He quite delighted in the retelling, and by the time he came to the part where the poor sod tried to turn in the corpses for a bounty at the inn, he had the entire party in stitches.

  Most of those present at the table were regulars at court, noblemen and women in the queen’s service, but a handful hailed from other cities or outlying estates. They too had to deal with bandits in one capacity or another, and found the tale particularly gratifying.

  Jerimauld said, “I say, Reginald, you’ll be a right regular mage before long if you keep collecting artifacts!”

  “I’m afraid I must perforce leave such pursuits to Dungeon Corps. They are far better suited for it, I’m afraid. My—I mean our—house mage is quite adept at such things. No doubt he would have dispatched all the bandits, had they not taken him out so early.”

  He glanced at Lexa, who had noted his faux pas, and decided to try and undo any damage from his slip of the tongue.

  “Lexa hired the fellow. She has quite the talent for spotting ability. She recruited those two elves in Dungeon Lord Percel’s team, you know.”

  All eyes turned to Lexa, and her lips twitched up.

  He’s very good at this, she thought.

  “Quite right,” Elliah said. “You know, Lexa dear, I sent your team down into the maze recently. It seems someone has been trying to solve it after all these years. It has created quite the series of disturbances across the land.”

  The conversation shifted then, as each person had a story to tell about some odd phenomenon they had witnessed in person or heard about.

  Once again, thanks to her husband, Lexa found herself the center of attention in this tight royal circle, seated at the right hand of the queen herself and engaging in meaningful conversation.

  It was, she decided, one of the most wonderful evenings in her entire life so far.

  Later, after dessert was brought out (a light cake topped with golden icing the same shade as the official royal color and topped in a light cream), the Elliah’s personal mage stepped through her side door.

  Roberton approached the head of the table as unobtrusively as possible and whispered a few words in her ear.

  Elliah nodded that she understood and he retreated back through the doorway.

  The queen stood after finishing her cake, and everyone else pushed their chairs back and stood, too.

  Elliah said, “It has been a lovely evening, and I want to thank you all for sharing this meal with me. Now if you will excuse me, I must retire early. Lord Reginald, would you and your wife please accompany me?”

  Although it was phrased as a polite request, neither would ever have considered refusing her.

  Lexa blushed as they followed the queen through her personal door. Jerimauld remained at the table to handle the remaining guests with after-dinner drinks and conversation.

  Once the door shut behind them, Lexa found herself in a narrow passageway lit with warm magical candles at evenly spaced intervals.

  “This leads to my private chambers,” Elliah said. “Come along. Roberton tells me there is something I should see. I want you to see it too, as it likely involves your Dungeon Corps people.”

  At the end of the corridor, the Queen opened another door and led them into a sumptuous sitting room, the walls paneled in dark wood and the floors carpeted in thick, soft white pile. Sofas and chairs were scattered about and a silver tea set rested on one low table, waiting to be of service.

  Roberton stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He gave a formal bow to the Queen, and nodded to Reginald and Lexa.

  “Tell them what’s going on, Roberton.”

  “Yes, your Majesty. A new face has appeared on the Tree of Horror.”

  Lexa blinked. She did not know what the Tree of Horror was, or what a “new face” appearing on it meant. Roberton gave her and Reginald a brief explanation.

  “But the problem is,” the mage said, “we do not know whose face it belonged to. It certainly is not one of the team we sent down. Not is it one of an elf. We hoped maybe letting you two see it could shed some light on who it might be. Especially since you, Lady Lexa, are so entwined with the Dungeon Corps in Phanos.”

  “Certainly we’ll be happy to take a look,” Reginald said, glancing back at his wife who nodded. “But I think we should take along our house mage, Justen. He has proven himself to be quite useful in tight situations, and has worked with Lord Percel’s team as well.”

  Elliah nodded, recognizing the name. She turned to Roberton and said, “Have somebody find him and bring him down to the tree.”

  Locating Justen proved challenging for the palace staff. He was nowhere to be seen on the premises. At last somebody decided to investigate the local pubs, and discovered him at a table in the Emerald Rabbit. He was quickly pulled away, his bill paid while going out the door. He was rushed down to the basement where he brushed off crumbs from his meal while approaching the queen, Roberton, Reginald and Lexa.

  He stared up at the Tree of Horror, dimly lit and leafless but for bronze death masks.

  “This one,” Roberton said, pointing, “was not here earlier. We have been inspecting the tree four times each day. Unfortunately, we do not know who this is. He is not an elf, and he is not one of the team members we sent down.”

  Justen stared up at the face, which stared upward in horror at the moment of the individual’s demise.

  He said, “A dwarf.”

  Roberton nodded. “I thought so as well. But, how did a dwarf get down into the Maze of Menos? We were after an elf. We sent elves and humans to chase him.”

  “I think some dwarves joined Dungeon Corps in Phanos recently.”

  “In Phanos? How did they get into the maze, if that’s the case?”

  “I don’t know. Let me make some inquiries.”

  Justen set about casting a message spell to the municipal mages in Phanos. After making contact with someone there, he cast a scrying spell so they could see the death mask. A quarter hour later, the group had their answer from Dungeon Corps Headquarters.

  Justen said, “His name was Egger Seymour, one of three dwarves on Choster the Vampire’s team. You’ll remember Choster, he helped considerably down in Melody.”

  The queen and Roberton both nodded.

  Elliah said, “But, how did he get into the maze?”

  “The speculation at this point, Your Majesty, is he was carried there in one of those temporal displacements that have been occurring so frequently. Choster’s team was reported missing two days ago. They were on a standard morning run through the crypts and never reported back in. A search party found no trace, and the grate to the lower levels was still securely locked, with no breaches in the wall evident. A temporal displacement seems the most likely scenario.”

  “I see. Well, that explains that,” she said.

  “Poor fellow,” Roberton said. “Looks like he never had a chance, whatever got him.”

  Justen said, “Let’s hope, if Choster is with Percel and the others in the maze, he can help them get through it.”

  The group quickly disbanded. The queen bid everyone a good night, and Roberton waited by the room’s door while Reginald and Lexa walked out.

  Justen remained a while longer, staring up at the brass death masks and thinking.

  “You can’t help them, I’m afraid. They’re already gone,” Roberton said.

  The other mage nodded, his face looking very much like a living skull in the dim light.

  Finally, he turned to leave. Roberton accompanied him back upstairs. Justen made his way back to the palace library and spent the remainder of the night searching through old books mentioning the maze.

  13

  Zitón paused at an intersection.

  He had no idea, as before, how long he had been in this part of the maze. It felt like an eternity. He felt tired and increasingly frustrated.

  I have come so far, he thought. Only to be thwarted by . . . a labyrinth.

  He was now in a true and traditional labyrinth, not a puzzle room or a magic arena. He estimated the walls to be 30 feet high. They were a light gray color with a hint of blue. The floors looked identical. The ceiling too, although it appeared to be much higher than the walls from what Zitón could tell. The ceiling glowed softly, providing more than enough light for him to see without aid.

  He wished for a levitation spell, or the ability to climb the walls and look around. But he had no way of climbing and he had long decided levitation spells would be cancelled by the maze’s magic.

  He sighed and took out a piece of charcoal. He sketched a quick zeta on the right wall of the intersection only to watch it fade immediately.

  He etched a directional arrow with his knife, knowing it was useless but curious if his location in the maze made any difference. Perhaps further in, the magic changed?

  But the scratch disappeared as well once his blade left the stone.

  So too, he knew, would any breadcrumbs or other markers left behind. They would all start fading away almost immediately.

  In fact, anything not on his person would disappear. He almost lost his moonblade that way, when he set it against the wall for a moment.

  The designers obviously did not want explorers marking their progress.

  “‘By mem’ry thou shouldst walk on through, If ’tis the Stone you seek to woo.’”

  It was an obscure reference retrieved by an elf two centuries past, recording a passage he had found in a human book.

  Zitón only knew of it because he read the travel logs of every trading expedition to Menos going back as far as he could find in the Vaults of Knowledge. Some Phronēsian in a group two centuries past recorded passages he found in a rare book. Unfortunately, the elf had neither the time nor inclination to bring the human book back to the tree. Such artifacts were deemed inferior to their elven counterparts, and the Phronēsian likely dismissed its value.

  Zitón ground his teeth in frustration. How he wished that nameless elf had brought the book back home. It likely detailed several aspects of the labyrinth that he could use right now.

  As it was, the lines were among the few clues of what Zitón was now to face in the third and final segment.

  Apparently, as the verse stated, here he must navigate the labyrinth without clues or hints to keep track of his progress. Magic prevented him from marking the walls or floors in any way.

  He had even tried tying a long string from the door as he set out, but that too disappeared after a while even though it never left his person. He suspected the designers had expected someone to try that and took magical measures to prevent it.

  So the old human doggerel held true. He would have to commit the route to memory. Unfortunately, doing so took a long time. Or at least, it felt like it.

  Zitón sighed, looking up at the ceiling again. How he wished he could scale those walls, or levitate himself up 30 feet or so.

  He dismissed the thought. The puzzle rooms prevented levitation, he knew from reading. Surely this part of the maze did as well. Anything that left his body, as far as Zitón could figure, simply disappeared. Perhaps if he actually levitated, he would too? It was an experiment he could not perform, so he put it out of his mind.

  He paused, trying to fix his location in memory, despite the fact that all the walls and floors looked the same.

  “I am here. This is what it looks like. At this intersection, I am turning right.”

  He sighed and set out down the new passage, which looked like all the others.

  About 50 steps later, he heard a voice for the first time in days.

  “What’s this, Sister? Is it footsteps I hear?”

  “Siopí.”

  “I will not hush. I hear someone walking the labyrinth. And use the modern tongue, dear. All the people upstairs do, these days.”

  Zitón paused. The voices were obviously female. They sounded very old and somewhat squawkish.

  “Oh dear, Sister. We’ve scared the poor young man who’s made it this far. Oh dear, oh dear. Of course, that’s what we’re supposed to do.”

  “Xotikó.”

  “Do you really think so? Not a man? Let me go take a look.”

  Before Zitón could move, an apparition swooped around the next intersection, blocking his way. An old and ugly woman with saggy jowls floated in the air before him. A wart grew on the very tip of her huge nose.

  Her skin looked puke green, and strands of oily black hair fell down to her shoulders. An ill-fitting brown sack dress came down to her shins.

  “Oh Sister, you were right. It’s an elf! An elf has come to visit us after all these years!”

  Another floating female rounded the corner, this time much slower. She looked nearly identical to the first except for two smaller warts on either cheek. She was plumper, and even more ugly if that were possible. She stared at Zitón with an irritated look and far less enthusiasm than the first.

  “Xotikó.”

  “Yes, this is an elf. I told you so!”

  The first one lightly slapped the other on her arm.

  Zitón stared at the two females, racking his brain. The mentioning of threats in the final portion of the maze were few and far between in the written record, probably because so few adventurers ever made it this far. Beyond memorizing the route, he was truly unprepared for anything else here.

  He cleared his throat, nervously.

  “Ladies.”

  He bowed formally from the waist.

  “Oh, look! He’s so polite!”

  The second apparition harrumphed.

  “But where are our manners? How do you do, fair elf? I am Fovizménos, and this is my sister Thimoménos.”

  Zitón paused for a moment, thinking.

  He said, “Uh . . . Frightened? And . . . Angry?”

  Fovizménos clapped her hands and smiled.

  “Look, Sister! Look! Look! He knows the Old Tongue so well! You should like him!”

  Thimoménos harrumphed again. She took a breath to speak before Fovizménos cut her off.

  “Use the modern language, Sister. It’s only polite! He spoke to us with it; it’s obviously his first choice.”

  Thimoménos glared at her, but relented. When she spoke her voice sounded ancient and crackling, and an octave deeper than her sister’s.

  She said, “Fine. But do not forget our purpose, Fovi. Or have you forgotten after so many centuries without an adventurer making it this far?”

  “Oh! Right! We must prevent this fellow from making progress in the maze! But look how far he’s come, Sister. When was the last time someone even made it to this point?”

  “Time does not matter here. You know this. Though we linger aeons, our purpose remains. Now, get to work!”

  Thimoménos disappeared.

  Fovizménos looked at Zitón and smiled.

  She said, “Oh, well. At least we’ll have some fun!”

  Then she disappeared as well.

  Startled at their abrupt departure, Zitón looked around in all directions. But there was nothing more to see. The stark gray walls, floor and ceiling remained as featureless as before.

  He could find no trace of the ugly green-skinned creatures named after emotions. Or, he thought, emotional states.

  Finally, he shrugged. The apparitions had been too real to chalk up to his imagination, but there was no sign of them now.

  He took a step forward.

  A low roar came from around the corner of the next intersection.

  He paused, and drew the moonblade. A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. He waited for whatever approached to show itself.

  A huge creature lumbered around the corner, standing almost as tall as the walls. It stopped and faced Zitón.

  It had a bull’s head perched atop a giant’s body. It wore only a loincloth below rippling abs, a stout chest and huge shoulders. In one beefy hand it carried a wicked mace with iron spikes sprouting from a heavy metal ball on the end of a chain.

  The Minotaur snorted and glared at the elf with hatred. It tilted its neck back and roared. Then it crouched and charged Zitón, racing footsteps echoing off the stone walls and floors with the sound of impending doom. It reached back to swing the mace.

  Zitón quailed. He dropped his stance and let the sword droop in his hand. The elf gave in to a sudden surge of terror filling his heart. He turned and ran.

  The Minotaur roared and chased after him. Zitón felt the swish of air as the giant mace swung and narrowly missed his head. Zitón turned down an intersection, then another and another.

  Half an hour later, or so it seemed, he escaped. The creature no longer hounded him.

  Zitón sat down and leaned his back against the wall of the maze. He panted, trying to regain his breath.

  At last he calmed down and wiped the sweat from his face.

  He stood clumsily and sheathed his sword, being careful not to let go of it.

  He looked around . . . and realized he was completely lost.

  -+-

  Roberton peered over Justen’s shoulder deep in the Royal Library out of pure professional interest.

  Last night Queen Elliah’s librarian, an older woman by the name of Henna, had procured for the house mage every old book and document her vast repository held that dealt with the maze.

  Henna had seen a thing or two in her 81 years. She was still spry and bright-eyed, despite the occasional bout with creaky joints. This, she professed in private, she “self-medicated” with the “elixir of potatoes.” Evidently, Henna’s hobbies included maintaining a small distillery in her free time.

  But Henna knew where the tomes on the Maze of Menos were tucked away. Her predecessor had shown her the location, deep within unmarked shelves near the back of the huge room dedicated to the Royal Library. Evidently, the historical record dealing with the maze was something of a regular request. She said many important visitors, including those from other lands, often asked to see the collection when visiting.

  While Justen sat at a table in the front, Henna brought out twelve old books, two scrolls, and one flat piece of parchment with a few words scrawled on it.

 

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