A candle lighting her path, she had tiptoed through corridors and retraced her steps the numerous times she had faced a dead end. The heat was suffocating in the mazes. She wiped perspiration off as each trip underground turned the heat into a more formidable enemy. Once she had enjoyed the sun, but the unbearable temperatures in these passages were beginning to rob her of her ability to pursue her goal.

One day she found herself in an unusually narrow corridor. A breeze agitated the candle flame. A faint smell of algae drifted through some crack. She searched frantically, her hands patting the walls, her feet testing the ground. The candle would not last much longer. She would have to blow it out before it burned her fingers. Once again, she would have to return to the harem, the secret of the divers gnawing at her. Letting loose the frustration of many months, she stomped her feet. Hard. Again and again. The whole palace shook under her. Had the force of her anger generated an earthquake? She crouched to protect herself. With a sharp crack, the ground gave way. She tumbled down, rolling and bumping on what felt like stone steps, hard against her back, legs, arms. The candle rolled away. A palpable darkness. She plunged lower, the echo in the tunnel adding vigor to her screams.

She crashed against a landing, her knees pressed to her abdomen, the boundaries of a small cubicle confining her. She had fallen into an alcove. She raised herself with difficulty and pounded her foot on the ground until she had covered the surface on which she stood. Then she lifted her leg and pushed with her boot on the lower exterior of the walls, testing for traps. When her legs could not reach the upper walls, she thrust with both hands and, with all her might, examined every block of stone. She heard the splash of divers; she smelled fish; she detected threads of light through cracks in the stones. She bolted against the wall from where light blinked through.

She sprang back at the squeak of springs, the groan of metal and wood and stone.

She emerged washed in sunlight, a miniature woman of silver and ivory and cream.

She had found freedom.

The river faced her, an expansive forest on the other side. The cliff was on her right. Herons sailed overhead.

Two divers stared at the bewitching child-woman who bore herself like a queen.

She approached, announcing in her ripest voice, “I am the Princess Raven.”

The divers prostrated themselves. That commanding tone, silver hair, and those piercing eyes left no doubt that she was the princess.

One of the men bowed low and introduced himself as Cyrus. His skin was like polished leather, his head shaved to add speed to his swimming. Light bounced off his golden eyes and large teeth. A jar rested on a rock by his feet.