Dragonwitch

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Or rather, found what was left of him.

  He still breathed, but only just. His was a body desiccated. I had never seen its like! The wrinkles on his hands, his neck, the sag of his cheeks, the shrunken hollows of his eyes, which were clouded and blind. His wings were nothing but broken stubs hanging from his shoulders. But he raised his head at the rustle of my approach.

  “Is that you, sister?” he called.

  I could not speak. I was too horrified by his appearance even to go to him, to tell him that I had done as he asked. I stood on the edge of Itonatiu’s roof, my wings spread for flight, and I said nothing.

  “I am glad you have come,” Tlanextu said. With those words, he died, his final life drained away.

  I was Queen of Etalpalli.

  “I’m a boy,” said Mouse.

  The stranger blinked. “Right,” he said. “And I’m the Queen of Etalpalli.”

  “No, really,” said Mouse. “See? I . . . I cut my hair.”

  The stranger’s wry expression deepened to one of incredulity. “Do you honestly think hair length is what makes the difference?”

  Mouse blushed, gaze dropping. Then in a meek voice: “I, um. I bound myself up in certain . . . um, places.”

  “A valiant effort.” The stranger sat down, and suddenly he was a cat, his ears flat and his eyes narrowed. “I am not the brightest light that ever shone in the vaults of heavenly inspiration,” he said. “But I do know my boys from my girls, just as I know my mortals from my immortals. You, my dear young woman, are as mortal as they come. You also bear an uncanny resemblance to my comrade-in-arms Dame Imraldera. And you evidently know something of her and her whereabouts. I am, as the proverb says, all ears.”

  His fur-tufted ears cupped forward.

  Mouse’s mouth opened and shut. Then in a whisper: “All right. I am a girl.”

  Her disguise had been feeble at best. But she had clung to it in this foreign land of cold winds and unnatural speech, considering it the one shield between herself and all the fury this world could offer. Now, to be unexpectedly called out in a language not her own but which she understood, coming from the mouth of a creature that had a moment before been a man but was now most definitely feline, coming on top of nearly losing her life in a manner most violent to creatures more dreadful than her nightmares . . . it was too much.

  She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

  “Oh, dragon’s tail and teeth!” The cat sat, his tail curled about his paws. “You mortals are such a weepy lot,” he said and started grooming. “Let me know when you’re quite through, will you?”

  It felt like hours but was probably mere minutes later when Mouse wiped her eyes on her wet sleeve, sniffed, and sat up. While she was probably the safest she’d been in a long time, this place was gloomier than the most dreadful dungeon she’d ever seen. How was it possible for a person to be so cold?

  And overhead she still heard, echoing faintly down, the pound of goblin feet.

  The cat stopped grooming and nudged her with a paw. “Perhaps I should start,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “My name is Eanrin. Sir Eanrin, Knight of the Farthest Shore. Bard and poet and brilliant songster.” He angled an ear. “You’ve heard of me?”

  She shook her head.

  He sighed and his whiskers drooped a little. “Time enough to amend that later. But first, who are you?”

  “Mouse,” she said.

  He sniffed. “What’s your real name?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Names bear too much power. The women of my order do not give their names freely to any who ask.”

  “Women of what order?”

  “I am an acolyte,” Mouse whispered as though afraid the watery passage would catch her voice and echo it to the worlds, “in the Citadel of the Living Fire, servant of the Sacred Flame.”

  Eanrin tilted his head, his pupils thin black slits. “And it’s in your heathen temple, you say, that my Imraldera is held prisoner?”

  Mouse did not like the way he spoke without reverence, with mockery. But then, no one she’d met since beginning her journey seemed to know or respect the Flame. What a strange, barbaric world lay beyond the Citadel walls! Coldly, she nodded.

  “How can that be?” Eanrin demanded. “I left her safe in the Haven. She could not be taken against her will.”

  Mouse’s face darkened. “The Silent Lady came of her own accord to the threshold of the Flame’s abode. She came with a message for the goddess, but she was disrespectful of the goddess and punished by imprisonment.”

  The cat searched her face with eyes that, she felt, saw more than she cared to reveal.

  “You said something about Etanun and his heir.” The cat’s tail twitched. “What has my lady Imraldera to do with that?”

  Mouse dropped her gaze. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I know only that she asked me to find Etanun before she is put to death.”

  The cat went still. Not so much as a whisker twitched on his face. At last he spoke in a voice as dark as the tunnel around them. “Etanun. The Murderer. Bebo said something about him. I myself have seen nothing of him in . . . centuries, I think, by the Near World’s count! No one has seen him since he killed his brother and went into hiding. Why should Imraldera wish to send him a message?”

  Mouse shook her head. “I know only what she told me. She said to find Etanun and Etanun’s heir, and the heir is the dwarf, whom I must bring back to the Citadel.”

  “You do realize you’re talking nonsense?” said the cat.

  “Please, let me try to explain!” Mouse pleaded.

  “Very well, tell me everything. And be quick about it.”

  Hardly knowing where to begin, Mouse said, “The Silent Lady came to the Citadel not two months ago—”

  “Stop!” said the cat. “Why do you call her the Silent Lady? She was healed long ago and, believe me, I know she is not silent!”

  “But . . .” Mouse frowned and rubbed her tired face. “It is her name. It is the name of our prophetess, the herald of our freedom, the forerunner of the goddess herself. It was she who, by the will of the goddess, rescued us from the grip of the Wolf Lord. She is the Silent Lady! To call her anything else would dishonor my tongue.”

  The cat growled. A dreadful shadow had crossed his heart as the girl spoke, a shadow of memories not too far gone. Memories of a wolf and hunt, of flames and stone-charred land.

  “Who is this goddess of whom you speak?” he asked.

  “The Flame,” said Mouse, her voice reverent and low. “The bright and beautiful, the holy Flame at Night, who lights our way in darkness.”

  “The Flame at Night?” Eanrin closed his eyes. His tail twitched across the stone. “Imraldera is not going to like this. Not at all.”

  In Gaheris courtyard a fire burned, filling the castle with its fumes and shrouding all in thick, rank smoke. The mortals choked and gagged, their eyes watering, but the goblins welcomed it. In this world of mortal smells and sights, the smoke from their fire brought relief to their senses, shrouding the sun and disguising the strangeness of the realm they had invaded.

  They bound their captives—young and old, male and female—in goblin chains of some stone unknown in the mortal world, so heavy that many of the prisoners could scarcely move. The goblins prodded them like naughty boys might goad a stray cat, laughing at whatever reaction they might get, be it fierce or frightened. Yet every last one of them suffered fear as keen as that of their prisoners. They might disguise it with bluster and roars and braggadocio, but each one looking into the eyes of his brother or sister saw the same dread hiding inside.

  They had passed unlawfully through the gates. They had invaded the Near World against the Lumil Eliasul’s command. What price would they pay for their disobedience?

  Not one would suggest an early retreat, however. After all, to return to Arpiar meant facing Queen Vartera herself. They must burrow in, plant themselves as firmly as
possible. They were an army, weren’t they? They might yet stand a chance.

  If their leader shared their fears, none could guess it. He had fastened a chain to the small mortal king’s neck. This sight made many breathe a little easier. For prophecies may be undone, even at the last. The mortal king couldn’t drive Corgar out while chained like a dog!

  Corgar established himself in the earl’s great hall, sitting in Earl Ferox’s chair, which was hardly large enough for his bulk. He propped his feet on the table and barked orders to his men as he saw fit. Crouched in the shadows behind the chair, the Chronicler pulled at the collar on his neck. Corgar had secured the other end of its chain to his own belt.

  The Chronicler’s mind ached with a mixture of wrath and terror. What had possessed him to declare himself king before this monster? He bowed his head and tugged at his hair. While he lived, he must think. He must try! Sure, he was as good as a dead man here in the monster’s presence. But did that mean he had the right to give up? Until Corgar dealt the final blow, he must strive.

  But the chain was almost too heavy for him to lift his head. So he crouched, gagging at the smoke, and could not collect his wits.

  Suddenly Corgar reached behind the chair and dragged the Chronicler forward, dropping him like a hunting trophy upon the table. “Well now, little king,” he said, leaning back in Ferox’s chair, his hands behind his ugly head. “I have a question. You look like the straightforward sort, and I think you and I might get along well. After all, I care for this chilly land of yours no more than you care to have me in it. So you tell me what I need, and our business might conclude faster than you think.”

  The Chronicler slowly stood upright despite the weight around his neck. He faced the monster, his eyes flashing defiance. But there was no point in fighting until he knew for what purpose he fought.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “I need the House of Lights.”

  The Chronicler could find no words of his own as the monster’s rolled around in his brain. At length he replied, “It doesn’t exist.”

  Corgar had never encountered mortals before this day. He knew goblins who had found one of the little dirt creatures lost in the Wood Between. He’d been told they were great sport, loud squeakers when poked, fast runners when pursued. He’d also been told they were ignorant about the ways of the worlds, no better than mute beasts when it came right down to it.

  He’d never expected them to be stupid.

  “Don’t toy with me.” His right hand fell upon the great table, and his claws dug trenches into the wood. “I’m no fool, and I’ll not be played as one. Tell me where the House of Lights is, I command you!”

  The Chronicler shook his head. The heavy chain pulled him down until he bowed before the monster. “It does not exist. I cannot tell you where it is, for it is nowhere and has never been.”

  Corgar got to his feet. The Chronicler cringed away, expecting a strike, a deathblow even, but the goblin only shouted at his monstrous servants waiting at the other end of the great hall. “Bring in the slaves!”

  A string of captive humans entered the room, staggering under the weight of their bindings. The Chronicler’s heart nearly broke at the sight of their desperate faces. Among them were several earls, men who would have seen him murdered or used him as a puppet for their own ends. Even as the Chronicler looked no more than a child when compared to them, so they appeared like children under the heavy watch of the goblins.

  Corgar, however, was given as much to cunning as to ferocity. Ignoring the slaves, he studied the diminutive king on the table before him, watching his face as each of the mortals came through the door.

  Until he saw what he was looking for.

  “Stop!” he growled to his servants. He strode out from behind the table, gazing at those slaves displayed before him. “Take these away,” he said. “Except for that one.”

  And he reached out and snatched Leta by the arm.

  “Unbind her,” he commanded and a goblin hastened to obey. Corgar’s grip was more than enough chain for any human maid. She could not bring herself to look upon that dreadful face again but gazed across the room.

  “Chronicler!” she cried and reached out to him.

  The goblin hauled her across the room with all the gentleness he might show a side of pork, flung her on the ground before the table, and caught her by the hair on top of her head, dragging her upright to expose her throat. He drew a stone dagger.

  “This one,” he said, addressing himself to the Chronicler. “This one means something to you. Something more than the others.”

  “No!” the Chronicler protested. “She means nothing.”

  “Shall I kill her, then?”

  “No!” The Chronicler nearly fell from the table as he lunged. The chains dragged him down, but there was fierceness in his voice. “Don’t touch her!”

  Leta, unable to speak for terror, grabbed at the great hand wrenching her hair, then felt the chill of the stone blade against her throat.

  “Where is the House of Lights?” Corgar demanded. “I know it is near. For many long ages I have watched the gates between the Far World and the Near. I have tested and I have tried. And when I found this one opening, I did everything I could to pry it, even under the very noses of the Knights of the Farthest Shore. Not until now, however, have I found it unwatched and unlocked to me. The moment is ripe. I will have the House of Lights, if I must decimate this entire land!”

  “You have to believe me,” the Chronicler said, his voice choked with urgency. “You must believe me. The House of Lights does not exist. Not in this world or anywhere else I know. It’s . . . it’s a story. Nothing but a story.”

  “And what about me?” Corgar demanded. “Am I a story?”

  The Chronicler gazed at Leta, helpless in the goblin’s grasp. Her eyes rolled like a crazed horse’s, but at last she looked at him. How often in this past year had he repeated to her, “These things are merely the fancies of men trying to make sense of the world’s emptiness. They are not real.”

  He had never, until now, wished so desperately to be wrong.

  It’s all right. Her eyes, though bloodshot with fear, nevertheless seemed to reassure him: It’s not your fault.

  But it was.

  He struggled against his chains to stand upright. How heavy were the collar and the great stone links! Bracing himself, he stood like a man tensed for battle, though his short limbs were helplessly bound.

  “I cannot tell you what you want,” he said. “I cannot give vapors substance. But I offer you my life. Kill me. Leave the girl alone. She knows nothing, and her death will accomplish nothing.”

  “Neither will yours, little majesty,” Corgar said. Even as the dwarf screamed at him to stop, he hauled the girl onto her feet and spun her about to face him, for he would look into her eyes as he sent her to the Netherworld.

  And he saw that he held the girl from the courtyard.

  He had scarcely noticed her then. She had merely been one of the many beasts fleeing like insects before his stomping feet. Yes, she had assaulted him, but why should he care for her ineffectual sting? Yet something stirred in his memory. He gazed into her ashen face and recognized a quality most would have missed.

  Corgar had been a warrior for centuries as the mortals count them. He had marched to battle against kings and princes, against battalions of monsters far more terrible than he. He had lived; he had thrived. In his veins flowed the blood of war, the pulse of battle. His eyes were sharp, never missing a trick or chance.

  Corgar knew a warrior when he saw one. Granted, so frail a creature could not lift the weapons he bore. Granted, she could not hope to prevail in a contest of strength. Yet he saw that she would stand before his onslaught and die with courage.

  Corgar had been a warrior long enough to know that it was a warrior he held with a dagger beneath her ear.

  The small king on the table was pleading, his voice rising and falling and desperate. There was a thump
as he rolled to the ground and a clanking as he struggled to his feet, pulling himself up by the chain attached to Corgar’s belt. But Corgar, caught up in the wide eyes of the mortal maiden, could not hear what the king said.

  He realized that he was not going to kill her. And he hated himself for it.

  “Let her go! I told you, I cannot give you what you ask!” the little king was shouting. A dull blow brought Corgar’s attention down, and he saw that the creature was kicking him and pounding his leg with his chained hands.

  With a roar, Corgar flung the girl to the ground. She crumpled, gasping but otherwise unmoving, as though she did not yet believe that she still lived. Her hands clutched her throat. Why was no blood flowing? Why did she still breathe? The Chronicler collapsed by her side, his heavy chains smacking the floor, and tried to touch her.

  But Corgar caught up the length of chain, dragged him back, and forced the small man to face him.

  “Listen to me, mortal king,” the monster snarled. “Sooner or later, every warrior meets the blade’s end. Her life is forfeit, and I will claim it when I am ready. Tell me where I may find the House of Lights if you wish to spare her.”

  The Chronicler wrung his hands, his face colorless. “I . . . I can’t tell you what you ask. I do not know where it is.”

  Corgar roared, and goblins came running at his voice. “Take this wretch!” he cried, indicating Leta. “Bind her with the other slaves, and set them all to work. I will tear this castle apart brick by brick, stone by stone if I must. I will have Queen Vartera’s prize!”

  The goblin soldiers laid rough hands upon the girl, dragging her from the room. The Chronicler watched until she was beyond his sight. Then he bowed his head and cursed the day of his birth.

  11

  HOW CAN I EXPLAIN WHAT CAME OVER ME in that moment? I had never known, never dreamed anything of the kind! My parents were Citlalu and Mahuizoa, ageless, immortal, never intended for death.

  I felt the pulse of my demesne. I felt the beat of its heart, the draw of its breath. I could sense the flutter of every pair of wings. Oh, my people! My kingdom. My world. I was more powerful then than I had ever believed possible. More powerful . . . and more bereft.