Collected Short Fiction, page 380
Ariadne kissed him, before she said: “I have been waiting for you to speak of that. For I know of your debt to Amur, and his threats. I came tonight to warn you to leave Crete while you could. But that was before—”
Her voice broke, and she clung to him. “In the treasury of Cybele,” she whispered, “there are two thousand talents of silver. Tomorrow I shall send Amur a draft on the temple, for the amount of your debt.”
“Thanks, goddess,” whispered Theseus. “But I can’t accept that.” Surprise stiffened her in his arms. They sat up on the rushes, and Theseus moved a little from her. Her warm hands clung to him. “Then, mortal,” she breathed, “what do you desire?”
“If a goddess would prove her love of a mortal,” he said softly, “she must offer more than silver. And there is another thing.” His voice fell to a murmur. “A secret thing, called the wall of wizardry.”
Ariadne made a little gasp, as of pain. Her fingers sank into the arm of Theseus with an abrupt, spasmodic force. For a long time she was tensely silent, trembling. Then she whispered faintly:
“Must you require the wall, mortal? For that is tenfold more precious than all the treasure in the temple. It is more precious than my life or my divinity. Must you take it?”
Elation leaped in the heart of Theseus. He had not known that Ariadne possessed the mysterious wall; he had hoped for no more than some hint of its nature. Striving to calm his hands and his voice:
“Love,” he whispered, “that sets anything above itself is not love.” Her hot, fragrant arms crept around him. The cold, writhing coil of the serpent girdle touched his side. Her hair caressed him, its perfume half intoxicating. Her lips sought his.
“Kiss me,” she whispered. “Forget your insane folly!”
But Theseus turned his face away from hers. “Then it isn’t love,” he whispered bitterly. “It is merely a jest.” He pulled out of her arms and rose. “Farewell, goddess.”
“Wait!” She rose after him, caught his arm. “You forget your enemies. I came to warn you—leave me, now, and you shall die before the dawn!”
Theseus pushed away her clinging hands.
“You don’t understand the love of mortals, goddess, if you think that threats will buy it.” He caught her tall, quivering body, drew her to him. “One kiss of farewell, because the love of mortals is real. Then I go—even, if must be, into the Dark One’s lair!”
He held her to him, so close that he felt the thud of her heart. He kissed her soft throat, her seeking lips, her hair. Then, firmly, he swung her from him, and strode toward the doorway of the little temple.
“Wait, mortal!” she sobbed after him. “Here—not to prove my love, but to save your life—here is the wall!”
THESEUS CAME slowly back to her. In the faint starlight that filtered through the entrance, he saw that she was reaching into her silken bodice. She drew out some little object and solemnly pressed it into his hands.
Swiftly he fingered it. There was a thin, smooth chain that she had worn about her neck-. Strung upon it, like a single long bead, was a tiny cylinder. It was warm from her flesh, the surface of it uneven with some graven design.
“This,” he whispered, wondering, “is the wall?”
“It is,” she told him. “It is a small thing, and simple—yet it holds a concentration of power greater than the Dark One’s. Guard it well!”
“What is its power?” Theseus eagerly demanded.
Ariadne hesitated for an instant, and her tall body tensed again. “This is the secret of it,” she breathed at last. “The man who holds it safe shall be master of Knossos, and no wizardry can prevail against him.”
Theseus caught her shoulders. “Then you have given me Knossos?” She winced from his hard fingers. “Or is this another warlock’s trick?”
“I have given you the wall—would you doubt me now?”
Theseus held her shuddering shoulders.
“If this thing is the wall,” he demanded, “why do you carry it, and not Minos?”
“There was a reason why my father could not keep it with him,” she whispered. “He trusted me—in all the years that I have lived, I have met no such mortal as you are.” Her whisper sank. “Now, kiss me!”
Theseus clasped the chain about his neck and kissed her. When at last, breathless, they had drawn apart, Ariadne breathed:
“Now that I have proven my love, with the greatest gift that I could give, we must leave Knossos tonight—before my father’s arts discover my betrayal. Have your fleetest ship made ready. My slaves will load it with silver. And we shall be sailing toward Egypt before the dawn.”
Theseus touched the little hard cylinder on the chain. “But why must we take flight,” he whispered, “when now the third wall is mine? Didn’t you say that it would give me Knossos, and guard me against all wizardry? Then can’t we claim the throne?”
Ariadne shook her head, against him.
“There is often an irony in the spells of wizardry,” she whispered. “If the wall gave you Knossos, it might be for as brief a space as it was ruled by the Northman who was victor in the games.”
She shivered in his arms. “Again, if the wall will guard you against wizardry, it will not defend you from an arrow or a blade or a strangler’s cord. The wizards may recover it by cunning and force, and then you will be once more at their mercy.” Theseus lifted his head. “If the wall has any power,” he said, “I shall use it.”
Ariadne clung to him. “I have tried to warn you,” she whispered. “Your enemies learned that you were coming here tonight. They have set a trap. You can’t even walk out of this temple alive—without my aid. Yet you talk of unseating Minos!” Theseus breathed, “And I shall!” She laughed, half hysterical, and flung her arms tight about him.
“I know why you came to Crete,” she cried softly. “But can’t you see the mad folly of it? No mortal can hope to overwhelm the empire of my divine father—not even you, Captain Firebrand!”
THESEUS stood for a moment, frozen. “So you know?”
“Did you think, captain, that I could forget your first kiss so soon?”
“Still, knowing, you gave me the wall?”
“That is the reason.” Her voice reflected scorn. “Would I give it to that drunken weakling, Phaistro?” Theseus was hoarse with wonderment. “And you would sail to Egypt with a pirate?”
“Yes, anywhere—with Firebrand!” Her quivering hands tugged at him. “Shall we go?”
Theseus stared down into the darkness. His mind saw all the splendor of her proud body, the flame of her ruddy hair, the flashing spirit of her cool green eyes. Her arms made a caressing movement about him. At last, sighing, he said gravely:
“I wish that my business were less urgent in Crete. But I can’t abandon it—not even for a goddess. When Minos has been unthroned, and the power of wizardry shattered, and the dominion of the Dark One ended—then, perhaps, I shall seek you.”
Her voice was choked, barely audible: “You would destroy my father—all my world?”
“I must. Can you forgive me?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” She was sobbing; he held her in his arms. “I love you, Firebrand.”
Then Theseus glimpsed the sky through the arch, and said: “The morning star is rising. I must go—if I can pass these enemies. And—if the third wall is what you told me—by tonight I shall be upon your father’s throne!”
She rose with him from the rushes. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Wherever you go. Because I have betrayed my trust, and I can’t face my father’s anger.”
“No.” Theseus put her gently from him. “The danger is too great, until I have won.” He kissed her. “There is a better way.” He grasped the silken bodice, ripped it. “If Minos finds that you have lost the wall, it was taken from you by trickery and force, and through no fault of yours!” He crushed her in a last embrace. “Now go—I’ll give you time to leave the grove. Farewell!”
WAITING, after she had vanished through the arch, he unclasped the thin chain, tossed the tiny cylinder of the third wall upon his palm. If enemies were indeed waiting outside, it might be more secure, for the time, anywhere than on his person. Another apprehension shadowed him: if Minos found it unwise to carry the wall, it might be equally unwise for him.
After a moment he crossed the little altar, lowered himself into the chill, musty fissure beyond. If Cybele had indeed been born from it, he thought, she must have emerged prematurely. For the crack narrowed swiftly, until it wedged his feet and caught his exploring fingers.
He found a tiny recess, well hidden from the surface, and thrust the cylinder and chain deep into it. The talisman would not be discovered by accident, he knew, unless some worshiper profaned this most sacred spot in Crete.
And knowledge of the hiding place, he felt, might well be a more secure advantage than possession of the wall upon his person. Ariadne had kissed him tonight—but she must have been the daughter of Minos for nearly a thousand years.
He dragged himself out of the dank-smelling fissure, leaving a few bits of skin, and hurried out of the temple, through the starlight and shadow of the ancient silent grove, toward the tree where he had left Snish waiting.
“Here, wizard!” he called softly. “Restore the admiral’s guise!”
But silence replied. A louder call brought no answer. Theseus searched beneath the tree, peered up into the branches, ran to the next.
But Snish was gone. Panic clutched at the heart of Theseus. Without the little wizard’s aid, all he had won was gone. He was trapped again, without disguise.
“Here he is!” A sharp voice ripped through the night. “Take him.”
Theseus stood motionless, shuddering. For that was the thin, angry voice of the admiral himself. Phaistro had escaped from the dungeon and the likeness of the doomed pirate—and, of course, had soon discovered where to strike. Ariadne, Theseus guessed with a new sinking of his heart, had known of the escape and the danger; why hadn’t her warning been more definite?
Dim shapes flitted through the shadows of the olives.
“The pirate!” cried Phaistro. “Take him alive, for the Dark One!”
XVI.
THESEUS had come weaponless to the tryst; even the admiral’s bronze blade he had left in the palanquin. For an instant he half regretted that he had left the wall of wizardry, wondering if its power might now have served him. But he set himself empty-handed to the matter of escape.
“Greetings, admiral!” he shouted into the shadows. “But you may find you had done better to keep the shape of Captain Firebrand!”
He crouched as he shouted, sprinted down a dim avenue of olives. The shrill voice of Phaistro screamed angry commands behind him, and scores of men burst out of shadow clumps.
Cast nets spun about Theseus. He leaped them, ducked them. But one tripped him, and he went down painfully. A panting marine was instantly upon him. He grasped the haft of a thrusting trident, twisted it, heaved, sent the Cretan reeling into the darkness.
Kicking out of the net, he ran again. Three marines stood up before him. He flung the trident like a spear. The middle man went down. Theseus leaped between whirling nets, and ran on down toward the river.
The uproar pursued, and torches flared against the pale glow of dawn. No more men appeared ahead, however, and he began to hope that he had evaded Phaistro’s trap. Once across the river, he could doubtless find some temporary hiding place; he might make himself a disguise less fickle than those of Snish; there would be time to plan whatever new attack that possession of the wall of wizardry might make possible.
But, even as he went at a stumbling run down a narrow, dry ravine, doubts returned to check his feet. Had Ariadne betrayed her father—or him?
“No!” he sobbed. “That couldn’t be!”
He remembered the vital pressure of her clinging body, the hot magic of her kisses. He believed she really loved him. But, if he had a purpose more important than love, so might she. A goddess would hardly betray her own pantheon. After all, she was doubtless about fifty times as old as she looked—and the vessel of Cybele, besides! A kiss couldn’t mean so much to her!
He paused for breath in a clump of brush—and abruptly all hope of escape was shattered. For a deep, brazen bellow rolled above the shouts of the men behind. He saw a torch carried high as the trees. Its rays glinted on the gigantic metal body of Talos.
The brass man came lumbering down the ravine. The flame-yellow of his eyes was as bright, almost, as the torch. Rocks crashed, and the ground quivered under his tread.
Theseus crouched lower in the brush. For an instant, breathless, he dared to hope that Talos would go by. But the crashing stopped abruptly, and the giant stood above him like a metal colossus.
“Captain Firebrand,” boomed that mighty voice, “you are taken again for the Dark One. Probably you think von are clever. But you shall not escape me—not with all your tricks and masks. For Talos is no fool!”
The ravine’s bank, at that instant, gave way beneath the giant’s weight. He sat down ignorniniously in a cloud of dust. Theseus leaped to his feet, darted on toward the river.
But Talos, moving in spite of his bulk with a terrible swiftness, recovered his footing. With three crashing strides, he overtook Theseus, caught his arm in a great hand whose metal was almost searingly hot.
“No, Captain Firebrand,” rumbled the giant. “This time you shall certainly meet the Dark One. Talos can promise you that. And you may find, after all, that you are the fool!”
That blistering, resistless hand held Theseus until the admiral and his men came up in the gray increasing light of dawn. Phaistro trembled with a fresh rage to discover his own embroidered robe upon Theseus—somewhat torn from the race down the ravine. His marines stripped Theseus.
“Never mind your nakedness, pirate dog!” He spat. “Men need no clothing in the Labyrinth.”
THESEUS was presently conducted back toward the town. Sharp stones and briers injured his bare feet—for Phaistro had recovered the beaded buskins. Marching in a hollow square about him, the marines kept prodding him with their tridents. Talos stalked watchfully behind.
Hopefully, Theseus wondered about the fate of Snish. He saw no evidence that the little wizard had fallen into the trap. Perhaps his ever-belittled arts had still served to save him. But there was scant likelihood, Theseus thought, that Snish would come voluntarily to his aid—or small chance, perhaps, that he could defeat the wizardry of Crete again, even if he tried.
The sun had risen by the time they came through groves and vineyards into view of the great ancient pile of Knossos. The admiral, carried in his palanquin before the marching marines, shouted back at Theseus:
“Look well at that sun, pirate—for you won’t see it again. Men don’t come back from the justice of the Dark One.”
They passed the dark Etruscan guards standing rigid at the entrance, and came into the winding confusion of the corridors of the palace. Night fell upon them again, for the sun was not high enough to cast its rays into the shafts. Lamps still flared in dusky passages.
A group of black-robed Minoan priests met them, armed with long bronze-bladed lances. Their leader reported to Talos:
“Minos is ready to sit in judgment at once. The prisoner will have no chance to escape again. He is to be brought without delay to the hall of the Dark One.”
The marines fell back, and the black priests formed another hollow square. Lances drove Theseus forward again, and Talos stalked behind.
They entered none of the courts or halls that Theseus had seen before. The priests took up torches from a niche beside the way, and lit them from a red-flaring lamp. Unfamiliar turnings took them into long descending passages. There were no light wells, and the air had the dank chill of perpetual darkness.
At last they came to a massive double door of bronze. It was ornamented with huge bulls’ heads, of the same metal, and green with age-old damp. Talos strode ahead of the priests, and his metal fist thundered against it.
At last the door opened silently, and the lances urged Theseus into a long, narrow hall. Its walls were massive blocks of Egyptian basalt, illuminated only with the dull, varicolored flicker of a tripod brazier.
Upon a low dais, beyond the brazier, were three black stone seats. Black-robed Daedalus, the hand and the voice of the Dark One, sat in the center. White-robed, rosy face dimpled merrily, Minos was on his right. On his left, in green, sat Ariadne—motionless.
In the brazier’s uncertain light, Theseus stared at her. She sat proud and straight upon the basalt throne. The white perfection of her face was serenely composed. Her eyes shone cool and green again the flame, and she did not appear to see him.
The white dove sat motionless on her shoulder, and its bright black eye seemed to watch him. The serpent girdle gleamed against her waist, slowly writhing, and the eyes in its flat silver head were points of sinister crimson.
Theseus tensed himself against a shuddery chill along his spine. He tried to draw his eyes from the enigmatic vessel of Cybele. It was hard to believe this the same being whose kisses had been so fervid in the ancient shrine.
While half the black priests stood with ready lances, the rest knelt, chanted. The reverberation of a huge brazen gong—deep as the bellow of some monstrous bull—set all the hall to quivering.
Theseus stood, stiffened and shivering, until at last the gong throbbed and shuddered into silence. The three stood up, upon the dais. Framed in fine white hair, the rosy face of Minos dimpled to a genial smile.
“We, the lesser gods, have heard the charges against this notorious criminal, the Achean pirate, called Firebrand.” The woman-voice was soft; the small blue eyes twinkled merrily. “It is clear to us that the weight of his crimes demands the prompt judgment of the Dark One.”
Fat pink hands fingered the silk of his robe, and he smiled jovially at the tall, naked body of Theseus.
“Therefore,” he chuckled softly, “we remand the prisoner to the Labyrinth that is the dwelling of the Dark One, to face his eternal justice.”
He turned, and his blue eyes twinkled into the dark, skeletal visage of Daedalus. “Do you, the hand and the voice of the Dark One, concur?”
