Dragonwitch (39 page)

It was all clear now: his dream, his doom. His purpose, which was not kingship nor power.

The Chronicler screamed. “Watch out! Behind you!”

He did not hesitate. Though he knew what he would see, he spun on his heel. And as the first of the Black Dogs, racing ahead of its brother, leapt at the Chronicler, Alistair let go of the lantern and leapt as well. He wrapped his long arms around the neck and chest of that monster, and they stood, poised upon the brink of the precipice, the Dog snarling in surprise and horror.

“Alistair!”
cried the Chronicler.

The tearing of his flesh.

The burn of flaming teeth.

With a final wrench, Alistair turned. It was the most he could do, this last act before he died. He had not seen it in his dreams. He had seen nothing beyond the pain that now shot through his body as the Black Dog ripped into him. But he turned and he pulled, and his strong arms held fast.

They teetered on the edge.

Then Alistair and the Black Dog fell into the swallowing chasm.

———

There was no Time in this place. The Chronicler might have stood for hours, for years, on the brink of that drop, searching the blindness into which his cousin—his cousin, whom he had despised all his life—had fallen.

The howl of the second Black Dog rang in his ears. The Chronicler turned and found the monster bearing down upon him, its mouth red and ravenous. The Chronicler hurled himself to one side and landed hard upon the strange stone of the Netherworld.

Asha gleamed by his hand, lying where Alistair had dropped it.

The Chronicler, unaware of the tears staining his face, grabbed the lantern handle. Then he was up and running back through the darkness through which he had stumbled, this time following the light of Asha.

The Black Dog pursued, hot on his heels.

S
O
I
SHALL
BURN
YOU
,
even as I plunge the blade that twice killed me deep into your heart.

“I do not rest at night as you mortals do,” Corgar said, closing the library door. “In darkness my people come alive. But mortals are so blind and helpless.”

Leta felt the weight of the book on her foot, but she dared not look at it, dared not draw attention its way. She stepped away from the table, away from her flickering candle. But she knew the shadows could not shield her from Corgar's eyes, which gleamed as he moved across the room.

“You,” he said, “do not sleep tonight. I saw your candle from below. You are still about your work.”

If she spoke, what might her voice betray? Had she the skill to disguise it? She did not trust herself, so she remained silent. Corgar inspected the
various papers littering her desk, his claw gently shifting them about, studying the marks he did not know. It was a relief to feel his gaze averted. Leta managed to draw a breath, light as moth wings.

“Do you know,” Corgar said, still without looking her way, “that I will be a king?”

He waited so long, Leta knew she would have to answer. Her voice broke in her throat at the first attempt, but she forced it out on a second. “No, sir.”

He cast her a quick glance, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. “King of Arpiar,” he said. “King of the goblins.” His voice was strangely bitter. “My queen, Vartera, has promised to make me her husband if I bring her the light hidden within your fabled House. A small favor but sufficient to make me worthy in her eyes. I am of humble stock, you understand, not the stuff of kings.”

Though she dared not look at it, Leta was desperately aware of the book lying facedown on the floor a few paces from her. What if he should see it? What if he should pick it up, and the page was open, the secret exposed? But no. He couldn't possibly guess. Ceaneus would not reveal such a sight to his dreadful eyes!

But she dared not chance it, so she stood like a statue, her gaze fixed anywhere but on the floor.

And Corgar, his voice rumbling deep as the night, continued. “I've always thought I should like to be king. Who would not wish to sit upon a throne? I did myself proud in the war with Rudiobus and caught the queen's eye.
Now's my chance!
I told myself.”

He turned to her suddenly, his eyes narrowed and shrewd. “You're quiet this night,” he said, “small warrior.”

Leta took another few paces back, hardly realizing she did so. She felt the heat of the library hearth behind her, warm on her feet though the fire was low. The rest of her was as cold as the winter-locked stones of Gaheris. “I have been working much,” she said.

“Where have all your questions gone?” he persisted, still standing by her desk, where the candlelight caught the sharp edges of his face, casting the rest into masklike shadow. “Where is the fighting spirit?”

She shook her head. “I have none,” she said. “I am tired.”

“If you have no questions yourself, do you think you might answer one?”

For a crazed moment, Leta wished she could step back and be consumed by that feeble hearth fire. He would ask! He would ask what she knew, and he would know if she lied. Had he not guessed the secret of the hidden key? Somehow he had read her face, had wrested her secret and taken it without a thought.

“Please,” she said, “leave me alone. Until morning at least. I am tired.”

“Not too tired, I think, to answer me this,” Corgar said. His one hand pressed into the desktop, and she saw how his claws tore into the pages lying there. “Tell me, little maid, why should Vartera have all the beauty?”

The words circled round Leta's mind. It took several moments before she realized what he had asked. Then she shook her head and looked down at her feet.

“She takes it all for herself,” Corgar said. “Feeds everything into that enchanted pot of hers, boiling it down so that she may drink the brew. Witch that she is! She's drained all Arpiar. Drained it of everything that you, with your mortal eyes, might once have thought fine. Drained all of us, her people, of any graceful proportion, any fair feature we might once have boasted. Now she alone of all the goblin folk may be considered beautiful. But it won't last! No, it will fade, and she will need more fair things to feed her pot. Things like the Flowing Gold of Rudiobus, which we failed to obtain in the war. Things like the light of the last House, which you mortals cannot hope to defend.”

Leta listened but understood none of what he said. She was aware only of his great bulk across from her, as yet unmoving. But his chest rose and fell with increasing breath, as though he prepared for battle. She trembled where she stood but could retreat no farther.

“When the Murderer came to Arpiar,” Corgar said, “and told her that we should be able to breach the Near World on a certain dawn—the dawn of a nobleman's death—Vartera took my hand and said: ‘If you bring back this prize for my pot, I will make you king. How do you like that?' And I said that I would like it well. Fool that I am!”

His hand clenched into a fist, crumpling parchments, tearing paper. “A sip from a brew made from the light of Asha will cause Vartera to shine like Hymlumé herself!” He snarled. “But why should she have all, and we none? Why may I not take a little beauty for myself?”

Leta reached one hand back, grasping the fireplace mantel. Using it as support, she slid around to the other side, behind the bulk of the chimney, wishing to hide and knowing she could not. Corgar's eyes followed her movements. Darkness offered no protection from him.

“I have been thinking,” he said, “as I stood down below and saw your candle in the window.” He seemed to realize what his fist was clutching and let the crumpled parchment fall to the desk and roll to the floor below. “I have been considering the question of beauty.” His eyes flashed. “What is your opinion, mortal? Do I deserve some beauty, goblin though I am?”

Leta pictured the Chronicler earnestly urging her:
“You've let yourself be made into something you were never meant to be. Tell me, have you not longed all your life to prove them wrong?”

If she did not answer, she feared what Corgar might do. So, though she clung to the cold stones of the chimney, Leta whispered, “We are never obliged to be only what they have told us we are. Not if we were meant to be more.”

“Meant to be?” Corgar repeated. “And what was I meant to be? More than a warrior? More than a destroyer? More than a slave to my queen's every whim? Was I
meant
to be more than these?”

“I don't know,” said Leta.

“And what of you?” persisted the monster. “Do you know what you were meant to be?”

Say nothing,
practical Leta commanded at once.
You'll give away everything if you speak!

But before she could catch up with herself, her mouth opened and she heard herself saying, “I'll tell you what, I
wasn't
meant to be bandied about like some sort of tool, not by my father, not by my future husband, and certainly not by you! Perhaps you don't see me as much more than a useful nothing with which to accomplish deeds in the name of your wretched queen. But do you know something? You can't read any of these documents without me. Not another breathing soul in Gaheris can do what I'm doing for you, which means, if you kill me, then all this is over. You'll have to go back to your foolish, blind search. So there you have it!”

She stepped from the shadows, her words emboldening her more than they should have, momentarily driving out the crushing fear. “Kill me if
you like,” she said. “You can bash me on stone like a hammer and chisel. Only my body will break. Because underneath all the usefulness, I am more than a tool. I am me.”

She hesitated, telling herself she would regret the next words that sprang forward to be spoken. But rebel Leta was in full control, hotheaded and angry. “And you're you, Corgar of Arpiar. You're only your queen's instrument so long as you allow yourself to be. And maybe she'll kill you if you stop doing her dirty work, but is that really so dreadful a price? When it's a question of death or life-in-death, which is to be preferred?”

“You're quite the philosopher,” said the monster dryly.

The rumble of his voice brought practical Leta back to her senses, and she shrank into herself, ducking her head and wondering what nonsense she had just spouted. “Not at all,” she replied. “I ask questions, but I have no answers.”

“Is that not the way of the philosopher?” Corgar asked. “I have always preferred sword and club to the wanderings of the mind. But here in your world, the air is different. Thinner, sharper. It is difficult for me to breathe, and I hunger for more. More air. More life. More beauty, perhaps, if I only knew what beauty was.”

“Beauty is more than any one person can tell you,” Leta said.

“What about love?” he asked.

It was a strange question spoken through snarling lips and ragged teeth set in a face from childhood nightmares. Leta could not speak. So he continued. “Love is the final, greatest beauty, am I right?”

“I suppose so,” she whispered.

“I do not love Vartera,” Corgar said. “Though I slave for her sake, though I will marry her if she will have me, I do not love her. I hate her.”

“I'm sorry,” Leta said. She could not look at him.

“Don't be. It's not your fault.” There was a pause that lasted far too long. Then Corgar said, “Whom do you love, Leta? Whom
can
you love?”

She said nothing.

“Is it only possible for you,” he continued, “to love beautiful things? Perfect, well-formed, admirable things?”

The light from the candle slid over his face and vanished as he moved across the floor. Leta wanted to retreat into the corner behind the chimney.
But she couldn't find the will to move. “Is it possible,” Corgar said, drawing nearer, “for a creature like you—a creature of beauty—to love someone who is not beautiful? Someone who is marred. Can you see worth in what others would turn from in disgust?”

He stood before her now, towering and cold as the rock he was hewn from. She could see nothing but the light shining in his white eyes, which was far too dreadful to behold. She turned away, and her gaze landed on the discarded book lying facedown on the floor.

Corgar drew a hissing breath. “You have a secret,” he said.

“No.” Leta dragged her eyes back to his face. It was the most difficult thing she had ever done, but she stood and met his gaze.

“You lie,” said Corgar. “You lie to me again.”

“I'm frightened,” she replied. This, at least, was true.

He put out a hand. She feared he would touch her, and her body recoiled. But his hand froze in the space above her shoulder, and those white eyes narrowed to slits. “I don't want to frighten you.”

She shook her head and said, “Now you lie.”

Corgar drew back as though stung. His heavy footsteps retreated, and the bulk of his great form blocked the candlelight. Leta stood in darkness until Corgar reached the door and turned back to look at her once more.

“Well, little mortal,” he said, “we are at an impasse. Until now I do not believe I have ever seen you truly frightened. But you'll regain your courage, won't you?”

He opened the door and stood framed in the doorway. “Sunlight never fails to raise the spirits of you dying creatures. I'll give you until dawn, and then you must regain your courage and tell me this secret of yours.”

He ducked his head and left the room.

The door shut, its iron latch having the final word in the odd exchange. Leta, hardly knowing what had just transpired, stood for a good while, unable to move.

Then she flew to the window and grasped the stone frame, wondering if she could somehow fit through that opening. But no, though she was slight, the slit was too narrow, and the drop below far too great. Even should she succeed in wriggling through, she would smash on the broken paving below.

“I cannot let him know,” she whispered, and for once neither her practical nor rebellious side offered a counterargument. “I cannot let him discover what I have learned.” Perhaps a fall to the paving stones was the only answer. Then her secret would die with her.

The clouds above churned like a coming storm. Once again they parted suddenly, and Leta gazed up at the shining light of Ceaneus, the blue star. Her eyes filled with desperate tears. If only the House of Lights was opened! If only she could hear the Songs of the Spheres as did the mortals of long ago! She might then be able to call upon their aid, for surely they would look with pity on the plight of those imprisoned in Gaheris.

Involuntarily, her lips formed the words of the old nursery rhyme: