Chapter Thirty-eight
THEA
T he mist devoured her, and suddenly Wilder was gone. When Thea looked back the way she’d come, she could see nothing but swirling white fog that seemed to push at her back, to coax her forward.
This is it , she told herself as she stepped onto the sacred grounds of the Great Rite. She had dreamt of this her whole life, and now… now she was about to face the deadly trials crafted by the Furies themselves, challenges that would push the limits of her mortal resilience.
Let them try , Thea thought as she started up the incline of the mountain.
The terrain was uneven and steep, with icy rocks concealed beneath the frost-kissed leaf litter.
All around her, the air was damp and prickly, bearing down on her along with the closed-in feeling of the woods.
She could barely see the glimpses of sky beyond the barren canopy, but it didn’t matter.
By the magic of the Furies, she knew the way: up .
The mist danced around her ankles as she trekked on, her calves burning as the gradient became even more arduous.
She was quietly grateful that she bore no pack across her shoulders.
But with every step, her trepidation grew.
Her heart was racing in anticipation for the first trial to be sprung upon her.
At any moment, she expected to be thrown into a pit of chaos.
She wasn’t.
Strong of mind, strong of body, strong of heart , she chanted to herself with every foot placed in front of the other.
Thea knew that the imminent prospect of danger could be almost as trying as the danger itself, and so she steeled her mind, trying to lose herself in the physical task of climbing the formidable mountain. When the trial began, she’d know it.
Time became an expanse of nothing. There were no markers to signify the hours passing, only the sweat on Thea’s brow and the thirst that dried her tongue and throat.
It didn’t take her long to realise that she needed to hydrate if she meant to continue.
Thankfully, there was no shortage of narrow streams carving their way down the mountain, and Thea dropped to her knees beside one now, cupping her hands beneath the icy water.
She brought it to her lips and drank deeply.
Closing her eyes as the crisp taste hit her lips and soothed her parched mouth, she drank her fill.
When she opened her eyes, she was no longer by a stream.
She was inside the mountain itself, staring at a wall of mirrors.
Torches illuminated the cavernous space, their flames reflected in the shiny surfaces before her.
Thea saw her startled expression in her own reflection, her confusion winding tighter as she walked the length of mirrors.
As she did, they shifted, creating a strange optical illusion that followed her with every step.
The nape of her neck prickled as two of the reflective sheets swung inward.
Inside was a mirrored passageway. Beyond that, more mirrors.
A maze , she realised.
Silence echoed louder than a shout down that glimmering path, the eeriness of its call almost palpable. Thea stood at the threshold, gathering her wits, knowing that whatever awaited her within those walls would test her mental resolve beyond anything she’d ever experienced.
I have to get to the heart .
The thought came to her out of nowhere, a distant voice of reason, and she knew in her bones that was what she must do. Something was waiting for her at the centre.
Resting her hands on the grips of each of her daggers, she took a breath, and stepped inside.
Instantly, the mirrored doors swung shut behind her, leaving her standing at the start of the long path.
Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their flames lighting up the sea of stalactites hanging down like daggers above.
But Thea knew that being impaled by a falling mineral formation was the least of her concerns.
There was danger here – she could feel it crawling along her skin, waiting to sink its teeth into her…
and more dangerous still was whatever waited for her beyond the winding paths.
Slowly, she started the march, trying not to jump every time a mirror shifted and showed her reflection at a new angle. It was all a trick of illusion and light, all designed to keep her tense, anticipating the first strike.
With every step into the labyrinth, Thea’s chest grew tighter, the pressure sitting right over her heart growing heavier by the moment.
There was no way of knowing the way to the heart of the maze, no discernable markings or clues.
The twisting corridors offered more of the same: her own visage unnervingly multiplied.
Then, there was a whisper.
Her own voice called out to her, only she couldn’t understand the words.
Thea picked up her pace. The sooner she got to the centre of this place and dealt with the challenge there, the better.
Time works differently in the Great Rite , Wilder had shared with her in the Bloodwoods. She knew that hours within the ritual could be mere moments in the midrealms beyond, and vice versa; it was part of the Rite’s legend. It only made her all the more eager to hurry things along.
But as she increased her speed, something flickered in her reflections. Thea’s blood ran cold as they stopped following her actions.
Now, when she moved, they did not.
Dozens of Theas stared back at her. They did not step when she stepped. They did not wave when she waved. They did not blink when she blinked.
Instead, they mirrored the rot inside her.
A strangled gasp tore from Thea’s mouth as she saw what lurked beneath the surface of her.
Selfishness. Greed. Hatred.
A version of herself she hardly recognised, one that would see all those she cared for chained and broken before she gave up what she wanted. But there was a whisper of truth there, too… Her reflections twisted and danced in triumph as that kernel settled in the chasm of Thea’s aching chest.
She gripped her daggers hard enough to make her knuckles burn, and it was this pain that grounded her enough to keep moving.
Get to the heart , she told herself. Get to the heart and slay whatever monster lies in wait .
Whispers filled the air, haunting murmurs in her own voice that trailed over her skin like oil. Promises of power, if only she would give up a sliver of herself – the parts that don’t matter anyway, her voice echoed in her mind.
Dull pain throbbed at her temples whenever she looked away from the mirrors, as though she’d had too much wine or was looking at direct sunlight.
Her gaze was forced back to the glass, where she was broken apart for all to witness: her streak of cruelty, her self-obsession, her pig-headedness and her disregard for others.
Yes, she had regressed and sunk into every one of those traits and more to stand where she now did, where she now looked upon herself in all her ugly glory.
Thea fought to get enough air into her lungs, one hand flying from her dagger to her chest, as though she might alleviate some of the pressure there.
But without the rough grip of the dagger against her palm, she became more untethered.
For the heartbeat she sought to feel beneath her skin wasn’t there.
There was nothing but hollowness, and the kiss of malice against her soul.
Not that of monsters and evil tyrants, but her own. It tasted of her. It knew her.
Thea staggered under the force of it, but managed to take the next turn. She was greeted with more reflections, every one of them a more twisted version of herself, clawing at her psyche, gnawing at her beliefs.
Yield , she heard herself whisper in the distance. Yield to what you are.
‘No,’ she rasped aloud. The sound of her true voice gave her a momentary reprieve from the onslaught of madness that was nearly consuming her.
On some level, she knew that the maze of mirrors had been designed to unleash chaos in her mind, to fragment her beliefs, her memories, her perception of herself.
But that knowledge did nothing in the face of her identity, for with each new facet she saw, the ability to discern illusion and warped perception from reality frayed.
‘Don’t go mad,’ she told herself. ‘Keep walking, keep walking,’ she chanted, feeling her feet move beneath her but unable to process the distance covered.
She didn’t know if she was closer to or further away from the centre of the maze, but she couldn’t stand there and watch the nightmare versions of herself unfold.
Everything was distorted. Her regrets, her fears, everything she thought she knew about Althea Zoltaire, Guardian of Thezmarr.
A soft crackling sounded.
At first, Thea thought it might be her magic, and wondered if she could sweep herself away in a storm of lightning and thunder.
But no storm whispered at her fingertips.
Instead, she saw frost form on the edges of the mirrors, ice crystallising out of nowhere around her many reflections.
Like a sailor to a cyren’s song, in a trance she was lured closer to the glass, staring at what unfolded there.
It was the scene Anya had shown her: they were children, hiding in the cellar with Audra and Farissa at the helm, keeping them safe from whatever darkness consumed Thezmarr’s courtyard above. Only this time, Thea was whispering to Anya.
‘I dare you,’ she said softly, her eyes eager and bright. ‘I dare you to see what’s happening outside.’
Anya fidgeted. ‘Audra said we needed —’
Even at just four years old, Thea’s smile was smug. ‘I knew you wouldn’t.’
Anya’s eyes flashed. ‘Fine!’
Thea’s expression was pure triumph. ‘Get as close as you can. You want to see everything.’
Wren was too little to play with, but Thea was a keen adventurer, brave and always getting into trouble. Even at such a young age, she knew it irked her older sister to be left behind, which made Anya all the more determined to solidify her place as the trailblazer of the orphaned Zoltaire girls.
‘Hurry or you’ll miss it,’ little Thea taunted.