“You’re supposed to do what with it?” Laima asked from the edge of what Andrew had called a labyrinth—though its walls were made of crumbling, ankle-high stone and its whole was clearly visible from the starting point, hardly capable of holding a minotaur.

“You walk it and think of a question,” Andrew said. “When you get to the middle, you close your eyes and listen for the answer.”

“And who...is answering, exactly?”

Andrew shrugged. “You are. It’s like meditation, I guess.” He stepped across the threshold and walked slowly along the first curve. He measured each step, noting the way the earth felt under his feet, watching the grass curve over the toe of his boot. Laima looked away, back toward the distant cabin. The eerie silence of the property unnerved them. There was no sign of raiding by whatever army had last passed through, and while it was possible the inhabitants had fled their woodland fortress of their own will, there were details that warned Laima that something remained.

The grain in the barn was untouched by mice; birds had not invaded the rafters as they did in the abandoned stables Laima used to pillage for spare tack, and the honeysuckle growing in the corner of the muck pile had not braided over the pitchforks propped within its reach.

 Laima left Andrew to his labyrinth and wandered across the yard, toward a grove of pine trees that had been planted in regimented lines by whatever humans first set their roots into this ground. 

Laima stroked one of the needled boughs and wondered which trees the planters had sacrificed for the pines’ sake. The surrounding woods were a mix of trees Laima knew from home; the oaks and elms and occasional willow, the birches and beeches and shrubby saplings too clustered together to make out, but there was one odd resident.

A yew tree sat on the edge of the pines, stubby and needled enough to blend in until Laima paid attention. They rubbed their fingers together to get rid of the sap, and exhaled cautiously. Yew meant death; sometimes as transcendence, when its felled boughs took root again, and sometimes as harbinger, as every part of it was poisonous to an unlucky victim lured by its candy-red berries.

This yew was small; it’s presence deliberate. A breeze skipped through the trees and sent a chill down Laima’s spine. They shook their head, scattering stories of witches who channeled dark magic through yew roots. They turned away, ready to retrieve Andrew and usher him to safer ground.

Something flickered on the opposite end of one of the channels between the pines. Laima paused instinctively, their gaze drawn to the emerald tunnel. A figure stood, backlit and silent. It stared at Laima with one of its four legs lifted, ready to flee. It appeared to be a buck; its antlers tangled with the lowest branches, but after a moment it turned and Laima saw two unmistakable profiles; two heads, four twisting antlers. 

Another gust of wind pushed through the forest. The creature passed behind the screen of waving branches. Laima blinked. Their feet were slow to respond when they asked, but they stumbled into a run and jogged back to Andrew with one hand on their knife.

Andrew was standing in the middle of the labyrinth, his head bowed, his palms turned toward the dappled sunlight that danced over his moss-green uniform. Laima skirted the edges of the stone, unwilling to speak in case it drew the attention of whatever was hiding in the trees. 

They stood in front of Andrew, separated from him by the shallow walls. His eyes were closed, his breathing so soft that Laima could not see his shoulders move, but he was steady on his feet. Laima cleared their throat, wincing when the sound echoed in the clearing.

Andrew stirred, though it took him several seconds to blink out of his trance, and when he did looked at Laima it was with a sleepy mindlessness, as if he had forgotten them.

“Andrew,” Laima whispered, for that was all they dared. Andrew blinked again, and his eyes cleared as his name settled in his chest.

“Sorry,” he said, reaching to rub the back of his neck. “I think I...uh, got a little too deep.”

“We should go.”

“Yeah.” Andrew looked at his feet. Laima shifted, afraid he would retrace his painstaking path out of the circle, but Andrew shook his head again and stepped carefully over each miniature wall until he was beside Laima.

“Weird place,” he hummed, casting a final glance back while Laima checked their compass and lead the way East.

                                                                 ***

“Did you answer your question?” Laima asked later, when the crackle of the campfire and the hooting of owls separated them from the events in the clearing. Andrew frowned and stared thoughtfully at the twig he'd been stripping of its bark.

“Yeah, actually.”

He sounded disappointed. Laima stoked the flames and waited for him to continue.

“The voice in my head...it wasn’t mine. I must have been remembering someone telling me the words, but I couldn’t place the voice.” Andrew looked up as the wind blurred the inky canopy above him. “And I must have been more tired than I thought, to space out like that at the end. Did you find anything interesting?”

“No.” Laima brushed dirt off their hands and gestured for Andrew to retreat to his bedroll. “I’ll take first watch.”