Dragonwitch

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “I know another way into the Diggings,” she said.

  10

  DEATH WAS NOT TO BE MY FATE, HOWEVER. After that dread fall, I landed in the Near World upon the crest of a high, green mountain. The explosion of my landing shook that world, and fire shot high like a volcano’s eruption and burned all within the vicinity.

  Thus they call that place Bald Mountain to this day, for nothing will ever grow upon its slopes again.

  The old woman sat in the cold, but she was too old by now to feel it. Only a few years ago, the biting winds of the mountain had been enough to set her reeling. Now she sat wrapped in her thin shawl, looking down from the barren heights to the lowlands far below. To the place where the red light of the temple flickered and where black smoke gathered above the horizon.

  She felt the gaping mouth of the cave at her back, but she did not turn to it. She had been promised, yes, and she believed the promise. But now she found her gaze drawn to the temple, that horror to which her granddaughter and great-granddaughter both had run with open arms.

  “Won’t you return to me?” she whispered.

  What tricks life played upon folks, especially if they lived long enough. She shuddered and drew her shawl closer. Goats wandered the rocks below her, nibbling grasses and yanking up vines by their roots, but she had no attention to give them.

  They were coming.

  The old woman stood slowly, giving her tired limbs the time they needed to unfold and brace against a world that would beat them back down. Behind her the wolf’s-head cave leered, but she ignored it and watched the valley, the woods stretching across the mountain slopes below her. Someone came, and quickly too. Even as Starflower had fled the Land a hundred years ago. Even as the Wolf Lord had pursued her, every loping stride taking in miles. So they approached using secret Paths unknown to mortals, following a guide nearly forgotten by those of the Near World.

  She spoke aloud, crying, “Is that you?”

  “Granna?”

  From the forest below, where the tree line gave way to the barren rock of the higher slopes, a small form appeared. The old woman, though tears of disappointment stained her face, smiled a toothless smile.

  “My little child!”

  She hoped the girl would run to her, would seek her embrace as she once had. But no. Mouse was a woman now or close enough. She climbed the stony Path, followed by two companions Granna could not see well. She could make out only the sad mortality of one and the shining but equally sad immortality of the other.

  “Faerie,” Granna muttered. She disliked seeing one of their kind returned to her world, yet her heart fluttered . . . not the flutter of weakness she had lived with for years. Rather, the flutter of an imprisoned bird that has just seen that the cage door is ajar.

  “Well, child,” she said as Mouse drew near. “You’ve returned.”

  “Granna,” said Mouse and hesitated. She wanted to fling her arms around the woman who had been more than a mother to her since her own mother had left. But she dared not. She was a disgrace. She was a traitor. “I hoped I’d find you here.”

  “Yup,” said the old woman, folding her bone-thin arms and shrugging. “Still here. Not dead, not moved. The old billy died, though. Got a young one from the village, and he gets a bit high and mighty more often than I like.”

  Alistair and Eanrin drew up behind Mouse, and now that they were near Granna could better see their faces. She liked the looks of the redheaded lad despite his freckles. His hands were a bit too soft for a man’s, but his face told her that he wouldn’t mind hard work. And when he bowed to her, she thought she might like him enough to kiss him.

  “Greetings, good mother,” he said, and his words were foreign but pretty in her ear.

  “Lights Above us, what have you brought home, girl?” Granna said, raising the grizzle of her remaining eyebrows. “Please don’t tell me you’ve gone and married this pasty white thing. And if you haven’t, you’d better explain why not!”

  “Oh no, Granna,” Mouse hastily broke in. “It’s nothing like that.” She stood licking her lips, wondering how under heaven she was supposed to explain.

  But Eanrin stepped forward then, took Granna’s hand, and kissed it gallantly. Unable to ignore him and his immortality anymore, Granna turned at last to him. She found his gaze far clearer and deeper than she had seen in a long time. A gaze older than her own, though simultaneously younger. How like he was to the old Faerie lord she had once served! Yet unlike. There was kindness in this face, however grudging.

  And he, looking on her, found it suddenly difficult to breathe. He knew her face, though it was harshly scored by Time.

  “I’m here to rescue Starflower,” he said.

  “Good,” said she. “Bring her to see me when you’ve done. I’ve been promised, you know.”

  “We must enter the Netherworld first,” said he. “There are prophecies afoot. She’s at the heart of it.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Granna. “She always had a way of getting to the heart of things.”

  “Mouse tells us you know another entrance to the Netherworld. An entrance of which the priestesses are unaware.”

  “I might.”

  “His kinsman is lost in the Dark,” Eanrin said, indicating Alistair with a wave of his hand. “He must find him before it’s too late. Can you tell us where the gate is?”

  Granna looked into those ancient golden eyes and saw love shining there. A strange, young love for the age of that face. A love that was only beginning to understand what love meant. Very different from Starflower. Starflower had been born loving.

  She turned to Alistair and gave him an up-and-down appraisal. “Does he know what he’s doing?”

  “No,” said Eanrin.

  “Probably as well. Why does he want to find this kinsman of his? Is it for his own sake?”

  “Hardly,” said Eanrin. “If he succeeds, his kinsman will take from him everything he has ever thought he wanted.”

  “Which can be the best thing for a man upon occasion. Wouldn’t you agree, Faerie?”

  Eanrin shrugged and his look darkened. “I’m not so well acquainted with your mortal ways as all that.”

  “What has mortality to do with it?” Granna reached out then and snatched hold of Alistair’s wrist. He startled but did not draw back, offering what was probably meant to be a friendly grin. It was a bit condescending, but Granna shrugged it off. “Come here, lad,” she said, though she could see that he did not understand her. She tugged gently. “Come, all of you. I’ll show you the way.”

  She led them up the short incline. The wind grew harsher within a few paces, warning of danger and darkness. She felt hesitancy, even fear, running up and down Alistair’s arm. But he was a good boy, she thought, for he did not resist her. She liked those she didn’t have to battle, especially these days.

  The open mouth of the cave awaited them. But it would not reveal itself even to the Faerie until Granna stood before it. “Look!” she said, pointing one gnarled finger.

  They looked. They saw. Alistair drew a hissing breath, and Eanrin said, “Lights Above! So it’s true!”

  The cave like the head of a wolf yawned before them, and the breath of the Netherworld eased to and from its mouth. Mouse, who had seen it before, nevertheless hung back, and even Eanrin, who had walked the Paths of the Netherworld, felt the hair on his neck bristle.

  But Alistair gently freed himself from Granna’s grip and stepped forward, gazing into the darkness. “So,” he said, “I’m to venture in there and find the Chronicler.”

  Eanrin nodded. “Try to anyway.”

  “And all I have to do is walk in and look? No guide? No map? No . . . no light?”

  Eanrin stepped up alongside the young man and folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t promise you anything,” he said. “I know only what I’ve heard. Blood calls to blood. Kinfolk know kinfolk, in the dark better than anywhere. If you’re meant to have a light, light will be provided. If you’re m
eant to walk in the dark, then in darkness you’ll walk.”

  “But I’ll find the Chronicler?”

  “I hope so,” said Eanrin. And suddenly he turned and placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “I wish you well, mortal. You’ve demonstrated courage in all of this, and I think . . . I think you might have done your uncle proud had you inherited Gaheris.”

  “Too bad for that, then, eh?” said Alistair, and his voice was bitter. Then he shook himself as though he could shake away all the thoughts crowding his head. “What will you do?” he asked. “You’ll not venture into this dark with me?”

  “No,” said Eanrin. “I would not be able to help you in any case. This is a matter of kinship and blood ties, and has nothing to do with me. Mouse and I will return to the Citadel. I have my comrade to free, and Mouse must try to rejoin the ranks of the priestesses. If they haven’t found her out already, we might be able to infiltrate their number and possibly prevent Etanun from cursing the world yet again.”

  Alistair nodded. “Very well,” he said, “it’s a plan. I’m not saying it’s a good one. But it’s a plan.”

  He squared his shoulders and moved toward the cave mouth.

  He looked into the dark of his nightmare.

  He recognized the smell and felt the fingers of shadows reaching to touch his face. He strained his ears, expecting even now to hear the Dogs baying. He heard nothing more than heavy silence. That didn’t matter, though. He would hear them soon enough.

  “So it’s not a child after all,” he whispered. “It’s the Chronicler I’ll find. Before I die.”

  He had known this was coming. Yes, he could protest. He could tell Eanrin his fears, and he did not doubt that the cat-man, for all his sharp tongue, would tell him not to bother, to back away, to let them invent some other scheme.

  He took a step.

  Then he stopped and looked around.

  Mouse stood in the shadows apart from the others, her arms wrapped around her small body.

  Alistair drew a long breath. Then, despite Eanrin’s muttered protest, he strode down the incline, and Mouse’s face tilted back farther and farther as he approached, for he was much taller than she.

  “I have something I want to say to you.”

  She didn’t understand him. But she prepared for the tirade about to fall. After the kindness he had demonstrated to the bedraggled urchin begging at the gates, after the courageous way he had faced the goblins of Gaheris by her side . . . after all that, and after what she had done, she deserved whatever he gave her.

  “I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” he said.

  Though she knew none of the words, she heard anger, frustration. She forced herself to meet his gaze, though she feared she would embarrass herself with tears.

  “All the while we were following the cat up here,” said Alistair, “I told myself I wouldn’t breathe a word. I told myself to let it go, to let the past be what it was, to think no more of it. After all, we’re probably all of us going to die. Me now; you, soon enough.”

  She heard his voice shake. She could guess at every word that rained down upon her head, and she wanted to cower. At a command from him she might have flung herself from the mountain, so deep was her shame! Traitor. Liar. Demon’s minion. Nothing he could call her was as bad as what she called herself.

  “I’m going into that dark,” Alistair said, “and I know what end I’ll meet. You’re off on a death march yourself after all those dragon-eaten priestesses. And I think to myself, this is it. This is where heroes either declare themselves or go home. Well, I’m not going home.”

  His fists clenched and she wondered if he would strike her and if she would have the gall to ward off his blow.

  “Look,” he said, “you can’t understand me, so I’m going to say this the simplest way I know how.”

  The next moment he took her by the shoulders. Because she could not help wincing away, the first kiss he gave her landed awkwardly on the side of her mouth, causing him to catch her face and shift her into a better angle. Her limbs went to stone and her heart stopped beating.

  Then he was looking down at her. He blinked once and let her go. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

  Before she could draw breath, he was climbing back up to the cave and soon would be swallowed.

  “Why did you do that?” Mouse cried and nearly fell over herself scrambling after him. “Why didn’t you hit me?”

  He was at the cave mouth now. He was inside. The red of his hair gleamed in the sunlight and then vanished. Mouse fell on her hands and knees, cutting her palms, but was up again in a moment, standing on the brink of that darkness and shouting, “You had no right to do that, you pale-faced dog of a bullying man!”

  Eanrin, leaning with his shoulder against the rock of the cave opening, called down into the dark, “She says your kisses are like drops of summer rain on a parched and thirsty land.”

  Alistair’s voice carried up. “I don’t want to hear!”

  “Cat! Cat!” Mouse cried, turning to Eanrin. “Tell him I hope he trips in the dark and breaks that stupid face of his! I’d like to see him try to kiss me again!”

  “She says,” Eanrin called into the black, “she’d like to see you try to kiss her again.”

  “I’m not listening” came Alistair’s voice, faint from the shadows.

  “Tell him I hate the sight of him!”

  “And she loves you.”

  There was no answer. Alistair was gone.

  Mouse stood breathing hard, tears brimming in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her heart. Why did it beat so fast? Fury, most likely.

  “Did you tell him, cat?” She gulped, anxious to disguise the tremor in her voice. “Did you tell him right?”

  “I told him, girl,” Eanrin said with a cattish smile. “I told him better than you could yourself.”

  11

  I DO NOT WELL REMEMBER WHAT TRANSPIRED after that. I lay for a time exposed and mindless upon that mountain. I did not know myself, and when Amarok the Wolf Lord came to me, I did not know him either. He told me I was a mortal, and I believed him. He told me that he loved me, that I loved him in return, and I believed this as well.

  He, a mere Faerie-shifter, not a king, not a lord! Master of a stolen demesne carved from the mortals’ world and peopled with slaves who called him “god.” And I believed him a god as well, and I worshipped him, and I bore his monstrous children.

  Twins. Dogs.

  She could almost believe she was alone in the world, so quiet was Gaheris Castle at night. Even the breaking of stone below was stilled, and the crack of the whips as the slaves were shuffled off to sleeping quarters to steal a few precious hours.

  Not Leta. She lit the few candles provided for her and continued searching the documents. It felt hopeless, but better to work than to sit in the darkness and be afraid. So she lit candle after candle, her eyes burning as she searched the various books and scrolls.

  Four days had passed since she’d been imprisoned in the library. Every day Corgar returned and asked her what she had found. Every day, when she could tell him nothing, she expected his wrath to fall upon her. Instead, he would stand quietly and watch her work. Then he would leave, and she would find the ability to breathe once more.

  “You’ve read everything,” she muttered that night, shivering, crouched over her small candle flame. “You’ve read everything in this room! There’s nothing here.”

  So he’ll kill you, said her practical side.

  Rebellious Leta had only the energy to shrug. “Let him kill me, then,” she muttered. “I still have nothing.”

  She turned slowly on the stool, scanning the shadow-filled room. Her eyes lingered on the tapestry and the hidden door. But that was no use. Not without the key. She had inserted every quill knife and bit of broken kindling she could find into that lock; nothing would make it give.

  Suddenly she frowned, her attention caught by something that had somehow escaped her notice. She hopp
ed down from the stool, took up her candle, and hastened across the chamber.

  How silly of her not to think of this before! In her mind, the library loft was the Chronicler’s private space, a haven she dared not enter.

  But the Chronicler was gone. And she was here. And she was bound to die come dawn, when she confessed to Corgar that the library documents held nothing of interest to him. Before she gave in, she might as well thoroughly examine this room that had become her prison.

  Her candle casting long shadows, she climbed the spiral stair to the humble space where she found, as she’d expected, the Chronicler’s sleeping pallet and, naturally, even more piled scrolls and documents.

  “Silly girl,” she scolded herself, kneeling by the nearest pile haphazardly tossed in a corner. “You should have guessed. Who knows what you might find in here?”

  Her spirits higher, if only a little, she set down her candle, took up the nearest scroll, and unrolled it across the floor, pinning it in place with her knee. Looking at it, she frowned. The handwriting was familiar, but she wasn’t entirely certain why. It wasn’t the Chronicler’s, and it wasn’t old Raguel’s. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she leaned down and read:

  I carry the future in my womb. I carry the king who will open the House of Lights. My only sorrow is that I shall never meet him, that he will never know how I loved him.

  Be bold, Smallman! Claim your right and live as you were meant to live.

  Leta stared. She read it again and a third time, hardly believing what she saw. Then she sat back, pushing her straggling hair out of her face.

  “You knew,” she whispered to the darkness. “You knew all along.”

  The hand was Lady Pero’s. She recognized it now from the poem she had read earlier that year, the poem which the Chronicler had so meticulously copied.

  Leta’s fingers shook as she rolled up that scroll and reached for the next one. It too was in the ornate, difficult-to-read hand of Earl Ferox’s dead wife. Leta read:

  I have heard the Spheres singing. I have seen the House of Lights. What I know I cannot share with others; I write it here now for your eyes, my child. It is near, nearer than you think. And you will see it one day. You will open the doors. But you must see for yourself. I cannot show you.