Dragonwitch (38 page)

The moment Alistair crossed the cave's threshold, shadows pressed in around him, thick and palpable. This was a different darkness than even the dank air of the secret passage. This was much more like the family crypt of Gaheris castle.

Alistair descended, taking firm strides to disguise to himself how his heart quaked with dread. He would not think of Mouse. He would not think of the sword, or kingship, or even of the Chronicler. He must concentrate entirely on making himself take each step.

Blood calls to blood, so the legends say, especially on the Path to Death, where the ties of kinship are all that yet link the dead to the living.

“Well,” Alistair whispered, his voice catching in his throat, “let's hope the legends know what they're talking about.”

The first few minutes seemed more horrible to him than blindness or death. But this was the world where the dead and living meet, and a confused half-light filled Alistair's eyes. Somehow, this was worse than utter darkness. He could almost see but not quite, and that bewildered him. Sometimes he felt his feet descending a steep, slippery slope, and he heard the skittering of loose pebbles as he kicked them free.

But sometimes he thought his feet trod a firm stairway, each step carefully formed to match its brothers. His going was easier then.

Blood calls to blood
.

The thought went round in his head. How? he wondered. It would be one thing if, like the Brothers Ashiun, he felt some real sense of kinship with the man who was his cousin. But he didn't. The Chronicler was his teacher, his antagonist, a dry and disapproving entity whom Alistair had always ignored when he could. He scarcely knew him, when it came down to it.

And Alistair had more reason than any other living person to resent him.

Yet here he was, wandering in the half-light, realizing with every step he took that the gloom around him was far bigger, far broader than a subterranean cavern. It was a whole world.

A world peopled with its own inhabitants.

He could neither see nor hear them. But he felt them: lost souls, near and far at once, wandering all around him. Did they seek an escape back to the world above? Did they search for the Final Water and freedom from this tormented roving? He did not know. He could not understand them.

But he felt his heart breaking for them.

Alistair stopped suddenly when he realized that the Path he followed had leveled out under his feet. No more descent then. He had arrived in the very pit of the Netherworld.

“Blood calls to blood,” he whispered, and his voice sounded foreign in his own ears. He drew a long breath and felt the invisible wraiths around him drawing theirs as well. The air was cold down here. Then, shaking his head and telling himself he was fearless, he shouted:

“Chronicler! Are you here?”

The wraiths fled. His voice was too much for them, and he sensed their swift withdrawal to the hidden-most places of their realm. Alistair stood, breathless, and listened to his own voice being swallowed up as it chased after the frightened ghosts.

There was no answer.

Fear inched up his spine, willing him to give way. It whispered in his ear.

You haven't forgotten your dream, have you?

With a crash of memory, images stormed his brain. Alistair nearly fell to his knees at the power of them. Images of the darkness, of the ravening dogs, and of death.

“Dreams aren't real,” he muttered. “They're only illusions.”

But only illusions can live here,
his fear responded.

Alistair started walking. It was that or stand and listen, which he could not do. He had made his choice: He had descended the dark way, and he would let no whispers or half-truths misguide him now!

“Blood calls to blood,” he muttered. Well, he had called, hadn't he? He'd called as loud as he could, and he felt even now that his voice continued to wing its way into every far corner of this realm. But it was useless. He could not find his cousin like this.

Suddenly he stopped again. “Fool that you are,” he growled, striking his temple with the heel of his hand. “Blood calls to blood! You know better than that.”

Then he bowed his head and closed his eyes and recalled as best he could that moment at the bedside of his dying uncle.

“Florien,”
Earl Ferox had said.

“Florien,” Alistair whispered. Not Chronicler. Florien.

Cousin. Heir.

Kinsman.

The displaced young lord raised his chin and threw his shoulders back like a warrior ready to do battle with anything this realm might throw at him. And he called out once more in a loud voice:

“Florien! I'm coming for you!”

At first nothing happened. Alistair stood, breathing hard, listening to the fleeing echoes.

How long had that light been there?

Blinking, Alistair found he could not remember. He hadn't noticed it until now. Yet it had been shining bright as a star in the night, always present if not always seen.

Like a sailor guided on wild oceans, Alistair pursued the glow. At first he thought it must be a great light indeed. But the closer he drew, the smaller he realized it was, until at last he found himself approaching a humble gravestone, atop which sat a small lantern of delicate silver-filigree work, rendered unnoticeable by the beauty of the pure light it contained.

Alistair knew it and named it without hesitation.

“Asha,” he said. “Gift of Akilun.”

Akilun, who had once descended into the Netherworld himself in pursuit of his brother. Blood calling to blood. Kinsman pursuing kinsman.

Even unto death.

Alistair reached out and took hold of Asha's handle, lifting it from the gravestone.

I
RETURNED
TO
E
TALPALLI
for the first time since my departure. And I saw my subjects, the Sky People, winging through the air while I myself remained earthbound, for the Dark Father had taken my wings.

I killed them all. Cren Cru himself could not have meted out the destruction I gave my own demesne. I killed the Sky People and I burned Etalpalli into blackened ruin.

So shall I burn all who oppose me.

Eanrin considered himself a cat of many talents. He could steal the attention of everyone in a crowded hall without raising his voice. He could entertain Faerie lords and ladies of any demesne beyond the Wood Between, and he charmed smiles from rocks and snakes if he felt the need.

But he was also remarkably good at lurking.

He lurked in the deepest crevices of the Citadel. Even as night fell and
the priestesses gathered; even as he watched the Murderer, hands and limbs bound, brought to the center of the hall; even as the high priestess, Mouse standing in her shadow, rallied her slaves about her, Eanrin lurked and watched and waited.

When they had gone, he slipped down to the dungeons.

It was an easy enough feat getting past the dungeon guards. He kept to his cat form, and they never saw or suspected his presence. Following his nose, he proceeded down the long stairs, catching snatches here and there of a familiar scent.

“Imraldera?” he called, keeping his voice low in case there were more guards than he realized. “Are you around, my dear?”

He tested the air for her scent once more. But here below the Spire, the Netherworld was far too close, and it overwhelmed his senses. Cursing, he called again, “Imraldera?”

“Eanrin? Is that you?”

It was like the sudden easing of a pain grown so constant that he scarcely recognized its presence anymore. And the relief flooding in was sharper by far than the pain itself. Eanrin took on man form, but his body trembled so that he was obliged to lean against the wall for support. Then he was running down the dark passage, his eyes gleaming like two lanterns.

“Eanrin!”

Her voice called to him from down low. He dropped to his knees and peered into the cell. He could not see her face; even his cat's eyes struggled to find enough light to see by in this place, and her starflower had withered away. He reached his hand through the bars.

“Oh!” came her voice, irked and exhausted. “That was my nose you just grabbed. Have a care, cat!”

“Sorry, old girl,” he replied, withdrawing his hand. His throat thickened and he could barely speak. “Well,” he managed, his voice disguising a tremor, “this is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into, isn't it? If someone had told me that Dame Imraldera, Lady of the Haven, gate guarder and knight, would take the word of Etanun at face value and scamper off into the dangerous unknown without a second—”

“Have done,” she growled and her hand, reaching through the bars,
grabbed hold of his. How thin and weak it had become during her imprisonment! “Can you free me?”

“It would take more than a lock worked by mortal hands to stop me,” said Eanrin and, with sudden gallantry, pressed her hand to his lips. Of course he had to laugh and pass it off as foolishness, and she pulled away from him quickly.

“Get me out, then,” she said.

He felt around until he found the lock. It was more complicated than he had expected, but it was still nothing more than a mortal lock.

“They took the heir to the Diggings,” Imraldera said as he worked.

“I know. But our little Mouse freed him,” Eanrin replied. “So the Murderer showed up and offered to do the deed himself.”

“Etanun?”

“They don't need the heir to fetch the sword as long as the master is willing.” Eanrin's tone was merry, but his face was grim in the darkness.

“Don't be silly!” Imraldera snapped, and it warmed his heart to hear her sound like herself despite everything. “Do you really think our Lord would trust his will to an untrustworthy man?”

“I'm not saying anything against our Lord,” Eanrin muttered, “when I say I don't trust his servant. Etanun is a sly dog—and I do mean
dog
, my girl, you may believe me! Do you know that because you were lured away from the gates, Corgar of Arpiar broke through into the Near World and is even now having his way with a whole host of pale Northerners? Tell me that's part of our Lord's plan, why don't you?”

Imraldera said nothing at first, and Eanrin congratulated himself on having talked her into agreement, however grudging her silence. But then she said, “His ways are beyond our understanding. That doesn't mean they aren't right.”

“You are a trusting little mite, aren't you?” With a click, the lock swung free. “Behold! Am I not a wizard?” Eanrin smirked and took Imraldera's hands to haul her up and out. She could scarcely stand at first, for her limbs were too numb after that cramped imprisonment. Eanrin longed suddenly to draw her to his side . . . under the guise of comforting her, of course, though it was he who needed the comfort. But he couldn't quite bring himself to it. A cat does have his pride to consider.

So she stood on her own, leaning only slightly on his hands as the blood
flowed back into her legs and shoulders. He heard her soft groans, but she did not complain. At last he felt her squeeze his fingers, and she turned to him in the darkness.

“I knew you'd come for me,” she said. “Thank you.”

He opened his mouth a few times, but words choked him. So he shrugged and flashed a careless smile to hide what his bright eyes might reveal. “It's not as though I can keep the watch by myself, now, can I? I need my comrade-in-arms all in one piece, thank you much.”

Imraldera smiled softly, perhaps because she thought he could not see it; though of course he saw much better in the dark than she could. When she spoke again, however, her voice hardened and all trace of softness fled. “We must prevent the Dragonwitch from gaining Halisa.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry too much,” Eanrin said cheerily, though he frowned as she took her hands from his. “There are great prophecies at work, you know; mighty deeds to be done as foretold by the stars.”

“Don't be daft,” Imraldera said, and it was so good to feel the world falling back into its normal patterns. “Prophecies don't come true on their own. We must do our part!”

She started up the dungeon passage, and he quickly fell into place behind her. “Wait, old girl,” he said, reaching out but missing her shoulder in the shadows. “Don't get ahead of me; I don't want to lose you so soon after I've found you! You have a habit of doing stupid things, you know. Drinking from Faerie rivers, making bargains with monsters—”

“In that case, you'd better keep up!” said she.

The Diggings went on forever.

Sometimes the Chronicler believed he still walked in mortal-dug tunnels on rough paths hewn by mortal tools. But if he dared look too closely, the tunnels disappeared, leaving him wandering a flat plain, half lit by no visible light.

Always behind him, he heard the howls of the Black Dogs.

His feet fell into a never-ending rhythm of flight—one, two, one, two—on and on through the byways of the Netherworld.

“Find the sword,” he muttered. “Find Halisa.”

If he looked over his shoulder, he saw the blackness of Midnight approaching. The Dogs would catch him eventually. They must! If all these other Faerie tales were proving themselves true, why should he now doubt the tale of the Black Dogs, who always caught their prey. And he knew beyond doubt that this was his role now. A rabbit on the run, pursued through the tunnels of its warren without hope.

One, two, one, two. The steady slap of his feet upon stone was as unreal a sound in his ears as the baying of the hunt.

“Find Halisa,” he whispered, but he knew that he never could.

“Fear not, small man. You will see your people free.”

The Chronicler's pace slowed as the voice of memory filled his head. A promise, a prophecy. But how could it be true? How could anything be true in the dark? It didn't matter what he believed, because nothing he believed was real! No heroics, no chosen destinies, and no final moments of truth, because the only final moments could be revelations of falsehood. And that was—

The Chronicler screamed, his arms making circles in the air to catch his balance. He reeled on the edge of a precipice, a drop into nothingness that not even the half-light could penetrate. By some miracle, he caught himself and stepped back, unable to tear his gaze away from that line where the plunge began. An overwhelming sweep of coldness rose up from the depths, replaced a moment later with a blast of heat.

The howls increased. They were close behind him now.

Choose my darkness,
spoke a voice from below. A voice like ever-consuming fire.

The Chronicler felt the lure of it more keenly than he had felt the barb of his father's rejection, the pain of Leta's expression when she first saw his ungainly limbs, the agony of disrespect and usurpation under which he had always lived and moved and breathed. Here was the end, the choice to leave all that behind and, in so doing, to clasp it more firmly than ever to his heart.

The Black Dogs drew near.

The Chronicler took a step. It was either that plunge of his own choosing, or the jaws of those monsters clamping down upon him. Whether
they dragged him to death or back to life and the Dragonwitch's will, what did it matter? What did he matter?

Choose my darkness,
said the voice from the pit.

It seemed the right choice. The only choice.

“Florien!”

At first hearing, the Chronicler did not recognize the sound of his own name. But it froze him in place, immobilizing his limbs. He could not take the next step to the edge.

“Florien!”

Don't listen to that,
said the voice from the pit.
You have no name.

Yet the Chronicler stood like stone. With an effort of superhuman will, he managed to turn his head to one side. He saw, coming toward him with great speed, a light. A pure, white light filled with colors within the whiteness. It was the light of nursery rhymes. The light of Faerie tales.

It was the light of Asha. And Alistair's voice called to him.

“Florien!”

“Alistair!”

Once upon a time, blood called to blood on the edge of darkness. Once upon a time, a choice was made and brother died for brother, and the light from beyond the Final Water shone its brightest in the realm of Death.

Both the Chronicler and Alistair knew the story. They turned to each other now, and the voice from the pit was stilled as the light filled the gap between them. The Chronicler saw the face of the one who had taken his inheritance; Alistair saw the face of the one who would take that inheritance back again.

But the light revealed more, and each saw the face of his cousin. His brother. His kin by blood.

Nothing else mattered.

Midnight fell. The Black Dogs closed in. They ran together, their heads low, their mouths open, and fire streamed from their eyes. They howled a ravenous hunting cry, as keen as hatred.

But Alistair was between the Chronicler and the Dogs now, his long legs bounding as he followed the light of the lantern. It was a mad race, a fool's race, but as his heart pounded in his throat, he knew he would reach the Chronicler first.

“You shouldn't be here!” the Chronicler yelled. He saw the Black Dogs, their red eyes tearing the darkness beyond Alistair's tall form. The dissonance of their voices was enough to slay all the senses at once.

“I came to find you,” Alistair said, scarcely able to draw breath as he ran. But he knew what he must say. He had dreamed it too many times to forget.

“You fool!” the Chronicler cried. “Run away!”

But Alistair did not turn and run, even as the Black Dogs neared. He stopped before his cousin, heaving for breath. “You must be king,” he said. “You must save Gaheris.”