Minotaur by Phillip W. Simpson Page B

constructed a series of rooms underneath the workshop itself, accessed through a small, cleverly concealed trapdoor. The rooms were devoted to secret projects, projects he felt the world was not yet ready to see. Icarus knew of them, but his father had sworn him to secrecy. The rooms, I guess, were a forerunner to the labyrinth.
    There were all manner of devices contained within. Some I vaguely recognized, but the purpose of most escaped me. Most intriguing of all was a set of wings, which I assumed were for Daedalus’s next stage in his exploration of flight.
    In the world above us, Minos was conducting a frantic search. Androgeus and my other brothers had to leave. Their absence would have caused too many questions. It was bad enough that I had disappeared, let alone Phaedra, but most of the King’s children? Too much of a coincidence.
    Even she had to leave eventually. The King had been asking about her. Once she saw I was going to recover, her fear lessoned and she left me under the care of Icarus. Daedalus continued to work in his workshop above us to allay suspicion. Guards had already searched the place, leaving disappointed.
    On the second day, I began to feel stronger. Icarus fed me broth and made me drink prodigious amounts of water, thinking the water would help flush the poison from my body. Who was I to argue?
    Later, I was strong enough to rise and dress. That done, I started to consider my options. They were depressingly few.
    “What are you going to do?” asked Icarus.
    “I don’t know,” I confessed. “My mother told me I would have to leave the island sooner or later.” I shrugged helplessly. “I suppose I hoped it would be later.” I had delayed my departure too long, and now I was paying the price for my indecision.
    “You have no choice but to flee,” said Icarus. “Even if this place is never discovered, Minos will find you eventually. You can’t stay here forever.”
    Icarus was right. I knew he was right, but I still dragged my heels.
    We discussed options. Eventually, our conversation moved on to the wings nestled in the corner of the underground workshop. They intrigued me.
    “Did your father make these?” I asked, standing and moving across the room to examine them more closely. There were two separate wings, feathers fixed on brackets of wood. On closer inspection, the feathers had been attached using wax. There were straps where presumably the wings were attached to the body of whoever was brave enough to try them.
    “No,” said Icarus quietly. “I did.” I could tell from his tone that he was proud of his achievement. He was never boastful. This was about as close as he got to anything resembling arrogance.
    “Have you tried them?” I asked, full of wonder.
    “Not yet,” said Icarus. “Father doesn’t want me to risk them yet. He wants to help me make some changes. I know they will work though. I’m certain of it.”
    I knew the answer before I asked the question. I would’ve seen or heard something if he had. It did surprise me though. Icarus, although quiet and thoughtful, was also willful and sometimes rash, often doing the opposite of what his father told him. There must have been another reason why he hadn’t tried them out. Then I knew. He was afraid. I didn’t blame him. Just looking at them made me afraid. But then again, lots of things scared me, foremost among them heights.
    Icarus looked me up and down, calculating. “I never designed them for someone of your weight, but it might just work.”
    “What!” I exclaimed. “You can’t be serious. Even if I did get into the air, do you really think they will get me to the mainland?”
    “Maybe,” said Icarus. “With the right wind behind you. What other choice have you got?”
    “I could get a fisherman to take me?” I asked hopefully.
    Icarus shook his head. “What fisherman around here would defy the King? Would they really risk it for you—someone who clearly hasn’t got the favor of the gods?