“I will go to her.”
Tuleen and Amir’s heads whip toward the South Wind, who stands frozen in the middle of the room, mouth taut with grim determination. My heart flutters in gratitude. I do not deserve this brave and loyal immortal.
The young queen plucks another book from the stack sitting precariously on the corner of the desk. “Before any decisions are made, I think you should read this.” She offers Notus the slender volume, which he accepts. After flipping to the bookmarked page, he scans the material, then lifts his head in confusion.
Tuleen regards him expectantly.
Notus speaks as he reads the inscription. “According to this account, there is more than one entry to the labyrinth. Deep in the center of the maze lies a doorway leading to the realm of departed souls—”
“The Deadlands,” Tuleen provides. “Have you heard of it?”
Notus huffs a short laugh of disbelief. He shakes his head, cheek caught between his teeth. “The Deadlands.” He snaps the book shut. “My eldest brother’s realm, though I have not seen Boreas in centuries.”
Tuleen explains, as she gently pries the volume from the South Wind’s grip, “I believe the labyrinth is connected to the Deadlands. Potentially other realms we are unaware of, too. In our culture, there is what we callthe unseen, places where there is a thinning of the fabric between realms. The land on which the labyrinth was built is likely one such area.”
“That would explain why darkwalkers have overrun Ammara,” Notus says. “They are utilizing the doorway inside the labyrinth to enter Ishmah. They had to have come from somewhere. And since the labyrinth iswithin the city walls, they’re able to circumvent the protective runes on the gates.”
Beyond his shoulder, the sky continues to blacken. Smoke drifts in thicker globules across the rooftops. No shade of blue to be seen.
The South Wind strides toward the window again. It’s as though I peer over his head, for I see the whole of the courtyard, its eerie desertion, pockets of dim light wavering behind shadow and smoke. Notus stares at the labyrinth with disquieting intensity, as if he might crumble the structure with but a thought. “I’m going after her.”
Tuleen nods, having likely expected this. Amir, still seated on the bed, runs both hands through his ash-caked hair.
“Once you enter the labyrinth,” my sister-in-law says, “there is a chance you may become trapped there with her.”
“No god, man, or beast will keep me from Sarai. I will bring her back. I promise you this.” Notus’ attention flicks between the king and queen. “Will you both be safe?”
A perpetual wind smooths even the roughest of edges. Whatever came before, the vitriol spewed and suspicion fed, in this moment, Amir casts it aside.
“Tuleen and I will retreat,” my brother replies. “We’ve a safe place to shelter while I call upon our allies for aid. If Ishmah falls, we will flee to Mirash and regroup.” He hesitates, looks at Tuleen, who nods in encouragement. “Thank you, Notus, for your sacrifice. When you find Sarai, tell her that I love her.”
Not long after Notus’ departure, the mirror darkens. The ambient light, however, remains, pulsing from the wrought silver frame.
I touch the opaque surface of the looking glass. How could this mirror have known that I wished to view my loved ones above all else? Can the labyrinth sense my heart’s desire?
These past weeks have held murk and depths, but at last I have clarity. All these months, during which Prince Balior placed hispawns. Now he is in the unique position to overtake Ishmah, his army positioned to finish what the darkwalkers began. I wonder if, in having touched the black iris, I somehow unlocked the labyrinth and its roiling darkness, which now leaks through Ishmah’s streets. The only question is: Have I released the beast as well, or does it still pace its cage?
Whether or not Notus successfully finds me in this treacherous maze, I can’t risk standing still. An opportunity to escape may present itself, if I am brave enough to face the dark unknown. Choosing a direction at random, I begin to walk.
The air knits close as I follow the dim corridors, hitting dead end after dead end. The shush of my slippers no longer dies a muffled death, but brightens sharply, bouncing off nearby walls. Eventually, the pathway empties into a chamber with a round table placed in its center. There, I’m startled to find a violin nestled in an open case, cushioned by gray velvet. Tears sting my eyes, for here, too, is another locked door. I remember this varnish, red like the sunset sands. The violin is not mine. It is Fahim’s.
My pinky catches the A string and lightly plucks. Flat. It must be tuned. If I recall correctly, the peg that wound the A string was perpetually loose, slipping with a frequency that would often frustrate my eldest brother. My breath hitches at the memory. I was not the first prodigy in my family, but I was the first to become known.
I brush the ebony pegs, trace a line down the fingerboard, across the arched bridge, over the slope of the tailpiece. I think of how painful it must have been for Fahim to watch my rise from afar, this destiny that should have been his to claim.
Something scuffs the ground behind me. I whirl, unconsciously planting myself in front of the violin. I carry no weapon. I’ve no knowledge of combat. Whatever I face in this labyrinth, I face alone.
Large and formless, the creature shifts in those lightless pockets, too dark for my mortal eyes to penetrate. A slow exhalation stutters across my tongue. I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway. “Who are you?” I demand. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m surprised you do not know,” responds a voice. How cold. And how familiar.
A figure leans forward, revealing a sharp nose, followed by the thin curve of an unsmiling mouth and two amber eyes.
I recoil in shock. “Prince Balior?”
The long, emerald robe parts around his legs as he steps toward me, shedding the shadows at his back. “Were you expecting someone else?”
“How—?” But that is the wrong question. Rather, the question iswhy.
