The Tyrant's Tomb

weight, but she was deceptively strong, just as she was deceptively nimble.
She seemed to have no trouble hauling my sorry carcass through the tomb.
I was only semiconscious of my surroundings. My bow clanged against
my ukulele, making a jarring open chord in perfect sync with my rattled
brain.
What had just happened?
After that beautiful moment of godlike prowess with my bow, I’d
suffered an ugly, perhaps terminal setback with my gut wound. I now had to
admit I was not getting better. Tarquin had spoken of a poison slowly
making its way to my brain. Despite the best efforts of the camp’s healers, I
was turning, becoming one of the king’s creatures. By facing him, I had
apparently accelerated the process.
This should have terrified me. The fact that I could think about it with
such detachment was itself concerning. The medical part of my mind
decided I must be going into shock. Or possibly just, you know, dying.
Hazel stopped at the intersection of two corridors. “I—I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?” Meg asked.
Hazel’s corneas were still the color of wet clay. “I can’t get a read. There
should be an exit here. We’re close to the surface, but…I’m sorry, guys.”
Meg retracted her blades. “That’s okay. Keep watch.”
“What are you doing?” Lavinia asked.
Meg touched the nearest wall. The ceiling shifted and cracked. I had a
fleeting image of us getting buried like Tarquin under several tons of rock—
which, in my present state of mind, seemed like an amusing way to die.
Instead, dozens of thickening tree roots wriggled their way through the
cracks, pushing apart the stones. Even as a former god accustomed to magic,
I found it mesmerizing. The roots spiraled and wove themselves together,
shoving aside the earth, letting in the dim glow of moonlight, until we found
ourselves at the base of a gently sloping chute (A root chute?) with
handholds and footholds for climbing.
Meg sniffed the air above. “Smells safe. Let’s go.”
While Hazel stood guard, Meg and Lavinia joined forces to get me up
the chute. Meg pulled. Lavinia pushed. It was all very undignified, but the
thought of Lavinia’s half-primed manubalista jostling around somewhere
below my delicate posterior gave me an incentive to keep moving.
We emerged at the base of a redwood in the middle of the forest. The
carousel was nowhere in sight. Meg gave Hazel a hand up, then touched the