Dragonwitch (16 page)

The walls gave way to uncut stone and deeper darkness and heavier dankness, as though fresh air never came to these parts. They were below the castle now, Mouse thought, winding down and down into the rocky outcropping over the river on which it was built. The sounds of war diminished. Now he heard only the tramp of his own feet and the labored breathing of Alistair, still slung across the stranger's shoulders. The stranger himself moved with catlike stealth.

Suddenly Mouse's feet touched icy water. He cried out, clawed desperately at nothing in the darkness, and fell to his hands and knees, soaking himself through.

“Hush, mortal!” the stranger said. “We've reached the river; it's still high from autumn rains.” His voice was grim, as though he spoke through
clenched teeth. “I never come this way so early in the winter. Dragon-eaten dampness. You'd better have a good explanation for me at the end of this!”

Mouse, shivering and wet, got to his feet. “Go on,” said the stranger with neither kindness nor sympathy. “It opens up eventually. You'll see light in another minute.”

Mouse stumbled forward as ordered. It seemed like another hour, not a minute. But at last the cold gray of an overcast day gleamed at the end of the tunnel. Wading as fast as he could in the icy water, Mouse hurried forward. But the current became stronger, and he soon had to stop for fear of being dragged into the cold clutches of Hanna.

“Here,” the stranger said and, looking around, Mouse saw that he had climbed up onto a wide ledge above the water and laid Alistair out upon it. He offered Mouse a hand, and soon the quivering child found himself pulled up beside the other two. He sat with his back against the wall, staring at his companion, whose face he could only just discern in this partial lighting.

The stranger was looking back up the tunnel, his fine long nose sniffing delicately. “I don't think they're following us. I'd smell them if they were,” he said. Then he addressed his attention to Alistair, rolling the young man over to inspect his wound. “Great Lights above us!” he cried when he saw the blackened gash, which steamed in the cold tunnel. Then he bared his teeth, more animal than man in that moment. “I know whose blade did this. I've seen wounds of this kind before.”

Mouse drew himself together, folding up his knees and wrapping them with his arms. He watched the golden stranger close his eyes and press long-fingered hands to Alistair's shoulder. The next moment, the lapping of river water below became accompaniment for a fey song, the like of which Mouse had never before heard. It was the oddest sound following the terror of that long night and longer morning. Though it was a song of peace and healing, Mouse shuddered.

When the stranger withdrew his hands, his face was drawn and tired. He frowned but nodded. Staring, Mouse breathed a quick prayer: “Fire burn!”

The black spidery lines of poison were faded to an ugly red, and the festering wound was now only a puckered white scar.

“It'll do,” said the stranger. “Curse that dragon-blasted goblin! He killed
more than a few of my people with that poison in the war with Arpiar. We should have done away with him when we had the chance.”

He seemed to be talking to himself, not to Mouse, so the boy did not respond. His mind was numb, but a voice from his memory whispered:
“Someone is coming who can put a stay on the poison.”

And that same voice had said:

“You seek the dwarf, little one.”

How could the scrubber have known? How could he have predicted such bizarre happenings? None of it made sense! But then, nothing had made sense since the moment Mouse had turned his face to follow the blue star.

The stranger, his shoulders arched and his eyes snapping fire, turned suddenly like a predator spotting its prey. Mouse shrank still more into himself, wishing he could hide from that gaze.

“All right,” said the stranger, “tell me what's going on here, girl, before I lose what's left of my temper.”

T
HEY
JOURNEYED
WITH
ME
through the Wood Between until we came at last to Cozamaloti. The lock placed upon it by my brother was strong; anyone with less need than I would have turned away, for Cozamaloti Gate had taken the form of an enormous waterfall thundering over a precipice. To pass into Etalpalli, we would have to jump into the churning mist below.

But the Brothers Ashiun never hesitated. Their strange gifts, sword and lantern, gripped in their hands, they stood on either side of me, and together we leapt.

It was like stepping through a door. No fall, no rush of wind. Merely a step, and we stood on the borders of my city. And though I strained my eyes, I saw no wings brushing the sky. There was nothing but the hush of Cren Cru's devouring and the call of his Twelve echoing faintly among the towers: “Send out your firstborn!”

Taking to the sky, I led the brothers swiftly through the winding streets to Itonatiu, where my brother waited. They climbed the winding stairs while I flew directly to the summit and found Tlanextu there.

Or rather, found what was left of him.

He still breathed, but only just. His was a body desiccated. I had never seen its like! The wrinkles on his hands, his neck, the sag of his cheeks, the shrunken hollows of his eyes, which were clouded and blind. His wings were nothing but broken stubs hanging from his shoulders. But he raised his head at the rustle of my approach.

“Is that you, sister?” he called.

I could not speak. I was too horrified by his appearance even to go to him, to tell him that I had done as he asked. I stood on the edge of Itonatiu's roof, my wings spread for flight, and I said nothing.

“I am glad you have come,” Tlanextu said. With those words, he died, his final life drained away.

I was Queen of Etalpalli.

“I'm a boy,” said Mouse.

The stranger blinked. “Right,” he said. “And I'm the Queen of Etalpalli.”

“No, really,” said Mouse. “See? I . . . I cut my hair.”

The stranger's wry expression deepened to one of incredulity. “Do you honestly think hair length is what makes the difference?”

Mouse blushed, gaze dropping. Then in a meek voice: “I, um. I bound myself up in certain . . . um, places.”

“A valiant effort.” The stranger sat down, and suddenly he was a cat, his ears flat and his eyes narrowed. “I am not the brightest light that ever shone in the vaults of heavenly inspiration,” he said. “But I do know my boys from my girls, just as I know my mortals from my immortals. You, my dear young woman, are as mortal as they come. You also bear an uncanny resemblance to my comrade-in-arms Dame Imraldera. And you evidently know something of her and her whereabouts. I am, as the proverb says, all ears.”

His fur-tufted ears cupped forward.

Mouse's mouth opened and shut. Then in a whisper: “All right. I am a girl.”

Her disguise had been feeble at best. But she had clung to it in this
foreign land of cold winds and unnatural speech, considering it the one shield between herself and all the fury this world could offer. Now, to be unexpectedly called out in a language not her own but which she understood, coming from the mouth of a creature that had a moment before been a man but was now most definitely feline, coming on top of nearly losing her life in a manner most violent to creatures more dreadful than her nightmares . . . it was too much.

She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

“Oh, dragon's tail and teeth!” The cat sat, his tail curled about his paws. “You mortals are such a weepy lot,” he said and started grooming. “Let me know when you're quite through, will you?”

It felt like hours but was probably mere minutes later when Mouse wiped her eyes on her wet sleeve, sniffed, and sat up. While she was probably the safest she'd been in a long time, this place was gloomier than the most dreadful dungeon she'd ever seen. How was it possible for a person to be so cold?

And overhead she still heard, echoing faintly down, the pound of goblin feet.

The cat stopped grooming and nudged her with a paw. “Perhaps I should start,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “My name is Eanrin. Sir Eanrin, Knight of the Farthest Shore. Bard and poet and brilliant songster.” He angled an ear. “You've heard of me?”

She shook her head.

He sighed and his whiskers drooped a little. “Time enough to amend that later. But first, who are you?”

“Mouse,” she said.

He sniffed. “What's your real name?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Names bear too much power. The women of my order do not give their names freely to any who ask.”

“Women of what order?”

“I am an acolyte,” Mouse whispered as though afraid the watery passage would catch her voice and echo it to the worlds, “in the Citadel of the Living Fire, servant of the Sacred Flame.”

Eanrin tilted his head, his pupils thin black slits. “And it's in your heathen temple, you say, that my Imraldera is held prisoner?”

Mouse did not like the way he spoke without reverence, with mockery. But then, no one she'd met since beginning her journey seemed to know or respect the Flame. What a strange, barbaric world lay beyond the Citadel walls! Coldly, she nodded.

“How can that be?” Eanrin demanded. “I left her safe in the Haven. She could not be taken against her will.”

Mouse's face darkened. “The Silent Lady came of her own accord to the threshold of the Flame's abode. She came with a message for the goddess, but she was disrespectful of the goddess and punished by imprisonment.”

The cat searched her face with eyes that, she felt, saw more than she cared to reveal.

“You said something about Etanun and his heir.” The cat's tail twitched. “What has my lady Imraldera to do with that?”

Mouse dropped her gaze. “I don't know,” she admitted. “I know only that she asked me to find Etanun before she is put to death.”

The cat went still. Not so much as a whisker twitched on his face. At last he spoke in a voice as dark as the tunnel around them. “Etanun. The Murderer. Bebo said something about him. I myself have seen nothing of him in . . . centuries, I think, by the Near World's count! No one has seen him since he killed his brother and went into hiding. Why should Imraldera wish to send him a message?”

Mouse shook her head. “I know only what she told me. She said to find Etanun and Etanun's heir, and the heir is the dwarf, whom I must bring back to the Citadel.”

“You do realize you're talking nonsense?” said the cat.

“Please, let me try to explain!” Mouse pleaded.

“Very well, tell me everything. And be quick about it.”

Hardly knowing where to begin, Mouse said, “The Silent Lady came to the Citadel not two months ago—”

“Stop!” said the cat. “Why do you call her the Silent Lady? She was healed long ago and, believe me, I
know
she is not silent!”

“But . . .” Mouse frowned and rubbed her tired face. “It is her name. It is the name of our prophetess, the herald of our freedom, the forerunner of
the goddess herself. It was she who, by the will of the goddess, rescued us from the grip of the Wolf Lord. She
is
the Silent Lady! To call her anything else would dishonor my tongue.”

The cat growled. A dreadful shadow had crossed his heart as the girl spoke, a shadow of memories not too far gone. Memories of a wolf and hunt, of flames and stone-charred land.

“Who is this goddess of whom you speak?” he asked.

“The Flame,” said Mouse, her voice reverent and low. “The bright and beautiful, the holy Flame at Night, who lights our way in darkness.”

“The Flame at Night?”
Eanrin closed his eyes. His tail twitched across the stone. “Imraldera is not going to like this. Not at all.”

In Gaheris courtyard a fire burned, filling the castle with its fumes and shrouding all in thick, rank smoke. The mortals choked and gagged, their eyes watering, but the goblins welcomed it. In this world of mortal smells and sights, the smoke from their fire brought relief to their senses, shrouding the sun and disguising the strangeness of the realm they had invaded.

They bound their captives—young and old, male and female—in goblin chains of some stone unknown in the mortal world, so heavy that many of the prisoners could scarcely move. The goblins prodded them like naughty boys might goad a stray cat, laughing at whatever reaction they might get, be it fierce or frightened. Yet every last one of them suffered fear as keen as that of their prisoners. They might disguise it with bluster and roars and braggadocio, but each one looking into the eyes of his brother or sister saw the same dread hiding inside.

They had passed unlawfully through the gates. They had invaded the Near World against the Lumil Eliasul's command. What price would they pay for their disobedience?

Not one would suggest an early retreat, however. After all, to return to Arpiar meant facing Queen Vartera herself. They must burrow in, plant themselves as firmly as possible. They were an army, weren't they? They might yet stand a chance.

If their leader shared their fears, none could guess it. He had fastened
a chain to the small mortal king's neck. This sight made many breathe a little easier. For prophecies may be undone, even at the last. The mortal king couldn't drive Corgar out while chained like a dog!

Corgar established himself in the earl's great hall, sitting in Earl Ferox's chair, which was hardly large enough for his bulk. He propped his feet on the table and barked orders to his men as he saw fit. Crouched in the shadows behind the chair, the Chronicler pulled at the collar on his neck. Corgar had secured the other end of its chain to his own belt.

The Chronicler's mind ached with a mixture of wrath and terror. What had possessed him to declare himself king before this monster? He bowed his head and tugged at his hair. While he lived, he must think. He must try! Sure, he was as good as a dead man here in the monster's presence. But did that mean he had the right to give up? Until Corgar dealt the final blow, he must strive.

But the chain was almost too heavy for him to lift his head. So he crouched, gagging at the smoke, and could not collect his wits.

Suddenly Corgar reached behind the chair and dragged the Chronicler forward, dropping him like a hunting trophy upon the table. “Well now, little king,” he said, leaning back in Ferox's chair, his hands behind his ugly head. “I have a question. You look like the straightforward sort, and I think you and I might get along well. After all, I care for this chilly land of yours no more than you care to have me in it. So you tell me what I need, and our business might conclude faster than you think.”

The Chronicler slowly stood upright despite the weight around his neck. He faced the monster, his eyes flashing defiance. But there was no point in fighting until he knew for what purpose he fought.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I need the House of Lights.”

The Chronicler could find no words of his own as the monster's rolled around in his brain. At length he replied, “It doesn't exist.”

Corgar had never encountered mortals before this day. He knew goblins who had found one of the little dirt creatures lost in the Wood Between. He'd been told they were great sport, loud squeakers when poked, fast runners when pursued. He'd also been told they were ignorant about the ways of the worlds, no better than mute beasts when it came right down to it.

He'd never expected them to be stupid.

“Don't toy with me.” His right hand fell upon the great table, and his claws dug trenches into the wood. “I'm no fool, and I'll not be played as one. Tell me where the House of Lights is, I command you!”

The Chronicler shook his head. The heavy chain pulled him down until he bowed before the monster. “It does not exist. I cannot tell you where it is, for it is nowhere and has never been.”