The boat bobbed up and down on choppy waves, young fear suffusing the sea air. It was a sour, familiar smell. Aristomache stood on the pier and watched the futures of seven girls and seven boys slowly drowning. An equally sour, familiar voice interrupted her contemplation.
“Aristomache?”
The man of the hour, disguised for the moment as a youth, poorly. She turned to face him and could not help the curl of her lip, echoing the curl of disgust in her gut the sight of Theseus evoked. He thought he could pass as a boy like that? With his man’s leer and his man’s swagger. She fought to conceal how angry his presence made her. The reformer, they were calling him. Already the myth outstripped the man.
He was golden and glowing as he reached her, even under the dirt he had smeared on his face. “What in Hades are you doing in Athens?” he demanded. “I thought we’d been rid of you four years ago.”
“So good to see you too, brother.”
Theseus scoffed, baring his teeth. “You’re no sister of mine.”
Aristomache looked back out at the turbulent sea, boat rocking on waves of terror. “I’m not staying long.”
Theseus followed her train of thought — it was the same as his, after all. “You’re going to slay the minotaur?” It gratified her that he didn’t scoff at that thought. No matter how he despised her, he could not deny the truth of her prowess.
She merely shrugged. “I will slay whichever beast presents itself to my blade.” She flicked a dismissive gaze over him, just to see him steam. “One for whom my blade has long been thirsty presents himself now.”
Theseus put a hand to his hip, but he was unarmed, as was she. “Go to the crows, Eupraxia. You are a joke.”
Eupraxia. Good conduct. The syllables of her old name, cast off in the sea long ago, grated on her ears. “I am neither of those things. Not anymore. And the girls on this ship have no need of your … help … brother. Go back to Pirithous and pant over some other women.”
He sneered so hard it distorted his entire face. “I’ve heard tell of your women, bitch. You shouldn’t be allowed aboard. They’re supposed to be delivering maidens, after all.”
Aristomache tried to push her rage back, but her heart was rocking like the ship in the waves. In one fluid move she stepped past him, kicking her heel behind his. The sound of his breath punching from his lungs as he hit the ground was infinitely satisfying. He looked up at her from the dock, furious but unwilling to engage further. Unwilling to lose.
Aristomache smoothed her chiton. “There is one woman whose favor is always with me, and it is Aphrodite Anadyomene. Don’t think to blaspheme her again.”
Theseus scrambled up and turned his back on her, shooting one more poisonous barb over his shoulder like a tantruming child. “How far Eupraxia has fallen, from her father’s obedient daughter.”
She folded her arms, chin tilted up in a manner calculated to drive his irritation skyward. “And how far Aristomache has risen. Begone, O great reformer, and reflect on the irony.”
He skulked away like a kicked dog, leaving Aristomache to approach the ship. She would be glad to leave Athens again, no matter the danger she would be sailing into. She called up to the sailors. “Send the youngest girl down. I will take her place.”
All shores reminded Aristomache of her rebirth. Whether she was departing the Athenian beach, shore packed with ugly memories, or arriving on the Cretan dock, surrounded by petrified youths, the sound of waves upon sand would always center her. It reminded her who she was, and who she was no longer. She relived the day she had gone into the ocean as mourning Eupraxia, and emerged shorn and salt-soaked Aristomache, with the blessing of a goddess.
It was bittersweet, that memory. Rebirth only follows desolation.
By the time they were led off the boat, Aristomache was thoroughly ill with the youths’ panic. She had done what she could to comfort them on the voyage: gave the girls a shoulder to cry on, as well as those boys who finally surrendered to terror. Arriving in Crete, however, all fraying tethers to sanity seemed finally to snap.
Had Aristomache truly been in their place, she would likely have snapped too. Knossos sickened her. They were paraded down the street to the palace like returning heroes, citizens cheering and throwing flowers at their feet, while their hands were chained and they were led on a rope like cattle.
In the palace they were greeted with a night of revelry. King Minos himself made a speech to greet them, his entire family arrayed around him like decorations. He praised Athens for their tribute, a twisted gleam in his eye, and thanked the youths for their bravery. The crowd of assembled nobility laughed and tittered as the king proclaimed his indebtedness to King Aegus and the Athenian citizens.
A feast ensued after Minos finished his sarcastic oration. Wine was plentiful, with figs and honey cakes and a dozen other delicacies. The Athenian youths stuffed themselves, overwrought and clumsy with despair. They drank like they hoped they’d still be drunk in the morning when they were set into the maze. A few enticed party-goers into last minute, frantic trysts, trying desperately to live before they died.
Minos watched over the twisted bacchanalia with cool speculation, a malicious smirk on his face, eyes gleaming. Aristomache’s blood sang for his heart as she watched him over her cup, brimming with wine she would not partake of. Her fingers itched to curl into fists. She kept them still, and observed his wife.
Queen Pasiphaë sat dull-eyed and listless beside Minos. Aristomache had seen that look before. Her own kingly father had plowed through four women in search of a son-bearing womb. Her mother had been the first to be discarded, and when he had finally sired a son, even he had been unsatisfactory. Aegus swapped out heirs like hats. Her father’s legacy was a trail of trash he dropped behind him, once useful and now worthless.
The look in Pasiphaë’s eyes was depletion, and Aristomache knew it well.
She saw it in his children too, seven of them. They skirted the edges of the perverse festivities like skittish animals, eyes haunted, shoulders hunched.
Only one was not so timid. She caught Aristomache’s eye by the color of her hair, rich red-touched gold, and held it with her strong jaw, clenched at the revelry that surrounded her. She was also watching Aristomache, a carafe of wine in fine-boned fingers, her eyes dark and angry.
Aristomache tipped her wine cup to call her over, though it was still full. The princess’ walk was stiff but graceful, and Aristomache admired the rage in the set of her elegant shoulders. Such obvious defiance was a welcome relief from the youths’ despair and the unholy glee of the other partygoers. It mirrored Aristomache’s own heart.
“You aren’t like the others,” the woman said softly, glancing from Aristomache’s face to her brimming cup.
“No,” Aristomache agreed. “I volunteered for this sacrifice, Princess Ariadne.”
The woman’s mouth tightened. “You know me.”
“I’ve heard tell of your beauty.” Aristomache smiled and was gratified to see the princess raise her hand to stifle a laugh. “I am the elder sister of Prince Theseus of Athens. Aristomache, daughter of Meta.”
Ariadne frowned. “I do not know of you.”
“Few do. I used to go by another name.”
Ariadne’s eyes skipped over Aristomache’s muscled arms. “You are no youth. You say you volunteered for this madness?”
“I will end this madness,” Aristomache swore. “In the name of Aphrodite Anadyomene, whose blessing I carry. Though my suspicions are deepening that ending it does not necessarily mean slaying the beast. This madness runs deep.”
She let her gaze flick around at the revelry, knowing her disgust showed on her face. She also caught Ariadne’s subtle frown at her phrasing. “You take exception to the word ‘beast’? You feel sympathy for the monster who slaughters the youth of my homeland?”
“I feel sympathy for my brother.” Ariadne’s strong jaw was clenched, and Aristomache was sure it was anger, not fear, making her hands tremble minutely around the wine.
“I would hear more of your tale,” Aristomache said.
The carafe shook so forcefully the wine nearly spilled. Aristomache extended her cup, and Ariadne took a deep, settling breath before pouring the barest amount into the full vessel. “Do not sleep tonight. When the moon is high, meet me in the garden below your room.”
“I will be there, Princess.”
“How could I have never heard your name?” Ariadne asked.
They stood among a riot of moon washed crocus blooms. The garden was a floral paradise, the air perfumed, the infinite silk sky dotted by the myriad souls of bygone heroes.
Aristomache brushed her fingers over a crocus petal, then plucked it. With care, she tucked it behind Ariadne’s ear, savoring the soft brush of her sunshine hair and the high blush that bloomed across her face.
“Why would my father announce the birth of a daughter? Aegus hungered only for sons, but even his son by his fourth wife Medea proved insufficient. Medus was my cherished brother, yet when Theseus came, even he was cast off.”
Aristomache had to look away from Ariadne’s face then, unwilling to let her see the force of her old rage. “Medea was my teacher, beloved by myself and my mother. She advised the king against replacing Medus as heir. For this, Aegus exiled them both.”
Memories swept her away for a suspended moment, superseding the stars. The boat carrying her beloved mentor away from her. The slap of Aegus’ hand against dear Medus’ face. Her mothers’ desolation at her lover’s exile. And over it all, Theseus: intruder, usurper, ruiner.
“What did you do?” Ariadne’s musical voice brought her back to the present, like the lyre of Orpheus.
“I left,” Aristomache said. “I reinvented myself, gave myself new purpose: to hunt down injustice and slay it, as I could not do in my own home.” She let out a great breath, heavy with regret.
Ariadne traced her hand down Aristomache’s cheek, a melancholy smile on her face. “You live my wildest dream.”
Aristomache caught her hand and dared to press a brief kiss to it. “Tell me of your brother.”
The sadness in Ariadne’s eyes deepened, and she dropped her eyes to the crocuses flowering beneath their feet. “These are his favorite flower.” Tugging Aristomache with her, she sank to the ground and nestled into the blooms, turning her gaze to the night sky.
“My brother was born of the wrath of a god.” She traced Aristomache’s knuckles as she spoke. “I will not speak his name. Minos slighted him, and for my father’s crime he induced insanity into my mother and made her fall into perverse lust for a white bull.” She spoke the horror dispassionately. “My eldest brother was the result. Asterion.”
Her lip trembled and she sighed, looking from the stars to the ground. With her free hand, Aristomache stroked her hair slowly.
“They call him monstrous,” Ariadne spat. “But he is wise, and gentle, and a gifted poet. He studied statecraft — he was the only son for a time, horrid as Minos thought him. I always thought … perhaps it was delusion, but I saw a good king in him. We used to play games imagining how different it would be when he ruled. And then my other brothers came.”
Her face had tightened, holding back tears, but now they came tremoring down her cheeks. She jerked her hands up to dash them away violently, but Aristomache caught her face and ran her thumbs gently under her eyes.
“My father no longer had need for a beast of a son,” Ariadne continued bitterly. “Asterion was first confined to his room, then sent to the country, and finally locked in this wicked maze for the last three years. All the while my mother deteriorates, my siblings are but sheep, and Minos terrorizes his subjects.”
Aristomache pulled her close, and Ariadne leaned her head on her shoulder, tears subsiding. “You say you are here to end this madness. Then save my brother. Even if that means killing him, for I am sure he is dying from this life. We all are.”
“I will do all I can,” Aristomache swore, stroking her hands down Ariadne’s lovely back. “All Aphrodite guides me to do. But no one has yet escaped from the maze.”
Ariadne turned her starry face up to Aristomache, her lips parted and gleaming. “I will help you.”
When Aristomache kissed her, she felt Ariadne’s soft lips turn up in a smile. When she pulled her down into the crocuses, Ariadne pressed gentle kisses to her breasts. When she buried her mouth between her silken legs, Ariadne called her name softly in the darkness, a blessing as holy as any goddess’.
During the night, Ariadne left Aristomache dozing in the crocuses and returned in the early hours. She carried a gleaming ball of thread the color of her rosy lips. “Come back to me,” she demanded.
“Yes, Princess,” said Aristomache.
Ariadne smiled, kissed her cheek, and tucked a crocus behind her ear.
The labyrinth gaped dark and damp in front of her.
The youths, frenzied, desolate, and still slightly drunk, lit out into the maze the moment their ropes were loosened. They screamed and fled from shadows of imagined beasts, tripping into walls and over themselves. Aristomache stood in the cavern entrance and let them pass.
She had only the flower behind her ear and the ball of thread, which Ariadne had unspooled and wound many times around her waist under her chiton. Now Aristomache unwound it again and fastened the end to a boulder just inside the cavern entrance, tugging to ensure it held.
In addition to the thread and flower, Ariadne had given her one more precious thing: directions. Go only forward and down, turning neither left nor right.
Aristomache steeled her nerves, gave the line one more tug, and entered the labyrinth.
She lost track of time almost immediately. Shadows encroached further and further until there was nothing but darkness and the ghostly sensation of the walls around her, rising up to the heavens. Panic began to build up as she stumbled through the artificial night. How was she supposed to turn neither left nor right if she could not even see the path?
All she had was the thread in her hands and the flower behind her ear. She could only recall the taste of Ariadne’s lips and hope the memory would suffice to ward away the terror.
But something happened as she remembered the puff of Ariadne’s breath and the sunrise touch of her fingertips: the thread clutched in her fingers began to glow a faint rosy light. It stretched behind her, a heartstring, illuminating her path.
The labyrinth coiled on and on, and Aristomache ventured unerringly forward into the belly of the snake. After an unknowable period of time, she stumbled upon a sight that made her leap backwards in disgust: human bones. Barely visible by the light of her thread, they lay in a curl of eternal despair. She stepped respectfully around them and plunged on, but the tableau grew more and more frequent the closer she prowled to the center of the maze. To her dismay, it also became easier to ignore them.
Quite suddenly, after a long not-time of groping along the endless cold walls, between one curve and the next she came to the center.
The middle of the maze was a tiny space framed by eight archways and lit by a single torch on the wall that cast eerie blue shadows across the dirt floor. The sudden light forced her to blink away sunspots before she could see the monster.
It was an indistinct heap of fur and skin in the middle of the octagon. Its back rose and fell in slumber. The light barely reached it.
She gripped Ariadne’s glowing thread close, apprehensive in spite of the princess’ assurances, and sent a short entreaty to Aphrodite before calling out: “Asterion?”
The being erupted out of sleep with a snarl, scrambling to all fours, tail lashing. It took everything in her not to flinch backwards. She could see now that it was a man with the head of a bull, filthy with grime. His hands, caked in dirt and blood, dug into the ground. He wore only a loincloth and metal collar, from which a chain bolted him to the floor, forcing his crouch.
“Asterion,” she repeated. “Do you yet comprehend speech? I am Aristomache. Your sister sent me.”
The minotaur shook his head like an animal, then sat back on his heels and wiped his hands across his eyes like an exhausted man. When he looked at her anew, his deep black eyes were pools of starlight.
“Of course, I understand you,” he spat. “Living like an animal cannot make me one, no matter how much Minos wishes. Which sister do you speak of? For one would have me dead in this cave, while the others I would beg you for word of.”
Aristomache took the crocus from her hair and tossed it to him. Asterion caught and held it like it was the most fragile of birds, pressing his wide black nose to the petals. His starry eyes went soft.
“Ariadne,” he whispered.
“It was she who told me how to find you, who gave me this thread to guide us both out.”
“I have long worried over her treatment at the hands of our father, without my presence to absorb his ire.”
“Your other siblings may be cowed, but she stands apart. She approached me, saw I was no sacrificial youth, and gave me the tools to free you.”
Asterion smiled. “And my mother?”
Aristomache remembered Pasiphaë, dim-eyed next to her husband. It must have shown on her face, because Asterion gave a low bellow of grief.
“I did not speak with her,” Aristomache said, “but she looked … unwell.
Asterion’s face twisted in animal anger. “I will kill Minos. I should have done it long ago.”
“First we must free you,” Aristomache said. She walked to him and examined the collar around his neck, wincing at the sight of metal fused to fur by dried blood.
“There is no keyhole,” Asterion said. “I befriended one of the youths once, convinced her to examine the collar. She tried for two days to open it before she died of thirst.”
Aristomache had no way to pry off a band of solid metal. There was only one thing to be done. “Give me the flower.”
Asterion passed her the crocus with a puzzled expression, and she took it to the small torch on the wall. Gently, she held it out for the fire to lick, and held it in her cupped hands as it burned.
“Aphrodite Anadyomene, goddess borne from the sea, accept my offering: a true token of a woman’s love. Help your sea-borne champion, Aristomache.”
She gritted her teeth as the crocus burned to ash in her palms, breathing slowly through the pain. When Asterion gasped, she turned, letting the cinders fall.
Every time she witnessed a miracle of Aphrodite, she was as awestruck as the first. Asterion’s chain had fallen to the ground, and his collar had blossomed, transforming into a necklace of crocuses.
Asterion rose from his crouch for the first time in three years with an agonized moan. He staggered back and forth with dizziness, and she stepped forward and caught his bulk with her shoulder, grimacing at the touch of blood-matted fur.
When he had finally steadied, he pulled away from her and knelt back down to the floor, head bent. “May the gods bless you. Had I any agency in this kingdom, I would grant you any boon you asked.”
“Stand,” Aristomache said. “I already have a goddess’s blessing, and I do not act for payment.”
“Then why?”
Aristomache took his hand and pulled him from the floor. “For the innocent youth of Athens. For my past impotence. For the freedom of a wronged man, and the death of a monster.”
Asterion’s ears flicked back. “The death of a monster. But you have freed me, not killed me.”
Aristomache grinned. “You are not the monster in this country. Tell me: would your people follow a bull?”
Asterion stared at her, starry eyes bright. “You mean to put me on the throne.”
“Your sister told me you studied statecraft, that you would have made a gentle ruler. Couldn’t Crete use such a king?”
Asterion paced the circle of his confinement, thick hands smoothing the fur on his face, pressing his ears down. She felt his agitation growing and also his excitement.
“There was a time I thought I would rule,” he murmured. “When I was Pasiphaë’s only son. It was a child’s delusion, but I thought of myself as a future king. Before my brothers were born.” A bull couldn’t smile, but his nostrils flared and his eyes shone.
“You don’t hate them?”
Asterion shook his head. “When Minos barred me from lessons, they would sneak to my room and teach me what they remembered. The people barely know me … and yet, I am the eldest son. With the support of my brothers …”
“Will they give it?”
“Glaucus, the youngest, would give it in a heartbeat. He is too sweet for bloody rule. Catreus, the second, will oppose me. Deucalion, now the eldest after Androgeus’ death, has always hated his lot as heir, but he does not easily give up power. Thus, it falls to my sisters.”
“How?” Aristomache asked, marveling at the tapestry of family politics. Hers had always been black and white. Or black and red.
“Ultimately, it will be Xenodice’s deciding voice, as the eldest daughter. Deucalion values her opinion over all. If Ariadne and Phaedra, the youngest, can sway her to my favor, then he will bow to my dubious authority as eldest. That leaves only Catreus and Acacallis in opposition, and me with the majority.” His night-sky eyes grew cloudy. “It was my third sister Acacallis who encouraged my imprisonment. The prospect of facing her brings me no joy.”
It took a significant effort of will to follow the convoluted alliances. “Ariadne is with you, of course. But Phaedra?”
Asterion’s eyes softened. “Phaedra was the child of my heart. She attempted to fight Minos when I was condemned to this fate.”
Aristomache’s heart clenched with longing for Medus, her own beloved prince, whom her father had turned on. “Then we leave this place and go at night to Ariadne and Phaedra,” she said, pushing back memories of heartbreak.
Asterion turned wild eyes on her, his arms outstretched as if he could encompass the world. “From birth, my life was something to be hidden and reviled. For the last three years, I thought it forfeit. Now, I see hope.”
“Then let’s make haste while it lasts. For we must still gather up thirteen intoxicated youths from this maze.”
They crept through the palace gardens, a woman- and bull- shaped shadow. They had deposited the now hung-over youths inside a sea cave. To get them out of the maze they’d had to tie them to Ariadne’s string, navigating to the exit as a weaving lunatic caterpillar.
“There is her window.” Asterion pointed three stories up.
Aristomache picked up a small stone and threw it through the drifting curtain. It took several tosses before the curtain was pulled back. Ariadne’s heart-shaped face peered out, the sight making Aristomache’s own heart flutter. When Ariadne saw them, her hands flew to her mouth. She disappeared from sight, returning a moment later to roll a ladder down from the window.
Her dress swayed in the night breeze as she descended, and she leapt the last few rungs directly into her brother’s arms with a joyful whisper of his name.
He staggered under her weight, and they fell to the ground, she pressing kisses all across his white muzzle — he had washed the filth off in the ocean.
“Be careful with me, sister,” he groaned, though he was laughing all the same. “I am much weakened from my time in the maze.”
“I will never let you go again,” Ariadne swore. She looked up at Aristomache, face shining. “Excepting this once.” And she leapt upon Aristomache and kissed her across her face as well, whispering adoring thanks.
“What now?” Ariadne asked, taking both their hands. “Flight?”
“No,” rumbled Asterion. “Aristomache has a better idea. Where are Phaedra and Xenodice?”
“Abed, if they can stomach it after watching the sacrifice. I’ve told them nothing of my plans.”
“Your lady plots to put me on the throne.”
Ariadne looked at Aristomache, one fine eyebrow raised and a high blush on her cheeks. “I see. And so it all comes down to our eldest sister.” Aristomache marveled at how quickly her mind had worked it out.
“Do you think it possible?” Asterion asked.
“It would not be,” Ariadne said, “had Xenodice not recently taken a lover Minos would never approve.”
Asterion’s ears flicked forward, intrigued. “And who is this lover?”
Ariadne laughed softly. “Truly, it is Icarus. She sneaks into his workshop once a fortnight and thinks no one notices. As if her strange mechanical trinkets could be coming from anywhere else.”
“Then I have won,” Asterion said in satisfaction. “All that remains is to see it through.”
“Not yet,” Ariadne said. “For there is still myself.”
Asterion and Aristomache looked at her in surprise. “Yourself?” Asterion asked slowly. “Sister, was it not you who conspired my release?”
Ariadne met his eyes, chin up, jaw set. “I will no longer be used as a pawn in a game of war. I will no longer accept the suits of men, and I shall live without fear in my own household. And if I should choose to leave, I will not be forestalled. I love you, brother, but I must know that rule will not turn you into my father.”
Asterion, holding her gaze, slowly knelt at her feet. “Ariadne. Beloved sister. For the times you read me poetry in the dark, I promise. For the times you brought Minos’ wrath upon yourself to spare me, I promise. For our evenings finding new constellations in the stars, for our days climbing trees, I promise you. But also for the sake of my future rule, I promise: I shall be no Minos. Not to you, not to anyone.”
The sharpness of Ariadne’s smile cut straight through Aristomache’s heart.
The ease with which the coup was staged was testament to how reviled Minos was.
Asterion strode through the halls, flanked by his siblings — though a few of them looked grudging — and a foreign warrior woman, and soldiers lay down their arms. Minos’ personal guard knelt to Asterion in front of the king’s chamber doors.
Only Aristomache entered Minos’ rooms with Asterion. And only Minos was inside, reading by a lamp. When they closed the door, he set the papers down carefully on his desk. The very sight of him turned Aristomache’s stomach.
“You,” Minos said to Asterion. “Monster that haunts my nightmares, returned in the flesh. And with what?” He looked at Aristomache in outraged confusion. “Some woman? Even I never expected you to find a girl with such tastes as your mother.”
Asterion snorted in anger, and Aristomache raised the sword she had taken from a soldier. “I am Aristomache, eldest child of Queen Meta of Athens. In the name of Aphrodite Anadyomene, I come seeking justice for our twenty-eight youths whose lives fell victim to your sick pleasure. My blade has long sung for your blood.”
“And you come with this creature,” Minos said in disgust. “So it is a coup? As if Crete will follow the minotaur at the heart of a maze of nightmares. They know you are a devourer of children.”
“I am no such thing!” Asterion bellowed. “In that hell-maze you made your architect design, I killed only in defense of my life, and no piece of flesh ever passed my lips! I would have died before becoming so depraved!”
“Liar,” Minos snarled. “How could you still live?”
“The will of the gods,” Asterion declared. “Which will not save you tonight.” He turned to Aristomache. “Lend me your sword?”
Minos stood, hands clenched around the edge of his desk. “You would not dare.”
“I would do it,” Aristomache offered. “If you have truly never killed, then let me, for I have killed many.”
Asterion shook his head. “Even wielding you as my blade, I would still be the killer. If I am to strike him down, I shall do it with honor.” He glanced at Minos, whose fury was mutating to a dawning horror.
Impressed, Aristomache handed him the sword. Asterion took it, steadying his breathing, hands firm around the hilt.
“Minos of Crete,” Asterion said, advancing. Minos was unarmed, and now he was panicked, scrambling back from his desk towards the window. “Accept your end with honor, if you can. Certainly, you could not muster up any by which to live.”
And indeed it turned out Minos could not, for he flung himself out the window before Asterion could come a step closer. It was a choice so unexpected that Aristomache’s heart jolted with sick adrenaline as she ran and peered out the window with Asterion. Minos’ body lay broken and still on the path three stories below.
Asterion blew out a huge snorting bull’s breath and stared at the sword in his hand. “No matter what anyone says, I know in my heart I still killed him this night.” He proffered the hilt to her. “Thank you, Aristomache. You are welcome in my kingdom for as long as my sister wishes. And if you would remain beyond that, I would even hide you from her wrath.”
Aristomache laughed and clapped Asterion on his soft, furry shoulder. “I gladly accept your offer, King.”
“King,” Asterion said in wonderment. He looked out the window, not at the broken body of Minos, but to the sky, stars reflected in his eyes. “But where is the queen?”
Upon their return to the hallway, siblings and guard alike knelt to Asterion. Aristomache joined them immediately.
“You four,” Asterion said to the soldiers. “What are your names?” They told him. “Pledge yourselves to me by Aphrodite Anadyomene.”
If they found the command strange, they did not show it. The moment the goddess’ name passed their lips, a crocus sprouted from the flagstones at Asterion’s feet, blooming radiant purple. Everyone assembled, Asterion included, gasped and prostrated themselves before it, murmuring prayers. Stunned, Aristomache offered a prayer of her own: Sister Aphrodite, thank you for blessing this king. May he earn what has been given.
Asterion rose, dragging the attention back to him. “I gladly accept your service and thank you for it. This night I charge you to defend my siblings with your lives.” They nodded, looking from the flower to Asterion in equal parts wonder and terror. “Rise. And please — someone tell me where mother is.”
Ariadne stood and took Aristomache’s hand, face grim. “She often sleeps on the roof. I think to be closer to her father. I’ll go with you.”
Asterion nodded, and turned to his eldest siblings. “Deucalion, Xenodice: Make a list of things which need my attention. I imagine first among them is the freedom of Daedalus and his son.” Xenodice brought a hand to her mouth, and Asterion did not comment. “All of you, stay together. I do not trust any of my siblings to be truly safe this night.”
Ariadne led them to the fourth floor of the palace, where she pulled a trap door from the ceiling. Aristomache ascended first in case of danger, but the roof was empty save the senseless queen. She sat cross-legged, face upturned to the jewel-studded cloth of the sky. She hadn’t noticed before, but now Aristomache saw that Pasiphaë shone slightly in the dark, as if sunshine was trapped beneath her skin.
Aristomache extended a hand for Ariadne, who released it immediately to go to her mother. Pasiphaë hardly moved when her daughter knelt next to her, and Aristomache was struck with cold fear that she would not even recognize Asterion.
The new king settled on Pasiphaë’s other side, observing the queen’s vacant skyward stare. “Mother.” He took her hands gently. “Mother, do you see me? Or do your eyes search only for Helios?”
At his touch, her gaze slipped from the sky to his eyes, and for long moments she still appeared entranced. Then, to Aristomache’s relief, something in the queen’s face shifted. She raised trembling hands to smooth the fur around Asterion’s eyes, pet his snout, and at last began to cry.
“Mother. My queen.” Asterion’s starry eyes glimmered. He stroked a broad hand down her pale hair. “I killed your husband. Minos lives no longer, so fear him no longer. And know that whatever you wish will be yours.”
“My son.”
At her mother’s voice, Ariadne stifled a sob. Aristomache stopped resisting the pull in her stomach and went to her, arms wide. Ariadne fell into her embrace and hid her wet face in Aristomache’s neck, shoulders shaking.
“My beautiful Asterion,” Pasiphaë said. The queen smiled, and though cold moonlight shone down on them, they were suddenly as warm as if they stood in a summer sunbeam.
Crocus perfume drifted in through the window, ushered by a gentle sea breeze. Ariadne, gazing at her across their pillow, tucked a lock of Aristomache’s hair behind her ear and kissed a whispered question across it. “Stay?”
Aristomache pulled her close and traced the curve of her back. “For a time. But Princess, I am called out into the world same as I was called here.”
“Then,” Ariadne kissed solar bursts up her neck, “come back to me?”
Aristomache tilted her chin up and kissed her long and slow, then pulled achingly away, breathing out into the space between their mouths: “Yes.”