Twenty minutes later, the camp was cleaned up and ready to go. Isaac was absolutely drenched in sweat, the straps of his backpack cinched tight. But he did feel better.

“Let’s go,” he said, already walking.

They marched north, the river to their right, its roar now a constant reminder.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Bridge’s Skeleton

Tonight, she would reveal herself to them.

They deserved to know; more importantly, it would be the last piece of the puzzle to ensure their commitment to her. Their devotion. Their worship. After all the secret meetings, after all the planning and scheming, after all the exchanges of promises and riches, they were already tied to her like the lashings of a ship. After tonight, the lashings would turn to iron chains, never to be removed.

They met in the usual spot, an abandoned basement beneath a fallen warehouse, left to decay by its owners before any of them had been born. How it hadn’t collapsed into that basement was a wonder, as was the very maze-like route through the rubble to get to its entrance. Maze-like. She’d had the thought without any irony.

Her friend with the horns, who’d refused to reveal his name until a week ago—Mannus, which he must’ve thought sounded very masculine, indeed—sat to her right around the makeshift table they’d scrounged from the ruins. Six others were there; three women, three men, all dressed in the yellow robes of the Maze. Besides Mannus the heretic, they were all devout followers of the faith, devout to a fault. For them, anyway. They were exactly what she needed. And after what they were about to hear—and see—they’d be groveling at her feet. Quite literally.

“Let’s begin,” she said.

Mannus folded his arms and placed them on the table, leering at the others one by one. His horns rose comically from his head, and Alexandra knew the night wouldn’t end before he reminded her once again of her promise—to have those stupid things removed by a professional, someone who wouldn’t crack his skull in the process.

“We’ve got it all set up for Sunday,” Mannus pronounced. “Right at noon, when most of our friends in the faith will be gathering at the doors to the Maze for mass.”

One of the women—no horns on this lady—spoke up. “I would just like to reiterate what I’ve said from the beginning. We shouldn’t play this out at such a holy time. It’s not right.”

The man next to her—this guy also was hornless, but every known name of the Gladers of old had been tattooed on various spots of his face—he agreed, apparently. “Yes, I second the motion.”