The Flame in the Maze by Caitlin Sweet

through the tipping columns.
    Ariadne tried to cry out again as flames licked over her old scars. She crawled.
Phaidra, Phaidra—must get her
now;
must get out before the palace crushes all of us—
    She scrabbled to her feet, once she was past her mother. Two long, unsteady strides brought her to Phaidra’s doorway; two more carried her inside.
    â€œPhaidra!” she shrieked, above the din of wind and stone. “
Phaidra!
” No answer. No one. Just crumpling painted walls—green sprays of fern and purple thistles, cracking apart and raining down on the ragged floor.
    She turned and stumbled back out to the corridor—and as she did, the wind died and the ground steadied. Stone continued to fall, in the stillness: blocks and shards of it, thudding or pattering like hard rain. Screams turned to sobbing and moaning and shouted names that sounded like questions.
    Ariadne stepped over a gaping rent in the floor. The High Priestess hadn’t moved—she was on her back, her arms flung wide—but now a slab of stone hid her from the waist down. Her mouth was working soundlessly, trickling blood. Deucalion was bleeding too, from a gash on his forehead; he was wiping at his eyes with a crimson hand while Karpos held both his shoulders. Pasiphae was standing tall and straight. Only her earrings were moving—swinging in arcs that grew smaller as Ariadne watched; glinting in the quiet sunlight.
    â€œPeople of the Father!”
    If Ariadne hadn’t known better, she’d have thought that Minos was himself again. His voice was deep and smooth, which made her think, dizzily, of the polished black pipes in the Goddess’s mountain.
    â€œPeople of the Father, come here to me!”
    Pasiphae and Karpos glanced at each other, then picked their way over the rubble to what remained of the steps.
    Ariadne followed them.
Maybe Phaidra’s down there too; we’ll leave while everything’s still in chaos.
She stood on a slanted step near the bottom and scanned the crowd that was gathering around the courtyard’s edges, away from the king’s fire, which sprang from his reaching arms in pulses like breathing.
    â€œIt is Zeus!” he cried, as Pasiphae went to stand as close to him as she could. “He has called to me, as he promised he would. This was his sign, and his punishment; I have waited too long. I cannot wait until the festival; I must give myself to him
now
.”
    â€œBut Husband, you—”
    â€œMake the procession ready immediately.”
    The king walked past Pasiphae, leaving black, smoking lines in the fallen stone and churned earth. She raised dripping hands but didn’t touch him; the black lines smudged and ran. When he had gone out under the remnants of the gate, she called, “Hypatos! Come!” and the High Priest stumbled after her.
    â€œSister.” Ariadne sucked in her breath when Glaucus spoke, from right behind her. She glanced at her brother over her shoulder. He was digging the end of his painted stick under a piece of stone: the tip of one of the horns had that lined the palace’s top storey.
Stupid stick,
Ariadne thought.
I hope it snaps
. But it didn’t, and Glaucus kept chipping at the dirt under the stone, his eyes darting and wide. Blood was dribbling down his nose from a cut on his forehead, but he didn’t wipe it away.
    â€œYou’ll come, won’t you?” he went on. “To the mountain?”
    She coughed dust and smoke from her throat.
Oh, I’ll go. I’ll be there long before you are.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
    He scowled. “I just . . . you know. Our father hurt you. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see this.”
    â€œOh, but I do.” She smiled. Someone was calling to her in a soft, sad voice, from somewhere close: “Princess—help me . . . help . . .” Ariadne didn’t look around. She held up her own arms so that the cloth fell away from