Rick Riordan
Percy Jackson and the Olympians
99
99
We made it to the corridor and turned just in time to see the other columns toppling. A cloud
of white dust billowed over us, and we kept running.
“You know what?” Annabeth said. “I like this way after all.”
It wasn’t long before we saw light up ahead—like regular electric lighting.
“There,” Rachel said.
We followed her into a stainless steel hallway, like I imagined they’d have on a space station
or something. Fluorescent lights glowed from the ceiling. The floor was a metal grate.
I was so used to being in the darkness that I had to squint. Annabeth and Rachel both
looked pale in the harsh illumination.
“This way,” Rachel said, beginning to run. “We’re close!”
“This is so wrong!” Annabeth said. “The workshop should be in the oldest section of the
maze. This can’t—”
She faltered, because we’d arrived at a set of metal double doors. Inscribed in the steel, at
eye level, was a large blue Greek ∆.
“We’re here,” Rachel announced. “Daedalus’s workshop.”
***
Annabeth pressed the symbol on the doors and they hissed open.
“So much for ancient architecture,” I said.
Annabeth scowled. Together we walked inside.
The first thing that struck me was the daylight—blazing sun coming through giant windows.
Not the kind of thing you expect in the heart of a dungeon. The workshop was like an artist’s studio,
with thirty-foot ceilings and industrial lighting, polished stone floors, and workbenches along with
windows. A spiral staircase led up to a second-story loft. Half a dozen easels displayed hand-drawn
diagrams for buildings and machines that looked like Leonardo da Vinci sketches. Several laptop
computers were scattered around on the tables. Glass jars of green oil—Greek fire—lined one shelf.
There were inventions, too—weird metal machines I couldn’t make sense of. One was a bronze
chair with a bunch of electrical wires attached to it, like some kind of torture device. In another
corner stood a giant metal egg about the size of a man. There was a grandfather clock that
appeared to be made entirely of glass, so you could see all the gears turning. And hanging on the
wall were several sets of bronze and silver wings.
“Di immortals,” Annabeth muttered. She ran to the nearest easel and looked at the sketch.
“He’s a genius. Look at the curves on this building!”
“And an artist,” Rachel said in amazement. “These wings are amazing!”
The wings looked more advanced than the ones I’d seen in my dreams. The feathers were
more tightly interwoven. Instead of wax seals, self-adhesive strips ran down the sides.
I kept my hand on Riptide. Apparently Daedalus was not at home, but the workshop looked
like it had been recently used. The laptops were running their screen savers. A half-eaten blueberry
muffin and a coffee cup sat on a workbench.
I walked to the window. The view outside was amazing. I recognized the Rocky Mountains in
the distance. We were high up in the foothills, at least five hundred feet, and down below a valley
spread out, filled with a tumbled collection of red mesas and boulders and spires of stone. It looked
like some huge kid had been building a toy city with skyscraper-size blocks, and then decided to
knock it over.
“Where are we?” I wondered.
“Colorado Springs,” A voice said behind us. “The Garden of the Gods.”
Standing on the spiral staircase above us, with his weapon drawn, was our missing sword
master Quintus.
***
“You,” Annabeth said. “What have you done with Daedalus?”
Quintus smiled faintly. “Trust me, my dear. You don’t want to meet him.”
“Look, Mr. Traitor,” she growled, “I didn’t fight a dragon woman and a three-bodied man and
a psychotic Sphinx to see you. Now where is DAEDALUS?”
Quintus came down the stairs, holding his sword at his side. He was dressed in jeans and
boots and his counselor’s T-shirt from Camp Half-Blood, which seemed like an insult now that we
knew he was a spy. I didn’t know if I could beat him in a sword fight. He was pretty good. But I