Chapter 6 The Bazaar
The Bazaar
Ipace for who knows how long in Mavick’s living room. I struggle to wrap my head around the riddle, the fact that Mavick could be gravely injured or worse, and the dawning reality that I’ve no fucking clue how to help them.
Well, I have one clue—this note. It takes several more rounds of pacing to work up the nerve to pluck it.
With effort, I pry the dagger from the once hidden door and toss it aside.
As though afraid it will explode, I take the paper into my hands with extreme care.
Nothing happens. I grip its corners taut and scan the riddle over and over, willing my sluggish mortal brain to read between the lines.
Why was it always a fucking riddle? As if on cue, the words bounce around my skull in a teasing tone:
If you’re looking for your lost friend, you’ll have to start where it all began.
This is where it all began. Here. Mavick’s cottage.
This is where our friendship started. Where our friendship lived.
We never once left this place. Everything we shared was within these cottage walls.
Without much reason, I tear through Mavick’s bookshelves, searching for any sort of hint.
Nothing seems new or unfamiliar. Nothing catches my eye.
I glance back at the passageway and a thought occurs to me.
Once again, I wind up in the dark tunnel, standing in front of the entrance to Mavick’s cottage.
To Sanctuary. The passageway sits at a dead end, but I’ve never tried to look beyond it.
Mindlessly, I run my fingers along the edge of the watery, mirror-like surface, much like the paintings and tapestries of my youth.
As though I’ll find a tunnel hidden within the already secret tunnel.
This is a stupid idea, born of my desperation.
Several times I am sucked back into Mavick’s living room, lightheaded and wobbling, my shaky fingers having grazed the molten swirls of the passageway.
There can’t possibly be anything behind it—nothing but cold, rough stone from what I can tell in the dark.
But it was where it all began, right? My first taste of Sanctuarian magic.
I bite my bottom lip hard, puzzling through it in my head.
Where it all began.
I sprint toward the tunnel’s entrance before I can doubt myself.
I hit the backside of the tapestry so hard that I tumble out, diving headfirst. The sound of my graceless smack against the tile floor echoes in the deserted corridor.
I roll onto my back, reeling and gasping, my lungs robbed of air by the impact. I stare up in horror. Wonder. Fear.
And there it is—the tapestry. The chaotic scene in the bazaar. It registers. I understand where I must go.
You’ll have to start where it all began.
This is where I was first drawn in, by the fairy-tale-like depiction.
The bazaar Mavick spoke of so often—where they once bought a vial of purple elixir from a seer, where they once picked a fight with a drunken vampire, where they once charmed the literal bottoms off of a sprite.
But how do I even get there? I have no idea where the bazaar is, I only know of the passageway to Mavick’s.
Again, it seems my subconscious knew all along, and raw certainty settles in the pit of my stomach.
The door in Mavick’s kitchen. The once hidden, secret door.
One they didn’t want me to know about. It must be another passageway.
Why else did Mavick not wish for me to know it was there?
For fear I would be too curious? For fear I would ask too many questions?
If it was their broom closet, they would not have bothered to hide it.
Am I delusional?
Is this even a quest I’m supposed to undertake?
For fuck’s sake—I am a mortal princess. Whether I want it or not, it is my reality.
I might as well be useless, thanks to my upbringing, my sheltered life here in the castle.
I possess no fighting skills, no strength, no untapped magic.
Only my brain and my mouth, from years of study and cheek.
Not to mention an extremely limited knowledge of the fae.
Of the world in general. But, what would I do if Mavick was gone forever?
Bile rises in my throat at the thought of Mavick, beaten and broken, held captive by who knows what.
Are you brave enough to loosen the chains?
The mocking words echo through my head. I sit up, rubbing my temples.
I have never considered myself brave, per se—my mind flashes to stories of knights slaying dragons and rescuing damsels.
But wandering on my own, even as a child, never frightened me.
Maybe I wasn’t brave in the classic sense—though I hadn’t had many chances to test my courage, really—but there were other ways to be brave.
Are the chains that must be loosened my own?
The invisible ones I feel here, caged within this castle, trapped within my unwanted title and birthright?
Mavick would do this for me. Mavick would help me. I must find them. The resolve pulses through me, my heart thumping violently.
I stand and make my way back down the long tunnel, again entering Mavick’s passageway.
There’s no telling what all I’ll need in Sanctuary.
I grab the scroll from where I abandoned it, fold it neatly, and stuff it into the bodice of my dress.
I hardly need it though, as it seems the riddle may be seared into my thoughts.
I find an empty satchel and pack it with a loaf of brown bread from the kitchen, as well as two handfuls of mystery fruit.
Small bottles and vials of various substances clink together in my wake.
I blink. By whim, I pick a handful of random potions and stuff them in the satchel, too.
No idea what they are, but maybe I can find someone to tell me.
Maybe they will be as useful as the purple elixir.
Father. Shit. Guilt rears its bitter head again, but time makes little sense here.
It’s possible I will return before he even realizes I left.
I consider leaving a note for Alma back in my bedchambers before ultimately deciding against it.
If I don’t go now, while resolution emboldens me, I may reason myself out of it.
I stand before the once hidden doorway for some time, my foot tapping in its usual nervous fashion.
I glance down and notice the discarded dagger that held up the scroll.
On impulse alone I retrieve it, shoving it into the loop on my belt under my cloak where my stolen pouch once rested.
It won’t hurt to have some sort of protection.
The thought chills me, and I swallow hard, my resolve shuddering.
Another needling notion threatens to undo my plans.
What if I’m wrong and this passageway does not lead to the bazaar?
What if it’s simply… a door? I don’t know where Mavick’s cottage sits—it could be in the middle of a cursed forest, or on a mountain cliffside—it could be so desolate that I could never stand a chance.
No, girl, there’s no going back now. The voice that speaks in my head belongs to Mavick. I could never forgive myself if I did not help them. They’re right. No turning back. Too late to undo what is done.
I already crossed one invisible line today—what’s another?
My clammy hand brushes the plain door’s knob, and I am unwittingly catapulted forward.
Much like Mavick’s passageway, I float through a brief, colorless void before my feet crash into solid ground.
I manage to stay upright only because I am buffeted by a dense, moving crowd.
For one biting second, I exhale with relief—it’s not the middle of nowhere.
No. Instead, it deposited me smackdab in the middle of the bazaar, right where I hoped to be.
The calm doesn’t last as my eyes dart around in dawning realization.
The door, the passageway, is gone. I did not even consider that as a possibility.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There is no time to think about how I will get back. I am shoved every which way by the mass of movement.
“Sorry! Pardon me!” I squeak feebly, training my eyes on the ground as I search for a pocket of stillness to regain my bearings. I shove my way to the edge of the shifting wave and chance a look around.
The tapestry doesn’t do it justice. A tangible, frenetic energy fills the air here.
And there are creatures everywhere—faeries, goblins, minotaurs, fish-headed people, half-goat people, sprites—of every shape and color imaginable.
But there are also regular humans, whether glamoured that way or actual plain mortals, it’s impossible to gather without getting close.
The warm sky is lit by a vibrant orange sun, reminiscent of the coppery glow our sky gives at sunrise.
There are stout buildings, colorful stalls, and drab tents as far as the eye can see, but none are very tall, and I spy a dark smear of a forest along the outer northern rim.
Much like Aston’s market, this place is bustling with life.
It feels parallel and yet utterly foreign.
I flip the hood of my cloak up and tuck in my curly hair, regretting not having let Alma, the backstabber, tame it.
Though it appears there are other mortals here, I do not wish to draw attention.
I stare around the bazaar, searching for—what?
I have no fucking clue. Perhaps the kindest face?
Anyone who looks like they may not shoo me away? What do I even ask?
Do you know a Mavick? Have you seen them? Do you recognize the handwriting on this very ominous scroll that I found in an empty cottage splattered with my best friend’s blood?
It’s becoming apparent that I am well in over my head. I swallow the panic rising in my throat.
I decide to move again with the crowd, toward the center of the bazaar, hoping that busying my boots will inspire a plan. I am too restless—too fueled by fear and anxiety—to think. This time, I keep my eyes up in an effort to not jostle anyone or be jostled. The riddle plays on repeat in my ears.
Are you wise enough to request aid?
Surely that means I need to ask someone for help—now I must work up the courage. But, it does not say are you courageous enough to request aid… Wise. I must be wise about who I ask.
Despite my best efforts, I am distracted. The broad back of whatever creature is in front of me halts and I notice a beat too late. I crash into them with a yelp.
My apology sticks to my dry tongue as the creature turns to face me.
In dismay, I take in a man’s brawny, tanned body.
Where his head should be, a horned bull’s head sits instead.
I’ve never met a minotaur in person, but Mavick once warned they were always foul-tempered.
This one seems no different. I back away, my palms up in the—hopefully even here—universal sign of surrender.
He takes a step closer, towering over me. I stand to my fullest height. “I am so sorry,” I say, speaking as loudly as my quivering voice will allow, “it was an accident.”
His fierce eyes glisten as he shouts at me in a guttural language I cannot comprehend.