“What? No!” the Chronicler cried.
“Close enough.” Eanrin spun about and, with a flash of his knife, knocked aside the descending club of a goblin. The thin blade should have broken under the heavy stone. Instead, the club split in half, and the goblin stood empty-handed, a dumbfounded expression on his face. Eanrin snarled at him, and the goblin backed away, staggering into one of his brothers coming up behind.
“This way, mortals!” Eanrin cried. He sank down into his cat form and darted across the courtyard. Somehow, where he ran, the goblins were not, as though he trod a Path they could not follow. The other three fell in behind him. They should have been slaughtered, hewn to pieces. . . .
Yet they arrived unscathed at the doorway to the Gaheris crypt.
Eanrin vanished inside in a flick of his tail. Mouse didn’t hesitate to follow. But Alistair, his head still spinning, froze as though dragged to the mouth of hell itself.
It seemed to him that a voice in the darkness said: Pursue this Path, young lord of mortals, and you pursue Death.
The Chronicler, who had stopped when Alistair did, saw the goblins closing in, their faces twisted in fury, and among them the Chronicler saw Corgar.
He grabbed Alistair’s sleeve. “Come, m’lord.”
“You go,” Alistair gasped. His face had gone white as a ghost’s. “Go without me.”
But the Chronicler wasn’t one for impractical heroics, at least not in other people. He pulled. His strength was greater than his size indicated, and Alistair was weak and unbalanced. He staggered forward, and together they descended the stairs into the darkness where their ancestors slept.
At first, the stench of death surrounded them. As they pounded down the ancient stone steps, certain they felt the breath of goblins on their heels, neither could help wondering what use this mad flight might be. But the moment their feet touched the level ground, they realized they were not running on stone. The darkness, though thick, was not the blackness of a crypt. Another few paces and both realized the truth even as their senses rebelled against it.
Tall silvery stones stood in a circle around them. And beyond the stones, stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction, was a vast, unsearchable Wood.
Alistair’s yell filled the whole of the near vicinity. “What in the dragon-blazing world is this?”
But a hand reached out and snatched his. He looked down into Mouse’s strained face, and she said, “There’s no time to explain! Run!”
Alistair’s feet were moving before his brain realized what he’d heard. “Wait!” he cried. “I understood that!” Then he was running and had no breath to speak.
The cat darted ahead, his plume of tail like a beacon guiding them through the tangle of shadows and branches. All was dark—not the darkness of night but a heavy gloom cast by branches and foliage blocking all sunlight from the forest floor, which was nonetheless thick with briars and vines. They should not have been able to take more than two paces before becoming hopelessly tangled.
Yet where the cat ran, a Path seemed to emerge, just as it had through the crowd of goblins.
The goblins pursued them, roaring and cursing, crashing through the trees with hardly a pause. They evidently lacked the smooth Path Eanrin trod, yet their bulk served them well enough. The three mortals followed the cat deeper and deeper into this strange new world that had always existed behind the film of their fragile reality.
Suddenly Eanrin darted to one side, leapt into a thicket, and vanished. The mortals paused, stared at the snarl of brush, stared at one another. Then Mouse dove in after him, discovering to her relief that there was a Path still, though she had been unable to see it. It was so small that no human should have been able to follow, yet though her size did not alter, she found she could walk upright when she tried. After she vanished into the tangle of sticks and leaves, the young men had no choice but to follow. Alistair dove in headfirst.
The Chronicler looked back the way they had come. He could almost see the trees moving, drawing together to obscure their way. But that must have been the strange half-light playing tricks upon his eyes.
Then he heard a shout and saw the goblins approaching. Hating himself for fleeing yet again, the Chronicler pushed into the thicket after Alistair.
He gasped.
He stood in the doorway of a vast and shining hall of white and green stone.
15
ETANUN VISITED MANY TIMES over the long course of my reign. Every time I saw his face, it was like the first shining of the sun. And every time he left, it was like the setting of the moon and the fall of deepest night. But when I asked if he would come again, he said that he would. So I had hope.
The last time Etanun visited, I could scarcely enjoy our day together for the knowledge of its brevity. As the hour of his departure drew near, I reached out and took his hand in both of mine.
“Everyone I love leaves,” I told him. “My father, my mother, my brother, all have gone down to the Final Water, while I remain behind.”
“Your love for them keeps them close in your heart,” he replied, and once again I marveled at how tender a warrior’s voice might be. That tenderness gave me courage.
“But is my love enough to keep you close?” I cried, drawing his hand to my heart. “Is it enough, Etanun, for I cannot bear your departure again!”
For a breath I waited.
Then he withdrew his hand from mine, and his face was grave and sad. “Dear queen,” he began, and I felt as though a knife had been driven into my gut, for I knew what he would say. “Dear queen, I am a Knight of the Farthest Shore, servant of the Lumil Eliasul and the King Across the Final Water. My duty is always first in my heart, and it allows me to remain close to no woman.”
I could not speak for fear of my voice shattering the stillness. But I managed to whisper: “Then tell me at least, my love, that you would stay with me if you could. That if you were free, you would be mine. I can live on that.”
His eyes spoke his answer more eloquently than words. I stared at him, and I feared suddenly that he would feel the need to speak, to say aloud what I had already read upon his face.
I took to the air, flying from his presence as fast as I could drive my wings. My stomach burned, my heart broke, and I believed that all love was turned to hate inside me. There was no room to pretend anymore. No room to tell myself pretty lies. The truth was spoken with the merciless clarity of Halisa’s own blade.
Etanun did not love me.
“What in the name of Lord Lumé—” the Chronicler began.
“Hush!” The cat appeared at his feet and stood up into the tall form of Bard Eanrin. The Chronicler’s stomach turned at the sight, and his knees buckled so that he sat down hard on the marble floor beneath him. The legend stepped around the Chronicler to draw back a green-velvet curtain emblazoned with small white blossoms, and peered out.
Except—and the Chronicler knew he must be mad when he saw this—there was no curtain. There was only the branch of a hawthorn tree heavily laden with clustering blooms. But when the cat-man dropped it and stepped back, it was again rich fabric falling in folds.
“We’ve lost them,” Eanrin said, crossing his arms as he addressed the three mortals. “They’ll not find us here.”
Alistair still lay on the floor, though he’d rolled onto his back and stared, openmouthed, at the vaulted ceiling above him. Mouse stood nearby, trying to disguise her own surprise at the sudden change in their surroundings. She looked more bedraggled and waif-like than ever in this setting.
She looked more familiar here too.
Eanrin gnashed his teeth at this thought. What a fool he’d been! But how could he have known? In all the time—such as Time could be measured here in the Between—they had worked together, Imraldera had never behaved so irrationally! She had never abandoned the Haven and left the gate unguarded, especially not when Eanrin was away.
He shouldn’t have gone. That was the truth of the matter, though he could justif
y himself to the grave. Yes, he was Iubdan’s Chief Poet. Yes, he had obligations to the King and Queen of Rudiobus. But he should never have left Imraldera alone.
“She shouldn’t have done it,” Eanrin muttered, blame shifting by force of ancient habit. “She should never have trusted the Murderer’s word!”
How frail and foolish these mortals looked here in First Hall! By the standards of Faerie, the Haven’s proportions were humble and reserved. But this was an immortal’s abode, built by immortal hands at the direction of the Lumil Eliasul, who was neither mortal nor immortal but who stood in a place beyond either. Here, the little humans looked so imperfect in their Time-bound clay bodies.
Yet the frailest, most faulty of this lot was the heir to Halisa?
Goblin voices rang beyond the Haven walls, and the three humans looked sick with fear. Did they not realize they were safe here? No one and nothing could breach the Haven, for it belonged to the Lumil Eliasul.
“I tell you,” one goblin said, “they took a turn back there. I swear, I saw the trail.”
“Don’t be a fool!” snarled another. “They came this way. I saw the little one take a dive into yonder thicket.”
The Chronicler stepped away from the wall and curtain; Alistair and Mouse drew up behind him, and Mouse twisted the shreds of her gown between her hands. The goblins stomped and cursed and shouted at one another beyond the wall. Several even tried to penetrate the thicket, looming so near that the heavy velvet curtain of hawthorn wavered. But they could not get through.
“Corgar will kill us if we’ve lost the little one!” someone said.
“Don’t be daft,” said another. “Why should he care? It’s not as though the beast was any good to him.”
“It’s the prophecy,” said a third, and its voice was low and tremulous. “It’s the prophecy, I tell you, and this is the first step to its fulfillment.”
“What prophecy?”
“Didn’t you hear? The Murderer came to Queen Vartera. He told her Corgar would break through to the Near World, just as he did!”
“So? Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“But there’s more. The Murderer also said that, though Corgar would break through and assert his will over all the mortalings, the king of that country would drive him forevermore from the Near World. And Corgar believes the little one is that king.”
“Yeah, that’s all well and good. But did you get a look at the creature? He’s tiny! Corgar could swallow him in one gulp and still be hungry after.”
The goblins laughed at this and moved on. “Aye,” they agreed among themselves, retreating back through the Wood, “not all prophecies are bound to be fulfilled.”
Eanrin observed the Chronicler throughout this exchange. He saw how first a flush of red crept across his face, swiftly exchanged for a pallor like death.
Suddenly the Chronicler looked up and met Eanrin’s gaze. For the first time, a sliver of doubt slid into the poet’s assured mockery of the whole affair.
The last of the goblins departed and the mortals all sighed and sagged. Alistair sat down heavily, hiding his face in his hands. His head still rang from his contact with the goblin in the courtyard, and he suspected it would continue to ring for quite some time. Mouse withdrew from the others, embarrassed now.
But the Chronicler never broke Eanrin’s gaze. “Where are we?” he demanded.
Eanrin snorted. “As if you didn’t know.”
The little man swallowed, his jaw clenching. “This . . . this is the Haven of the Lumil Eliasul. The Haven of the Prince of the Farthest Shore. Built by the Brothers Ashiun.”
“Well done, Chronicler,” said Eanrin. “You’ve done your research.”
“I don’t believe in this place.”
“I don’t see what your lack of belief has to do with anything.”
“And you’re Bard Eanrin.”
“That I am.”
“I don’t believe in you either.”
The cat-man smiled. “Be that as it may, you must admit that I did save your sorry skins when you yourselves were obviously unable to do so.”
To this, the Chronicler had no answer. So he turned to Alistair and stopped in surprise. The young man had stripped off his remaining goblin armor, all but the boots, revealing the torn and bloodied shirt beneath, and the nasty pucker of his scarred-over wound. Its appearance had improved since morning, but here in the gentle light of the Haven it looked nastier than it might have elsewhere.
The Chronicler felt an unprecedented surge of concern and pity for his former pupil and recent rival. “My lord!” he cried. “What happened to you?”
Alistair felt his shoulder and grimaced wryly. “I couldn’t tell you for certain,” he said. “It appears I’ve had a rum go, but I can’t remember much. A nasty sight, eh?”
“It’s not as bad as it was,” said Mouse softly from behind.
Alistair whirled about. “Why do I understand you?” he cried. Then he turned to Eanrin, pointing first at him and then back at Mouse behind him. “Why do I understand her?”
“Her?” Mouse’s eyes went wide. “No, no! I’m a boy. Really, I am!” Then she saw the look exchanged between the Chronicler and Alistair, and her face flushed hot. Bowing her head and shrinking into herself, she said, “Oh. So you know?”
“I’m afraid so,” Alistair said, rubbing the back of his head.
“But . . . I cut my hair.”
“Yes, you did.” Alistair nodded.
“And I . . . I bound myself up in . . . in places.”
Now Alistair blushed. He couldn’t look at the girl, so he turned to Eanrin again and repeated his question. “Tell me, cat-man, why can I understand her?”
“First,” said Eanrin with a glower, “you will not call me ‘cat-man’ again. I am a knight, a poet, and a gentleman, and you will address me as sir or not address me at all.”
“Yes, sir,” said Alistair, undaunted. “Why can I understand her?”
“Because you are in the Wood Between. Spoken language matters here as little as time, or size, or any other of the restrictions to which you mortals are so well adjusted.”
“Oh.” Alistair rubbed his sore forehead again, wishing he could rub some sense back into life. He felt numb all over. What else, he wondered, had he always taken for granted that would, at any moment, be flipped upside down and proven complete twaddle?
“Well, now we’ve got the Chronicler,” he said, “what’s next?”
“We must hasten to my country,” said Mouse, her voice still low and embarrassed but determined. “We must hasten there at once before it’s too late!”
“What? Why?” demanded the Chronicler, stepping forward, his voice fierce. “Even now, the house of Earl Ferox is overrun. My people and many earls of the North Country are held captive. All because that creature wants the House of Lights. The House of Lights! As though we can pull nursery rhymes made real from our hats and present them to him on a silver platter! It’s madness; it’s insanity!”
“It’s Faerie,” said Eanrin, his voice a little gentler than before. He sighed and addressed Mouse. “They need to know,” he said. “Tell them. Tell them everything you told me, and we’ll see if we can’t get a little prophecy fulfillment underway, shall we?”
Mouse hesitated but nodded. She felt as though choking hands gripped her by the throat. Yet she must speak. She must tell her tale, and she must get it right.
Fire burn! Fire purify! she prayed desperately.
Then she caught Alistair’s eye. And she saw there . . . what? Encouragement? He was not her enemy at least, this man whom she had saved and who had saved her.
Don’t think, she told herself. If you begin to think, you’ll never go through with it! Do as the Flame demands.
“Well, girl?” said Eanrin. “In your own good time.”
1
HOW MANY AGES WOULD MORTAL MEN count my rule of Etalpalli? I do not know, but I know it was long. Longer after that final departure of Etanun. F
or he never returned. I heard rumor of his deeds from those who traveled to and from my court, and I shuddered each time I heard his name. Yet I drank in every word, for I thirsted for news of him. I thought then that the pain I felt was the sharpest I would ever know.
But it was only the pain of embarrassment. I had not yet felt the fire of jealousy.
Then one day as I sat with my counselors discussing some treaty or policy, I heard a whisper among my ladies behind me. I would have disregarded them, save that I heard his name.
“They say Sir Etanun has fallen in love at last.”
“No! I don’t believe it possible. Not a Knight of the Farthest Shore!”
“Indeed, I heard it too. And with a mortal maid, no less! One of the frail beings he was sent to guard and protect.”
“Impossible. How could anyone fall for such a creature?”
“I thought if he were to ever love anyone, it would have been our own fair queen.”
I heard no more. Neither their babble nor the words of my counselors. I sat as one frozen, but my insides were turned to molten lava. I knew then what jealousy was. And once more, in desperation, my mind fed me false hopes.
It couldn’t be true! No more than idle gossip!
They stank. That was the worst part about them.
Mouse, alone in her small chamber beside a blazing brazier, stared at the clothes. Boys’ clothes. Slaves’ clothes. And not the clothing of slaves that would dwell within the confines of the Citadel. These were far too poor, too ragged to grace the halls of the Living Flame.
They must have belonged to one of the Diggers.
Mouse shuddered, but the stars were already shining above; she must hurry. So she removed her outer garment, the rough-woven robe of black edged in red beadwork. Then she took long strips of cloth and wrapped them around her body, pulling the fabric as tight as she could to disguise all trace of feminine softness. With another grimace, she took up the tunic and pulled it over her head, feeling as though she clothed herself in rags of shame.
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