More than one pious man has been led astray by a beautiful face and form, and thought they’d be able to redeem and reclaim the soul inside it.”
Farold’s eyebrows drew together. “But once she’s branded? How would it be possible?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Once she’d been judged redeemed, a second brand would be laid over the first, attesting to the restored purity of her soul.” Anton chuckled. “Very primitive views considering the revelations that have come since The Last War.”
“True.”
“I believe I’ve seen enough here, Farold.”
Murmurs rose in the cage next to Araña’s as soon as the two men left the room. Only now they were the sounds of men speaking in frightened turns about the demon, negotiating to work together in an attempt to survive and escape the maze.
Araña sank to the ground where she was. Fear and adrenaline washed away to leave a deep numbness.
Once again she pulled her knees to her chest to serve as a pillow. She wrapped her arms around them and let the curtain of hair hide her face.
Blood from her wrist soaked into her pants. Her side throbbed with pain, as did the places she’d been kicked and hit.
Thoughts of all she might be forced to endure in the maze overlaid the images of Matthew and Erik lying dead. The combination threatened to paralyze her, to provide an opening for despondency to envelope her in an icy haze.
It pulled at her, nearly succeeded in sucking her under and holding her there. But pride wouldn’t let her remain in the deadly embrace.
Matthew’s last words shamed her for allowing even a hint of hopelessness to invade her. Live for all of us, he’d said. And she would.
She would live for them. And she would avenge their deaths by killing the two guardsmen who’d brought her to the maze.
Slowly she became aware of her surroundings again. The words one of the prisoners was speaking sank in, and Araña turned her head slightly, just enough to peek through the black of her hair and read the tattoos on the man’s face.
Wife abuser. But he’d frequented one of the gambling clubs where his money was welcome despite the violence he’d been found guilty of. He’d watched men and beasts run through the maze, and though he’d never seen anyone escape it, he still had answers when the other convicts asked him questions about pitfalls and design, dead ends and traps.
Those answers chased the last of Araña’s emotional paralysis away. Hope blossomed and surged through her veins.
There were places like the maze in other cities. She’d heard them talked about in boat towns and outlaw settlements, wherever men and women gathered to brag and swap stories over beer and moonshine and homemade wine.
The names of the cities were often volunteered, but when a man ran a maze and survived it, he didn’t usually speak of its location or of the offenses leading to his imprisonment—and no one asked. That was unspoken custom among them because desperation could turn a former drinking buddy into a bounty hunter.
How many times had she heard the tale of Gallo’s escape from a maze? How many times had he bought her meals and filled Erik’s and Matthew’s cups with beer while she captured his stories on paper with her pens and pencils?
She’d run Gallo’s maze a hundred times in her imagination as she’d turned those oral stories into pictures. He’d never revealed the city, but as she listened to what the wife abuser said, familiar landmarks rose from her memory with perfect clarity.
She saw Gallo’s run through the maze. Saw the statues he’d passed, the walls streaked with blood where desperate men tried to claw their way up concrete surfaces studded with shards of glass. She saw the traps he’d discovered, the doorway to freedom he’d found, and she knew she had a chance of escaping death. This maze was the one Gallo had survived.
MOISTURE dampened Rebekka’s palms as she reached the edge of the red zone. In front of
Farold’s eyebrows drew together. “But once she’s branded? How would it be possible?”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Once she’d been judged redeemed, a second brand would be laid over the first, attesting to the restored purity of her soul.” Anton chuckled. “Very primitive views considering the revelations that have come since The Last War.”
“True.”
“I believe I’ve seen enough here, Farold.”
Murmurs rose in the cage next to Araña’s as soon as the two men left the room. Only now they were the sounds of men speaking in frightened turns about the demon, negotiating to work together in an attempt to survive and escape the maze.
Araña sank to the ground where she was. Fear and adrenaline washed away to leave a deep numbness.
Once again she pulled her knees to her chest to serve as a pillow. She wrapped her arms around them and let the curtain of hair hide her face.
Blood from her wrist soaked into her pants. Her side throbbed with pain, as did the places she’d been kicked and hit.
Thoughts of all she might be forced to endure in the maze overlaid the images of Matthew and Erik lying dead. The combination threatened to paralyze her, to provide an opening for despondency to envelope her in an icy haze.
It pulled at her, nearly succeeded in sucking her under and holding her there. But pride wouldn’t let her remain in the deadly embrace.
Matthew’s last words shamed her for allowing even a hint of hopelessness to invade her. Live for all of us, he’d said. And she would.
She would live for them. And she would avenge their deaths by killing the two guardsmen who’d brought her to the maze.
Slowly she became aware of her surroundings again. The words one of the prisoners was speaking sank in, and Araña turned her head slightly, just enough to peek through the black of her hair and read the tattoos on the man’s face.
Wife abuser. But he’d frequented one of the gambling clubs where his money was welcome despite the violence he’d been found guilty of. He’d watched men and beasts run through the maze, and though he’d never seen anyone escape it, he still had answers when the other convicts asked him questions about pitfalls and design, dead ends and traps.
Those answers chased the last of Araña’s emotional paralysis away. Hope blossomed and surged through her veins.
There were places like the maze in other cities. She’d heard them talked about in boat towns and outlaw settlements, wherever men and women gathered to brag and swap stories over beer and moonshine and homemade wine.
The names of the cities were often volunteered, but when a man ran a maze and survived it, he didn’t usually speak of its location or of the offenses leading to his imprisonment—and no one asked. That was unspoken custom among them because desperation could turn a former drinking buddy into a bounty hunter.
How many times had she heard the tale of Gallo’s escape from a maze? How many times had he bought her meals and filled Erik’s and Matthew’s cups with beer while she captured his stories on paper with her pens and pencils?
She’d run Gallo’s maze a hundred times in her imagination as she’d turned those oral stories into pictures. He’d never revealed the city, but as she listened to what the wife abuser said, familiar landmarks rose from her memory with perfect clarity.
She saw Gallo’s run through the maze. Saw the statues he’d passed, the walls streaked with blood where desperate men tried to claw their way up concrete surfaces studded with shards of glass. She saw the traps he’d discovered, the doorway to freedom he’d found, and she knew she had a chance of escaping death. This maze was the one Gallo had survived.
MOISTURE dampened Rebekka’s palms as she reached the edge of the red zone. In front of
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