"Well, that was odd," Ben murmurs as soon as we're a safe distance away from Kestrel's tent. He pulls my mirror out of his belt. "Mary, why didn't you ask him about the stuff going on?"

I sigh. "Something didn't feel right. There's too much at stake, and I didn't trust him." I'm not sure I could point out any specifics, apart from that look of greed that I spotted briefly in his eyes, but there was definitely something off about him. He gave me the same sort of noisome feeling as some of my more powerful prior wielders have, as though his magic was rotting from the inside.

Ben glances over his shoulder at the tent, then moves a bit farther away. "I didn't like him either," he confesses. "But I thought that was just me feeling out of place, ya know? Like, maybe, that's just how all mages act, so it's nothing to worry about."

I tell my mask to shake its head. "Most mages are eccentric, but you can usually tell the good ones from the bad ones just like anyone else." They're still mortal, after all. They aren't like the fae, who can pretend to be your best friend while plotting your destruction.

"Huh." The huntsman pauses to think this over. "Now that I think about it, he reminded me of the Seneschal from back home. I don't know if ya ever met him, but he wasn't someone to cross. He'd be all oily and charming to the nobles, but he treated the rest of us like the scum on the bottom of his boots. He nearly broke a chambermaid's nose once, when she brought him the wrong thing for breakfast."

As it happens, I do know who he's talking about – though I've never met the Seneschal, the Queen occasionally ordered me to spy on him. He's a wizened older man with dark, beady eyes and a perpetual smirk, as well as a rather astounding collection of fancy shoes. I can never figure out how he pays for all of them; I halfway suspect that he's stealing from the Treasury on the sly.

I wouldn't have compared him to Kestrel, though, until Ben pointed it out. But now it makes a lot of sense. Kestrel's expression when he saw me was a perfect match for the Seneschal's expression whenever he received a new pair of slippers.

I inform Ben of this, and he guffaws. "Really? That's..." He shakes his head and quickly sobers. "Well, anyway, I guess we can agree that that was a dead end." The crowd thins for a moment, and he seizes the opportunity to begin walking. "So, what now, milady? Anyone else you want to see? Maybe this Rose person?"

The thought tempts me, but I shake my head. "We can't wait that long, unfortunately." While part of me wants to chase down this rabbit until it's finally within our grasp, the more rational side of me knows how foolish that would be. It might take weeks, or even months, to get concrete answers, and the huntsman simply doesn't have that much time to spare.

That realization sends a thrill of disappointment through me, which surprises me. Since when did I start desiring things that are clearly irrational? With my powers, it's easy for me to predict the most likely outcome of any particular action; indeed, that's basically my whole purpose. So when did I start wishing for outcomes that are clearly unlikely? Such desires are simply not rational. A simple cost-benefit analysis proves that our best course of action here is to return to the farseers and see if we can pry more information out of them, not spend weeks hunting for nebulous leads that may lead nowhere. So why does even a small part of me wish for the latter?

I push the unwanted emotions away. As much as I've come to enjoy his company, I think I've been spending a bit too much time with Ben. "I..."

The world comes screeching to a halt.

After an achingly long moment wherein I wonder if I've gone blind, the multiverse shudders into motion again, and I feel my connections to the world return. Vision, dim at first, begins to clear, allowing me to glimpse the market again. But my connections to the other worlds have thinned even beyond the tenuous tendrils that Goblin Market allows me to retain.

As the wisps drift in and out of focus, I feel a wave of panic threaten to break over me. What if I lose them entirely? Is this the market's doing, or something else?

"Mary? Mary, what's wrong?" Ben sounds nervous, but not particularly frantic – I must not have been out for too long.

I attempt to keep my voice calm, but I can hear it shake as I tell him, "We need to get out of here. Now."

He doesn't stop to question me, just turns and begins to eel his way through the crowd. The massive gates of the market rise over the tents in the distance – too far away for my liking, but we'll get there soon enough. Until then, I just have to hang on.

As Ben slips through the crowd, careful to avoid giving offense but still moving rapidly, I gather the wisps of my connections to myself and take a virtual deep breath. Everything will be okay. This is a temporary problem, and it will soon be resolved. There is no reason to worry.

I feel like I'm attempting to soothe a fractious horse, but it seems to be working. Is it just my imagination, or are the wisps getting slightly stronger? The market won't let me see into any other worlds, curse it, but it does feel like my connections to them aren't quite as weak as they were a moment ago.

Then, finally, we emerge from the market, and everything snaps back into the place.

The sudden rush of information rockets through my home between the worlds like a tsunami. Hundreds of thousands of worlds reconnecting all at once send spikes of pain through my mind as I'm assaulted by a million fragments of vision. Sounds clamor for attention – apparently some of my wielders have been trying to reach me while I've been in the market, and are growing rather annoyed.

I send a few fragments of myself to deal with them, but the bulk of my attention remains focused on sorting through my myriad connections, restoring them to full health. Most feel perfectly normal – the timestream is flowing normally, and everything is as it should be. But a few bear an almost-indistinguishable taint.

One of those is the world of the labyrinth.

I pull myself out of the space between the worlds for a brief moment. "There's something I need to check on," I tell Ben, forming my mask into a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I won't be away long, but I need to focus on it, so I might not reply immediately."

As he nods in comprehension, I dive back into the space between the worlds, and then send the majority of myself into the labyrinth world.

At first glance, it looks just like I left it, but it's clear that a few days have passed. The young girl who's going to be sacrificed to the monster in the labyrinth, Ariadne, sits and weeps in her dungeon cell – she looks thinner than before, but mostly unharmed. Her father, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen, while the man who I expected to kill the beast languishes in a cell with the rest of the tributes.

I frown. Kastor, the man who invented the maze, was supposed to help this would-be hero. He certainly seemed determined enough to me when I last spoke to him; did he get caught by the guards? But if so, wouldn't he be in the dungeon as well? Or did the king of this land order his body buried in some hidden grave deep in the forest?

I ponder that hypothesis for a bit, then discard it. If Kastor had been killed, this island kingdom would have lost its last true flame of hope, and the difference would be obvious. The colors are certainly a bit dimmer than they ought to be, but this world is nowhere near as tainted as the one where the *other* huntsman killed the princess – the heroes still have a chance to win here.

But only if they get off their butts and start acting, and the current would-be hero is doing nothing of the sort. I wonder if he's as empty-headed as he currently appears – did I misjudge the situation?

But no, he certainly came here as a volunteer, according to the whispers among the other tributes. Even now, they watch him with a mixture of awe and pity, as though expecting him to burst into flames or something. So why isn't he doing anything?

Seriously, mortals, do I have to do everything for you?

I eavesdrop on the conversation among the tributes for a bit and get my answer. Apparently, the would-be hero is determined to do this on his own, and doesn't need help from anybody. He plans to stride boldly into the labyrinth tomorrow morning and slay the bull-headed demon with his bare hands, then emerge in triumph and claim the kingdom for his own, forgetting that said monster has killed dozens of men and can probably snap him in half with a single blow. But no, his courage will apparently protect him.

If I had a body, I would slap him. But, seeing as that's not an option, I summon up my testiest voice and inform him that he's being an idiot.

He jumps, hand going towards a nonexistent sword at his waist. "Foul spirit, do not torment me!" he cries.

I sigh. What's with these mortals and believing that a voice from thin air means to torment them? I know this is a harsh land, but still... I sigh again. "I am not here to torment you," I tell him. "However, if you wish to survive the labyrinth, you need to listen to me."

The hero tosses his head. "I thank you for your visit, spirit, but I do not need your help."

"Oh, yes, you do," I correct him acerbically. "Unless being eaten is really your idea of a good death, in which case..." I trail off and give him a moment to think about that.

His fellow tributes, who flattened themselves to the ground as soon as I started speaking, pale. One, bolder than the rest, raises his head. "Noble spirit, what do we need to do?" Though his hands are trembling, his voice is steady.

"Oh good, a sensible mortal," I mutter, barely loud enough for them to hear. His lips twitch. "What is your name, mortal?"

He bobs his head. "Cyrus, noble spirit."

"You don't need to call me that," I tell him, and he gasps.

"But, noble spirit, it would not be respectful..."

I cut him off. "Don't worry about that. Now, do you want to live, or not?" There's no particular reason why the would-be hero needs to be the one to defeat the monster, after all. The eventual outcome will be the same no matter who kills it, at least on a macro level – the island will be saved from its predation, and the villagers can live their lives in peace. A few individual lives may change, but that won't impact the overall fabric of the land too much. And Cyrus looks like a sturdy enough fellow. Though he's obviously not a warrior, and bears a number of lash marks on his back, he seems smart enough to make up for that.

But, before he can answer, the would-be hero raises his head. "Cruel spirit, do not promise what you cannot deliver! Show yourself, or leave us be!"

The other tributes glance at him nervously, but I ignore him. "Cyrus, have you seen the man named Kastor? Has he come by to visit you?"

"Ah... no, sir." He looks around at his fellow tributes, who all shake their heads in bewilderment.

The would-be hero snorts. "That old man was captured and thrown into the labyrinth with the monster days ago, when our ship landed. He was babbling something about his daughter, I think."

I wince. So Kastor was captured by the guards after all. If he was truly tossed into the labyrinth, he's probably dead, or at least wishing that he was. Unfortunately, there's not a single drop of water or chunk of reflective mica in the whole maze, or I could check.

So, then, why is the world still colorful?

I frown. Was it his death that I felt when in the Goblin Market? Could it be that the world simply hasn't had time to lose its hope?

If that's the case, then I have no time to lose. But, if the prisoners don't have access to Kastor's magic ball of string to guide them, I'll have to get creative. "Gather as many shiny rocks as you can," I order, and Cyrus blinks.

"Um, sir, can I ask why?"

"Because I need them to help you," I tell him impatiently. There are plenty of them around; I'm currently speaking out of one of them. So the tributes shouldn't have any problem finding a sufficient number.

Cyrus bows. "Yes sir." He begins to scoop up any rocks that contain chunks of mica, and the other tributes – apart from the would-be hero – follow suit. The would-be hero merely sniffs and leans his back against the wall, regarding the others with a disdainful expression.

Maybe I can convince one of the other tributes to slap him... I suspect they think I'm a god, or a messenger of a god; they'd probably do it. And it would be so satisfying...

I push the thought away. I've definitely spent far too much time directly interacting with mortals; it's starting to cloud my judgement. I've maintained my patience for hundreds of years, and my wielders have been far more frustrating at times; there's no need for me to lose it now.

Soon, Cyrus and the rest of the tributes have a heaping pile of rocks in front of them, and I smile. "Good. Now, keep those in your pockets until you're brought to the labyrinth. Then place one at every intersection you come to. I'll be able to guide you out of the maze once you do so." I can keep track of thousands of parallel universes; memorizing the path out of a labyrinth, even a magical one, won't be any trouble.

Cyrus bows again. "Will you be with us in the maze, then, sir?"

"In a matter of speaking," I tell him. "You'll be able to hear me, though you won't ever see me." Let them think I'll be invisible; it's easier than explaining my true incorporeal nature.

He bows a third time, and I nearly tell him to stop, but I restrain myself. Instead, I let him thank me profusely, then warn him, "You'll still have to deal with the monster on your own. I suggest using slings, if you can. I can't help with that. But I'll know when you've defeated it, and I'll guide you out of the maze."

There's a lot that can go wrong with this plan – they could easily be killed by the monster, for one thing. But I have a feeling that they'll manage to make it out of this alive. They have a lot of incentive, after all.

***

Author's Note: So, what do you think?  Is the mirror right not to trust Kestrel?