The Battle of the Labyrinth

tower, overlooking rocky cliffs and the ocean below. The old man Daedalus was hunched over a worktable, wrestling with some kind of navigational instrument, like a huge compass. He looked years older than when I’d last seen him. He was stooped and his hands were gnarled. He cursed in Ancient Greek and squinted as if he couldn’t see his work, even though it was a sunny day.
    “Uncle!” a voice called.
    A smiling boy about Nico’s age came bounding up the steps, carrying a wooden box.
    “Hello, Perdix,” the old man said, though his tone sounded cold. “Done with your projects already?”
    “Yes, Uncle. They were easy!”
    Daedalus scowled. “Easy? The problem of moving water uphill without a pump was easy?”
    “Oh, yes! Look!”
    The boy dumped his box and rummaged through the junk. He came up with a strip of papyrus and showed the old inventor some diagrams and notes. They didn’t make any sense to me, but Daedalus nodded grudgingly. “I see. Not bad.”
    “The king loved it!” Perdix said. “He said I might be even smarter than you!”
    “Did he now?”
    “But I don’t believe that. I’m so glad Mother sent me to study with you! I want to know everything you do.”
    “Yes,” Daedalus muttered. “So when I die, you can take my place, eh?”
    The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Uncle! But I’ve been thinking . . . why does a man have to die, anyway?”
    The inventor scowled. “It is the way of things, lad. Everything dies but the gods.”
    “But why ?” the boy insisted. “If you could capture the animus , the soul in another form . . . Well, you’ve told me about your automatons, Uncle. Bulls, eagles, dragons, horses of bronze. Why not a bronze form for a man?”
    “No, my boy,” Daedalus said sharply. “You are naïve. Such a thing is impossible.”
    “I don’t think so,” Perdix insisted. “With the use of a little magic—”
    “Magic? Bah!”
    “Yes, Uncle! Magic and mechanics together—with a little work, one could make a body that would look exactly human, only better. I’ve made some notes.”
    He handed the old man a thick scroll. Daedalus unfurled it. He read for a long time. His eyes narrowed. He glanced at the boy, then closed the scroll and cleared his throat. “It would never work, my boy. When you’re older, you’ll see.”
    “Can I fix that astrolabe, then, Uncle? Are your joints swelling up again?”
    The old man’s jaw clenched. “No. Thank you. Now why don’t you run along?”
    Perdix didn’t seem to notice the old man’s anger. He snatched a bronze beetle from his mound of stuff and ran to the edge of the tower. A low sill ringed the rim, coming just up to the boy’s knees. The wind was strong.
    Move back , I wanted to tell him. But my voice didn’t work.
    Perdix wound up the beetle and tossed it into the sky. It spread its wings and hummed away. Perdix laughed with delight.
    “Smarter than me,” Daedalus mumbled, too soft for the boy to hear.
    “Is it true your son died flying, Uncle? I heard you made him enormous wings, but they failed.”
    Daedalus’s hands clenched. “Take my place,” he muttered.
    The wind whipped around the boy, tugging at his clothes, making his hair ripple.
    “I would like to fly,” Perdix said. “I’d make my own wings that wouldn’t fail. Do you think I could?”
    Maybe it was a dream within my dream, but suddenly I imagined the two-headed god Janus shimmering in the air next to Daedalus, smiling as he tossed a silver key from hand to hand. Choose , he whispered to the old inventor. Choose.
    Daedalus picked up another one of the boy’s metal bugs. The inventor’s old eyes were red with anger.
    “Perdix,” he called. “Catch.”
    He tossed the bronze beetle toward the boy. Delighted, Perdix tried to catch it, but the throw was too long. The beetle sailed into open sky, and Perdix reached a little too far. The wind caught him.
    Somehow he managed to grab the rim of the tower with his fingers as he fell. “Uncle!” he screamed. “Help me!”
    The old man’s face was a mask. He did not move from his spot.
    “Go on, Perdix,” Daedalus said softly. “Make your own wings. Be quick about it.”
    “Uncle!” the boy cried as he lost his grip. He tumbled toward the sea.
    There was a moment of deadly silence. The god Janus flickered and disappeared. Then thunder shook the sky. A woman’s stern voice spoke from above: You will pay the price for that, Daedalus.
    I’d heard that voice before. It was