Chapter 5 Syrrah
Syrrah
The Labyrinth is no mere maze of stone and thorn. It is alive. It breathes. It listens. It remembers. To enter is to be swallowed whole.”
— FROM THE BOOK OF LOST PATHS, RECOVERED FROM THE RUINS OF THE FIRST KINGDOM
Iwake to the scent of cooking meat and herbs. The familiar aroma tricks my mind into believing I am back in the healing temple, where breakfast is served precisely at dawn and Father conducts the daily sermon after sunrise.
The illusion is broken when a toe nudges me.
“Time to wake up, little healer,” Rooke’s voice comes from above, rich with amusement. “Unless you’d prefer to be awakened by a kiss?”
I open my eyes to find him crouched beside me, his visible eye dancing with mischief. “I’d sooner kiss Magnus,” I mutter, pushing myself up to a seat.
My dress is still damp and clings to me unpleasantly.
My hair feels knotted, and the gold that decorates my arms is constricting.
I shrug off his coat and wince as stiff muscles protest the movement.
The fire still burns, though lower now, the stones emitting a steady, purple-tinged glow.
Rooke crouches beside it, using a flat stone as a makeshift griddle.
Whatever he is cooking smells surprisingly good.
“I trust you slept well?” he asks.
“Well enough,” I reply, running fingers through my tangled hair. They catch on the gold wires that are now matted. With a sigh, I begin to untangle the silly decorations from my hair. “I’m surprised you let me sleep so long.”
“The wards held true.” He gestures to the metal discs still set at our sanctuary’s entrance. “And you needed the rest.”
He digs within his pack to pull out a thin satchel. Turning the meat with one hand, he flicks open the satchel with his other, then adds water to whatever is inside.
“Breakfast,” he explains, shaking the satchel roughly before handing it to me.
His fingers brush mine briefly, the calloused tips rasping against the soft skin of my palm. His touch is fleeting yet charged, like the spark of kindling catching fire. My gaze lifts to meet his, warmth blooms in my chest as he meets my look with one of his own.
Rather than pull away, he lingers, his fingertips light against my hand in a small, unspoken connection.
Drawing in breath, I break our stare and pull the satchel across to me. The serving appears to be some kind of hash—dried berries and oats mixed with unfamiliar roots and herbs.
“It’s not poisoned,” he says, noting my hesitation. “Though I’ll admit, my cooking might make you wish it was.”
The food is actually quite good—a mix of savory and sweetness, with hints of spices I don’t recognize. We eat in companionable silence, sharing the hash and meat as the strange fire casts dancing shadows across the cave walls.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask.
“Here and there.” Rooke shrugs, but there is tension in the movement. “When you spend enough time on your own, you either learn or starve.” His visible eye darkens with some memory. “My sister”—he flinches—“taught me the basics. She always said a man who couldn’t feed himself wasn’t worth feeding.”
The mention of his sister reveals a crack in his careful charm and a wealth of pain beneath. But before I can ask more, he stands, breaking the mood.
“We should move,” he says, already gathering our supplies. “Magnus isn’t known for giving up easily, and there are worse things in these tunnels than him.”
We pack quickly and efficiently, working around each other as if by unspoken rule. Rooke insists I keep his coat, though the cave’s chill has faded.
“What of these?” he asks, holding up the pebbles. “Leave them or….”
I hold out my hand, taking them from him. “Let’s bring them. Who knows, maybe they can assist us.”
As if hearing me, the stones vibrate in my palm.
While Rooke lights our torch and extinguishes the campfire, I cut strips from my skirts, wrapping the material around my feet. My sandals are useless, the soles so badly torn that they offer no protection.
“We’ll need to find you shoes,” Rooke says, watching as I finish tying off the makeshift wrap.
“Perhaps,” I agree. “But in the meantime, these will do.”
We leave, following yet more tunnels and passages that seem to twist and turn without end. Finally, we follow a path that slopes gradually upward, the air growing fresher with each step.
Rooke leads confidently, though I notice he checks each intersection carefully before proceeding.
“This way,” he tells me, his pacing picking up. “Not far now.”
The tunnel turns once again to open abruptly onto a vast cavern. Pale light filters down from somewhere high above, illuminating a sight that makes my breath catch.
A great chasm splits the chamber in two, its depths lost in shadow. The gap is easily thirty feet or more across, with sheer walls that drop away into darkness. The only way forward is a narrow ledge that curves along one wall, barely wide enough for a single person to edge along sideways.
“Well,” Rooke says, peering over the edge. “This is unexpected.”
I swallow. “What were you hoping for?”
“An easy out. But then this is Kasaros’s realm. The Labyrinth changes to present us with games of chance.” He runs his fingers along the rock wall, testing its stability. “What was solid ground yesterday might be a pit today. The Trickster God loves his little surprises.”
“There has to be another way out.”
“Probably.” His grin holds a hint of challenge. “But it could take days to find it, and time isn’t exactly on our side.” He gestures to the ledge. “This path leads up and out. I can feel it.”
I study the narrow shelf of rock. “That ledge doesn’t look stable.”
“Scared?” He steps closer, his presence solid and reassuring at my back. “Do not worry, maiden. I’ll lead the way.”
“And if you fall?”
His laugh is soft but genuine. “Your concern is touching, my lady, but I’ve crossed worse in my time.” He winks at me. “Though I wouldn’t object to you catching me if I do trip.”
I shoot him a glare, but he’s already moving, checking his weapons to ensure nothing will catch or shift at the wrong moment. The way he prepares speaks of experience—this isn’t his first time attempting something this dangerous.
I watch as Rooke examines the rock face, his fingers tracing a narrow channel that runs along the wall above the ledge. Without a word, he lifts himself up on tiptoe, holding the torch high.
“What are you doing?”
“I think this is a—ah, yes.” He sets the torch to one end of the channel.
It catches instantly, the flame racing along the wall far above our heads, illuminating the crossing in a warm glow.
“It seems we might have stumbled upon an old thieves hideout. Caves like this are perfect for stashing treasures—though they do require light occasionally.”
The smell of burning oil touches my nostrils. “You seem to know much about places like this.”
His grin flashes in the firelight. “I happen to be a man of many talents.” He extinguishes our torch, tucking it away in his pack.
“We’ll stay close to the wall,” he instructs, running a hand along the rock face until he finds a hold. “Don’t look down, and don’t stop moving. If you freeze up… don’t.”
I watch, heart in my mouth, as he begins edging along the ledge, his movements careful but confident. The drop yawns beneath him, a hungry mouth awaiting any who dare to make a mistake.
Each step he places is deliberate, testing the stone before committing his weight. A shower of pebbles breaks loose under his boot, disappearing into the darkness below. The sound of them hitting the bottom never comes.
Halfway across to the first bend, the ledge narrows further. Rooke presses himself flat against the wall, inching sideways with excruciating slowness. His weapons catch against the stone and he has to stop, carefully adjusting their position.
“Quite the view from here,” his voice drifts back, strained but still attempting lightness. “Though I’d appreciate it more with solid ground beneath me.”
A gust of wind whips through the cavern, making the flames in the channel dance wildly. Rooke freezes, and for the first time I see real tension in his frame. The stones in my pocket vibrate sharply—a warning?
“Rooke?” I call out, hearing the worry in my own voice.
“I’m fine.” But his breathing is strained. “Just… remembering why I prefer my feet on solid ground.”
The admission of weakness, however slight, catches me off guard. “The great rogue afraid of heights?”
“Not heights exactly.” He inches forward again, movements more careful now. “More the sudden stop at the bottom.”
Before I can tease him further, he makes it to a slightly wider section of ledge and turns back to me.
“Your turn, my lady healer.” His voice is steadier now that he’s on more solid footing.
Taking a deep breath, I press myself against the wall. The rock is cold through Rooke’s coat, though rough enough to offer some grip. I force myself to focus on that texture, on the solid stone at my front, rather than the emptiness behind me.
“That’s it,” Rooke calls encouragingly. “Just like that. Keep moving. There’s a good handhold just above your right shoulder.”
I reach up, finding the promised grip. The stone is worn smooth, as if many hands have sought this same purchase.
How many others have made this crossing? How many failed?
“Try not to think about it,” Rooke says, as if reading my thoughts. “Focus on me. One step at a time.”
A piece of rock crumbles under my foot.
I gasp as I start to pitch backward, my heart leaping into my throat. But before I can fall, a strong hand grabs my arm, pushing me back against the wall. Rooke has somehow doubled back without my noticing, moving with that preternatural grace of his.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, holding me flush against the stone with one strong arm. “I’ve got you.”
I can feel his breath warm against my neck as I press my cheek against the cool cliff, gasping and trembling.
“We have to go back,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.