I look up at the sky, waiting for a sign. But the goddess gives me nothing. Just the same green, the same gray, the same endless hunger.
And somewhere, just out of reach, the girl is waiting.
At least, she’d better be.
5
Alette
The hedge turns and opens up into a space that’s so wrong it takes my mind a full minute to register it as real. The first thing I notice is all the light. It’s blazing, not dim and gray like everywhere else in the labyrinth, but torch-bright and flickering, from dozens of paper lanterns that dangle from the hedge branches like overripe fruit. Each lantern is painted with a different face, some laughing, some crying, some stretched in a scream so wide you could fit your whole fist inside. The faces glow orange and blue and green, casting shadows that twitch even when there’s no wind.
The second thing I notice is the table. It’s set dead center, stretching the length of the clearing, so white it burns my eyes. On top, every kind of food I can imagine has been laid out. There's roasted meats, sugared tarts, whole fruits bursting with wetness, pyramids of bread, even tiny candies glittering like rocks. The food piles up and overflows, tumbling off the table’s edge, smearing grease and juice into the moss. Cups and teapots, a dozen different shapes, all steam beside glasses of brandy and I don’t know what else.
And then there’s the people. If you can even call them people.
The ones at the head of the table have bodies like men, but their legs are covered in black fur, ending in cloven hooves. Horns, twisted and gold-ringed, curl up from their temples. Their ears are longer and sharper than Sylvian’s, and their eyes burn amber, a kind of hungry warmth that feels more animal than anything I’ve ever met.
Satyrs.I know the word from stories, but I never thought they were real. They just seemed like another lie parents told to make kids behave.
Next to them sit women… ifwomenis the word. They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It’s impossible not to look. Their skin glows in the lantern light. Their hair has been braided with living vines and sparkles with dew. Every smile is a secret, every laugh a melody. Some have flowers blooming in their hair, others have fingernails the color of fresh blood. Their dresses flutter like moths’ wings, and when they move, petals and pollen drift from their bodies.
Nymphs.Water, air, and earth. Every variety is present. There’s a sharp flowery smell, and the sense that any moment, a thunderstorm or a flood or an avalanche could break out, just from their laughter.
I freeze, because I have no idea what to do, but I know whatever I choose will be wrong.
Ashton, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. He steps up, pulling me with him, and bows deeply, arms spread as if this is all perfectly ordinary.
“Greetings, lords and ladies of the feast,” he says. His voice is rich and smooth. “We’re honored to have stumbled upon the table of such legendary beings.”
A dozen heads swivel, and for a second, all the talking and music and eating stops. I feel the weight of their attention like a fist around my neck.Are they happy about our presence? Angry?I can’t tell.
The biggest satyr, the one at the head of the table, stands and raises his cup. “At last!” he bellows, voice cracking through the silence. “The guests of honor! Come, come, there’s room at the high table!” He gestures grandly to the two empty seats on his right.
I glance at Ashton. “Guests of honor?”
“Just go with it,” he whispers back.
A pair of nymphs stand. One has a mane of bluebells, while the other’s skin glows faintly gold. They flutter over to us, tugging at our arms, guiding us into seats near Zomas, Ashton beside me. The satyr settles himself at the table’s end, thumping his goblet in rhythm to a song that begins to play at his guidance from nearby satyr musicians.
Is this okay? Normal? Or will we be the next item they consume?
I scan for an escape route, but there are only hedges and paths—I’m exactly sure where they lead—and a circle of satyrs and nymphs blocking the path. Behind me, Ashton whispers, “Don’t eat or drink anything unless I say.”
“Why?” I whisper back.
“Satyrs are tricky. They love playing games. Nymphs even more. If you break the rules, they’ll make up new ones.”
I nod, trying to look like I’ve known this my whole life.
The satyr leader beams at us, teeth yellow and huge. “I am Zomas, Lord of the Feast! These—” he sweeps his arms— “are my dearest friends and children. We celebrate The Feast of the Hungry Soil tonight. You are heroes, are you not? Champions of the goddess?”
His words are thickly accented, but his meaning is sharp. He knows who we are, but he wants to hear it from us. Which is either a good thing or a bad thing, I’m not sure which.
Ashton answers first. “We are merely pilgrims, my lord. Lost and lucky to be found.”
Interesting. He’s not telling him anything.
The nymph beside me giggles, high and thin. “He lies, Zomas! This one is a king. See how his eyes shine?”
