoat sacrifices if the Bull God should be offended. Hand them the meat. Invoke the maze immediately, and go your way lest one try to follow you and escape. When you're sure you're alone—don't look; listen for footsteps following you—dissolve the maze and leave."

She went with Hesper for the next ten-day, sometimes accompanying her openly, sometimes following quietly behind, making sure that the girl was able to lock and unlock the gates, clear and invoke the maze—Hekate had given Dionysus a spell, which he had given to Ariadne, to make this possible—and would do so at the correct times. It also made clear to the criminal servants, of whom only three remained, that Hesper was being guarded. Now, Ariadne thought, if only she could arrange a sighting of the Minotaur, she would be sure that Hesper would believe that he did appear and remain alert.

In the end, it was easy enough to do. Ariadne had no objection to Hesper thinking her more powerful than she was so she told the girl it was time for her to see her god and that she, Ariadne, would summon him. Then Ariadne called the Minotaur aloud, removed the maze, and continued to call until he came to her.

"Ridne!" he bellowed.

Hesper dropped silently to the floor in a dead faint. Ariadne didn't feel too steady herself. The Minotaur had grown even larger and the bull's head was somehow coarser and more bestial. Worse, he was no longer the clean, shining creature he had been, with gilded horns, attired in a beautifully embroidered kilt and a jeweled collar. The collar was gone, the gilding mostly scraped away from the horns. His fur was matted, his kilt tattered and stained with urine and feces. His nails had grown into long, curved claws—and he stank.

" 'Member Ridne," he said raising an arm to reach out to her.

He was looking down at her, and the arm crossed his sight. The dull, tangled fur held his gaze, and then, as if awakening, he slowly looked down at himself.

"Minotaur," Ariadne breathed.

"No god!" he roared. "Siphae lie. Minotaur no god. Beast! Beast! Ridne. Ridne. Help Minotaur!"

"I will, love, I will," she sobbed. "Come to your room and I'll comb you and bathe you."

She reached toward his hand and started to take a step in his direction, when suddenly he bellowed, "Mine! Maze mine!" and struck at her. Starting back, she tripped over Hesper's prone body so that she fell, escaping his blow and crying as she went down, "Ridne. I am Ridne."

He stepped back, then back again. "No hurt Ridne. Love Ridne . . ." It was a whimper. "Not 'member. Beast not 'member." He stood staring down at her, eyes glazing, lips pulling back from his tearing fangs, then suddenly turned and ran away, crying as he ran, "No eat Ridne. Love Ridne."

"Anoikodomo apate," Ariadne breathed through her sobs and knew that the Minotaur wouldn't find them again.

She was afraid that Hesper, having seen the beast, would no longer believe in the god and be unwilling to serve, so she concealed her own revulsion and terror, but the girl hadn't really seen anything beyond the huge looming figure. Fear and fervor had felled her before she could be disenchanted. When they were safe in the temple grounds, she told Ariadne that it had been wrong of her to summon the Bull God.

"Mortals are too weak. They aren't fit to see a god. You're too proud and presume too much. I'll be a better priestess and never offend him."

Ariadne didn't say she was not the Bull God's priestess or that she saw a being much nearer a god than the Minotaur every evening and presumed to tease him and laugh with him. She simply nodded and agreed. And aside from making sure that the priests and priestesses of the Bull God's temple would report to her if Hesper didn't return to her quarters each day and occasionally questioning Hesper herself, she did her best not to think about the Minotaur.

She was not entirely successful. "Help Minotaur," he had cried. Slow tears trickled down Ariadne's face. There was nothing she could do to help him. As always, Dionysus had Seen true when he told her it was for the misshapen creature's own sake as much as for that of others that the poor monster should die. She wiped away the tears. The Minotaur was past weeping for; she could only pray that Hekate was right, that the spell would unravel and her poor half brother would be released from his torment.

Meanwhile, the fervor of preparations for war reached a peak and then stopped. On the last day of the month of high summer, Minos led his fleet out into the ocean toward Athens. Ariadne didn't forbid those of the shrine to go, and the young acolytes, as filled with martial fervor as any other, went down to mingle with the people of Knossos who stood on the docks and on the hills that looked over the harbor. The men cheered; some of the women wept and prayed for good fortune for those who sailed.

Ariadne wasn't among them. She had no fears, no doubts of Minos' safe arrival or of his victory. Dionysus always Saw true—if he could understand what he Saw, and if no greater power than his meddled. Pasiphae was not among the watchers and well-wishers either. She was still, Phaidra told her sister, down in the ancient shrine. Food was brought to her, soil carried out, but no one had seen the queen since she had whimpered, "Lost . . . Lost . . ."

The tasks of summer filled the days, hoeing and weeding, gathering early fruit. Slowly over the weeks, Ariadne healed from Androgeos' death and the horror of the Minotaur's decay. With the absence of the Bull God from his great throne, even the gyrations of the priestesses and priests of his cult couldn't draw the number of worshipers that had once come. Nor did any pressure from the rulers of Knossos urge the people to worship and sacrifice. Minos was gone to war; Pasiphae seemed to have disappeared from the life of Knossos. However, the grapes swelled on the vines, their skins growing richer and darker as the hot sun kissed them, promising a bountiful harvest and a precious vintage.

More offerings came to Dionysus' shrine more openly. Ariadne was occupied with spelling the perishable stuffs to stasis, with displaying and setting aside what Dionysus chose and selling what he didn't want. For a while she pretended to be puzzled by his choices; much of the cloth was more delicate and feminine than he ever wore, and the little tables and other items of statuary and furniture seemed smaller and more fragile than he would find comfortable.

Eventually, however, Ariadne could be blind no longer and had to admit to herself that he was choosing items to give to a woman. Restraint broke its bounds, and she accused him bitterly, but she got no satisfaction, not even an argument or an order to hold her tongue. Dionysus laughed immoderately but he wouldn't deny her accusation nor would he explain beyond suggesting that she come to Olympus and see for herself.

"Besides seeing what happened to the offerings, there are lots of things I had no time to show you," he said, glancing at her sidelong. "Wouldn't you like to see how Hades works metal? It's really wonderful to see him take a double handful of earth and rock and squeeze it until gold and silver dribble out between his fingers."

"Dribble out between his fingers?" Ariadne echoed. "He is a god, indeed. His hands don't burn?"

"No, he doesn't burn when the rock heats by his will, but that doesn't make him a god. I've seen him burn his tongue on a hot dish of food or a drink. On the other hand, he can't heat food or burn a person by his will. Only stone and metal—anything that takes part of the earth—respond to his Gift."

"I know Hades helped build your house in Olympus and you said you went hunting with him, but isn't the Underworld . . . strange?"

"Strange, yes." Dionysus smiled at the widening of her eyes. "But Hades is a friend. He wouldn't trap me there—not that it would be so terrible. It's a beautiful place, parts of it so beautiful they take away your breath."

"I shouldn't imagine you'd have any breath to be taken away if you were dead," Ariadne said tartly.

Dionysus laughed. "Hades isn't dead. Neither is Persephone. And I'm not either, although I've been there many times. They wouldn't mind if I brought you. And before you cry out and refuse, I swear that you won't be dead either before you go or after you return." He sat silent for ten or twelve heartbeats and then said slowly, "And you'd like Persephone, I think. She's a true daughter of the Mother, although the power granted her is of a different kind than that granted you when you dance."

"Persephone." Ariadne again echoed his word. "But she's the most awesome avatar . . ."

"She can be. I wouldn't care to cross her, I admit. But mostly she's full of fun and teasing and very loving to Hades."

"But didn't he carry her off to the dark Underworld against her will, steal her from her mother's care?"

"I suppose he did." Dionysus grinned. "But she was a bit beyond the care of a mother when he took her—she was all of nineteen summers—and had been trying to escape Demeter's overprotection for some time. Do you know her mother had never named her and called her always Kore, which means girl, because she wanted Persephone to take her place and thus give her immortality."

"But the great mages are immortal already!"

"Only almost." Dionysus shrugged but then went on without hesitation, "Which meant, that Persephone would never have had a name and life of her own. I think Persephone didn't mind much when Hades carried her away from Olympus—although she still teases him when anything goes wrong that it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't abducted her."

Ariadne shook her head. "I'm still not ready for the Underworld."

"Then perhaps you'd like to go to Egypt with Hermes? He likes company and I try to go with him as often as I can. He's such a devil that I fear for him sometimes. The Egyptians call him Anubis, and stick the head of a jackal on his shoulders. He doesn't seem to mind. Well, he loves bright things as much as a jackdaw and since he's most often called in Egypt to lead the dead spirit, and Egyptian funeral goods are very rich, he finds good pickings."

"The god Hermes is a thief? He steals from the dead?"

"Oh yes, he's a thief." Dionysus laughed. "A very good one. And the dead are safer to steal from than the living. They don't complain. Moreover, since the tombs are sealed after the body is disposed within, there's little chance that anyone living would notice."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Hades and Persephone are surrounded by the dead; Aphrodite, Psyche, and Eros are one long bedtime story. Are any of your friends respectable?"

Dionysus thought for a moment. "No," he said finally. "All the serious, sober gods are too uncomfortable in my presence to count me a friend."

There was an undertone of hurt in Dionysus' voice, and Ariadne shrugged. "I have a feeling that's just as well. Just think how dreadful it would be if they were friendly and you found that you were bored to death in their company. That happened to my poor sister Prokris after she was married. She had always resented being left out of the gossip and talk of the older ladies of the court. Once she was a wife, all the stuffy matrons of the noblest families, whom she didn't dare offend, insisted on visiting her for hours and giving her advice."

"Are you comparing Apollo, Artemis, and Athena to a bunch of stuffy matrons?" He burst out laughing, and the hand with which Ariadne had covered her lips dropped to show her answering grin. "Giving hours of advice. That's all too possible. But it means I have very few friends."

"Do you miss your homeland?"

He frowned over that. "I don't know how to answer that. In one way, not really. I didn't have friends in Ur either and Olympus is much more beautiful. My house is mine and my life is my own, as it was not in Ur—but then I remember that I was much younger when I was in Ur; perhaps if I'd been older . . . But there are things I miss: the fields of barley and wheat; the flocks of sheep and goats. The lambs and kids are endlessly amusing in the spring. In Olympus such ordinary sights are kept well away from the city, which is why I have my garden of fauns. On the other hand, the rulers of Ur held a tighter grip on their people and were very cruel."

"That's sometimes true here also," Ariadne said soberly. "My own grandfather replaced a very cruel tyrant. And my grandmother—she who was priestess after the first Ariadne—was that tyrant's daughter. I've heard my father say she wasn't an easy person."

"Perhaps I should've killed her when I found her in my priestess's place."

Ariadne giggled. "No, because then the succession of priestesses would've been different and likely I wouldn't be your priestess now."

He laughed too. "You're right. That would've been quite dreadful." And then he added, quickly as if on an impulse he couldn't resist, "Come to Olympus. I have something special to show you also."

Her amusement was suddenly gone. He didn't sound as if he really thought it would be dreadful if she hadn't become his priestess. And what did he want to show her? The woman for whom he had taken all the feminine offerings? Ariadne shook her head as a new fear engulfed her. What if what he wanted to show her was the woman he had chosen as life companion?

"Not yet," she got out between stiff lips.

To her horror, Dionysus seemed more relieved than disappointed. He nodded acceptance cheerfully, said he must go and that he would see her the next day. Ordinarily that would have given Ariadne all the comfort she needed. Now she stared at the spot from which he had leapt with a sinking heart. Doubtless he would come the next day, as he said, but for how long would he continue to come, if he had a new woman to assuage his loneliness?

Time didn't stop for Ariadne's fears and they were never realized. Ten-day followed ten-day peacefully, the time of growth and ripening winding down into the time of harvest. And eight days after the ides of the month of ripening, Minos and his fleet returned home. Not one ship had been lost and very few lives. The king was greeted with huge celebrations and announced in person and by proclamation that Crete's dominance over Athens and Athens' acceptance of the Bull God was complete. Athenians would pay tribute to Crete and acknowledge the Minotaur as a true god. Each year a group of seven youths and seven maidens would bring the tribute and remain to serve the Bull God. In expiation of the murder of Androgeos, prince of Crete, this first year Aigeus' own son, Theseus, prince of Athens, would bring the tribute.

Phaidra carried that news to Ariadne as soon as she heard it. She was bursting with it, and had no one else to tell, no one else who would listen to her private hopes and fears. Others thought of victory and tribute; Phaidra only cared about the fact that the treaty Minos had desired had been confirmed with several additional clauses that favored Crete. To her, that meant that her marriage to Theseus might still be possible.

"They will come with the tribute," she insisted to Ariadne, who hadn't denied it. "Father's no fool. He hasn't dismissed the fleet and army. He allowed the Athenians a grace period of a ten-day to permit Theseus and Aigeus to settle their affairs and stabilize their realm. However, if the Athenian tribute, gold and human, doesn't arrive in another ten-day, father and his fleet will set out again, and this time they'll kill the men, take every woman and child into slavery, and burn Athens to the ground."

"They'll come," Ariadne agreed, but before she could add that they would come out of honor, not out of fear, Phaidra was speaking again.

"Yes, I think so too. They're too afraid of father to disobey. And that means the treaty will be enforced—and part of the treaty was that I should marry Theseus and some day be queen of Athens. Oh, Ariadne, it will be wonderful." She laughed. "Sometimes a foreign queen is scorned, but with father all but ruling Athens, I don't need to fear that."

Ariadne bit her lip, realizing it would be fruitless to try to explain to Phaidra that what defeated the Athenians in the first place wasn't the Cretan fleet and army but their horror of the dishonor and impiety of the murder of Androgeos. To double that impiety and dishonor by refusing to fulfill the terms of their surrender—no matter what the cost—wouldn't be possible for them. But she had to say something; she couldn't let Phaidra force a marriage with Theseus and then act as if she were the ruler of a defeated enemy. She wanted Phaidra to be happy.

"There are other reasons for them to fulfill their agreement," she said, "but even if Theseus does come because of fear of King Minos' retribution, you must remember the retribution can't arrive quickly. When you go to Athens, you'll be surrounded by Athenians and Minos' fleet and army will be nearly two ten-days away. If you should be ill-treated, you would have to find a messenger willing to go to Crete, and then you would still have to wait until the message could be delivered and Minos could sail to Athens. Think what could befall you in that time."

"Are you trying to convince me to withdraw from the marriage?" Phaidra's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why? I will never again attend that monster in the maze! Not if I must rot here in Knossos forever."

"No, of course I wasn't urging you to repudiate the marriage agreement. From what I've heard, Theseus is a worthy person. I think he would make you a good husband—but only if you make him a good wife. Consider how bitter it would be for a husband to have thrown into his face that he married out of cowardice and to have his wife look down upon his friends and family. Wouldn't it be better if you made him care for you so much that he would defend you against any scorn or dishonor?"

Phaidra blinked. "Yes. Yes, of course. Father never permitted anyone to missay or scant honor to mother. But what if Theseus doesn't care for me?"

"Why shouldn't he, silly girl? You're beautiful. You're clever. You can make a man lust after you and also be merry. You'll be able to manage his household to his benefit. You desire to be his wife. What more could a man want?"

Ariadne saw Phaidra go back to the palace buoyed up with hope, and she knew that hope rose to even greater heights when the Athenian ship came into harbor and the Athenians, escorted by a strong detachment of Minos' troops, made their way to Knossos. As a result of her sympathy and support, Ariadne heard, as soon as Phaidra's feet could carry her up Gypsades Hill, that Phaidra had seen Theseus on the day the tribute was delivered and had even been introduced to him.

It was apparent to Ariadne that all thought of being a conqueror's daughter had flown out of Phaidra's head with that first meeting. Phaidra's eyes almost glowed as she announced that Theseus was such a man as she had never seen before, taller and stronger than any Cretan. Beyond that, he had said openly that she was lovely and a wife he was eager to take; he was the husband she had dreamed about all her life. There would be other meetings, she told Ariadne, because a second audience with King Minos to define their service to the Bull God had been set for a seven-day later.

The first tiny shadow of a doubt touched Phaidra the next day when she learned that the Athenians were now housed in the Minotaur's old apartment. "Why?" she asked Ariadne. "There are separate quarters for embassies from other nations. Why did father put the Athenians in those rooms, sealed by magic, as if he needed a prison for them?"

"They're not exactly an embassy," Ariadne pointed out. "They're part of the tribute King Minos exacted from Athens. They are guilty of the death of Androgeos."

"No, they aren't!" Phaidra cried. "It wasn't Theseus and his father who conspired to kill Androgeos. It was their enemies, and they used that stupid false god excuse." Her lips pursed with distaste. "Not that the Minotaur isn't a false god. I've never seen a falser."

"Well, part of the atonement for all Athens—whether any particular person was guilty or not—is for the tribute youths and maidens to serve the Bull God."

"Then why not house them in the temple with the priests and priestesses?"

Although Ariadne said what she thought might be soothing to Phaidra, a horror was growing in the back of her mind. She had, after the tribute was safely delivered and the king was giving his attention to domestic matters, asked for audience and mentioned that all but one of the servants were gone from the maze. She felt he had a right to know, but hadn't asked that the servants be replaced. Minos had smiled. Smiled, and told her she needn't worry about the supply of servants. He had already arranged the matter.

Now what Phaidra said about the Athenians being imprisoned in the Minotaur's old apartment and separated from the priests and priestesses that served the Bull God took on a sinister aura. A connection between that apartment and the palace-side entrance to the maze could easily be established. Did King Minos intend that the service of the Athenians to the Bull God should be to feed him?

Even if they had been guilty of Androgeos' death, that seemed too harsh a fate; Athens had paid and would continue to pay blood money. And if they were not guilty—as Phaidra insisted, and, as seemed likely to Ariadne, who couldn't imagine any reason for them to invite an embassy and then kill its leader—they mustn't be sacrificed so horribly. Ariadne went to the palace; the magic-sealed door opened to her command, and she spoke to Theseus herself.

She came away convinced that if the Athenians weren't to be trained for bull dancing or for ceremonial duties in the Bull God's temple, she must do something to save them. Theseus irritated her; she didn't like his attitude of male superiority or the too-interested glances he had given her and the practiced way he had tried to flatter her. Despite her irritation, she really didn't doubt the distress he felt about Androgeos' death or the truth of the actions he had taken to avenge it and to cleanse the Athenians of impiety. Too late, however. Minos had been upon them before they could send him the few traitors still alive or explain what had happened. To fight back would only have compounded the impiety, so they had yielded.

Ariadne considered whether she dared raise the question of the Athenians' fate with Minos. Would her pleas for leniency help? Surely her father knew she had loved Androgeos and wouldn't wish to belittle his death. Or would her interference only harden Minos' decision? Worse, would it put into his mind a horror he had never intended?

Ariadne waited, hoping that Dionysus would See and forbid what she feared, but he had no Visions. He remained amused and cheerful as he had been for weeks—which sometimes drove her near to despair by implying he no longer cared enough to be aware of her feelings and often made her want to kick him. Worst of all, he no longer urged her to come to Olympus. Ariadne began to fear that that last haven would be closed to her.

Then, at the end of seven days, the fate of the Athenians drove Dionysus' intentions out of Ariadne's mind. Phaidra came flying to the shrine after the morning court weeping so hard that she could hardly explain what caused her anguish. The king, Ariadne finally made out, had passed sentence. The Athenians, in an order he would later decide, would enter the earthly home of the Bull God—a maze only the god could safely decipher.

If each Athenian could pass through the maze and reach the back gate of the temple, that youth or maiden would have proved his or her acceptance by the Bull God. When all the Athenians had passed through the maze, they would be free to return to Athens or to remain in Crete. And the first to enter the maze would be Prince Theseus, who must be the most worthy and could intercede with the Bull God for his lesser companions.

"Oh, it's horrible," Phaidra wept. "Father has become a monster. The whole court cheered him. The tale of Theseus's capturing and destroying the faction that caused Androgeos's death has spread about and now there's much sympathy for the Athenians. Now the court believes that father is being merciful and has chosen a fine way for the Athenians to acknowledge the Bull God and to set them free afterward. And if they die, of course it wouldn't be father's fault. It would be the Bull God's judgement."

Ariadne shook her head and sighed. "I think you must free them," she said. "I understand that their ship is still in the harbor, waiting to bring back news of the fate King Minos chose. If you set them free as soon as it is dark, likely they could get to the port and sail away before their escape was noticed."

"But the guards—"

"Drug their wine."

"Can't you—" But before she finished speaking, Phaidra's eyes shifted and she rose.

Ariadne didn't try to keep her nor ask her to finish the sentence. She guessed easily enough that Phaidra had been about to ask her help and was glad that, for whatever reason, she hadn't. Theseus didn't appeal to her; she wished him no ill, but preferred to have as little to do with him as possible. But Ariadne was not to escape from further involvement so easily. Before the shadows had shortened by a thumbnail, Phaidra was back, almost incoherent between fury and terror.

"He won't go," she got out. "I took him aside and told him the truth, that father's sentence was not an honor-saving device to set him free but a condemnation to death. I told him about the maze. I even told him what the Minotaur was. Do you know what that idiot said? He said, `Your brother is dead. I should have guarded him more carefully.' "

"He's an honorable man," Ariadne remarked a bit absently, her brows knitted in thought.

"Honorable!" Phaidra spat. "He's ruining my life as well as losing his, and he doesn't care. I begged and I pleaded. He caressed me and said he was sorry I wouldn't be his wife, but that King Aigeus had given his word that he and the others would abide by King Minos' decision, whatever it was. I pointed out that it's our father who has been dishonorable, that he has always known the Minotaur wasn't a true god and had no right—"

"But I'm sure Theseus believes dishonor on another's part doesn't justify further dishonor on his. Never mind—"

"Never mind!" Phaidra shrieked. "Are you satisfied that he should die? Are all my hopes to be blasted?"

"No, I'm not satisfied that Prince Theseus should die," Ariadne said calmly. "But I accept that for his honor and Athens' honor, Theseus must go into the maze. I said never mind because there's another way to solve this problem that won't offend his honor."

"How?" Phaidra wailed.

Ariadne's lips thinned but she kept her impatience out of her voice. "He must enter the maze, but there's no reason for him to be trapped in it for long. It's a very simple maze. I'll give him a large ball of fine yarn. With that as a guide, he won't be fooled by illusions into tracing and retracing his own steps. Before the Minotaur can discover him, he'll find the gate to the back of the temple. You can wait there for him and open it. He will have honorably completed the sentence King Minos pronounced, and be free. And the king won't dare harm him or forbid the marriage because he knows the court believes that was his intention from the beginning."

Phaidra had been so distraught when she rushed into Ariadne's chamber that she hadn't sat down, and Ariadne had risen, intending to embrace her. Now Phaidra backed away, eyes wide, face intent.

"I can't," she said. "I can't wait by the back gate. I must be with Theseus when he enters the maze. Who else can unlock the palace gate?"

Daidalos could, but Ariadne didn't think of him because she was so horrified at Minos' cruelty in making Phaidra open the gate for the destruction of her hoped-for husband. She wondered how he had prevailed on Phaidra to do it, but that wasn't important; Phaidra had many weaknesses. As for why Phaidra couldn't run from the palace-side entrance to the maze to the back of the temple and be there in time, Ariadne didn't even wonder about it. It was entirely normal for Phaidra to ask Ariadne to save her trouble.

Later she realized she should have known Phaidra would not leave to her sister the greeting of the hero when he emerged safe, but that realization came far too late. At the moment she thought only of the plans for Theseus' escape. First she pressed on Phaidra a very strong, brightly colored, but thin yarn used for stringing looms to train girls in weaving. There were stadia of it in the ball and it would easily cover the maze. Then she reminded Phaidra to describe to Theseus the turns of the real maze. She was a little surprised at how indifferent Phaidra seemed to the plans, nodding and agreeing but as if her mind were elsewhere, but she was also accustomed to her sister being easily cast into despair. Hoping Phaidra wouldn't forget anything essential, Ariadne merely assured her again and again that Theseus would escape if she followed the suggestions.

She told Dionysus nothing, partly because she was so ashamed of her father's behavior and partly because she was very angry at him for taking another woman and lying about it. She was doing her best to wean herself away from her need and desire for him and that evening, distracted by her concern over Phaidra and Theseus, she tried too hard. They parted on less than totally amicable terms, Dionysus having finally been pricked into reaction by her absence of mind. If she weren't interested enough in him to talk to him, he had said, he could find livelier company in his own house—and disappeared.

Misery makes an uncomfortable bedfellow, so Ariadne was awake very early, which was just as well because once she arrived at the Bull God's temple, it took her longer than she expected to avoid the notice of the dancing votaries. Conscious of her steadfast refusal to appear as a worshiper of the Bull God, she had enveloped herself in a long hooded cloak, but she still had to wait until one group retired to make way for another before she could sneak up to the magic-sealed doorway and spell herself through.

After a moment's thought, sheltered behind a wall, she left the doorway open. It would be very impressive if Theseus walked through what had been an impenetrable barrier for so long. In the excitement of that event, she could slip through also and then reinvoke the spell.

Even with that delay, she was at the back gate of the temple long before she expected Theseus to arrive there. She wasn't impatient. A new set of votaries were performing, and this was the first time she had ever been able to see what Pasiphae had devised to keep her feeble-minded son willing to sit on his throne for long periods. Ariadne was impressed with the effect the priests and priestesses produced, and felt saddened that the poor Minotaur could no longer be trusted to enjoy the spectacle.

Ariadne was so fascinated herself, and the clashing cymbals, rattling sistra, and twittering pipes filled her ears with sound so that she became aware only very slowly of a growing din behind her. When she turned to look, she could see nothing at first but a short passage that bent sharply to the right—and then she caught her breath with horror. She was seeing the true passage. The illusions of the maze had been dissolved.

Without thinking, Ariadne touched the gate to open it and ran through. In that first moment, she felt that in his insane desire to punish the Athenians, Minos had found a way to break Hekate's illusions. In the next moment, she knew that was impossible, and almost simultaneously realized it was Phaidra who had broken the illusions. Minos hadn't demanded Phaidra open the gate for Theseus; Phaidra had decided to cover herself with glory by saving him herself.

Sobbing with fear but unable to decide whether to wait where she was or try to find them in the maze, Ariadne stood still and listened. Stupid, stupid girl, she thought. Hadn't Phaidra realized that without the illusions the Minotaur would be able to track them by scent and sound and surely catch them before they could get through? No, of course not. The idiot girl had only thought of the quickest way to get out of the maze, and probably told herself that Ariadne had selfishly withheld the idea of removing the spells out of jealousy.

The noise from within the maze was growing louder, the Minotaur's roars mingling with a man's shouts and a woman's screams. Unable simply to stand still, Ariadne started forward again only to jump back as Theseus, with a bared sword in one hand and half carrying a fainting Phaidra in his other arm, burst around the corner of the corridor.

"Here!" Ariadne called. "Come this way, quickly!"

She hoped they could all run out the back gate before the Minotaur appeared and that she could lock him in—but he was too close. Theseus turned his head, saw her, virtually threw Phaidra at her, and whipped back to face the corridor around the curve. From that a huge bellow echoed. Ariadne ran forward to grab Phaidra and haul her to her feet. She wasn't quite a dead weight, but as she came upright the Minotaur erupted into the straight section of the corridor. Phaidra froze in place making it impossible for Ariadne to drag her to the safety of the gate. Phaidra shrieked wordlessly as the huge body, arms extended, rushed at Theseus.

"Stop, Minotaur!" Ariadne screamed. "Ridne says stop."

Whether he responded to the words or was startled by the piercing quality of Phaidra's shriek, the Minotaur did stop—or, at least, hesitate—for a moment. In that moment, Theseus leapt forward, right under the long-clawed, reaching hands, and plunged his sword, which had a strange, blue-gray hue, deeply into the bull-head's body. The Minotaur roared and reared back, both arms raised to strike down at Theseus.

"No!" Ariadne cried, pushing Phaidra away from her and running forward, but whether to prevent the Minotaur from striking Theseus or Theseus from striking the Minotaur she didn't know herself.

Whatever she intended, it was too late. The Minotaur's arms dropped, but without force or intention and he didn't touch Theseus. Theseus had already driven his gray-metal sword into the Minotaur's chest again. This time, as he pulled the weapon free, the huge body toppled, struck the wall, twisted, and slid down on its side. Ariadne flung herself down beside it, caught and cradled the bull's head in her lap.

"Oh love, love," she sobbed. "I never meant you to be hurt."

"No hurt. Love Ridne."

She could hardly make out the words; they were more like the broken lowing of a beast than the moaning of a man. She couldn't speak for weeping, but it didn't matter because the Minotaur could no longer hear or understand. The big eyes with their beautiful thick lashes were dimming. Ariadne stroked the now-ragged fur on his forehead.

"Love Ridne," he sighed, and his breathing stopped.

Ariadne bent above him sobbing bitterly, only to be seized by powerful hands and pulled away. She cried out in protest, trying to cling to the Minotaur's head, but a horn came off in her hand and the features seemed to be melting. She screamed and, senselessly, struggled against the hands that pulled at her. And then there was a sharp pain in her head, and nothing, nothing at all.

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Framed