Lily said, ‘And over the years, through countless retellings, Theseus’s version becomes the story that we all know: his dead friends become sacrificial youths, Asterion becomes a monster in the Labyrinth, and he becomes the brave hero who entered the Labyrinth to slay it. What a jerk.’

Easton said, ‘But that not the end. After escaping Labyrinth, Asterion go on great journey. After travelling for long time, he find his way back to Underworld and he tell minotaurs of his tale. Minotaurs very proud of Asterion. Keep him hidden from King Hades. Asterion live in honour—but also in hiding—in minotaur city in Underworld. When he die, he given honourable burial under shrine in most sacred temple inside minotaur city. That is the true tale of Asterion and the great villain Theseus.’

Jack shook his head as he continued down the tunnel, taking this in. Lily did the same.

History, they both knew from hard experience, was a strange thing. It morphed over time with every retelling.

When one word changed, whole stories changed. Like with King Canute: a very wise king who said he could not hold back the tide. He became known to history as a proud king who thought he could hold back the tide.

Even recent historical events, like the deaths of JFK and Princess Diana, became so shrouded in untruths and innuendo that no-one knew what had really happened.

Myths were worse.

If you couldn’t know what really happened to Princess Diana as recently as 1997, how could one ever know what happened to Theseus and a minotaur sometime around 1200 B.C.E.?

Jack turned to Easton as he walked. ‘Thanks for telling us that story, Easton. It’s good to know Asterion’s side of it.’

They came to the top of the stairs they had been climbing to see another long section of flat tunnel stretching away from them.

The dim crimson orbs in the ceiling receded into the distance, getting smaller and smaller.

Jack sighed. ‘Okay, folks. Start jogging again.’

The Under-Tunnels

They had gone a few kilometres down this new flat section of the tunnel when they came to a feature they had not encountered before.

They stopped, cautious.

It was like a kink in the tunnel, a downward one.

Eight stone steps spanned the width of the tunnel, going down. They opened onto a short flat section maybe twenty metres long before a second set of stone stairs led the way back up again.

Jack edged down the stairs and paused on the second-to-last step.

The little sub-tunnel was partially flooded.

A shallow layer of water covered its floor, about a foot deep.

In the middle of the tunnel, ringed by the water, was a waist-high stone pedestal with a five-fingered handprint sunken into its top.

Jack knew what that was.

The handprint matched the mark on his palm, the one that he—and Lily and Zoe—had acquired when they’d performed the Fall.