Dragonwitch (18 page)

Still gripping her wrist, Eanrin looked from her down to Alistair, who was terrified and trying not to show it.

They were neither of them his enemies.

Eanrin released Mouse's wrist, got to his feet, and offered a hand to Alistair. “All right, boy,” he said, hoping his voice sounded friendlier than he felt. “I'll not hurt you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Alistair said, hesitating to accept the hand.

“Mostly sure,” Eanrin growled. He assisted Alistair to his feet, then faced the trembling Mouse. Her dark skin wore a sickly pallor, and her drying hair stood out comically from her head. But her eyes were fierce, unwilling to release the anger.

She looked remarkably like another young mortal girl Eanrin had once met in a far dark forest.

Eanrin shook himself, stretching out his neck and swinging his arms to work out kinks. Then he brushed off his sleeves with all the care of a dandy. “Very well, girl,” he said coolly, as though passing the time of day with an inferior. “We'll accede to the Murderer's demands if you insist.”

Her voice was small but sharp. “They're not
my
demands. I care nothing for you or any of this. I am here only on behalf of the Silent Lady. I do not wish to see her condemned to death.”

“Condemned by your own so-called goddess.”

“Do not speak insolently of the Flame!” the girl said. “If the goddess demands the great sacrifice from any of us, we are glad to give it. Her knowledge is greater and her purity vaster than our comprehension. I am sure her prophetess would say the same!”

“I'm not,” the cat-man growled.

“Then you do not know the Silent Lady.”

“No,” he said. “You're right. I do not know this
Silent Lady
of yours. But I do know Imraldera.” He sighed then and flicked dried mud from the front of his red doublet. “And I know she would not have sent you without reason. I don't understand it, but I . . .” He grimaced. “I will have to trust it. Even as I must walk the Path of the Lumil Eliasul though I cannot see its end.”

Neither Mouse nor Alistair understood his last words. Alistair had understood only the cat-man's side of the conversation anyway, and now his brain felt numb. Both he and the girl in boy's clothes stared at the red-gold creature before them and found him more frightening than ever now that his words were also strange to them. They looked to each other, the one tall and pale, the other short and dark, seeking comfort in this world that had gone all wrong. Lacking the bond of language, they at least shared the bond of mortality.

“Now,” said Eanrin, coming to a sudden decision. He shook himself and was a cat again, crouched between the two humans, speaking so both could understand him. “We climb back to Gaheris and rescue the Chronicler.”

“What?” Alistair said. “Why are we rescuing
him
? What about my mother? What about all the other folk of Gaheris?”

The cat gave him a flat-eared glare. “Sometimes I believe I spend my whole life giving explanations to humans. I shall inform you briefly, for we have little time available to us. My Lady Imraldera has been taken captive by
this
one's”—nod to Mouse—“people, and will not be released until the heir to Halisa is found.”

“Halisa, the sword of Etanun?” Alistair asked, unbelieving.

“Good little mortal, keep up. Yes, Halisa, Etanun's sword. The Chronicler supposedly is his heir, your legendary Smallman. Surprise! We must nab him, take him south to fetch the sword, liberate my kidnapped comrade—”

“She's not kidnapped,” said Mouse. “She offered herself.”

“Whatever you say. We rescue her, and then our favorite little hero returns to drive Corgar back into the Far World, where he belongs. Understand?”

Alistair's mouth went dry. Insane. He had gone insane! That was the only explanation for any of this. But he heard himself saying, “We can never journey to . . . to wherever she's from and back in time to save my people.”

“We can,” said the cat-man, “if we use the Paths I know.”

“But none of this—”

“Please don't tell me that none of this is true or that it can't be happening. I don't have time for it, and neither do you.”

“But, the
Chronicler
is the Smallman?”

“Makes sense, doesn't it? He's small enough.”

“That's a metaphor!”

“Well, don't you sound all mortal about it?” The cat yawned, showing long white teeth, then blinked as though bored with it all. “Do you never pay attention to prophecies, portentous tellings, and the like?”

“No.”

“Can't say I blame you. I'm not overly fond of them myself.”

T
HUS
I
SPOKE
MY
FIRST
COMMAND
,
and thus was I obeyed. For Etanun and Akilun went at once down into the city, following the light of the lantern through the winding streets. I watched from above as the Twelve set upon them from all sides, desperate to bar their way. Each of these fell before the might of Halisa in Etanun's hand. Not even the four strongest, standing beside their four bronze stones, withstood his mighty arm, though all the hosts of Etalpalli had cowered before them.

While Etanun stood over the slain, Akilun stepped forward to the Mound itself, to the very mouth of Cren Cru, the doorway through which the firstborn had vanished. I saw him fling wide the door; I saw him thrust the lantern into that darkness.

And Cren Cru fled. He did not try to fight, could not bear to have the brilliance of Asha enter his darkness. So he fled Etalpalli, and the Mound vanished, leaving only a raw, gaping wound in the ground.

Etanun and Akilun, their mighty gifts blazing, stood victorious.

In the tunnel far below Gaheris Castle, the three laid plans in dank darkness, and feeble plans they seemed to Alistair, though any plan was better than sitting dully in the dark. Only the cat's eyes glowed like fey lanterns.

At last the cat stood. “Come along, mortals,” he said. “Night has fallen; not that it'll make much difference. Goblins see better at night than in daylight. But they may have grown more comfortable in the last few hours, let their guard relax. They won't expect much resistance here in the Near World.”

He took his man's form, slid down into the water (growling at the wetness, for even as a man he was still a cat), and started sloshing back along the passage toward the long stone stair.

Mouse and Alistair hastened after, hating to slide from that ledge when they couldn't see the bottom. Knowing the drop was short didn't make it better. Icy water flowing in from the river filled Mouse's thin shoes and froze Alistair's bare feet.

“I must remember to grab some boots,” he muttered as they tramped along behind the cat-man, whom they could not see, though his muttered complaints were easy enough to follow.

At first it was a relief to step from the chill water onto the steep, slippery stairs, bracing themselves against the walls as they climbed. But the ceiling was so low that Alistair was soon reduced to an upward crawl, using his frozen hands as much as his frozen feet, for he was too tall to stand upright.

“We cannot guarantee the creatures haven't discovered the passage,” Eanrin said. He had taken cat form and was therefore making much swifter progress than the other two. He sat on a step above, and they climbed to reach the glow of his eyes. “It's never been much of a secret, not since I first came to guard the gates, and that's at least a hundred years ago.”

“You're a hundred years old?” Mouse whispered in awe, her voice carrying up the stone passage.

“Oh no,” said the cat with a chuckle. “Much older!”

“What's funny?” asked Alistair, bringing up the rear and feeling rather ill used. “What did she say?”

“She says your breathing is so loud, you might as well blow trumpets to herald our coming,” said Eanrin. “So duck your head and keep your mouth shut, eh?”

Alistair muttered, but the echoing of their voices unnerved him, so he did as he was told. He crawled in darkness so close he could scarcely breathe, in the wake of a talking cat and a girl who thought she passed for a boy, attempting to infiltrate his own home filled to the brim with goblins. And for what?

To rescue his cousin.

They were nearing the level of the castle. Up here, the passage broadened and the ceiling was higher. Alistair could almost stand. “So what's our plan again?” he asked.

“Simple. Nab the Chronicler.”

“What, stroll in, pick him up, and stroll back out?”

“I never said it was a master plan, did I?” the cat growled. “I'm a cat, little lordling. I'll improvise.”

“What about us?”

The cat didn't bother to answer. Just then, they heard the stamp of feet above their heads. Something latched hold of Alistair's arm, and he nearly hollered before realizing it was Mouse reaching back in fearful blindness for comfort in a world full of hostile sounds. Alistair smiled despite the awfulness of their circumstances. She really had no notion how to play her part, had she? He wondered if she had ever been around boys in her life. He touched her hand with the tips of his fingers, and she drew back as though stung, realizing her mistake. They proceeded in silence broken only by the thumping feet above.

The cat stopped. “I'm going on ahead,” he told them. “I'll find where they're keeping the Chronicler and see what is best done. You wait here and try not to be stupid.”

With that, he was gone. The two mortals, blind as they were, could sense the sudden absence of superiority. Alistair, sighing, took a seat on a cold step and rubbed his numb feet with equally numb fingers. Mouse, a few steps above him, leaned her back against the wall, her arms crossed, her head bowed.

Goblins marched the floors above them.

Alistair had not seen them clearly. Only vague impressions lingered in his imagination. These were, if anything, worse than reality, and he wished he could face one here and now and know his enemy. A
known enemy could be fought. An imagined one, however, carried every advantage.

“You're breathing too loudly,” Mouse whispered.

“Don't speak, they'll hear you!” Alistair replied.

Since neither understood the other, they lapsed back into silence.

A silence cut short only moments later when a voice rumbled, sounding so near, Mouse could have believed it was in the passage with them. A handful of frozen heart beats later, she realized that it came from the other side of the wall against which she leaned.

“What do you think the master is going to do with the little maggot?”

It was a goblin. The voice painted an ugly picture in both their minds. Uglier still because the speaker was mirthful.

“I couldn't tell you, Ghoukas,” his companion replied. This one's voice held a possible feminine lilt, heavily disguised behind chomping. Mouse realized this passage must run alongside the kitchen stores wherein the goblins now helped themselves. “I don't see why he doesn't crunch its head between his thumb and finger!”

“It's got pluck,” the one called Ghoukas replied. “Pluckiest manling I've seen since we got here, though they're a miserable enough lot. That one, it's no bigger than a goblin pup, yet it had the cheek to stand up to Corgar! Were you there, in the great hall?”

“Nah, but I heard,” the female goblin said with a snarl-like laugh. “Imagine, refusing to give Corgar what he asks! Doesn't it know it's refusing the queen's favorite?”

“Ah, but these little mortals don't know or recognize our queen Vartera, do they?” said Ghoukas. “I hear they believe theirs is the only world.”

“What, this place?” The female laughed, sounding as if she'd bitten into something and now sprayed it across the room. “Such a notion! What a small-minded crew these mortals are.”

Alistair stood slowly, his heart in his throat. He could see nothing but reached out to find Mouse. He touched her shoulder, and she gasped but allowed him to drag her back down the steps. She couldn't see him, so he could do nothing to reassure her, but at least she was quiet. He cursed the lack of the cat's interpretation.

“They're speaking of the Chronicler,” he whispered.

“I think they're talking about the dwarf,” Mouse whispered.

They both stopped, each wishing for some idea what the other had said.

“They've got him in the great hall,” said Alistair.

“From what I understand, their leader has him captive in the feasting hall,” said Mouse.

They stopped again.

“I think we should go rescue him at once,” said Alistair as Mouse said, “We must wait here and tell the cat when he returns.”

Another pause. Then Alistair took Mouse's hand and pulled gently.

“Wait! What are you doing?” she whispered frantically.

“Dragons eat it,” he muttered. “I'd hoped we were thinking along the same lines. Look, we can sit here until we rot, waiting for that cat to come back, or we can act on the information we have. Always was more a man of action myself. Come on!”

Mouse, however reluctant, followed his tugging, and they crept on up the stairs, moving as quietly as they could past the goblins in the room beyond. The passage opened into his uncle's bedchamber, Alistair recalled. What he could not recall was whether or not they'd be able to get through that heavy door, which as he remembered it, was under lock and key. Were there other exits? Via the stables or some spy hole, perhaps?

He drew a sudden, hissing breath as Mouse's hands clamped down hard on his arm. “Listen!” she said in a strangled whisper, and he didn't need to understand her.

The sound of footsteps descending the stairway thudded in his ears. Heavy footsteps.

A goblin was in the passage.

“Back! Back!” Alistair whispered, and the two of them stumbled down the stairway, slipping as they went.

The thudding steps gained upon them, and a thick, gnarly voice growled, “I see you, blind little mortals! I see you in the dark!”

Mouse whimpered, lost her footing, and slid down the stairs, tripping Alistair. He caught himself, pressing his hands on either wall, preventing a plummet into darkness. He heard the goblin's breathing behind him, could feel before it happened strong fingers latching hold of his neck. The snap, the break . . .

Instead, there was a dreadful thud, a groan, and then Alistair was knocked from his feet as the goblin, inert, rolled down the stairs. Its great body wedged into the narrow space, providing just enough buffer to prevent Alistair from tumbling interminably to his doom.

“Didn't I tell you to wait for me?” Eanrin's voice snapped like sparks.

Alistair, his legs pinioned beneath the heavy goblin, felt around. His hand landed on Mouse's face, and both of them struggled not to scream. But the girl was all right, and her fumbling hands took hold of his arms and pulled, unable to free him of the goblin's weight.

Eanrin, who could see perfectly well, stood above them, his knife upraised. He shook his head and snapped his fingers. The knife began to glow softly, enough to allow the humans dim vision in the stairway. The light outlined the contours of the goblin's hideous face. Mouse pressed her hands to her mouth. A black trail of blood ran from the goblin's head.

“Is he dead?” Mouse demanded when she could find her voice. She turned stricken eyes to Eanrin. “Did you kill him?”

“Would it bother you?” asked the cat-man, descending the stairs and stepping over the prone body.

“Yes,” she said, though she knew it was foolish. After all, the monster would have slaughtered both her and Alistair. Nevertheless, she repeated, “Yes, it would bother me.”

“Then he's unconscious,” said Eanrin, and Mouse never knew whether he lied. The cat-man tossed her something he'd held draped over one arm, and it fell over her head like a heavy net. She scrabbled to get it off while Eanrin helped Alistair to his feet.

“The great hall,” Alistair said as he scrambled up and leaned against the wall. “We heard some of them talking. They've got the Chronicler in the great hall.”

“I know,” said the cat. “I found him. Here, help me strip down this goblin.”

“What for?”

“We have a plan now.”

“We do?”

“Yes indeed,” said the cat-man with a grin. “You're a big enough chap. You'll pass for a small man of Arpiar.”

“You expect me to disguise myself as a goblin?”

“Certainly do.”

“And what about Mouse? Is she supposed to sit here while we risk our necks?”

“Oh, I have a different plan for her.”

Mouse, who didn't understand the conversation taking place, turned her attention to the brocade Eanrin had thrown at her. She held it up for inspection.

It was a gown.