Ghostly figures manifest at the center of the room, hovering over a bed. Their faces are covered by masks.
“Another death? Unfortunate. Prep the next one,” a tall man says to a young woman. “Cathal wants a complete report by sunrise. Did you get a reading from the last test?”
My heart twists in horror. Cathal is in charge of this?
“The data is inconclusive, sir,” she responds. “There’s still no evidence to suggest that a Bard can be ‘cured’ of the gift. Or that it can be bestowed artificially.”
The man shrugs. “If it can be done, it would boost efficiency. That’s what Cathal is interested in. If it can’t, then we’ll know conclusively and can pursue other avenues.”
“At least there’s no shortage of test subjects.” I can nearly hear the grimace on the young woman’s voice from behind her white mask.
“They’re Bards. They’ve given their lives for High House,” he says reverently. “They are doing their duty as we are doing ours. Reset the devices and bring out the next one.”
My breath comes out shakily, grating against my throat, still raw from the smoke, as the figures dissipate into another realm.
I feel a lurching sensation as I turn, as if the castle is contorting impossibly around me, the same way a dream would. This time, I’m in Cathal’s solarium.
It’s dark, with only the faint light of one torch and the gossamer fabric of the phantom realm I’m in to illuminate the room. The leaves of the exotic plants and the angles of the statues and furniture make everything seem unnatural and elongated.
The door opens quietly, and I turn toward the sound, expecting to see Cathal. My brow knits when instead I’m faced with Kennan.
My rage flares. If only I wasn’t trapped on a spectral plane and could punch her again for what she did to my mother. And a third time just for myself and everything she put me through.
I seethe, watching as she tiptoes around the furniture, casting wary glances around her.
The door opens again, louder this time. I remain still for a moment, until I remember I can’t be seen. Kennan slips behind one of the chaise longues, nimble as a cat.
“Come out of there, Kennan, it’s just me.” Niall strolls into the room. “I see you’re up to your old tricks.”
Kennan comes out of hiding and faces her fellow Bard. My gut twists as I watch them. Maybe they were accomplices all along.
“Stay out of my way,” Kennan says. “It was Cathal who weakened the structure under the tower that night. I will prove it.”
“Don’t you dare go pinning that tragedy on Lord Cathal.” Niall glares at her dangerously. “Even if you had a shred of proof, no one will believe a woman with a known history of…”
“I know what I saw!” Kennan snaps, interrupting him.
Niall scoffs. “Do you? Do you really?”
“I…” For the first time, I see Kennan falter. Then my surroundings fade to darkness again.
High House was supposed to be a bastion of truth and order. That’s what we were always told. Could this be a trick of the labyrinth? I don’t want to believe that Cathal is capable of such atrocities. I don’t want to believe that anything masked in a mantle of righteousness could be so evil.
How many Bards has Cathal sent to find the Book of Days? How many Bards have met this fate?
Am I next?
I step back, looking frantically for a door. An escape. Several appear, like before. I rush to the nearest one and barrel through it quickly.
Am I doomed to madness?
Succumbing to insanity again feels like a mercy. Anything is better than the truth.
I run.
I find more rooms. More corridors. More darkness. Everywhere I turn are the specters of High House. Door after door after door …
My heart is hammering in my chest. I stop, finding myself in the hallway of the female Bards’ dormitory. Right back where I started.
The doors don’t go anywhere except in circles. This is how the others were trapped. How I might be trapped if I don’t think of something.
I trusted the doors before. Trusted High House. I let it lead me.
But perhaps I should be taking charge.
I close my eyes, concentrate, but I can barely catch my breath, can’t think straight. I’m dizzy with frustration, with exhaustion, with fear.
I press myself flat against the stone wall and sink to the floor. I want to cry but nothing comes. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what’s real anymore.
Panic rushes through me, that this is all a nightmare and I’m still standing in the doorway of my home in Aster, screaming in horror over Ma’s death. That I am hurtling downward in a chasm of uncertainty and I will never, ever stop falling.
This must be what madness feels like. It is worse than death.
Cathal said the labyrinth nearly killed him. I understand now what he meant. Death, or permanent entrapment in this endless nightmare, is starting to seem like a real and distinctly terrifying possibility.
My body aches under the weight of everything that’s happened to me. I can’t stop shaking—not even when I hear a soft sound reaching me as if from across a great distance.
I squint. Imogen stands at the end of the hall, framed in shadow. Her curls loose around her face. From so far away, she looks tiny, and I’m reminded how young she is—not much older than I was when I lost Kieran.
How did she know? Why does she always appear whenever I feel alone, whenever I need her?
My name is Imogen, she’d said. Like my favorite ewe from back home.
It hits me like a thousand boulders.
She isn’t real either. She’s a Telling. Nothing more than an illusion. She is me. My younger self. A figment of my desperation.
“No,” I murmur, trying to hold my voice steady. “You aren’t real.” My voice scrapes against my throat. “I’m alone.”
She steps closer cautiously.
Her face is half hidden in the dim light. She reaches toward me. Her hand touches my shoulder, and I shudder. Her touch feels real. I’m so confused, so scared, so overwhelmed, I don’t know what to think.
She kneels before me. This close, she doesn’t look exactly like me. Her eyes are darker. She has only a small beauty mark under her eye instead of a multitude of freckles. Her hair is wilder.
I blink. I seem to be between dimensions now; half in reality, half in the labyrinth.
“Shae,” she says softly. “You’re not alone.”
“That can’t be…” I say, not wanting to trust her, not ready to trust anything. “You’re only a Telling. A figment of my imagination.”
She quirks her head. “Well, that’s unexpected,” she blurts out. It’s so direct, I almost laugh.
Instead, I swallow. “How are you here? Why are you always appearing right when I need you?”
Imogen sighs and looks away. When she looks back at me, I see the hint of a smile in her eyes. “He told me to watch out for you. To make sure you were okay.”
“He?” Is she talking about Cathal? Ravod?
“All I can say is, I know how strong you are, Shae. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” Gently, she reaches out and brushes my hair from where it’s fallen into my face. “You should really give yourself more credit.”