“There’s something here. I’m certain of it.”
I wasn’t. Not truly. But after wasting twenty minutes, I needed to believe it. Otherwise, I’d dragged us into a dead end—and maybe to our deaths. Then again, some might say that fate was sealed the moment the spiritstag paired me with Dorian.
Which only made me more determined to prove I was worth the match.
I leaned in. Elsewhere in the Eldermaze, the hedge grew so thick you couldn’t glimpse its structure—just endless leaves and thorns. But here… here the foliage curved strangely, as if shaped around something unseen. I could almost make out the dark interior lattice of branches. Not random. Not natural.
My fingers hovered near the edge.
“Don’t touch it,” Dorian said, voice tight. “The last thing we need is you dripping blood.”
I tilted my face up toward him. “Come here. Please.”
He paced a few more steps, then let out a breath and dropped to a crouch beside me.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“Leaves. Thorns. Branches?—”
“Exactly,” I said. “Where else in this maze have you seen branches?”
He paused. His eyes narrowed on the hedge. “Nowhere.”
“And you’ve been studying the hedge, haven’t you? With your keen fae eyesight?”
His jaw twitched as he leaned closer, studying the latticework. “It’s an anomaly.”
“Which means it has to mean something.”
He didn’t respond, but I could feel his attention sharpening. His hand lifted. I nearly stopped him, just as he’d stopped me—but maybe blood was the price of seeking answers in this place. Maybe he knew that, too.
His fingers brushed the leaves. He inhaled sharply. Tiny cuts welled dark across his fingertips.
I caught his hand and pressed the edge of my cloak against it, squeezing to stanch the blood. “What’d that accomplish?”
His gaze met mine. “There’s magic here.”
“On the leaves?”
He nodded, leaning in so close I worried he might slice his cheek. “The leaves… they’re not random. They’ve grown to form letters.”
“Letters?”
“In Faerish.”
“What do they say?”
He squinted. “I-A-M-B-E-G-O-T…”
“I am begot?” I echoed.
He murmured, “I am begotten.”
A beat passed. “Is that all?”
He lifted a hand, signaling silence. I watched his mouth move as he read, breath shallow. At last, he said, low and reverent: “‘I am begotten through my opposite.’”
A riddle.
