Leta nodded. Anything the unicorn said seemed right. While moments before she had desperately considered death her final option, she saw now the possibility of life, of escape, and even—though this was a more desperate hope—of Gaheris’s rescue.
“Lead me, Ceaneus,” she said. The unicorn, its soft oval ears cupped forward, stepped around her, cloven hooves gently tapping on the floor, and moved to the door. It passed through as though the heavy wood were mist, and Leta felt bereft without its light.
She hastened to put her ear to the door. She heard nothing. Without the unicorn directly before her eyes, it was difficult to believe what she had seen. But she closed her eyes, drew a long breath. Then she took hold of the latch and pulled.
The goblins sat one on either side of the door. Their heads were down, their jaws slack, and one snored as it slept.
Feeling as though she passed the very guards of hell, Leta stepped between them and stood free of the library in the cold corridor. Even in the dark, she could see how the goblins had scored its walls and destroyed all furnishings and tapestries.
A breath of wind touched her face. Ahead, up the passage, she saw a light like a white candle hovering in the darkness.
“Ceaneus,” she whispered.
Though her knees were weak as violet stems, Leta hastened after the light, pursuing it down the passage, down the stairs, and down another passage. Everywhere, she smelled the stench of goblins and felt the weight of her enslaved mortal kindred as though she herself wore their chains. But she followed the light as fast as she could. Down another stairway, her feet making no sound on the stones. She saw no one either mortal or immortal, though sometimes she heard the heavy sounds of goblins.
Suddenly the light turned a corner. Pursuing, Leta rounded the bend in time to see a little gleam on a certain small door. Then, just as the unicorn had slipped through the library door, the light melted into the wood-and-iron fastenings of this one.
Leta put her hands to this latch and found it also unlocked. She pulled, and the hinges screamed in the cold, a sound like razors to her ears. She looked over her shoulder, expecting goblins to come running at any moment. She ducked inside and hadn’t the courage to shut the door for fear of what noise it might make.
She stood in the damp chamber of the castle well.
“The most prized possession of all within Gaheris,” Alistair had boasted to her that day long ago.
Leta looked at it now. It was like a mouth in the darkness, a mouth from which shone a light that illuminated that dank chamber with a ghostly glow. She stepped up to the opening and looked down and down.
Deep within, she saw the flicker of the star.
She’d come too far to second-guess her decision. Taking her courage in both hands, she found the bucket. It was big enough and strong enough to hold her, she thought, and the pulley was rigged in such a way that she might have the strength to lower herself into that black mouth.
“Lights Above!” she whispered. Then she sat on the lip of the well, her feet in the bucket, her hands on the chains, which bit into the flesh of her palms. Her fingers were so cold, she doubted she’d be able to hold on. But she swung out anyway, feeling the drop beneath her, the emptiness waiting to swallow her up.
The chains and her grip on them held.
Whispering prayers, she began to lower herself slowly, hand under hand. The metal bit into her shivering flesh. She dared not look for comfort down to where the star gleamed. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on her work, and though the sides of the well were frozen with ice, her forehead dripped sweat.
Don’t worry, practical Leta said. If you fall, you’ll drown, and Corgar will never get the secret from you.
“Shut up and concentrate!” she growled aloud. And down she went, deeper and deeper.
Strangely enough, the farther she went, the less afraid she felt. Perhaps because she knew that the drop, however great, was no longer as great as it was when she’d started. Perhaps because the increasing brilliance of the starlight warmed her and melted the ice on the sides of the well so that it dripped with light plink, plinks to water below.
The bucket turned. The chain creaked. And Leta’s eyes flew wide.
She had come level with a hole in the side of the well. A hole large enough for her to climb through. Furthermore, the starlight now shone from within.
Swinging her weight, Leta shifted the bucket enough to allow her to get a purchase on the hole and, after a thrilling moment when she thought she would lose her balance entirely, managed to pull herself inside. Here she discovered a tunnel just big enough to crawl through. The stone was sharp. If she’d thought she was dreaming until then, the pain of those biting stones would have convinced her otherwise. But the star winked on ahead, and she crawled after it, ignoring how numb her ears, nose, and toes were, or the dreadful crick developing in her neck and shoulders. She crawled until the tunnel opened up and she was at last able to stand.
Here she found a dark staircase carved of rock. The secret passage of Gaheris Castle, winding down to the river.
The starlight vanished. With it went all the warmth and comfort that had been holding Leta’s fears at bay. She fell against the wall, feeling a wellspring of panic and despair swelling in her bosom, ready to explode.
“Don’t be a fool, Leta,” she growled as she made her feet take the next few paces in the dark, feeling for the edge of the steps.
But two steps down, the stairway vanished. As did the cold and the dankness of heavy stone surrounding her. Leta stumbled and nearly fell as her third footfall landed on crackling twigs, leaves, and undergrowth.
Another step, and she stood in an old forest.
It was warm. It was full of shadows. It was still.
Leta stared about, her eyes disbelieving, fingers and feet aching as her blood warmed and began to rush through her body. “Ceaneus!” she called, but somehow she knew the star was no longer near. It had served its purpose and guided her from Gaheris. But guided her where?
“Ceaneus!” she called again, without hope. Her voice was strangely small, as though the great trees around her and the heavy moss beneath her feet caught it up and swallowed it. She staggered forward, her head spinning with colors and smells and a quiet filled with the whispers of the trees.
Two steps more, and she stood at the doors of the Haven.
18
EANRIN FELT THE SURROUNDING PRESENCE of the Netherworld’s phantoms. He heard their voices faintly crying; though they sounded miles distant, they may have been near enough to touch. He tried to ignore them, straining his ears after the footsteps of the high priestess ahead of him.
“Fool, fool, fool!” he muttered. “Slow down now. You’ll not catch her, and you’re lost enough as it is. Slow down and find your footing.”
It was then he saw a light ahead, a light he recognized.
“Asha!” he gasped and ran for it, seeking the brilliance of white hope that might yet be found in the deep places. He could not help the phantoms nor even the priestess, so long as they fled from him.
But he could help bring about the end of the Dragonwitch’s reign! He could serve the Smallman King.
The light was drawing closer. Was it Alistair, he wondered, searching in the darkness for his kinsman? Had he found the grave of Akilun and taken the lantern to guide his way?
But soon Eanrin recognized a face and form highlighted in Asha’s brilliance. “Imraldera!” he cried, his voice angry. “Dragons blast your mortal stupidity!”
“Eanrin!” The lady knight and Mouse stopped and waited for the cat-man to catch up. The white glow of Asha revealed his pale face smeared with dirt and with the darker stains of Netherworld shadows and fears. His eyes were bright and flashing, however, and they saw that he was whole.
For an instant, Imraldera’s face openly displayed all her relief and worry rolled into one. “I thought . . . when I saw the chamber open and you nowhere near, I feared . . .” Then she shook her head and hid behind a frown. �
�What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you!” Eanrin replied, glaring furiously from her to Mouse and back again. “Did I not tell you to take Halisa to the surface? Where is the sword? Where is the dragon-eaten Smallman? Why can’t you ever listen to an order?”
“You’re not my superior,” Imraldera growled, but she put out a hand and touched his arm, glad to feel him solid and warm in this world of cold wraiths. Then she and Mouse explained, stumbling over their words.
“The Chronicler told us to run,” Mouse said, her voice shaking.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he intends. But he seemed to know. And he has Fireword.”
Eanrin rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly as tired as a mortal at dusk. Imraldera squeezed his arm again. “He is the Smallman,” she said, “chosen by our Master for this purpose. We should trust him.”
“Trust him and what?”
“Trust him and do as he says.” Her grip tightened on his sleeve. “Run.”
Asha illuminated a Path, and they followed it, uncertain where it would lead. The roar of the Dragonwitch above pursued them like the Black Dogs themselves, but the phantoms made no effort to impede their progress. And then the Path led uphill and became difficult. Eanrin took Mouse’s hand to help her, and Imraldera struggled behind. But the light shone steadily even as the lantern swung wildly in Mouse’s grasp.
Then they saw another light ahead of them: the light of day. They made for it, their strength renewed, and the Dragonwitch’s bellows faded behind them into nothing.
Eanrin felt blinded as he fell through the opening of the cave mouth, landing on his knees upon hard rock, high on a mountain face where the wind blew sharply. Mouse emerged behind him, realizing then that she no longer held Asha, though she had no memory of setting it down. She caught her balance and looked around, recognizing the scene to which they had come. There was the trail leading down to a weather-beaten hut. There were the goats straggling about with little interest in anyone or anything but themselves.
There was Granna, standing with her arms wrapped about her middle, her cloudy eyes suddenly bright. “Granna?” Mouse called, but the old woman did not turn to her.
Imraldera stepped from the darkness. She stood, blinking and blind like the others, her hands shading her eyes. Granna stepped forward slowly, every limb protesting as though the exhaustion of her age had caught up with her. Her voice crackled as she spoke.
“Starflower. You’ve come home at last.”
Imraldera’s hands dropped away from her face, and her mouth and eyes opened wide.
“Fairbird!”
The next moment, the two of them were in each other’s arms. Eanrin turned his face away, unable to watch for fear of the tears that threatened. But Mouse stood and stared and could not believe her ears when she heard Dame Imraldera saying:
“Darling! Little sister!”
The problem with dreams come true is the question they leave behind.
What next?
Alistair sat in the darkness and frowned. His dream had only ever brought him up to the point of death, that moment of unbearable pain. Nothing beyond.
He lifted his hands and tried to feel his face. But he was no longer certain he had hands, much less a face. If he recalled correctly—and this was questionable, considering—he was fairly certain the Black Dog had torn it off.
“Well,” he said, relieved to find that he still had a voice, “this is a bit unpleasant.”
Something moved in the darkness. Alistair hadn’t the wherewithal to be frightened anymore. Now that his dream had come true, he doubted he would ever be frightened again. Or happy. Or sad or hungry or anything. So he sat quite still, and someone else sat down next to him. They remained like so for what felt a long time.
Then Alistair said, “Hullo?”
“Hullo” came the response.
It was a friendly voice. Encouraged, Alistair said, “I’m Alistair Calix-son. Former heir to Gaheris.”
“I am the Lumil Eliasul, Prince of the Farthest Shore.”
If he had a throat, Alistair was fairly sure it was too dry for swallowing. Sitting there, he considered many things. Then he said, “So you’re real too, eh?”
“Very real. Yes.”
Once more Alistair considered. Then he snorted. “Funny how a fellow has to die before he starts to understand what’s important.”
“You’re not dead.”
“It’s awfully dark. I figured I must be.”
“You’re in the Netherworld. It’s always dark here for those without a light. But you’re not dead.”
This was a heartening thought. One that definitely bore mulling over.
“I wish I had a light,” Alistair said at length.
“You’d have to open your eyes,” said the Prince of the Farthest Shore.
19
THE DRAGONWITCH FLAMED LIKE THE END OF THE WORLD.
In days of old this fire would have torn apart her woman’s body, revealing the powerful dragon beneath. But now, her dragon form stripped away, she stood in the frail, wingless body into which she was bound, and the fire was too much for her. It destroyed her from the inside out, and yet she could not die. Her hair fell away in tongues of flame, and her fingers were torches, her eyes blazing coals.
She set the temple ablaze. Her tongue spilled forth lava, which engulfed the Spire, scorching it into a vast torch visible throughout the Land, even to the mountains, where two knights and their mortal companions watched with horror. Fire fell like rain upon the temple city, rooftops caught and blazed, and the air filled with black smoke. Slaves and priestesses alike fled the destruction. The time of the goddess’s final wrath was upon them. It was flee or perish.
On the altar, untouched by the inferno, stood Etanun, immortal Faerie, in his true form.
“Hri Sora!” he cried.
But she stood with her back to him, her torched arms upraised and blackened, her mouth open as she let the furnace inside her billow out. She could not hear him; her agony was far too great. She gave herself over to it and to the desolation of this world she had created.
Fire fell even to the deep places, illuminating the blackness of the Diggings. Stone melted and roiled bloodred, then flowed like rivers of fire into all the crevices of the Netherworld. The phantom ghosts fled screaming, the shadows chased from hiding by flames.
The Chronicler stood in the broken chamber of Halisa, the sword in his hands. The subterranean air heated until his skin felt as though it melted with sweat, and his palms were so slippery he feared he would drop the sword. But he struggled to the center of the chamber where the black stone stood, and even above the cacophony of the Dragonwitch’s suffering, he heard the roar of water below.
Clutching the sword in both hands, he placed his shoulder against the rock and pushed. It was like trying to move the world. He was too small! He was too weak!
He ground his teeth. “No man,” he growled, “no matter his size, could move this stone.”
In that moment of extreme humiliation, this thought encouraged him. His stunted growth and graceless limbs did not matter, not now. Not even the greatest hero could accomplish this impossible task in his own strength. No muscle or might would move this rock.
“Let me be weak, then,” the Chronicler whispered, resting against the stone. The ceiling above him boiled with heat, but he did not look. “Let me be weak so that you may be strong.”
Even as the screams of the Dragonwitch shattered his eardrums, the Chronicler braced himself and pushed again, crying out as he did so: “Lumil Eliasul!”
A voice he knew responded:
“I am the one who chose you.”
The Chronicler, his forehead pressed against the stone, one hand clutching the heavy sword, the other a fist resting beside his head, closed his eyes as the words washed over him.
Then he opened his eyes and uncurled his clenched fingers. He saw still lying in his palm the little pool of wat
er, unspilled, unevaporated. For an instant, it flashed through his mind that he held whole rivers.
He lifted his hand to his mouth and drank the water down.
He felt it rushing through him: the power of rivers, the power of eternities and the great, pounding Songs of the Spheres. It was enough to bring him to his knees. And yet, as it swelled in his breast, pouring tumultuously into every vein, he felt the rising strength of living water.
“I am the one who chose you.”
This time, when he put his shoulder to the stone and pushed, it gave. First the shift, then the crack of rock on rock. Groaning with the effort, the Chronicler pushed again, the mighty rush of torrents pounding his temples. The stone shifted, unbalanced, and then rolled. The Chronicler staggered and would have fallen had not his grip on the heavy sword held him anchored. Well for him that it did, for as the stone crashed away and broke into pieces, it revealed a hole in the floor.
Flowing below was the black current of many joined rivers.
The Final Water.
The Chronicler stared, and he felt the heat of Halisa, different from the heat of the reddening stones around him or the heat of the Dragonwitch’s shrieks above. The sword pulsed with might, with the truth of purpose, and the Chronicler felt that pulse flow up his arm and into his spirit.
“Call up the rivers, Smallman King!”
The Chronicler heaved the sword, and suddenly he was able to lift it, to stand with the blade upraised before the churning rivers below.
“Wait!”
The Chronicler braced himself and looked around. Someone stood in the chamber doorway. “Wait,” she said and stumbled in, fell to her knees, rose, and fell again. She raised her hands in desperate supplication. Burns covered her bald scalp, extending down her neck and arms, showing between the shredded remnants of her once-fine robes.
The Chronicler recognized her. “High priestess,” he said.
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