I tighten my grip on the lamp. Only one door remains. At this distance, I’m able to glimpse the curved handle of tarnished brass. Whatever Father knows about the labyrinth, he did not want me, or anyone else, to discover it. That is reason enough to press ahead.
But this door is not like the rest. The handle grows warm beneath my fingers, uncomfortably so. A gentle push, and the door opens fluidly. Its hinges make not a sound.
Beyond: darkness, or so I presume. I lift the lamp high. It catches the long shelves of a bookcase. Sparse and windowless, the space is occupied by a desk cluttered with open books and unfurled scrolls, atop which a lone candle burns.
I stare at the flame’s weak flutter, a singular brightness guttering in a pool of hot candlewax. The candle has been burning for some time. And yet, no footprints disturb the floor, which is coated so thickly in dust I can only assume no one has entered this space in centuries. The question remains: who lit the candle?
The hair along my arms spikes upward. If I had any sense, I would leave and not return. Dark things lurk here, things that do not wish to be found. But instinct wars with the desire to uncover secrets of old. What, exactly, does Father hide?
As soon as I cross the threshold, the candle extinguishes itself. It is so dark my lantern barely pierces the blood-thick gloom.
I begin sifting through the documents, though I’m not certain what it is I’m searching for. Some tomes are written in unfamiliar languages. Others contain charts and maps. I untie a red ribbon binding a large scroll, skimming the elegant script. No mention of the labyrinth, nor of the darkwalkers, nor of the beast. I set it aside and choose another book at random. An old journal? Flipping to the first page, I begin to read.
When I ponder my existence, I am cruelly aware of my own atrocious nature. But as I wander the halls of my prison, I feel myself changing. My fingers have begun to stiffen. My shoulders have widened, my back has grown hunched, forcing my arms nearer to the ground. I write my story now so that I do not forget who I once was.
It was not my mother’s fault, you see. It was her husband’s, that selfish King Minos, who spurned the sea god’s generosity by failing to sacrifice the snow-white bull he was gifted. When the sea god learned that no sacrifice had been made, he enlisted the help of our dear goddess of love. To punish King Minos, the goddess beguiled the queen—my mother—with a powerful enchantment, and when she cast her eyes upon the divine bull, she became enamored with the beast. And that was how I was conceived.
From the moment of my birth, I was spurned. The progeny of a woman and bull? Brute, monster, swine. It was clear I did not belong. But no one treated me so poorly as the self-proclaimed Lord of the Mountain. He asserted that I was a threat to all of god-kind. It was he who demanded that I be cast out from the City of Gods.
Yet the Lord of the Mountain had a secret of his own. Oh, he was adept at hiding it. But why should anyone question him? I knew of the horrors committed against him. Perhaps he felt shame in seeing my unnaturalness reflected back at himself?
The Lord of the Mountain is the reason I have found myself bound to this cage, through no fault of my own. He, who decided a beast was unfit to walk among his flawless, faultless gods, and through negotiation with a pathetic mortal king, demanded a prison be built to contain me in endless walls of stone. The truth is, I do not know if I will ever escape the labyrinth. I have learned not to hope. But if you somehow manage to unearth this scrawled plea, I ask that you come find me.
Find me, and I will grant you what you seek.
9
FIND ME, ANDIWILLgrant you what you seek.
My fingertips quiver against the journal as I stare, slack-jawed, at the ink bleeding through the thin parchment. Once a decade, seven men are sacrificed to the beast. King Halim claims it is the only way to mollify the creature that paces the labyrinth. But what if the beast doesn’t wish to devour these men? What if it seeks escape, to enact revenge on those who imprisoned it?
The deeper I ponder the matter, the more I am convinced of the injustice of it all. The beast is right. Why should it be punished for its existence? Why not the king, who failed to sacrifice the divine bull? Or the Lord of the Mountain?
I pause, quickly returning to a previous sentence.Pathetic mortal king…
My blood runs cold.
Not the king who failed to sacrifice the bull. The king with whom the Lord of the Mountain negotiated to construct the labyrinth, a bargain fulfilled to save the life of his ailing daughter: King Halim. And if the beast escapes, it could very well go after Father for having played a role in its imprisonment. I cannot let that happen.
I’m so focused on scouring the stack of books that I fail to realize the temperature has dropped until my teeth begin to chatter. Whena low, faint hiss echoes from a distant chamber, I whirl, wielding my lamp like a weapon. “Hello?”
A wave of cold sweeps into the room.
Like a foul fog, it reeks of decay, raising the hair along my body. I remain frozen, entrenched in the stone floor. Something grazes my nape, and I whip back around, swinging the lamp wildly to strike whatever it is that touches me.
Nothing is there.
My heart beats so rapidly its rhythm bleeds into a dull hum. Time to leave. It is absolutely time to leave.
But I can’t guarantee that I will be able to return—these records are too valuable. So I gather them into my arms as swiftly as my shaking hands will allow. Again, that skittering hiss, like nails over stone: nearer, just beyond the threshold.
I toss aside the heaviest tomes and cram as many of the smaller books as I can reach into my arms, never mind that they are centuries old. Then I grab the lamp and bolt for the door, peering out into the hallway. The entire corridor is obscured, steeped in a dim so thick it coats my hands. I squint, seeking any movement, when my lamp gutters.
Darkness blots my vision. I am entombed.
My fingers spasm around the lamp handle. I’m no warrior. I’m a violinist, with no skill in combat. I know how to run, how to shrink, how to hide, but little else. Whatever lurks beyond sight, it is large, that much I know, for the shifting air heaves against me in great waves, suggesting something massive stirs it into agitation. I dare not breathe as, heart careening, I retreat back into the room and slowly, slowly ease the door shut.
A glassy fear masks my thoughts. I am naught but a body crafted from dread and bone, driven by instinct, fingers fumbling for a lock, finding none. The door handle has nearly rusted through and is unlikely to hold against a forced entry.
