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 a
nd 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:
“Starlight, star bright, guide her footsteps through the night.”
The words vanished with a vaporous breath into the cold darkness. The star above shimmered.
Then it turned and looked at Leta.
How may I serve you? it said.
Leta fell over backward, landing with a thump on the library floor.
15
FOR THIS PURPOSE, I HAVE RETURNED to this land of my former enslavement. I have harnessed the power of mortal devotion, even as Amarok once did. And they worship me and serve me, and they would die for me.
They will die for me.
They will bring me Halisa, and all will be made right in my eyes.
The high priestess’s train might as well have been links of chain, so effectually did it bind Mouse to her.
Mouse walked blindfolded, keeping careful pace with the Speaker in front of her, never allowing herself to walk too fast or too slow, as she had been trained from the day she came to the temple. Around her, she heard the murmured chants of the priestesses, the answering whispers of frightened acolytes, and the marching tread of the warriors’ heavy feet. The scrubber she could not sense at all, save for a strange, uneasy feeling that he watched her from behind.
Well, she knew what she must do. She couldn’t guarantee it was right, and she was absolutely certain it was not smart. But she would do it, and she would hope, if hope could be found in the winding ways of the Diggings.
She would make certain the Dragonwitch, who had deceived her and all her people, did not gain that for which she had enslaved this world.
“Here,” said the Speaker at last, and the company came to a halt. “Remove your coverings.”
With one hand Mouse released the high priestess’s train and slid her blindfold down around her neck. She blinked, for she had not expected the torchlight to be so bright. The Speaker met her gaze, her black eyes revealing nothing. Mouse looked away and found herself facing the old scrubber, who grinned and nodded knowingly.
The entrance to Halisa’s chamber reflected back its shadows even when the eunuchs approached with their torches. It was difficult to believe there was or ever had been a doorway. But when the high priestess strode forward, trailing Mouse behind, the edge of the carved stone accepted the light and revealed itself in sharp contours, all the fine carvings of dreadful things.
And within lay the black stone from which Fireword protruded.
So the Smallman hadn’t found it. Mouse felt her heart turn to shivering ice in her breast. She hadn’t expected him to succeed, not really. He was lost in the Diggings, like the slave Diggers before him. He would not return. Some prophecies are not meant for fulfillment.
The ice of Mouse’s heart hardened to iron resolve, and her fists clenched the edge of her mistress’s train. Failed prophecies be devil taken! The Dragonwitch would not carry this day.
The Speaker passed under the arch, and Mouse was obliged to scurry after her. She had no desire to approach either stone or sword, but she had no choice, for her mistress walked right up and stood gazing down upon them. Mouse looked too . . . and was surprised.
The first time she glimpsed the weapon, it had seemed nothing more than an ugly object of violence chipped from the black stone itself. Now she saw, or thought she saw, the gleam of silver. A glimmer truer than firelight.
It’s a gift.
The thought slipped into her mind and rested there, growing by the moment. Mouse’s eyes widened with wonder.
This sword can slay dragons.
At that moment, Mouse first noticed a sound she hadn’t heard the time they came with the Silent Lady—a rumbling like the snarl of a monster awakened from a long sleep. But it couldn’t be that. This growl was far more alive than anything Mouse had ever heard before. Alive with power—deep, flowing power.
She looked down at her feet, down at the solid rock on which she stood. And she knew suddenly what voice made that growl.
It was the rivers. All the enchanted rivers of the Hidden Land, flowing beneath them.
Although she could not know if this was true, she believed it nonetheless. And for some reason she could not name, believing gave her hope.
“Come closer, sword-bearer,” said the Speaker, turning to the chamber door, where the scrubber stood between his two guards. They led him in, and the other warriors followed, though the priestesses and acolytes remained without, clutching torches and staring into the darkness surrounding them.
“Behold your weapon,” said the Speaker as the scrubber was brought before her. With a sweep of her hand, she indicated Halisa.
The scrubber regarded it mildly. “Yup. That’s my sword,” he said.
“This, the blade with which you twice slew the Flame at Night,” said the Speaker. Her tone was incredulous, almost questioning, as she gazed from the stone-chipped sword to the wizened little beggar. “This, the blade with which you quenched her flame.”
“Same one,” said he, looking up at her. “Mind you, I was a bit s
pryer! There’s been a lot of water under the stone since then.”
“With this sword, you will meet your doom at the hand of the Flame,” said the Speaker. “Now take it up, old one, and bear your death to her hands.”
The scrubber cracked his knuckles, each one giving off a sharp snap. As nonchalant as though Cook had just asked him to fetch an iron ladle, he stepped up to the stone, reached out, and let his gnarled hand hover over the hilt. And as he reached for it, a strange thing happened. The stone flaked away in dry flecks of dust and debris. The nearer his skin came to touching the hilt, the brighter it grew, until it was no longer carved stone at all but wrought silver. Engraved with images of the sun and the moon and the stars, it shone as bright as any of the heavenly host.
Mouse could not breathe. She could scarcely bear to look away from that brilliance, from that glory come down from the sky and hidden here in the darkness beneath the worlds. But when at last she turned to study the faces of those around her, she saw only dullness in their eyes. Could they not see the change that had come upon Halisa?
“Wait.” The scrubber, his hand poised in the air, turned suddenly and fixed Mouse with a slant-eyed glare. “What’s she doing here?”
The Speaker looked at Mouse, who met her eye only briefly before looking away. She knows, Mouse thought desperately. She knows what I’m going to do!
But the Speaker said only, “She is my servant. Faithful and brave.”
“Send her out,” said he. “I don’t want her in here.”
Mouse turned to her mistress, hands trembling as she clutched the end of the red robe. The Speaker looked down at her coldly. “Go, Mouse,” she said. “Wait for me outside. Our labor here is almost done.”
Dropping the train, Mouse hastened to obey. Her heart beat wildly as she passed between the eunuchs and escaped through the doorway arch into the coldness of the Diggings. The priestesses and acolytes around her were like so many red-tinted ghosts in the torchlight, black hollows where their eyes should be.
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