The Maiden (The Bride Hunt #3)

Chapter 1

Syrrah

Hush, little girl, don’t make a sound, The Trickster is watching, he’s always around. Be soft, be still, don’t misbehave—or he’ll take you down to his Labyrinth grave.”

— FROM SONGS FOR WAYWARD DAUGHTERS, A COLLECTION OF OLD KINGDOM RHYMES

The Gods had forsaken me long before I open my eyes in the dark.

I wake to stone beneath my back and the soft sounds of even breathing.

My first conscious thought is to assess for injury, as I’ve been trained.

Fingers and toes respond to command. No sharp pain suggests no broken bones.

The cool stone beneath me is uncomfortable but not harmful.

My limbs feel heavy, as if I’ve been drugged, but gentle flexing of muscles confirms no wounds or harm.

Cool air brushes against my skin, raising a chill as unfamiliar scents tickle my nose.

I inhale slowly, trying to identify each one as it comes to me—damp dirt touched with moss, wood smoke tinted with something sweet and flowery.

And underneath it all, a darker scent, metallic and sharp. A scent I know well.

Blood.

Thunder rumbles ominously overhead, gently shaking the ground on which I lie.

I wake to darkness. My heart kicks hard against my ribs, panic curling tight in my chest.

Calm, I tell myself silently. Panic won’t serve me. Neither will fear.

I exhale slowly before dragging in another careful breath. I blink twice, letting my vision settle. Carefully, I push myself up to a seated position, giving my body time to adjust as my head spins.

I find myself on a stone bier in a vast and circular chamber, its towering walls curving up toward a hole in the ceiling.

Through it, I see stars scattered in unfamiliar patterns and a heavy blood moon.

Its light casts everything in shades of crimson, turning the ancient stones beneath me into a river of blood.

Other women lay scattered across the flagstones—I count twelve without turning my head.

Some wear elaborate silks that sparkle faintly in the starlight, others the practical garb of traders, hunters, or craftswomen.

Most are dressed in white robes, like pristine priestesses awaiting their coronation.

All seem to be asleep or unconscious, as I had been.

Their breathing echoes softly off the ancient walls, creating a rhythm like waves against a shore.

My pulse is a wild thing in my throat. My breath comes too fast, too shallow, but I force myself to move. My head spins. Frustration flares hot in my chest, but I push it down.

Think, Syrrah.

I shift, noticing how the stones beneath my palms feel—not quite warm, not quite cold, and thrumming as if the world around me is readying for an earthquake. A dozen torches burst into flame, encircling the vast chamber.

Closing my eyes, I fight for calm, struggling to remember how I came to be in this place of darkness. I lift a hand to my face, brushing away a stray hair, when the scent of feverfew and mint tickles my nose.

I’d been in the healing gardens, grinding feverfew for tonics. I’d been punished for healing a young woman who couldn’t pay—relegated to undertake apprentice work. The moon had begun to rise, staining the mountains red. I had looked up at it, thinking how beautiful and terrible it seemed when—

The memory slips away like water through my fingers.

Another woman stirs, a small sound of confusion escaping her lips.

Tattoos cover her body and I find my gaze drawn to the one covering her chest—a stem holding a closed rose bud.

I watch as she too, pushes herself upright, blinking in the dim light.

Our eyes meet and hold—a silent exchange of confusion.

Other women are beginning to stir now, soft sounds of uncertainty echoing off the ancient stones.

A woman in a white dress presses her hands to her temples, muttering a curse to Gods I’ve never heard of before.

A girl in the early bloom of adulthood clings to the arm of an older woman in matching silks—sisters perhaps, or mother and daughter.

The tattooed woman moves closer, hand extended. She says something but the words are lost to me, her accent unfamiliar.

Laughter cuts through the chamber, wild and joyful, so at odds with the quiet that the hairs on the back of my neck lift.

It comes from everywhere and nowhere, sliding over my skin like the brush of unseen fingers, twisting into a sound like breaking glass and ringing bells.

The stones beneath us begin to pulse, radiating a silvery light that casts no shadows.

“My lovely brides,” sings a voice that makes my bones ache. “All gathered for the choosing.”

He appears between one breath and the next—a figure that seems to dance between the shadows.

His mask is crafted of gold and ivory, frozen in an eternal laugh that is somehow both beautiful and terrible.

He wears fine breeches and an embroidered doublet, while a cloak of deepest black swirls around him though there’s no wind in the chamber.

Kasaros. The Trickster God.

All women know who he is—his name is whispered around campfires and over hearths to girls as a cautionary tale.

Hush, little girl, don’t disobey, or the Trickster God will steal you away.

A warning. A myth. A nursery rhyme meant to frighten children into submission.

But this is no myth.

It seems fate has chosen us—chosen me—for his terrible game.

A cold sweat breaks over my skin, and I feel the air thin as if the chamber itself is swallowing my breath. My hands tremble violently, fingers curling into the stone in a desperate attempt to anchor myself. But the stone pulses beneath my palms, alive, shifting, rejecting me.

My stomach clenches, nausea rolling through me in waves.

I feel lightheaded, as if the world is tilting, like I’m plummeting even though I’m perfectly still.

My heart pounds, each beat loud, deafening, a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

My mind scrambles for logic, for reason, for anything that might make sense of this nightmare, but fear has its claws in me now, sharp and unrelenting.

I want to run. I want to scream.

But I can do neither.

Because Kasaros is watching.

Waiting.

And I have the terrible, gut-wrenching certainty that whatever happens next, I won’t escape it.

“Please,” the merchant woman breathes, reaching out toward the God. “I have a family who need me—”

“Had a family,” Kasaros corrects, his mask gleaming as he spins to face her. “Had a life. Had a world.” Each word is punctuated by a step that brings him closer to her, though his feet never quite seem to touch the ground. “Now you have only what you can win for yourselves in my Labyrinth.”

I gasp as my wrist burns with searing heat. Pushing the gold bracelet from my wrist, I find a golden mark seared into my skin—a flower crown not unlike the one that decorates my hair.

What is this?

The silver light pulsing through the stones grows stronger, forcing us all to our feet like puppets on strings. Through the archways ringing the chamber, I catch glimpses of movement—shadowed figures drawing closer, pulled by the God’s presence.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Nothing about this makes sense. I have been good. Pure. Righteous. I’ve dedicated my life to healing others and learning my trade. I’ve taken no lovers, remaining chaste as required of women who choose to become healers.

What great sin have I cast to be plucked from my life and sent into this place of purgatory? What failure?

A scream of terror, of rage, of injustice, builds in my chest, clawing at my throat. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding it in, determined not to give this God of games the satisfaction. Blood bursts across my tongue, tasting as bitter as the regrets I hold for the life I’ve lived.

I could have had a family. Lovers. Adventures.

I could have lived as the Mahkerie do, taking my hedonistic pleasure as I pleased.

Instead, I dedicated my life to others. And while I don’t regret helping those I healed, what life have I had?

What joys to keep me warm in this place of cold stone and barren sky?

Kasaros circles us, the gathered brides, his steps light and graceful, each movement precise. He pauses to lift a bride’s chin with one elegant finger.

“Welcome, my delightful brides.” The smile on his mask seems to curve upward, growing bigger as he continues his walk around the circle. “Today begins your dance with destiny.”

He sweeps his arms wide toward the towering maze walls, his flowing sleeves catching the light.

“Before you lies my maze—a Labyrinth of choices and chances.” With a fluid motion, he vanishes and reappears atop one of the maze walls, looking down at us.

“Within these walls, your fates shall unfold as you see fit.”

Dropping gracefully back to the ground, he lands as light as a feather before gleefully weaving between us, the brides.

“You may run like deer, swift and silent.” He demonstrates, turning into a deer and prancing across the stones with a few silent steps. “You may hide like foxes, clever and cautious.” He slips into form and disappears behind a pillar only to reemerge from another across the chamber.

“Or….” He appears suddenly beside one of us, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. Somehow, he makes it feel as if he is beside each of us, whispering directly into our ears. “You may seek out the hunters themselves and choose your own match… before they claim you.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s in front of me, his mask twisted into a mockery of a smile.

“Welcome, maiden,” he chuckles, sliding a finger down my cheek. “I look forward to seeing you play my game.”

I open my mouth to respond but he’s already returned to the center of the nemeton, his movements holding the controlled grace of a dancer.