8
SARAI. THE TIME IS NEAR. I can gift you what you seek.
Bolting upright in bed, I glance around the room. The fire has cooled to coals. Red flickers beneath the gray ash.
My mind is clouded water. No matter how frantically I rifle through the murk, I cannot recall what it is that woke me. I lie back, close my eyes, yet sleep evades me. Too warm—I toss off the blankets. Too chilled—I drag the thick wool onto my shivering body. Caught in a black spin, my thoughts spiral down. When dawn cracks open the world’s hardened shell, I am no nearer to sleep than I was hours ago.
Unfortunately, I haven’t the privilege of lying in bed until my thoughts sort themselves out. Moving to the window, I peer at the courtyard below. There the labyrinth stoops, a darkened stain in sunup’s pearly light.
Yesterday evening, I watched Prince Balior visit the labyrinth once again. From the safety of my bedroom window, I looked on as he stood there for an age, peering into the shadowed veil. Then he returned to the palace.
Twice now, he has visited the labyrinth since his arrival over a week ago. Despite my desire to discuss his research further, I hesitate, fearing my desperation will expose my true motive in wanting to learn more. Beyond that, the waiting is painful. Seven days have trickled by, and the prince has not offered further insight about the labyrinth, nor the beastwithin. Why should I not investigate myself, now that I know where to look? And there is only one place I can think of that would provide the information I need.
I quickly dress and descend the stairs to the first level. Hexagonal tiles adorn the walls in shades of turquoise, azure, aquamarine. At the end of the corridor: twin doors of oak.
The Library of Ishmah is my mother’s legacy. It is here she remains, her memory enveloped in brittle parchment and dust. According to Father, she adored the written word and would read to my brothers nightly. Following her passing, the entire south wing was reconstructed into what is now the greatest repository of knowledge the realm has ever known.
The three-story structure is a spectacle of polished wood, woven tapestries, and tarnished brass. A massive fireplace anchors the main chamber. Sizable armchairs offer comfortable seating for visitors. Currently, a few researchers occupy the tables near the far wall, analyzing ancient records. Last growing season, we received clay tablets from a faraway realm, the capital city of which is dominated by an enormous tower.
To my left, a bespectacled man draped in scarlet robes sorts through a pile of scrolls behind a long counter. Above the counter, painted script reads:As long as there is knowledge, there is light.
I approach the head archivist. “The Lord of the Mountain shines upon you,” I say in greeting.
He startles, eyes comically wide behind his glasses. “Your Highness! My word, this is a surprise. Do you require privacy?” He scans the room beyond my shoulder, likely noting the curious stares. “I can have the library vacated for your convenience.”
“That won’t be necessary, but I would appreciate your assistance”—my voice drops—“and your discretion.”
Straightening, he sets the scrolls aside. “I see.” His voice has lowered to match mine. “How can I assist you?”
Two men in yellow robes—archival apprentices—gather a pile of documents from the counter and retreat to the special collections housedin the back stacks. It is then I realize the library has fallen silent—no hiss of parchment, no delicate murmurings. I turn, glaring at those attempting to eavesdrop. Immediately, they return to their reading.
“I came across a symbol recently and would like more information on it,” I murmur to the head archivist. “Do you have a piece of parchment?”
He offers me the requested material, along with a quill and pot of ink. As I draw the whirled circle, the man’s brow creases with concern. “This is the symbol you saw? Are you sure?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
“This is the symbol of our Lord of the Mountain.”
I see. That would make sense, considering it was the Lord of the Mountain who necessitated the labyrinth’s construction. “What else can you tell me about it?”
He traces the symbol ponderously. “Not much, unfortunately. The swirl is said to represent power over storms. The small triangle is believed to represent Mount Syr.” He frowns. “I wish I could offer more.”
More than I expected, less than I’d hoped. “That’s all right. I still wish to research the labyrinth regardless. I assume you have documents on file?”
The head archivist straightens from his hunched position over the counter. “As I mentioned to Prince Balior yesterday, Your Highness, all texts associated with the labyrinth have been placed under restricted use.”
“Restricted use?” Unease worms through me. “By who?”
“King Halim.”
That does not sound like Father. He has always been a champion of knowledge and learning. “Surely my station would allow me to override this restriction.”
He dabs his forehead with a square of cloth. “I wish that were so.” The cloth disappears inside his clenched fist. “The decree was signed by the king. Only the one who authorized the document may be granted access.”
I peer down the gloom-shrouded corridor where the archival apprentices vanished minutes ago. Father would not censor information unless it posed a threat to the realm. “Is that where the restricted documents are held?”
“Your Highness, I cannot say.”
