He gestured wide. “What constitutes a right turn when there are four options?”
That was fair. But then…
“We pick any of them,” I said. “But from there, we always turn right.”
Dorian exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking down each of the four paths before returning to me. He didn’t mock it. Didn’t scoff again. Just nodded once, sharp and silent. “It’s as good a plan as any.”
He’d let me call a shot. I just hoped it was the right one.
I started down the path on my right, but Dorian stopped me with a hand on my shoulder and stepped past me. “I still have the better senses. If I tell you to turn the other way or run, do it.”
I paused, and his hand fell away as he continued down the path. I saw it in his stride, in the turn of his head: His only goal was to keep us both alive right now.
We walked, taking right turns where we could. Around us,silence prevailed. The noises of the Eldermaze were muffled by the hedge, a natural barrier to wind and everything else. Which meant everything was amplified along our path—our footfalls, every creak and whisper of the shrubs and thorns, the rustle of our leathers.
The Eldermaze was, as Dorian had said, unfathomable. Every path looked like every other path, and they all seemed to continue forever. I hadn’t so far recognized a spot we’d passed through, so we weren’t moving in circles. But I had no idea where we were headedtoexcept that we took right turns.
Dorian removed a canteen from his belt. He uncorked it and passed it to me as we walked.
I took hold of it; the scent from inside was nothing, but it sloshed. I felt suddenly parched. “What is it?”
“Pure Sylvanwild ambrosia.” When I didn’t drink, he said, “It’s water. Measure your sips.”
My hands shook as I lifted it to my mouth, and I realized how dehydrated I’d become. Cool sweetness spread across my tongue, and once I began drinking I could barely register anything else.
Itwasambrosia. This tasted nothing like the water in the Kingdom of Storms. Somehow it tasted even better than the Sylvanwild water I’d drunk for over a week, but then hunger and thirst were the most potent spices.
Finally, Dorian said, “That’s enough.”
With effort, I lowered the canteen. “What about you?”
He took hold of it and recorked it. It disappeared into the folds of his cloak at his belt; I already wanted it back. “I’ll be fine.”
“How long can fae survive without food or drink?”
“Longer than you.”
I paused, gaze sharpening on his profile. I’d wondered half a dozen times— “How old are you?”
He half-turned, just enough for sunlight to catch the angle of his cheekbone. “Our lives aren’t like yours. But I’ve been alive for five and twenty of your seasons.”
He was a young man after all. Not like Rhiannon’shundred years.
“You’re only five and twenty.” I stared up at him. “And how long do fae live?”
He hesitated. “For as long as we can evade death.”
Something twisted in my chest—tight and strange. That was an odd answer, and yet I felt a lightness knowing he was barely grown, like me. He knew things I did not about books and history, but he had only lived five seasons longer. I knew things he did not, too.
“And what would bring death for you?”
“Only iron, heartbreak, or stupidity.” His gaze fixed on me, hazel eyes green in the light. “Fae don’t wither; we’re only undone. Those of us with enough cunning or power live longest. The rest die like your kind.”
“Crushed by their own walls in the dead of night?”
The words spilled out before I could check them—sharp, precise, merciless. I didn’t take them back; Isa’s broken body wouldn’t let me.
Dorian didn’t speak. His gaze returned to the path ahead, expression unreadable. “Something like that,” he said at last.
