Dragonwitch

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  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.

  13

  I WAS CROWNED WITH MAHUIZOA’S CROWN on the peak of Omeztli, the Moon Tower. Kings and queens, lords and ladies, Faerie masters of many far demesnes came for my coronation, and Cozamaloti permitted their passing. I was small on the throne of my mother, and the crown was heavy upon my head. But I felt the surge of Etalpalli itself inside me, and I knew I would see my city rebuilt to the glory it had known before Cren Cru’s coming.

  I saw the Brothers Ashiun standing quietly among the brilliant throng of fey folk, their weapons quiet at their sides. When the coronation feasting was at its height, they came to me and drew me aside.

  “Reign long and well, Queen of Etalpalli,” Akilun said, then kissed my hand and departed.

  I turned to Etanun. “You are a great hero.” The surge of power I had known seemed to vanish, and I felt small and weak beneath his gaze.

  “As are you,” he replied with a gentle smile that was strange and beautiful on his warlike face. “Reign long and well,” he spoke in echo of his brother.

  “Will you return one day?” I asked him as he turned to go.

  “I will,” he replied. “To see how you are getting on.”

  Then he left. With his promise soaring in my heart, I returned to the feasting.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alistair whispered.

  They stood in the earl’s empty bedchamber, which was a disaster. The goblins had torn the room apart while searching for Mouse and Alistair. The heavy bed-curtains hung in tatters on the broken bedframe. Every piece of furniture from the flimsy screen to the heavy wardrobe had been gouged with stone weapons, and the wardrobe had also been partially burned.

  The three invaders had slipped into the chamber from the passage, Eanrin working the locks from the outside without any apparent difficulty. Alistair wore goblin armor so heavy he could scarcely stand upright. The helmet, which was swiftly bringing on a headache, disguised his face, and the jagged visor muffled his voice. “They’re not going to believe I’m one of them,” he growled.

  Mouse, huge skirts gathered in her arms, stepped from behind the earl’s broken screen. Alistair and Eanrin both looked at her, and the cat gave a noncommittal nod. “Not bad,” he said.

  Mouse scowled and reached around to fumble with one of the many ties and braces. The light green gown was gorgeous with heavy embroidery. It must have belonged to one of the ladies of the castle and was entirely impractical. It was hardly possible to walk in the thing, much less run.

  Alistair spoke behind his visor. “You look very pretty.”

  Mouse looked to Eanrin. “He sounds concerned. What did he say?”

  “He said they’re never going to believe you’re a girl.”

  Mouse clamped her mouth shut but shot a swift glare Alistair’s way. Alistair turned to Eanrin, attempting but failing to shove up the visor. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her you’re afraid to face goblins.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Then stop criticizing my brilliant scheme. If you can manage to humble yourself and follow an order, recite to me your part.”

  Giving up on the visor, Alistair let his gauntleted hand drop to his side. “I’m to march her through the castle like I’ve caught a prisoner, somehow drawing no attention to either of us.”

  “Good. And once you’re in the great hall?”

  “We’re to fetch the Chronicler in the midst of the distraction you will have provided.”

  “Excellent.”

  “But won’t he be chained?”

  “Oh, he definitely is.”

  “How are we to manage that?”

  “Find the key, I would imagine. This is your side of the rescue, my dear boy. You can’t expect me to do everything.”

  “What if someone stops me on the way to the hall?” Alistair persisted. “They’ll know as soon as I open my mouth that I’m not one of them.”

  “Then don’t open your mouth. Grunt and growl; pretend you’re too good for this world. Besides, I told you, I’m going on ahead. I’ll take care of any in your way and give you a clear path.”

  Mouse, who had only understood Eanrin’s side of the conversation anyway, stepped forward then. “What of that great goblin?” she asked. “What will you do about him?”

  “I told you, I’ll see to it,” said the cat-man, his voice as smooth and calm as a summer stroll. “Your job is to rescue the Chronicler, understand?”

  “But who will rescue us?”

  Eanrin shrugged, sank to the floor in his cat form, and trotted to the cracked door. “I had rather hoped you’d rescue yourselves.” And with a flick of his tail, he slipped out into the hall. “Remember,” his voice called back to them, “we’ll all meet in the inner courtyard!”

  By the time they reached the doorway, the corridor beyond was empty.

  This really wa
s a dreadful world.

  So Ghoukas thought as he staggered up the stairs from the kitchen into the keep. For one thing, it was much too cold. Not that Arpiar was a realm of balmy comfort. Icy winds blew across its broad plains, driving luckless goblins back into the warrens below, thankful for the warmth of close tunnels. But here the cold seeped into the bones. It crept through every crevice and cranny until a goblin felt he could never escape it.

  Ghoukas growled as he stumbled along the corridor, laden with findings from the castle storerooms. Corgar had sent for food, and he would be disappointed in Ghoukas’s feeble scavengings. Did mortals know what real food was? Did they know anything?

  Well, they knew ale at least. Good, strong ale for quaffing after hunts, and Ghoukas and his friend had quaffed large quantities while inspecting the larder. Muttering and cursing, anticipating a beating for his failure to provide Corgar with exactly what he wanted when he wanted it, Ghoukas proceeded at a lagging pace, decidedly ale-sick.

  A vague part of his brain noticed dimly that the passages were strangely deserted. Distantly he heard goblins shouting orders to human slaves laboring at tearing down the castle. The maggots were so puny, it would take them weeks to accomplish the task!

  A rustle and thumping of booted feet drew Ghoukas’s attention. Down the nearest staircase came one of the human females, prodded from behind by a goblin.

  “Hey! Krikor!” Ghoukas called, his ale-dimmed eyes blinking blearily but able to recognize his friend’s armor. “Hallo, brother!”

  The goblin’s violent start knocked his helmet askew, and in his haste to clamp it back down on his head, he dropped his spear. It was this dragon-blasted cold and the stink of mortality, Ghoukas thought. It got into a fellow’s blood and made him jumpy.

  “Krikor!” he said again, swaying his way to the foot of the staircase. “Remember me?” More than willing to put off his unpleasant duties, Ghoukas began climbing the stairs to meet them. “Look at the sorry piffle these mortals eat. Would you believe it? Want to try a bit? It’s vile! Something to tell the folks back home about.”