Chapter 8
8
S ARAI . T HE TIME IS NEAR . I can gift you what you seek.
Bolting upright in bed, I glance around the room. The fire has cooled to coals. Red flickers beneath the gray ash.
My mind is clouded water. No matter how frantically I rifle through the murk, I cannot recall what it is that woke me. I lie back, close my eyes, yet sleep evades me. Too warm—I toss off the blankets. Too chilled—I drag the thick wool onto my shivering body. Caught in a black spin, my thoughts spiral down. When dawn cracks open the world’s hardened shell, I am no nearer to sleep than I was hours ago.
Unfortunately, I haven’t the privilege of lying in bed until my thoughts sort themselves out. Moving to the window, I peer at the courtyard below. There the labyrinth stoops, a darkened stain in sunup’s pearly light.
Yesterday evening, I watched Prince Balior visit the labyrinth once again. From the safety of my bedroom window, I looked on as he stood there for an age, peering into the shadowed veil. Then he returned to the palace.
Twice now, he has visited the labyrinth since his arrival over a week ago. Despite my desire to discuss his research further, I hesitate, fearing my desperation will expose my true motive in wanting to learn more. Beyond that, the waiting is painful. Seven days have trickled by, and the prince has not offered further insight about the labyrinth, nor the beast within. Why should I not investigate myself, now that I know where to look? And there is only one place I can think of that would provide the information I need.
I quickly dress and descend the stairs to the first level. Hexagonal tiles adorn the walls in shades of turquoise, azure, aquamarine. At the end of the corridor: twin doors of oak.
The Library of Ishmah is my mother’s legacy. It is here she remains, her memory enveloped in brittle parchment and dust. According to Father, she adored the written word and would read to my brothers nightly. Following her passing, the entire south wing was reconstructed into what is now the greatest repository of knowledge the realm has ever known.
The three-story structure is a spectacle of polished wood, woven tapestries, and tarnished brass. A massive fireplace anchors the main chamber. Sizable armchairs offer comfortable seating for visitors. Currently, a few researchers occupy the tables near the far wall, analyzing ancient records. Last growing season, we received clay tablets from a faraway realm, the capital city of which is dominated by an enormous tower.
To my left, a bespectacled man draped in scarlet robes sorts through a pile of scrolls behind a long counter. Above the counter, painted script reads: As long as there is knowledge, there is light.
I approach the head archivist. “The Lord of the Mountain shines upon you,” I say in greeting.
He startles, eyes comically wide behind his glasses. “Your Highness! My word, this is a surprise. Do you require privacy?” He scans the room beyond my shoulder, likely noting the curious stares. “I can have the library vacated for your convenience.”
“That won’t be necessary, but I would appreciate your assistance”—my voice drops—“and your discretion.”
Straightening, he sets the scrolls aside. “I see.” His voice has lowered to match mine. “How can I assist you?”
Two men in yellow robes—archival apprentices—gather a pile of documents from the counter and retreat to the special collections housed in the back stacks. It is then I realize the library has fallen silent—no hiss of parchment, no delicate murmurings. I turn, glaring at those attempting to eavesdrop. Immediately, they return to their reading.
“I came across a symbol recently and would like more information on it,” I murmur to the head archivist. “Do you have a piece of parchment?”
He offers me the requested material, along with a quill and pot of ink. As I draw the whirled circle, the man’s brow creases with concern. “This is the symbol you saw? Are you sure?”
“Yes. What does it mean?”
“This is the symbol of our Lord of the Mountain.”
I see. That would make sense, considering it was the Lord of the Mountain who necessitated the labyrinth’s construction. “What else can you tell me about it?”
He traces the symbol ponderously. “Not much, unfortunately. The swirl is said to represent power over storms. The small triangle is believed to represent Mount Syr.” He frowns. “I wish I could offer more.”
More than I expected, less than I’d hoped. “That’s all right. I still wish to research the labyrinth regardless. I assume you have documents on file?”
The head archivist straightens from his hunched position over the counter. “As I mentioned to Prince Balior yesterday, Your Highness, all texts associated with the labyrinth have been placed under restricted use.”
“Restricted use?” Unease worms through me. “By who?”
“King Halim.”
That does not sound like Father. He has always been a champion of knowledge and learning. “Surely my station would allow me to override this restriction.”
He dabs his forehead with a square of cloth. “I wish that were so.” The cloth disappears inside his clenched fist. “The decree was signed by the king. Only the one who authorized the document may be granted access.”
I peer down the gloom-shrouded corridor where the archival apprentices vanished minutes ago. Father would not censor information unless it posed a threat to the realm. “Is that where the restricted documents are held?”
“Your Highness, I cannot say.”
It is all the affirmation needed. Rounding the counter, I stride toward the back stacks.
“Your Highness—”
I brush past him. Far from the central atrium, the shelves narrow, the air cools, the light dims. “Where are the documents? In here?” I try one of the doors. As soon as my palm grazes the brass handle, the metal grows icy to the touch. I snatch back my hand with a pained hiss.
“Your Highness, please .” The man slips between me and the door while attempting to push his glasses back up his sweaty nose. “I ask that you refrain from entering rooms without the king’s permission.”
I’m still attempting to process what just occurred. “What sorcery is this?” I demand, pointing at the door.
The head archivist opens his mouth. A small sound of distress squeaks out. “Sorcery? I don’t understand.”
“The door handle. It’s cold as ice.”
“What?”
“Touch it,” I press.
He hesitates, then grabs the brass handle firmly, confusion crimping his mouth. “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but the door handle feels perfectly normal to me.”
How is that possible? Again, I reach for it, but the moment metal grazes skin, the handle grows frigid. A heartbeat later, the discomfort forces me to withdraw.
“All the doors are locked,” the man insists with evident apprehension. “They cannot be opened without King Halim’s permission. I would request it for you, but considering his illness—”
“Excuse me?” My gaze narrows. “What have you heard?”
He is unable to hold my stare for long. “I have heard only that he is ill and keeps to his rooms.”
Not even Father’s advisors are aware of his declining health. It is why he has called Amir back from his honeymoon sooner than expected. “How did you learn of this?”
“The palace attendants talk.” He swallows, pushes his glasses up his nose with a trembling hand. “I do not wish to lose my position, Your Highness.”
My head drops forward. How easy it would be to demand entrance. But this man is a citizen of Ishmah, and I, as its princess, am its emissary. My station comes with certain obligations that I can neither escape from, nor alter, nor discard.
“Apologies,” I whisper to the head archivist before departing the stacks, and the library, entirely. He need not worry that I will violate the king’s decree. Not while the library is occupied. I simply need to return at a time when there are none to witness my transgression.
Later, when the sky unfolds in panels of black silk, I light my lamp.
Beyond my bedroom window, stars fleck the horizon like tossed salt, bright and plentiful. Slipping a thin sleeping robe over my nightgown, I belt it at the waist and ease my door open, lamp held high over my head. A wash of orange light warms the hall. Empty, as I anticipated.
The quickest path to the library is via the east corridor. Unfortunately, that requires bypassing Father’s chambers, which I will not attempt. Thus, I find myself hurrying down the more obscure passages, tucking myself into shadowed nooks to avoid detection. The air is frigid, tinged with sweetly scented jasmine. I am a woman alone among the tall pillars of stone.
Two men guard the entrance into the library. Thankfully, they appear to be sleeping. Of course, at any other time this would be completely unacceptable, considering their job is to, well, guard , but I am not going to complain. Breath held, I tiptoe past them and ease open one of the doors. It emits a soft creak of sound, but the men do not wake. I slip inside with them none the wiser.
All is drenched in moonlight. The plush armchairs have been vacated. They sit as softened statues, basking in the pool of alabaster. A smoky odor lingers, the charred logs having cooled in the fireplace’s wide stony mouth.
Rounding the front counter, I proceed down the stacks housing the special collections. I do not bother searching the shelves. If material on the labyrinth is restricted, it will be placed under lock and key.
As I did earlier today, I attempt to open the door slotted between two of the shelving units. The brass handle burns the moment it brushes my skin.
I drop my hand in frustration. I don’t understand. Why can’t I open the door? And why did the handle feel perfectly normal to the head archivist?
To my left lies a separate passage, tapered, barren of shelving, with doors spaced at regular intervals along the wall. All seven possess brass knobs. When I try to open the first two, I find both locked, metal icy to the touch.
Deeper I venture. My slippers scuff the ground, wooden floors transitioning to cracked stone, ceiling slanting low. I try doors three, four, five. Locked. As I attempt the sixth door, something clicks behind me. I whirl, lifting the lamp toward the darkness. “Hello?” When a pulse of frosty air unfurls from the corridor’s depths, I swallow, retreating a step. “Notus?”
My voice echoes faintly. There is no response.
Calm yourself , I soothe. But my heartbeat has begun to lurch with a speed I cannot hope to tame. The corridor seems to squeeze in around me, stone walls crowding inward, and for a moment, I am certain the shadows change shape.
I tighten my grip on the lamp. Only one door remains. At this distance, I’m able to glimpse the curved handle of tarnished brass. Whatever Father knows about the labyrinth, he did not want me, or anyone else, to discover it. That is reason enough to press ahead.
But this door is not like the rest. The handle grows warm beneath my fingers, uncomfortably so. A gentle push, and the door opens fluidly. Its hinges make not a sound.
Beyond: darkness, or so I presume. I lift the lamp high. It catches the long shelves of a bookcase. Sparse and windowless, the space is occupied by a desk cluttered with open books and unfurled scrolls, atop which a lone candle burns.
I stare at the flame’s weak flutter, a singular brightness guttering in a pool of hot candlewax. The candle has been burning for some time. And yet, no footprints disturb the floor, which is coated so thickly in dust I can only assume no one has entered this space in centuries. The question remains: who lit the candle?
The hair along my arms spikes upward. If I had any sense, I would leave and not return. Dark things lurk here, things that do not wish to be found. But instinct wars with the desire to uncover secrets of old. What, exactly, does Father hide?
As soon as I cross the threshold, the candle extinguishes itself. It is so dark my lantern barely pierces the blood-thick gloom.
I begin sifting through the documents, though I’m not certain what it is I’m searching for. Some tomes are written in unfamiliar languages. Others contain charts and maps. I untie a red ribbon binding a large scroll, skimming the elegant script. No mention of the labyrinth, nor of the darkwalkers, nor of the beast. I set it aside and choose another book at random. An old journal? Flipping to the first page, I begin to read.
When I ponder my existence, I am cruelly aware of my own atrocious nature. But as I wander the halls of my prison, I feel myself changing. My fingers have begun to stiffen. My shoulders have widened, my back has grown hunched, forcing my arms nearer to the ground. I write my story now so that I do not forget who I once was.
It was not my mother’s fault, you see. It was her husband’s, that selfish King Minos, who spurned the sea god’s generosity by failing to sacrifice the snow-white bull he was gifted. When the sea god learned that no sacrifice had been made, he enlisted the help of our dear goddess of love. To punish King Minos, the goddess beguiled the queen—my mother—with a powerful enchantment, and when she cast her eyes upon the divine bull, she became enamored with the beast. And that was how I was conceived.
From the moment of my birth, I was spurned. The progeny of a woman and bull? Brute, monster, swine. It was clear I did not belong. But no one treated me so poorly as the self-proclaimed Lord of the Mountain. He asserted that I was a threat to all of god-kind. It was he who demanded that I be cast out from the City of Gods.
Yet the Lord of the Mountain had a secret of his own. Oh, he was adept at hiding it. But why should anyone question him? I knew of the horrors committed against him. Perhaps he felt shame in seeing my unnaturalness reflected back at himself?
The Lord of the Mountain is the reason I have found myself bound to this cage, through no fault of my own. He, who decided a beast was unfit to walk among his flawless, faultless gods, and through negotiation with a pathetic mortal king, demanded a prison be built to contain me in endless walls of stone. The truth is, I do not know if I will ever escape the labyrinth. I have learned not to hope. But if you somehow manage to unearth this scrawled plea, I ask that you come find me.
Find me, and I will grant you what you seek.