Now her eyes burned and the lighting was poor, for no candles were lit and the sky outside the window was thickly overcast with a winter storm rolling in. She could not guess the hour. It might be morning or late afternoon. She felt caught in a half-lit world without time.
And always below her in the courtyard were the ringing of demolished stone and the cracking of whips.
Groaning, she lowered her forehead onto the page over which she labored, a chronicle of taxes collected three decades ago and written in old Raguel’s hand, which was far more difficult to decipher than the Chronicler’s.
Weary, her head heavy with unshed tears, she looked across the desk at a piece of torn parchment, one of the scrolls Corgar had damaged in his rage that first day. It was nothing of significance, another nursery rhyme written as an afterthought and stored away. But she pulled it closer now and read with some relief.
“Starlight, star bright, guide her footsteps through the night.”
She smiled and traced the familiar shape of the Chronicler’s handwriting. Even if he was dead and gone, at least part of him would live on through this labor to which he had devoted himself: the chronicling of life, from taxes to nursery rhymes.
She shivered suddenly, for the room was bitterly cold. It had taken her most of a day to convince the goblins, who didn’t feel the winter’s bite, that she needed candles to see by and a fire to keep her limbs from numbing. Even now, with a small blaze on the hearth across the room, she felt cold through and through, and not even the Chronicler’s writing could warm her.
Inside her bodice, down near the waistband of her tattered gown, rested Mintha’s key. Leta placed a hand over her stomach, feeling the secret contours of that object. Why had Lady Mintha given it to her?
“I don’t get it, Ghoukas.”
The voice sent a chill down Leta’s spine. It was one of the two guards posted outside the library door. The library itself had no lock to keep her imprisoned, so Corgar posted a constant watch. For the most part they were so quiet that Leta could forget they were there. But every now and then they spoke to each other in their growling voices.
“I don’t get it. Is it pretty?”
The other guard, the one called Ghoukas, snorted. “I haven’t regarded pretty or ugly in a hundred years. What does it matter?”
But the first one was dissatisfied with this. “Why else would Corgar value it so?”
They must be speaking of the House of Lights, Leta thought, still fingering the shape of the key inside her gown.
“Corgar doesn’t care about pretty, no more than any of us,” Ghoukas responded.
“Then there must be something else,” said the first one, sounding truly mystified. “I’ve never seen our captain become enamored of anything, not treasures, not gems, not even our own queen. Why would he take it into his head to fancy a mortal girl?”
A weight dropped like a stone in the pit of Leta’s stomach.
Hardly aware of what she did, she slid from the Chronicler’s stool, stumbling across the floor into the deeper recesses of the library. There was nowhere to hide in this small chamber. But she fumbled for the spiral stairway leading to the loft and climbed partway before her knees gave out and she sat down hard.
You should probably dissolve into a lump of panic, one side of her mind whispered, and Leta, for once, had difficulty deciding if it was her practical or rebellious side speaking.
No! her other side snarled, and she shook her head. You’re not giving in. He’s waiting for you to collapse! But you’re not what they’ve told you that you are.
“Think, Leta. Think,” she whispered. It probably wasn’t true, what the goblins were saying outside. Probably nothing more than confused gossip. “But you can’t stay here and let him destroy you,” she told herself. “You’ve got to act. You’ve got to do something.”
Her hands, pressed against her roiling stomach, felt the key.
An idea came to her mind.
Moving on trembling limbs, she climbed back down the stairs, digging into her bodice for the key with one hand. She remembered hearing rumors about the secret passage of Gaheris Castle, a secret to which Lady Mintha would certainly be privy.
In an unlit corner beyond the fireplace, a musty old tapestry hung. Leta pulled this back and gasped in relief to find a door there in the stone wall. An old, brass-fastened door that led nowhere as far as she knew.
It was difficult to see anything in the dimness, but she felt out the lock of the door and, with a little fumbling, inserted the key. It fit perfectly.
Her fingers trembling, Leta tried to turn it. The lock, unused in many generations, resisted. Grinding her teeth, she applied the force of both hands, straining.
“Greetings, captain” came the voice of Ghoukas from beyond the library door.
Leta looked over her shoulder, her face draining of all color. She hesitated. But no, they would see the open door and pursue and catch her if she tried to escape now.
Yanking the key from the lock and letting the tapestry fall, she had only just dropped the key back into hiding when the door opened, admitting Corgar. His gaze went first to her accustomed place at the Chronicler’s desk, then swiftly found her standing in the shadows.
“Are you hiding from me?” Corgar asked.
Leta, her heart racing but her face a mask, stepped out of the alcove beneath the stairs and paced quietly to the table where more volumes were stacked high. She selected one and carried it to the desk, taking her seat right under Corgar’s nose. Yet she did not open it.
“Why are you not reading?” he asked.
Afraid of what her face might reveal, Leta lowered her forehead into her hand, hiding her eyes. “I need a rest,” she said. “I’ll go blind otherwise in this gloom.”
“Is that true?”
She shrugged. “Quite possibly.”
Corgar made no further protest. He stepped away from the desk to one of the windows and looked to the courtyard below, crawling with his slaves. Leta watched him from behind her hand. He was so awful and so powerful. But in his face was something else, something close to desperation.
She surprised herself by suddenly asking out loud, “Why?”
“Why what?” said Corgar.
“Why are you doing this?” Leta lowered her hand, staring at the monster, her brow wrinkled. “You seem to have no interest in or liking for our world. Your minions creep about like frightened rats though they’re twice the size of any man here and our weapons cannot touch them. They hate it, and you hate it. So why are you here?”
Her own daring amazed Leta, and she waited for her practical side to step in and shut her mouth. It said nothing, however, and neither did the goblin, so she found her tongue running on unchecked. “Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?”
“Because I need the House of Lights,” Corgar replied.
“Yes, I know; that’s what you keep saying.” Leta grimaced at the snap in her own voice. She was terribly tired, and her pale hair, which she had tried to tie back in braids, had all come undone. Ugly circles underscored her eyes. She scarcely felt human anymore. “Why do you need it so badly?”
To her surprise and horror, Corgar laughed a rumbling chuckle, like a dog’s growl but more dreadful for its mirth. Then he spoke, turning toward her as he did so. “It’s not for me. It’s for my queen, Vartera. The woman—or monster, as you might say—whom I am bound to marry.”
Leta blinked owl eyed up at him, suddenly wishing she’d kept her questions to herself. He stood a pace or two from her now. The shadows were surprisingly gentle on his face, disguising the more hideous crags, smoothing out the rock-hardened skin. His eyes were bright with laughter as he looked down on her.
“I could kill you,” he said.
“I . . . I am well aware of that,” Leta said.
“But you’re not afraid of me.”
She couldn’t find breath to answer.
“You faced me in the courtyard,” he continued. “I remember. A little
prick behind my knee, and there you were, fallen flat, a broken lance head in your hand. A comic sight, worthy of the songs of Rudiobus! And you weren’t afraid of me then either. You are brave, little warrior.”
One ugly hand reached out, and she thought he meant to slay her then and there. Instead, she felt the coldness of his talon slide down the curve of her cheek.
“Are you beautiful?” Corgar asked.
Leta’s heart nearly burst in her throat as that one claw traced under her chin and rested there, tilting her face up to the monster’s.
“I don’t know what beauty is, and I have never cared. That was always Vartera’s obsession. I wish her much joy with it!”
His voice was gentle. Yet with a flick of his wrist, he could cut her throat.
“Even so I can’t help but wonder, looking at you,” the goblin said, and the shadows could not disguise the gleam of his sharp teeth, “are you beautiful? Are you what that word means?”
She wanted to fall off the stool and crawl away. Instead, she spoke in a dry, crackling voice, “I’m very plain indeed.”
“That,” Corgar whispered, “is the first lie you have told me. The first of many to come, I trust.”
“I have no reason to lie to you,” she said.
To her unending relief, he narrowed his eyes and stepped back, removing his hand from her face. “Continue your work,” he said as he turned to the door.
Would he go? Would he leave her alone even for a few moments? Long enough for a key to slip into a lock, for an old door to creak open and shut? What did it matter if she was lost in the darkness? What did it matter if she escaped to barren countryside in the depths of winter with no provisions? If only she could get away! If only she could escape this chamber, once her sanctuary, now her prison!
Corgar’s hand was on the latch. He stopped. He looked around.
“Give it to me,” he said.
“Give you what?” Leta asked.
He was back across the room, towering over her, and no gentleness remained in his voice. “Give me what you’re hiding,” he demanded. “Don’t think you can keep it from me. If you do not place it in my hand, I will tear it from you myself.”
There was no way he could know about the key! And yet, looking into those dreadful eyes, Leta dared not protest, not even to herself.
She put her hand into her bodice, withdrew Mintha’s furtive gift, and dropped it into Corgar’s outstretched palm. It disappeared behind the curl of his claws.
“Get back to work,” the goblin said.
8
WITH THAT DEFIANT CRY, I TOOK TO THE AIR. The Netherworld could not contain me. Nor could the Near World or the Far. I flew beyond them all to the heavens themselves, into the presence of Lady Hymlumé. I would devour the moon! I would end her song! Then all would know my might, and all would tremble at the name of Hri Sora! And the strength I felt then would ease my pain.
Even as I neared the gardens of the moon, even as I saw Hymlumé’s face turn to me in fear, the Dark Father drew up beside me. The blast of his breath sent me tumbling away, and I suddenly realized my mistake. I was the most powerful of all my Father’s children, the firstborn among all dragons.
But I was not Death-in-Life.
“You fool! You wretch!” the Dark Father cried, his voice a wave of fire. “You will not shout this defiance in my face! You will not flaunt this strength that I gave you!”
His great claws reached out. With a stroke, he tore my dragon wings from my shoulders.
So the decision was made. She was a traitor twice over.
Mouse, jostled in the midst of the frightened crowd, pulled the blindfold back over her face. Now the jostling was worse. But she shouted like the others, and it was she who began the cry, “The heir? Where is the heir?”
It was taken up. Priestesses barked orders to silent slaves, and once more Mouse found herself knocked about. She fell to her knees on the stone and put her hands over her head in a feeble attempt to protect herself, still shouting, “Where is the heir?”
Someone grabbed her by the shoulder, dragged her to her feet, and tore her blindfold away. By the flicker of torchlight, she stared into the face of Sparrow.
“I saw what you did!” said the priestess, her onetime sister acolyte.
Mouse shook her head. “I did nothing—”
“Silence!” Sparrow snarled. “I saw what you did, traitor! It’s time the Speaker knew what you really are!”
She dragged Mouse through the milling throng to where the high priestess stood like a stone, listening to the sounds of panic, her eyes still shielded.
“Speaker!” Sparrow cried, and the high priestess turned at the sound of her voice. “I saw it! I saw what happened! This one”—flinging Mouse on her knees—“cut the heir loose! She let him escape into the Diggings!”
The high priestess’s face was unreadable behind her blindfold. Mouse, crouching on the stone, could scarcely see anything for the wild careening of the lights around them.
The Speaker raised both arms. “Stop!” she cried.
Immediate silence fell upon the throng. Still blindfolded, the high priestess turned to those nearest her. “The heir?” she demanded.
“Gone,” a priestess replied. “Vanished into the dark.”
“I told you, Speaker! It was this Mouse who let him go!” Sparrow cried.
How calm the high priestess was even as her world fell apart around her. In that moment Mouse’s heart beat with the adoring admiration it had first felt for this woman, years before.
But the second beat was a cold bump, and she thought, She knows! She knows what the Flame is, and yet she does what she does!
“Stand up, Mouse,” the Speaker said.
Mouse hastened to obey. Now she’ll kill me, she thought. Now she’ll command the eunuchs to run me through.
Instead, the Speaker wrapped her arm around Mouse’s shoulders and drew her close. Then she turned to Sparrow, and the lower half of her face contorted into an ugly expression. “Seize her,” she said.
“What? No!” Sparrow cried as two slaves stepped forward and grabbed her by the arms. “Speaker! I am not the traitor! This girl you favor so blindly, it was she who loosed the heir, she who has turned her back on the goddess!”
“You have always resented Mouse,” said the Speaker, her voice as cold as the shadows around them. “Mouse, to whom I have shown favor that you believed due yourself. Don’t think I have not noticed. I’ll hear no more of your slander.” She addressed the eunuchs. “Take her away.”
Mouse shuddered as she watched Sparrow dragged screaming into the darkness. The Speaker’s hand remained comfortingly on her shoulder. She turned to the silent cluster of priestesses and slaves around her. “Have you found the heir?” she asked.
“No, Speaker,” a priestess replied.
“Fire burn!” the Speaker snarled, and it was a curse not a prayer. But she did not release her hold on Mouse.
“We will send the slaves after him,” someone said. “They will track him down! They will find him!”
“No,” said the Speaker. “No, they’ll never find him. They will only become as lost as he is. There is only one way to catch him now.”
The high priestess never loosened her hold on Mouse as the company retreated through the darkness of the Diggings, climbing to the world above. They emerged into sunlight that was dreadful to see, ascended the red stairs carved into the stone, and on through the lower temple. Mouse, her robe firmly gripped in the high priestess’s fist, was dragged to the Spire itself, and then the long, long climb, up and up.
What would be done to her? Would she be brought before the Dragonwitch? Did the Speaker, despite her words to Sparrow, know the truth? Or would one look at Mouse’s face reveal the betrayal?
But even as they neared the final turn of the stairway approaching the door that led out onto the roof, the high priestess said, “You did well, child. Many, addled by darkness, would not have noticed his disappearance. I heard you give the a
larm. Thanks to you, we may act quickly and, I hope, not lose much time.”
Then the door was opened, and Mouse followed the Speaker out upon the rooftop. The sun was setting, burning the sky so that it looked as though the fire upon the altar itself blazed into the heavens. To Mouse’s surprise and horror, she saw through the smoke and heat-shimmered air that the curtain was flung back from the doorway beyond the altar.
The Dragonwitch stood framed by fire and silence. Her blind eyes burned.
“Where is it?” Sparks fell from her tongue. “Where is Halisa?”
Only then did the Speaker release her hold on Mouse’s shoulder and fall on her knees before the altar. The Dragonwitch was taller, Mouse thought, than when she had seen her earlier. Or perhaps she merely seemed so out here on the rooftop, her hair disintegrating into the breeze.
“Where is it?” she cried and leaned forward over the altar itself, her hands grabbing hold of the burning brands, clutching them as though she clutched Fireword itself.
“Flame at Night, holy goddess!” the Speaker said, unable to raise herself up. How frail and pathetic she looked to Mouse now. Gone was the powerful woman she had always appeared. Mouse saw her now for what she truly was: A child playing foolish games of strength, toying with death.
Mouse cowered into the shadows by the door. Though her knees trembled, she could not make herself kneel, and she hoped the Dragonwitch would not turn those coal eyes upon her and blast her to oblivion.
“Tell me!” the Dragonwitch cried, crawling onto the altar and dispersing the bonfire, which should have caught upon her flaking skin and set her hair ablaze but seemed instead to recoil from her presence. She crouched upon the altar stone, her hands clasping embers and coals, shuddering with pain. “Tell me!”
“The heir escaped,” the Speaker said. “We were betrayed by one of our own, and he was released into the Diggings.”