Myraden had half-expected to get away from the Saltsprays. She swatted some aside and stuck others, and nearly made it back the way they came…

And then Lady Clase had turned up.

The wizard had made quick work of Myraden, and had only stopped just before the killing blow.

It wasn’t the play Myraden would’ve gone with, for sure. Myraden would have made sure an enemy wizard was good and dead instead of taking prisoners—sparing the Saltspray warriors who had grated on her enough, though she supposed it was the only reason Pirin’s attempts at diplomacy had gotten as far as they had.

And look where diplomacy had ended them.

Still, Myraden was the equivalent of a child to a wizard like Lady Clase. There was little she or Pirin could do to such a powerful wizard in their current state.

And so Lady Clase had brought her up to the surface at the back of the convoy. They had tied her hands behind her back, taken all her equipment (including her armour), then pressed the restraining rune against her wrist—she couldn’t talk to Kythen, even if he was right in front of her.

Pirin had been somewhere up near the front of the convoy, but she couldn’t call out to him—the Saltsprays had done well enough to keep him unconscious…

Wait. Did that mean they thought he was more of a threat than she was? A pang of resentment had blasted through her, and she had shot it down immediately.

When they reached the surface, Kythen had been taken as a working animal—for carting goods up from the entrance of the tunnels back to the camp. They made sure to keep him always outside of her effective range, even if the umberstone restraining rune hadn’t been fastened to her wrist. She had been taken back to the camp.

At first, she thought she was going to be thrown back into the tunnels and made to gather trinkets and gold for Lady Clase. But the Lady sat her down at the table in the largest tent.

“A guard will accompany you at all times,” Lady Clase instructed. Sure enough, a guard had been lingering behind her the whole time, pointing a salt-crystal-tipped spear at her. “If you so much as touch the disruption rune, he will kill you where you stand. Am I clear?”

Myraden nodded.

“Sending you back into the tunnels would be a mistake,” Clase had said. “I’m sure you’d find a way to escape, and you’d just come back to cause problems for me. But after all the trouble you’ve made, we’re running rather low on hands up here—you’ll be put to work in the camp…” She motioned to the Saltspray warrior standing just inside the entrance of the tent. “...as one of my nephew’s personal servants. He is under the same instructions to kill you if you tamper with your disruption rune.”

Four days later, Myraden was sitting at the shaded edge of the camp, sheltered from the midday sun. She was helping a crew of Saltspray servants pack crates full of golden trinkets that would be taken to the personal residence of the nephew—Lord Clase—on whichever island the sect had come from. She didn’t really care.

“Be gentle with that!” Lord Clase snapped, tapping one of the servants on the back of the head with his cane. “That’s a delicate rune-scripted Essence condenser. From ages ago, though I’d doubt you could tell which age. If you break any of the rune-lines, it won’t work.”

He was young enough to be Lady Clase’s son, but he had the same high cheekbones and long brown hair. His simple white robe flowed behind him as he walked in a circle around the operation, surveying the tapestries and treasures, and snapping at his servants when they didn’t pack them gingerly enough.

He had a beaver for a Familiar as well, and it clung to his shoulder as he paced, nattering along with him.

So he was the second wizard that the sect was sending over.

Myraden tried to sense his spirit. It didn’t cause any tug on her own core; he was at the exact same stage—Catch—and he had to be near the peak as well.

For now, Myraden feigned obedience. As a sprite, she already stood out enough—fairer skin, blonde hair, and antlers that were about to fall out at any moment.

But every time one of the servants so much as made the treasures clink together, Lord Clase snapped something—a vague explanation of what the object was.

“That’s a Kavirsé!” or “An Essence-grade measuring tuner!” or “That tarp has instructions for carving ancient Eane-manipulating boundary fields! Predating the Age of Dominion.”

He liked to hear himself talk, for certain. But maybe she could pick his brain about the temple…

She purposely picked up a brass candle sconce from the pile of loose treasures waiting to be packed, dodging the hands of the other servants. She recognized it from some of the early tunnel doorways, and maybe with a little prodding, she could get him to tell her more.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

First, she wrapped it in a tattered cloth, but left a corner exposed. When she set it down in one of the crates, she made sure to tap it atop a different treasure that a different servant had packed very poorly.

“What are you doing?” Lord Clase exclaimed. A swat of his cane was coming. When it whooshed through the air, she tilted her head just enough that the blow glanced off with minimal pain inflicted. But it made a loud enough crack still—enough to be satisfying. “That’s an entryway sconce! One of a kind! Each is unique, so if you scuff the rune-lines, that’s uncountable years of ancient history lost!”

“Apologies,” Myraden muttered. But he hadn’t really told her anything she didn’t already know. She pressed, “Entryway…?”

“One of the near-surface gateways to this Eatharyl Labyrinth!” he snapped, folding his hands behind his back. “If this labyrinth was still functioning, the scone would have helped form invisible Essence checkpoints to alert intruders to the Labyrinth’s makers!”

“Makers?”

Lord Clase opened his mouth, then snapped it back shut. He scowled at her, then quickly swatted her on the side of the head with his cane. She hadn’t been expecting it this time, and the crack actually hurt. “Get back to work, sprite-filth,” he snapped. “You’re only alive because of Aunt Clase’s mercy.”

She rubbed the back of her head, then muttered, “Apologies…” Her antlers were starting to sway, shifting side-to-side like a loose tooth. A female sprite’s antlers always fell out in the spring.

For the rest of the afternoon, she and the other servants worked. With the same method, she managed to wring a little more information out of Lord Clase.

The Dulfer tunnels—or, more accurately, an Eatharyl Labyrinth—were some kind of Eane-manipulating underground megastructure. They were almost always buried, but when they became incapable of fulfilling their original purpose, they rose to the surface as dead monuments.

First, the ancient ruins on the Elven Continent. A few had risen in the western seas—on the other side of the world—and now on Dulfer’s Reach.

Myraden checked that with what she knew about the ruins already, and it seemed to line up.

It didn’t give her any clue where the Reign gems might be.

Late in the evening, when the sun was starting to set, another guard approached their little packaging operation and whispered something to Lord Clase. He nodded, then tapped his cane on the ground. “You, seafolk boy, and you, sprite, help me carry my effects.” He pointed his cane at Myraden, then at a scrawny seafolk boy who wouldn’t have been much help in the labyrinth at all.

Myraden picked up an armful of rusting equipment and carried it close behind the Lord. Most of them looked like sextants, just with runes carved on the weights.

“Sorry, my lord, but Lady Clase said the sprite is not supposed to enter the labyrinth,” said the guard. “She could—”

“We’re not going deep,” Lord Clase snapped. “We have been given the task of finding a direct shaft from the surface to the central chamber—and even Aunt Clase admits it’s not a very dangerous task.” He reached up and scratched his beaver’s head. “But Karr and I are the only sect runemakers, so I suppose Aunt thinks it’s a good way to spend my time. If she wanted to find a secret door so badly, she had weeks to do it herself…”

“Sorry, my lord,” the guard said, then stepped aside.

“You’re free to come with us and keep an eye on the sprite.” He began to walk away, and gave a chuckle as he did. “I’m supposed to be doing that as well. But I’ve learned from Aunt! Why do something yourself when you can get someone else to do it for you! Unless, of course, you have no other choice…”

Myraden tuned out Lord Clase’s nattering as he walked away, making some grand speech to himself about why this duty was below him. She was only interested in this supposed secret door and direct tunnel behind it.

If—when—she and Pirin escaped, a direct route down to the depths of the labyrinth would help them enormously.

So, after they entered the very surface tunnels of the labyrinth, she helped Lord Clase set up his tools, watching closely and intently, and trying not to get in the way. The rune-carved weights shifted, and Lord Clase gave them all touches of Essence for fuel. They were telling him…something.

Each sextant she jabbed into the sandstone made her arms itch more. She shouldn’t be grovelling before petty sect lords. She should have found a way to kill them and move on. She was a Cursebearer of Ískan, for the Eane’s sake…

But, admittedly, she’d been stuck at the Catch stage for much longer than she wanted. If she had a teacher, maybe she could have advanced higher. But, though he was her Familiar, Kythen wasn’t terribly helpful.

She needed someone to teach her just as much as Pirin did. Admitting that aloud was the hard part.

At least Kythen wasn’t around to hear that. He’d gotten rather proficient at reading her thoughts, lately.

If it meant finding a secret tunnel, though? If it meant getting a step closer to the Reign gems, she could put up with a little grovelling.

There was one more issue, though: she had to get the message to Pirin. He had been taken to one of the prisoner pits to rot while waiting for the Red Hand to resurface, which wasn’t great for him, but at least he was contained in one spot.

As she worked with the sextants, she pocketed one of the sheets of parchment that Lord Clase was writing notes on. Once, when she was supposed be noting measurements for the Lord, she laid her own sheet of parchment atop it and started making her own note. She wrote quickly and messily, and when she stuffed it back into her pants, she was sure the ink smudged. Hopefully it’d still be legible.

After a few hours, they returned back to the surface—and walked past the prison pits. “Which one is the…black-haired elf in?” she whispered to the seafolk boy.

“Why? Wanna go down there yourself? It’s not fun.” He looked away, purposely avoiding her eyes. His gills fluttered in an invisible wind.

“Just curious…” she said softly.

Before the seafolk boy could say anything, Lord Clase piped up. “The pit to our left!” he said gloatingly. “Cell on the exact opposite side of the pit, so the guards up here can see him, too. Want to head down and join him?”

“You—”

“Oh, I know he’s your friend. Just wanted to taunt you a little!” Lord Clase pointed forwards with his cane, then began to laugh to himself. “But I’ve got plenty of work for you all to do, so please keep up!”