THIRTEEN

Phaeton ceased his onward rush and stood still.

Columns rose up from the darkness, glowing gold and other precious metals pulsing with the subdued but tireless sunlight secreted within. The palace doors were mirrors, displaying the yet-distant figure of the youthful adventurer as he gradually found his courage again and crept forward.

The walls were vast, much higher than any ever built by human hands. Phaeton had heard legends that warned that a mortal could be blinded by the sight of such divine marvels, or perhaps lose his sanity entirely. Phaeton made halting progress forward, step by faltering step, until the young traveler reached out toward his own image, the reflection of an apprehensive youth.

He stretched forth his hand, and touched the image of his own pale, tentative fingers.

The great mirrored gate whispered.

And fell slowly open.

Phaeton hesitated. Perhaps, he thought, it was not too late to turn back.

But he took a step inside.