“This trial could last weeks.”
“If we’re fortunate,” he said ahead of me.
I stepped over the skeleton and caught up to him. “Nothing grows in here but the hedge. We can collect water, but food?”
He glanced over at me. “There’s no way to collect water.”
“Doesn’t it rain?”
“Of course.”
“So we can collect it.”
“We have no buckets, no containers.”
A tendril of pride wrapped around my heart and made its way onto my face. I set my hand on his forearm.
“This”—I swept out an arm toward the dirt and hedge—“is exactly like the Kingdom of Storms.” I stepped closer, gaze locked on his. “There’s always a way to collect water.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Any childof Storms knew about water-collection. At night, dew formed on smooth, nonporous surfaces—like our leathers.
But first, we had to survive the night.
We stepped over the second skeleton in a half hour. This time, neither of us slowed.
The Eldermaze offered no wind, no birdsong. Just the hiss of thorns shifting against each other and the creeping certainty that we weren’t alone.
Hours later we arrived at a four-way split—paths stretching out in each cardinal direction, identical in their promise of misdirection.
We’d agreed earlier we just needed to find a safe place to sleep. But what did safe mean in a place like this? The hedge seemed to breathe. The dirt reeked faintly of piss and shit. And the bones we passed had all been mangled.
“There are said to be places in the maze,” Dorian said, voice low, “hollows where you can find food and drink. Shelter. Just for a night.”
I turned in a slow circle, gaze trailing the darkened corridors. “Justa night?”
“That’s the lore.”
I glanced at him. The thorns behind him caught the faintest glimmer from his blade. “Any idea how we find one?”
“They’re hidden. But they say you can reach them if you look right.”
“‘Look right,’” I repeated, deadpan. “That’s the whole strategy?”
He gave me a half-shrug, mouth twitching with distant humor. “Fae scholars have written entire treatises on the subject. Some say it’s a state of mind. Others say it’s about intent. Perception. Worthiness.”
“Or maybe it’s luck.”
“Or maybe it’s blood,” he said softly, almost to himself.
I didn’t ask what he meant. I didn’t want to know—not right now.
Instead, I turned back to the intersection. “Say we only took right turns…”
Dorian scoffed. “It’s not a child’s riddle.”
“Have you got a better idea? We only have a few hours of daylight and no real plan.”
