Dragonwitch

  Halisa glowed upon the stone.

  The rivers beneath the floor roared in distant protest.

  “Take the sword,” said the Speaker.

  Ancient fingers closed upon the still more ancient hilt. Though his arm was too skinny to support such a weapon, the scrubber lifted Halisa from its bed. It slid from the black stone as simply as it might slide from its sheath. Rising, it shone brighter, brighter even than the ever-burning flame atop the Spire.

  The scrubber stepped back. Halisa was far too heavy for him, and after shivering for a moment in the air, the sword came to a ringing crash upon the floor, breaking tiles beneath its blade. But the old man kept his hold on the hilt. Heaving, he lifted the weapon upright again and, tottering with each step, made his way to the door.

  The eunuchs parted to give him room. The Speaker drew up behind him, her head higher than the hunch of his shoulders. Mouse saw her face, full of joyless triumph.

  The scrubber stood beneath the arch. “You know,” he said, “I put a guard on this door. If anyone other than me or my heir tried to take Halisa from here, they should die. A harsh protection, I’ll grant you, but didn’t I just know people like you’d come poking around down here? I’ve won myself a number of enemies and lost a number of friends over the years. A man can’t be too careful.”

  “Enough,” said the Speaker. “We must hurry. My goddess awaits.”

  “Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” the scrubber muttered.

  One foot passed over the threshold. Then the other.

  And suddenly, there was a rip, a roar, and a crash. Mouse screamed and fell back, her voice lost in the screams of the other priestesses and acolytes, of the Netherworld spirits around them. For the doorway to the chamber had broken, and the carved stone fell, dragging chunks of the wall with it. The cacophony was too loud for the cries of the eunuchs and the high priestess buried within to be heard.

  Mouse, fallen to her hands and knees, was kicked and stepped on as the women fled, their torches flashing and vanishing in the panic. Soon she would be lost in utter darkness, alone in the Netherworld. All her plans to grab Halisa and flee into the Diggings were for nothing! Had it too been buried under the broken doorway? Would the Dragonwitch, disappointed again, send more slaves to die as they dug it out once more?

  “There you are, Mousy. I thought you’d be close.”

  Mouse startled as the familiar stench of the old scrubber’s breath filled her nostrils. She felt her hand grasped and something pressed into it. Something heavy, with a leather grip, that she recognized immediately even though she had never before held its like.

  “Fireword!”

  “Take it,” said the scrubber. “Take it and run. Find the Smallman, for though he is lost, he still has a purpose to fulfill.”

  Mouse gripped the sword in both hands, feeling she must keel over from the weight of it. A silver light ran faintly along its blade, revealing the eyes of the old man. And in that light, other things became suddenly clear as well.

  Mouse turned to the wreckage of the doorway, the pile of rubble. “Are they alive?” she cried.

  “They’re inside,” said the scrubber. “As alive as they’ve ever been.”

  “I must get them out!”

  “No, child,” said the scrubber. His voice was firm but sad. “You must find the Smallman. Do you hear me?”

  By the light of the sword, Mouse stared at broken stone. High priestess! She wanted to scream at the pile, to drive the sword into it, to tear it down. Mistress! Was she there, did she still breathe?

  “Mother,” she whispered.

  The scrubber’s hand touched her shoulder. “They’re not dead,” he said. “They’re living the same death of a life they’ve embraced since the beginning. But you cannot stay here. Live, child. Live as you have never lived before. Take the sword to my heir and see your people freed!”

  “What about you?” Tears clogged Mouse’s throat. “What about the Dragonwitch?”

  “I’ll take care of the Dragonwitch,” said the scrubber. “Never you fear. Now go!”

  Mouse ran. She fled into the Diggings without direction, without a Path, but she held Halisa in both hands, and the darkness kept its distance. Around her she could hear screams. The priestesses and acolytes wandered the Diggings in unprotected fear. Like the Diggers they had sent to perish at the goddess’s command, they lost their way. Tears stained Mouse’s face. They were her sisters! They were blind, and they were foolish.

  They were like her.

  She gripped the sword, wondering how she managed to carry it, for it should be far too heavy. But the blade gleamed, lighting a Path at her feet, and she followed without question. “Where is the Chronicler?” she whispered. “Where is the heir?”

  “Mouse!”

  She turned at the sound of her name, staring into the darkness beyond the sword’s light. “Eanrin?” she called, her voice tentative.

  “Wait! Wait right there!” called the familiar golden voice.

  Mouse planted her feet, and soon two figures appeared in the ring of light around her. “Silent Lady!” Mouse cried, recognizing the woman beside Eanrin. “You’re free!”

  “Dragon’s teeth, girl, don’t make such noise,” Eanrin said, his face ferocious in Halisa’s glow. “It’s killing my nerves, all this screaming and shouting.”

  Imraldera gently squeezed Mouse’s shoulder. The friendly gesture was enough to make Mouse weep, but she swallowed her tears. “You have Halisa,” Imraldera said, gazing in wonder at the weapon that she had never before seen but about which she had written more than a hundred documents.

  “How did you get it?” Eanrin demanded.

  Scarcely able to draw breath, Mouse explained what had happened, the breaking of the doorway arch, the burying of the high priestess and the eunuch warriors. “They’re trapped!” she said. “He gave me the sword, told me to run, then left me, and they’re trapped in the dark!”

  “That sounds about like Etanun,” Eanrin growled.

  “Don’t, Eanrin,” Imraldera said and turned to Mouse. “We’ll get them out. Can you lead us to them?”

  But even as Mouse nodded, Eanrin scowled. “What are you talking about? We must find the Smallman so he can gather all his impish might and slay our foe, remember?”

  “If these people are buried alive, we have to free them,” Imraldera said firmly. Eanrin opened his mouth to protest but stopped at the light from the sword glinting in her eyes. “Don’t think you can dissuade me.”

  “Dragon’s fire!” he cursed, and Mouse flinched and looked down at her feet. Then he turned to the girl, and his eyes were catlike in the half-light. “Tell me where they are,” he said. “I’ll dig them out.”

  “By yourself? It’s not safe—” Imraldera began, but he held up a hand.

  “I can manage unearthing a dozen crazed warrior eunuchs on my own, old girl. You take Mouse and get to the surface. I know we need to find the Smallman!” he hastened to add before she could interrupt. “But there’s no point in any of us wandering around in the half-light. If anyone will find him, it’ll be his blood kin, and we’ll have to wait to see if that works. Meanwhile, you two need to get the sword as far away from Hri Sora as you can. Lumé knows what she plans to do with it!”

  “What of you, Eanrin?” Imraldera asked.

  “I’ll follow quick as thought. Find the miners’ path and stick to it. Don’t listen to ghosts, hear me?”

  Imraldera nodded, swallowing hard.

  “The cave-in was not far behind me,” Mouse said, pointing. Her tear-stained face was hopeful now. “Please,” she said, “find the Speaker. She . . . she doesn’t know better than she’s done.”

  “There’s a new excuse,” Eanrin sneered.

  Imraldera gave him a look. Without a word, she took Mouse’s hand and led her through the half-light, back the way she and Eanrin had come.

  Eanrin stood alone. He watched until the light of Halisa was a dim pinprick in the shadows. Then he turned and darted i
n cat-form down the path, seeking the broken chamber. “Dragons blast that Imraldera,” he muttered.

  “Dragons blast that cat,” Imraldera muttered as she led Mouse back up the path. Mouse, confused and exhausted, blinked in surprise. She would never have expected such language from an ancient prophetess. But then, nothing ever was quite what Mouse had expected.

  They entered a cavern. The sword’s glow could not reveal the vastness of its proportions. They felt tremendous emptiness surrounding them, an emptiness full of wraiths and woes. Imraldera faltered and Mouse’s stomach dropped with terror. Were they lost already? Standing there in silence, with only their own breath in their ears, it was easy to imagine the echoes of lost ones resounding in the depths. Lost miners. Lost slaves. Lost worshippers. Voices echoing . . .

  And suddenly Mouse realized that it wasn’t the echoes of lost ones she heard. No, this was a present, ever nearer howling.

  “The Black Dogs!” Her grip on the sword tightened.

  “No,” said Imraldera. “Just one Black Dog. It is alone.”

  “They were sent to find the Smallman,” Mouse said. “The Dragonwitch sent them after I freed him.”

  Imraldera licked her lips and glanced over her shoulder as though even now Eanrin watched her every move. Then she said, “In that case, it must be on his trail. If we find it, we’ll find him.”

  “What? You mean follow the Black Dogs?”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve done so,” said Imraldera, taking a firm grip on Mouse’s upper arm.

  “They’ll kill us!”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The cat-man told us to go to the surface!”

  “Eanrin doesn’t always get what he wants, does he?”

  Then they were off in a new direction, plunging away from all traces of the Near World Diggings, down and down into the Netherworld. Immediately Mouse became aware of the phantom presences on the fringes of her conscious mind. But fear of Halisa kept them at a curious distance, where they could watch but not interfere.

  The baying grew louder until it rattled every sense in Mouse’s body. She wondered how she’d make one foot fall ahead of the other.

  Suddenly she felt something like a pulse through Fireword’s blade, down to the hilt she gripped in both hands. It startled her, and she stopped, yanking back Imraldera, who still held on to her. “What’s wrong?” Imraldera demanded, her voice sharp.

  “The sword,” Mouse said. “It said something.”

  “Said something?”

  “Like . . . a name.”

  “What name?”

  “Asha,” Mouse whispered.

  The Midnight fell upon them. Like the overwhelming sweep of a tidal wave, it crashed over their heads. The two women drew together, and Mouse lifted the sword, her only defense against oblivion. Yet where the light of Halisa fell, the Midnight tore away, and Imraldera and Mouse stood in a small, untouched haven in the darkness.

  But the baying of the monster increased.

  There were two eyes. Two red eyes like pulsing suns, and a wide, gaping mouth full of dark teeth and blood. Mouse faced it, pointing the sword like a warrior preparing for a last stand. And she saw something she did not expect.

  The Chronicler, the Smallman, running before the pursuing beast with a silver lantern swinging from his hand. And the light of that lantern reached out to the sword like brother calling to brother. Though she heard nothing, Mouse knew that the sword answered and that its answer was joyful.

  Halisa.

  Asha.

  “Chronicler!” Mouse shouted.

  He saw them. His face was desperate, and the Black Dog was hot at his heels. But he saw them and ran toward them, his short legs unable to make the strides he needed, at any moment expecting to be overcome, to be devoured, dragged down to the Dark Water and beyond.

  Imraldera strode forward to that place between the points of light that were the sword and the lantern. She looked at neither but fixed her gaze upon the torrent of fury that was the Dog. As it approached, its great neck straining, its jaws slavering for the kill, Imraldera raised her arms and spoke in a voice of command.

  “Be still!”

  The Dog came to a halt.

  The Chronicler ran on past Imraldera until he reached the pool of light where Mouse stood. There he stopped, panting, his face full of the expectation of doom, and whirled about to see what Mouse, her eyes round and staring, watched.

  Imraldera stepped forward, her black hair glinting red in the light of the Dog’s eyes. It was a vast monster, towering over her like a bear. But it whined, a piteous sound in its thick throat.

  “Down,” said Imraldera.

  The Black Dog collapsed to its belly.

  The Chronicler and Mouse exchanged glances. For the moment, her betrayal was forgotten by both in their extreme surprise. They looked at each other, then back at the small woman commanding the great dark monster.

  “Stay,” she said.

  The Black Dog growled. But it did not move. Imraldera hurried back to the waiting pair. “You did not need to run,” she said, addressing the Chronicler. “As long as you hold Akilun’s lantern, the Black Dogs cannot hurt you. Now tell me, where is the other one?”

  “It—I saw it—”

  “Where is Alistair?” Mouse demanded, releasing her hold on Halisa with one hand to grab the Chronicler’s shoulder. “Where is your cousin?”

  He turned to her. Here in the Netherworld he could understand her words once more. More important, he understood their tremulous meaning. He found he had no answer.

  “Where is he?” Mouse insisted.

  Imraldera looked from one face to the other. Then she stepped between them, separating them. “We have the sword,” she said, “and we have the heir. Come, let us find our way to the surface. The Dragonwitch’s time is come. Walk before us, Smallman,” she said. “We’ll follow Asha’s lead.”

  So the Chronicler, every limb atremble, stepped forward, and the three of them walked as the lantern directed. Imraldera cast a last glance back at the cowering Black Dog, and it snarled at her. She turned away again, her heart heavy. For she had known that Dog long ago, and she had offered it love, which it rejected. But even now it would obey her. She knew it would not try to follow them.

  Mouse, her stomach roiling, wondered at the Chronicler’s silence. Her mind nearly burst with a storm of reasons why Alistair was not there. Good, healthy reasons, none of which involved rending or blood or any of the horrible, nightmarish visions that scratched at the edge of her imagination. No, he was fine. He must be!

  And the Chronicler wondered why no one had offered him the sword.

  The Flame at Night sat upon the altar of her fire. Smoke drifted from her mouth and nostrils, and heat glowed in her eyes. But she sat in dead embers, her fingers digging into the cold ashes. A weak sun gleamed in the sky above. She could not see its light. Her fire burned her from the inside out, driving away all senses save those of flame, of power. So she sat, seeing nothing but her own pain, seeking nothing but control.

  “Greetings, Hri Sora.”

  The Dragonwitch stood up, scattering ashes in a cloud from the altar top. The ends of her hair momentarily blazed and burned away. She could not see him, but she felt him, every last piece of him.

  Etanun walked in several worlds at once.

  He walked in the realm of legends, ever a legend himself, more than human and larger than life. In that world, he was beautiful, well muscled from his broad shoulders to his lithe and limber calves. In that world, he was the hero, the dragon slayer, the rescuer and defender of the weak.

  In the world of memory, he walked in shame, and darkness hooded his brow. There he was equally strong as his legendary self, but his hands were stained with fresh red blood. And falling like burning oil onto his skin, scalding away those stains, were his own wretched tears.

  In the decaying world of mortal dust, he wore the form of a dust-made mortal. Bowed and burdened in this body, he tottered up the long
stairs of the Spire, taking each step with gasps and surges of his old, old heart.

  Yet in each world equally true and vital, Etanun walked. And the Dragonwitch, standing blind upon her altar, perceived him clearly in her mind through all disguises and assumptions.

  Immortal. Faerie. Knight of the Farthest Shore.

  “Murderer,” she hissed.

  Etanun crossed the flat rooftop. She snarled at his approach but did not otherwise move. Her fists clenched so hard that her talon nails drove into the flesh of her palms.

  “You have not brought me your sword,” she said, spitting sparks between her teeth.

  “No,” said he. “Did you really think I would?”

  She hadn’t. But it did not matter.

  “I will kill you,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied.

  He put his hands on the altar and pulled himself up to sit with his legs dangling over the edge. She joined him. Side by side they sat, like two old friends who had not spoken in years. Neither was willing to break the silence of time, time which they, though immortal, felt stretching between them. But the moment of slaying must come.

  At last Etanun said, “Tell me, dear queen, why do you burn?”

  She turned to him, and for a breath, the smoldering coals of her eyes dissolved, and the real eyes that had once been, dark and liquid and beautiful, were visible. For a breath, she could see him through a film of tears.

  But with the second breath she spoke in a smoldering voice:

  “Have you ever watched an immortal die?”

  16

  YOU ASKED ME WHY I BURN. Do you recall it now? Do you recall the story of a queen who loved but was not loved in return? Do you recall how you hunted her down, she who had been your friend?

  Do you remember the answer to your question?

  “Do you?”

  The Dragonwitch sat beside the Murderer on the altar, and her body quivered with every stray wind, threatening to break into ashes. Etanun listened silently. Even after she finished her tale, he kept his peace, hearing the rasp of uneasy breath in her lungs, watching her eyes smolder blindly, unable to see even the dark truths she had brought into this mortal realm. The stink of her death was upon her. Yet her body lived on in a death of a life that had driven her to the brink of madness and beyond.