And then it hits me. There is a doorway to the Deadlands somewhere within the labyrinth. I must have traversed every inch of that infernal place, and not once did I see such a door, no way out… except the mirror.
What was it the Lord of the Mountain once told me?The mirror shows what has been, what is, and what will be.What if the mirror was the door all along? After all, it transported me to my memories. It displayed the fire and smoke of Ishmah under siege. Who is to say it cannot transport me to the Deadlands?
Though I cannot see inside the Lord of the Mountain’s hood, I’m certain his eyes seek mine. A feeling of pins prickles across my skin. Maybe Notus’ brother isn’t as heartless as I had first assumed.
“Thank you,” I say, and bow low as another rain-drenched gust buffets my back.
Good luck to you.
Leaping onto my horse’s back, I guide her down the trail edging the mountainside. Hours later, we arrive at the palace, and I dismount, sprinting toward the courtyard where the labyrinth squats. The area is deserted. Unsurprising. Many of the guards were killed during the attack. Others, gravely wounded and currently recovering in the infirmary. Thus, the labyrinth’s arched entryway lies open for any who dare enter.
Palm pressed against the symbol cut into the door, I push it open with a creak of aged wood. Fear is beyond me. I am keen, eager for what awaits, what I might change. Cool, whispering darkness grasps at me. It enfolds me in its frigid embrace, and drags me into high stone walls cloaked by a heavy gloom.
There the silver mirror hangs, as though awaiting me.
Staring into the reflective glass, I see a woman who has pushed herself to the very brink of what it means to be a daughter, a princess, a citizen of her people. She is twenty-five years of age, yet lines carve years into her face.
But it is her shoulders that I study. Where is the downward slope? Where is the hunch to her spine from carting heavy burdens? Gone. And as I straighten, I understand something else. Here stands a woman who has lived. Her life has been both ease and suffering, trial and triumph. She knows what she wants. She is no longer afraid to demand it.
I reach out, fingertips brushing the cool surface of the looking glass. Ripples drag outward, revealing a doorway leading into depths unknown. My mouth curves.
I step through.
I stand in a wide stone corridor marked by countless doors. They are constructed of glass and wood, plaster and mud and iron tipped in frost. Some possess round windows of colored glass. Others, minute tiles fashioned into breathtaking mosaics. And still there are more, painted lilac and scarlet, even one carpeted in clambering vines.
The icy air stings my nostrils. It holds no familiarity. Even its scent is foreign, bright and crisp, a snap against my skin. Slowly, I spin in place. Has the mirror brought me to the Deadlands, as I had hoped?
With a frown, I begin to walk, slippers hissing against the gray flagstones. At the end of the hall, I turn right. More doors, dozens of them. I open the nearest one, its battered wooden face covered in peeling white paint. I stare in shock. Snow-covered mountains, the glimmer of a frozen waterfall. I close that door, open the next one. A cramped lane leading to a market square. I shut it and hurry onward, without the slightest clue as to what I’m looking for.
“Who are you?”
The demand lashes forth, and I whirl, catching sight of a woman at the end of the corridor. In her arms, she shelters an infant swaddled in blankets. At her knees, a little boy clutches the hem of her moss-colored dress. She does not appear to be Ammaran, though her complexion is as dark as my own.
The woman steps forward, dark eyes flashing in warning. “Speak quickly, if you value your life. Who are you? How did you get in here?”
My stance is a reflection of hers: braced legs, squared shoulders. “My name is Princess Sarai Al-Khatib,” I say, in a declaration fit for this vast stone hall. “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
Through narrowed eyes, she demands, “How did you enter my home, Princess Sarai Al-Khatib?”
An excellent question, though she failed to give her name in response. Not that I blame her. “I realize this might sound odd, but I entered through a doorway in my own realm.”
The woman’s mouth curls in suspicion, the large scar on her right cheek pulling taut. Her boots, I notice, are scuffed with age. She is no coddled woman. “And what realm might this be?”
“Mama.” The boy reaches his small hand upward. The woman grasps it in wordless comfort.
“Ammara,” I say. “Specifically, I hail from Ishmah, the Red City.”
“I see.” She frowns as her son attempts to climb up her legs, and the child she holds in her arms begins to fuss. “It is true these doors lead to other realms. However, that doesn’t explain how you came to find yourself here. I wasn’t aware others could enter of their own volition.”
If I had even a shred of something resembling an explanation, I would offer it freely. As it stands, I have only the truth. “I don’t know how the labyrinth works, exactly, but I’m looking for someone in particular. I think that’s why it brought me to this specific location. Maybe it sensed that you could help me.”
“And how could we help you, Sarai Al-Khatib?”
“I’m looking for Boreas.”
Her eyes sharpen, and she wraps an arm around her son, shielding him. She glances over my shoulder, shaking her head slightly, but when I turn to look, nothing is there, only a flicker of light.
Quietly, she demands, “What business do you have with Boreas?”
