"I had thought we had been summoned to imprison a beast through the art of architecture. Yet this labyrinth confined not only the savage beast of heresy, but also us, who had suffered betrayal. We walked through countless intersecting corridors, fleeing a creature with a bull's head and a man's body; this dazzling secret realm twisted like the winding river network of Phrygia. We traveled with the current, against the current, and returned to the source. Was this what we deserved? Was this what you deserved?"
"My son, our labyrinth takes innocent lives every year. Our art has fulfilled a tyrant's authority and might. Though this was not my wish, it is nevertheless the truth."
"Must we remain forever unable to escape, accepting every torment the gods have bestowed upon us?"
Dameks held a freshly written scroll in both hands. The ink upon it had not yet dried, and the damp black strokes still reflected specks of light falling from the dome overhead.
Just as he was engrossed in reading, the paper bearing the story was casually snatched away by a hand wrapped in black cloth.
Mors crumpled the scroll into a ball as though it were worthless rubbish. Dameks could not help feeling anger rise within him. Having served as one of Olympia's Twelve Tyrants for many years, he had scarcely experienced such blatant defiance.
Yet when he looked up and saw that the mysterious craftsman in black could not even be bothered to spare him a glance, his anger immediately subsided, replaced by growing respect.
Equal to Mors's defiance was his astonishing, even frightening, capability.
Dameks could not understand where the man called Mors had received such supreme talent, nor where he had acquired such extraordinary abilities.
Though he had no choice but to fulfill the duties of a ruler and maintain cordial dealings with priests and clergy, he knew in his heart that both the long-circulating legend of the "Day of Black Judgement" on Olympia and the existence of gods throughout the heavens were merely grandiose fabrications devised by fools seeking peace of mind.
Yet Dameks could find no explanation other than divine blessing to account for the existence of Mors and Peturabo.
—When that day's court officials met Peturabo face-to-face, had any one of them spared even a shred of attention for the clearly unignorable craftsman, Mors?
Whenever Dameks recalled the matter, he felt lingering apprehension.
He cleared his throat in concealment, clasped his hands together, leaned forward, and placed his weight upon the small wooden table before him.
"Mors," he asked respectfully, "the language of this story is exquisite and its plot winding. It possesses both fantastical color and a cautionary meaning. Why did you destroy it? Was it still not a work that satisfied you?"
Mors leaned half against the elaborately carved wooden railing on the second floor of the great hall, still dressed entirely in black, like a shadow beneath the sun.
He stared intently at the broad platform below on the first floor. In his hand, the paper bearing the story crackled as it burned in pale blue flames.
At this, he replied, "Satisfied? It was merely a story written on a whim. I would rather see how Peturabo performs next. I too am curious what he can accomplish today."
Dameks was still reluctant to abandon the matter. The story had reached the very summit of its climax; if it ended abruptly now, he feared that for the next week he would repeatedly turn the tale of the craftsman and his son over in his mind, pondering it thousands upon thousands of times.
"Then could you tell me how the father and son in the story ended?" Dameks asked, rising from his comfortable cushioned chair with his somewhat plump middle-aged body and walking to the side of the railing with his hands behind his back.
"They died. People always die. At least, that is how it was in the story." Mors answered simply, then gave Dameks no further attention.
Though he had spent so long writing it while waiting earlier, the story now seemed unable to occupy any more space in his mind.
Dameks could not help feeling disappointed for a moment, before immediately scorning his own fantasy.
He had thought the artist had deliberately written the story for him to read. Now it had been proven that he had thought too highly of himself.
He too looked toward the center of the first floor of the theater hall.
Beside the marble round platform, a boy calmly awaited the trial he was about to face. Though a thousand pairs of eyes below stared without wavering, his bearing and composure remained extraordinary far beyond his age.
Peturabo's strength and knowledge did not exceed mortal bounds. Compared with Mors, who was filled with supernatural traits, he truly seemed to be an ordinary mortal boy.
Dameks had thought more than once that, if Peturabo was a mortal, why could not his own descendants be as outstanding as this boy?
As a grand musical piece rose from all around the platform, eight powerfully built young soldiers carried a movable cast-iron forge onto it.
Another newly appeared bald priest methodically directed the soldiers, making one wonder whether the clergyman who had lost his composure before the hall yesterday was now safe and sound.
Peturabo turned slightly to examine the tools he was about to take up. Dameks could not make out his expression from the high second floor, but Mors beside him pressed his thumb to his chin and said lightly, "He is confident."
The king nodded. Below, the forge's cylinder radiated immense light and heat, and the furnace was even hotter than yesterday—enough to make any ordinary person shrink back.
Once the bellows and anvil had been arranged, the charcoal burned bright, and smoke billowed upward into gray clouds beneath the lofty rafters, Peturabo strode steadily toward the center of the platform where he would work.
He looked at the dark yellow wooden block supporting the anvil and the gunmetal-gray tools gleaming with metallic luster. Whatever insight arose within him, his movements became unexpectedly gentle.
Peturabo reached toward the silver steel barrel filled with iron blocks, selected the material that caught his eye without hesitation, and placed it upon the anvil, allowing hammer and fire to grant it life.
The forging began.
The boy amusingly attempted to feed the iron block that needed forging into the blazing fire with his bare hands. He quickly regained his senses and took the tongs and invisible thick gloves offered with both hands by the ceremonial attendant nearby, no longer forcing his frail mortal palms to endure it.
This small gesture brought a glint of amusement to Mors's eyes.
Though he had nearly been injured by the flames, Peturabo still did not fear fire. He skillfully employed flame and steel, as though he had been born to live alongside these companions of craftsmen.
The steel burned red in the heat, its center a golden core bright as a star, while flakes of cooled, charred black debris fell from its edges.
He patiently turned the iron block again and again. Sweat and heat dampened his cloth robe, while the gleam of molten metal shone simultaneously in the eyes of the boy and Mors on the second-floor platform.
Mors spoke again. Perhaps he spoke to Dameks, perhaps to a phantom, perhaps to no one at all.
He continued the story he had earlier cut short, speaking as the son to a father within the tale, and did not begrudge bringing more myths to this distant planet that had never received their call.
"Father, I will not let us remain forever unable to escape. Though our destination has no fixed place, our souls should not linger upon a lonely, distant island."
"Seabirds will give us their feathers, the tyrant will leave us beeswax, Apollo will guide our path ahead, Hermes will bless our wings, and high in the sky, we will seek freedom."
Mors's voice was very soft. Every voiceless consonant curved like an oriole's song in early spring, as though speaking only a little louder, a little more plainly, would be enough to disturb a pool of crystal-clear mist.
Dameks suddenly realized how heavy and coarse his breathing was, so he deliberately softened it. Then he recalled Mors saying that everyone in the story had died, and before he knew it, sorrow rose within him.
Mors turned his head and glanced at Dameks. The tyrant immediately came to his senses and resumed a normal rhythm of breathing. Embarrassed, he feigned calm.
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