Chapter 59
CHAPTER 59
Keldarion
T here’s no way to tell time in the labyrinth. The purple haze that permeates the Below never changes, and the temperature is always cool but never cold. The only two signs that the hours have passed are the comings and goings of my wolf’s form and George’s insistence that Anya feels closer to him.
I walk a few steps ahead of him, following a long, straight stretch of the maze. The walls tower around us so high, they’d be impossible to climb. I only let George walk in front of me when we come to a junction and he must tell me which direction to go. At all other times, I keep pace protectively in front of him; I don’t want him walking into a trap. My shoulder still stings from a grazing spear that shot past us a few hours ago.
So far, we’ve survived every obstacle lurking in this horrible place. We outran the statues that came alive, their axes held aloft, ready to swing. We avoided the floor that opened up to a pit of snakes. George had been caught in the stare of a mask with sapphires for eyes, but I’d been able to rip him away. Every step, every turn, every wall we pass, could hold the next danger.
I pause and wait for George to catch up. He hurries to my side with a smile. No amount of danger seems to dismay him. Farron had warned me to watch him carefully; George had been so sick only last week, deep in a slumber he couldn’t awaken from. He seems strong now, never asking for a rest, and quite capable of maneuvering the trials we’ve faced so far.
And yet …
“Did I tell you about the time Anya scaled Mythispire and walked the whole mountain range? She told me the story when we were climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Said the trek was similar in elevation. Now, she never needed to take a breather—”
I peer down at him as he talks, giving only minimal grunts to show I’m listening. His stories … They’re all mixed up. He combines fae lore in with places from the human realm. He retells stories of Anya’s life in the Vale. But he never knew Anya was actually Aurelia.
Though his body seems strong, it’s as if what he’s learned about the Enchanted Vale during his adventures across the Autumn Realm with Farron’s little brothers is getting confused with his memories.
“Quiet,” I say suddenly, placing a hand on his chest. In the distance, I see a silhouette up ahead.
Our next trial?
“We could go back,” I say. “Find a different path and avoid whatever this is.”
George’s brows lower. “No. Anya is this way. I can feel it.”
I let a flicker of magic ignite on my fingertips. “All right. Let’s meet our new friend.”
Trepidation fills my steps as we walk closer. This is no trial, at least not one like any of the others we’ve experienced so far.
The figure moves in a way that is both fluid and disjointed. Her head twitches on her neck, and her legs bow as she walks toward us. Each movement is spasmodic, as if her limbs are being jerked by an invisible string.
As we get closer, I notice the color of her skin—a muted blue—and the huge, weathered tome she balances on her forearm.
I’ve met her before. She looked different then, but the feeling is the same.
“It’s a Fate,” I whisper to George.
He narrows his eyes. “Friend or foe?”
“Neither.”
“Should I be on guard?”
“Won’t matter if you are,” I say. “She knows everything you’ve ever thought. Every action you’ve ever taken. It’s all there in her book.”
For walking toward us is Clio, the Chronicler of Lives. She stops as we get closer, cradling her book and smiling with her gently pointed teeth visible. Like her sisters, the Fate is blind, her eyes covered with black bandages that give way to a flowing veil.
“Who is she?” George asks quietly.
“One of the three Fates. No one knows where they come from. Some say they were fae of the Above, transformed when the Gardens of Ithilias fell. Others think they’ve come from outside the Vale, from a world far different than ours. They see things that once were and things that have yet to come.”
George runs a hand through his wayward hair. “Well, that’s quite the company!”
I nudge George. “Take note of her book. She can see the entirety of time itself. Every piece of history is etched into those pages.”
“They work for the Queen of the Below?”
“They don’t work for anyone, but they’ve decided to reside in the dark,” I say. “Usually if one wants to consult with them, it’s a matter of hunting them throughout the Below. If you come across one, it’s for a reason. They come bearing gifts , so they say.”
“And what a gift I bring for you today. Something very special. Very important. I have sought you out for this purpose.” Clio’s voice crosses the distance between us, a voice so soft and sweet, and all the more unnerving for coming as it does from behind her sharpened teeth.
“Why is that, Clio?” I call.
She moves quickly, all four limbs jerking as if pulled by strings held from above.
“My sisters and I have been watching you, Keldarion, High Prince of Winter, and George of the O’Connells.” A smile twitches across her mouth. “We are most impressed by your journey.”
“Thank you kindly—” George begins before shrinking back. Clio reaches for him with her pale blue hand, her long nails sharpened to points. Stitches run up the length of her skin, as if she’s barely held together.
She caresses his cheek and shivers. “A human. What a desperately delightful experience. You die so quickly; I am honored to touch your flesh.”
“The, uh, honor is all mine,” George says.
I grab her wrist and remove it from George’s face. She jerks her head toward me and hisses.
“We don’t want any gifts,” I growl. “Let us pass.”
“Terribly rude this one,” she says in her slow, sweet voice. Pulling back, she flips through the pages of her tome. “Ah, yes. It started here. The two hundred and third Hearthlight Festival. Your father had recently passed, and Sveran Ironhall asked if he could have his dagger. You told him to take a long walk off a short pier into the Great Iskvalldan Lake, for it might be the only thing vast enough to contain his ego. Or perhaps it was the time—”
“Enough,” I snarl. “We’ll take your gifts and be on our way.”
She slams her book shut, and although I doubt there’s anything beyond those bandages, it’s as if I can feel her gaze. The tome disappears and is replaced by two smaller books. She hands one to each of us, then gives a breathy laugh and switches them. “Always good to read something new, isn’t it?”
George immediately begins examining the book, a violet, velvet-covered thing. Mine is weather-worn leather.
“Farewell, travelers,” Clio says. “I shall enjoy chronicling the rest of your journey.”
With a final crack of her neck, the Fate disappears, leaving us alone in the passageway.
George looks up at me. “I should know better than to open books from strangers we meet in a labyrinth, but color me intrigued.”
“This is … unprecedented, to be certain,” I say. “We should—”
Before I can get the words out, George opens the cover of his book. His eyes turn white.
I roll my own to the sky. “Fuck it,” I say and open the cover.
There are no words, no ink, no pages even. Instead, there’s a bright flash of light then complete darkness. My stomach roils, as if I’m falling out of the lift in the Great Chasm, down, down, down. I land on all fours and squint up into the sun.
This place … I’ve never seen it before. I’m surrounded by dense forest. The scent of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.
Laughter sounds, and a small boy runs by. He’s crafted a makeshift bow and arrow from a few bendy branches. A knit wool cap sits atop his dark hair, and he sports a red and black checkered shirt. No clothing the youth of the Vale would wear.
This is the human realm.
Creamy light floods my vision, and the images change. Water sprays upon my face. I steady myself on the steel railing of a ship. A young man, head low as he scans a notebook, walks toward me.
“Pardon me,” I begin, but he doesn’t look up. He walks straight through me. A chill runs up my spine.
“Trowels, brushes, shovels, pickaxes, sifters, tape measurers, rulers, notebooks, pencils, compass, map of the Nile … I’m forgetting something,” he murmurs to himself.
That distracted mumbling—it’s familiar. Before I can think further, the light floods my vision once again. Now, I’m blinking up into the blinding sun. The heat is nearly all-consuming, but I push myself up. Giant, triangular structures of stone surround me. I gasp, staggering backward, trying to take in their size.
“Boggles the mind how the blocks were moved up the superstructure! How do you think it was done? Ramps, leverages, counterweights?” A man’s voice tears me from my thoughts.
I turn to see a man’s back. A woman, hidden by his silhouette, laughs and says, “Oh, darling, when the human spirit sets its sights on something, nothing is impossible.”
She steps out from behind him to touch his shoulder. My heart thunders in my chest. Rosalina. It’s—
It’s not Rosalina. It must have been the heat clouding my vision, but the way her dark eyes squinted up at him, the curl of her hair just so over her brow, the smile …
It’s not Rosalina. It’s her mother.
I stagger forward. The man she’s touching smiles down with eyes of crystal blue.
This is George’s life.
Suddenly, the images rush faster through my vision. Anya lounging on the bow of a wooden ship as it traverses a river past banks of sand, while George fumbles with a clunky black box that suddenly emits a blinding light. George chasing Anya through the dense woods of his childhood, raindrops falling across her face as she laughs and smiles. Them sitting across from each other at a wooden table, her cheeks streaked with tears. George wears a tan tunic with matching pants and a broad-brimmed hat of the same color. He holds a letter in his shaking hands.
“I have to go,” he says.
She stands and screams, “I left to escape war! I will not go back!”
Mounds of mud dripping with blood. Bangs ricocheting in my ears so loudly, I fall to my knees. Dancing and laughing through a crowd of people. The heat of a jungle, then the bitter winds across a field of ice. A long, narrow metal structure, like the hull of a great ship, surging across the horizon, emitting great plumes of steam. Music like I’ve never heard before, a gorgeous low tone, as a man blows into a brass tube while Anya and George stare at each other in a smoky, dark room. She brushes a hand across his cheek and murmurs, “I will love you across the ages.”
More and more images flash before my eyes; I see them for only a second, and yet it’s as if I’m there with them. I feel the weight of the years pass over me.
This isn’t a lifetime. This is more than that, more years than any human has ever lived.
The last image scars itself into my mind: Anya, gaze intense, clutching a baby to her breast. She grabs George’s hand; he looks younger than he does now, dark hair without the speckles of gray.
George takes the baby from her arms and gently rocks it back and forth. “Our sweet Rose.”
“I’ll protect you both,” Anya whispers.
The light flashes again, and then darkness grips me. The purple fog wafts back into my vision, and I blink to settle myself.
I’m still standing in the labyrinth. The leather book crumbles to flecks of ash in my hand, and I swear I hear a soft, sweet sigh as it disappears.
George blinks over at me, his book vanishing as well.
“How old are you?” I rasp.
“Fifty.”
I shake my head. “No, you’re a lot fucking older than that.”
George grimaces. “That’s impossible. Tell me what you saw.”
I close my eyes and try to describe the memories in as much detail as possible. George’s breathing quickens. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles. “Those events you’re talking about—they happened decades before Rosalina was born. How could I have been there?”
“Do you remember them?” I ask.
He kneads his nose. “Yes. No. Bits and pieces. They happened, I know they did. But how is that possible?”
The intensity in Anya’s gaze in the last memory plays in my mind. What did you do?
George slumps against the wall and rubs his eyes. “I saw him. The dark-haired boy who spoke to Anya.”
“Caspian,” I whisper.
“You made a bargain with him. One of eternal love.”
Of course, Clio would share such a personal memory. “A bargain of eternal love on my end, but not on his. It was one of his many tricks. He had sought out the Fates beforehand and seen I was to have a mate. The bargain with me was a trap all along.”
George shakes his head. “No, that’s not right. I saw it. He made the bargain with you, and then went to the Fates with his mother. There, he saw a vision of you and Rosalina. I felt it, Keldarion. There was … sorrow. I don’t know how else to express it. Sorrow of the soul.”
My legs slacken, and I stumble back against the wall. “Caspian … Caspian made the bargain before he saw the vision?”
“So the Fate would claim. You did say she was the Chronicler of Lives, so I’m inclined to believe her.”
If Caspian made the bargain without seeing the vision of Rosalina and me then …
Then it was the truth. He did love me. He had wanted everything that I had wanted in that moment.
I look down at the intertwining snowflake and thorn bracelet. All these years, I had thought only I was keeping the bargain alive with my stubborn, ridiculous love.
But he loved me once.
Does he love me still?
“Come on. Let’s keep moving,” I growl.
Caspian is counting on us.