From out of the distant shadows, there emerges the beast.
Its body is a slab of pure muscle, tapered to four long, bony legs with curved, ebon hooves. Bristly hair roughens its snout and the insides of its wide pink nostrils. Its shoulders are akin to boulders rupturing through its sloped back, and short dark hair patches its body. It looks to be a bull, though from the odd shape of its head, I can tell it once had the appearance of a man. It sniffs the ground along the opposite wall. Too close.
This creature once possessed enough lucidity to transcribe its thoughts, the shame of its existence. This beast, whom over a dozen men have been sacrificed to—did it once have a name? Family? Looking at it now, I understand it is too far gone to listen to reasoning. Here, I am prey.
With a short prayer, I heave the rock as far as I can into the distance. Its sharp clatter draws the bull’s attention, and it charges after the disturbance.
I’m up, pushing my flagging legs into a sprint. I reach a fork, turn right. Another passage, another split, another choice that may lead me to salvation or ruin. At the next bend, I ram into something solid, steeped in shadow.
With a scream, I slash my nails across the hulking shape, only to have my wrist clamped as I’m hauled close, arms banded tight across my upper back to stifle my struggles.
Sarai, a voice coos.
A shudder encases my heart and lungs and ribs. “Let me go.” I twist in the creature’s grip. My breath comes short.
Why do you struggle, Sarai? Why do you struggle, my daughter?
I freeze. The cold begins to climb my skin. Daughter? A forceful shunt, and I shove free of the figure: a woman.
I know her, though we have never met. I recognize her face, its regal oval shape and wide, pink lips. The high brow and rippling black hair, the dimple in her chin. Her portrait hangs in the throne roomalongside Father’s: Queen Khalise of Ammara, who died at only thirty-three years of age.
But this is not my mother. Rather, it is some twisted version of her. Her skin is naught but shreds of cloth, excess fabric sagging off her bones. She wears a shapeless white dress. Her long, ebony hair hangs in wet hanks down her skeletal back.
I’ve been waiting for you, Sarai.She reaches for me.Where have you been all this time? Why hide from fate?
I recoil from that bony, outstretched hand as her mouth parts. A low, gurgling wail peels out. Black fluid gushes from her rotting gums, and I scream, stumbling back, only to find her sticky fingers have latched onto the violin case.
A suddenclopsnaps my head around toward the tunnel I’d emerged from. Even from this distance, I hear the beast lurking somewhere beyond sight. It must have caught my scent.
The clacking of its hooves tumbles into a loud rattle. I attempt to jerk the case away. The phantom folds forward, skin oozing across her bones, soft as candlewax.Not my mother,I remind myself, and punch the phantom creature in the face. She splatters across the ground.
Snatching the case, I dart down another side corridor, putting as much distance between myself and the bull as I can. I’m not sure how much longer I can run for. The case slows me down considerably.
Though perhaps I am doing this all wrong. The violin helped me once. Perhaps they are connected: this labyrinth, Fahim’s violin, me. I do not know the how or why of it, nor do I particularly care. Halting in the middle of the passage, I flip the locks on the case, pull out the instrument, set the bow to the string. The creature’s ragged breaths seethe on the opposite side of the wall.
What do I need? Protection. A means of defense. The violin created the door that led me here. What else might it call into existence? I will build a wall of sound, of music. I will play until it breaks through the darkened ceiling overhead.
And then I remember the piece of musical notation the jeweler from Mirash showed us. I recall its melody and begin to play. It wells,bell-like, down the throat of the corridor. As I shape it with intention, a barrier assembles, stone materializing in a misty shimmer, stacked higher and higher still.
On the upper section of the barrier, the stone transforms, becoming transparent. Glass, thick enough to become walls. Construction is nearly complete when the bull appears, barreling around a corner. The melody ends, yet I return to the beginning of the piece, moving through the measures, praying my fingers do not falter. Steps from the wall, it skitters to a halt, its yellow eyes like fogged sunlight. Steam curls from its wide, slitted nostrils.
It paces alongside the barrier. A low grunt of frustration emanates from its chest. I fear that the moment I cease playing, the barrier will vanish. Once the wall is fortified, I shift my attention toward creating a long, brutal spear. It hovers above the ground to my right. A crude head, a sturdy haft. It will do.
“Sarai!”
My fingers falter. The wall flickers; the beast shoves its broad head against the barrier. I hurriedly continue to play, and the wall solidifies, bleeding into the shadows overhead. “Notus?”
“Keep calling out to me,” he cries. “I’ll find you.”
My heart lifts in tentative hope. His voice. I have missed it, though it feels as if only a handful of hours have passed since we last spoke. With effort, I hone my concentration on the task at hand: felling this dark beast.
Slowly, the spear lifts higher off the ground. Using a series of rapid sixteenth notes, I pull back the weapon and release.
The spear cuts clean and true. I will the weapon to pass through the barrier, and it does, sinking deep into the animal’s bulky shoulder. A guttural scream wrenches from the beast’s mouth. It stumbles, blood pooling beneath its hooves, then rams the partition, its snarling face plastered against the surface.
So long as I continue to perform, I am safe. The trouble is, it’s impossible to focus on two tasks as the same time. With my attention on the spear, I’m unable to reinforce the wall, and when the bullstrikes the barrier with its blunt horns, it smashes through in a shower of glass.
I bolt, abandoning the violin case in my haste to flee. It’s impossible to play and run at the same time, but I manage to tuck the instrument beneath my right arm, left hand gripping the neck. I pluck the strings with my right hand, the sound frenzied, as the stitch in my side hooks deep. I stagger, heaving for breath.
