Dragonwitch

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “I am strong,” she said, her voice quavering with vulnerability. “I am neither wholly woman nor wholly dragon, but stronger than either. My fire is hotter even than when I destroyed that mortal woman you chose, hotter than when I burned the Houses of Lights and sent the smoke spiraling to the heavens.”

  Etanun looked upon her and saw everything again as though it were all new. The beautiful, frightened creature who came to him and his brother at the Haven. The pain of rejected love in her eyes that he had ignored, even scorned.

  He saw the dead body of Klara, the girl he had loved. The dead body of Akilun.

  “I am a goddess,” the Dragonwitch said, and her voice was hoarse and shattered. “I am so strong!”

  “I am a murderer,” Etanun replied. “I am so weak.”

  “See then how the Spheres have sung the cadence of our lives,” said she, and there was cruel laughter in her voice: laughter . . . or tears. “You have paid for your deeds, and I have been rewarded.”

  “Is this your reward?” asked Etanun. He indicated the desolation surrounding the temple and slowly spreading across the mountain-encircled land. Not even the rivers, powerful guards on the Near World against the forces of Faerie, could hold it back.

  “No,” the Dragonwitch said. “My reward is you. Your life at last in my hands. For you are weak and I am strong, and I shall kill you now as you have killed me thrice already: first, when you broke my heart; twice more when you plunged that cursed sword through my armor and into the furnace of my breast.”

  Etanun nodded. “Well,” he said, “I expected as much. Being killed by you at the last, that is. It’s poetic. The stuff of ballads to come.”

  “Ballads you will never hear,” the Dragonwitch said.

  “Thank the Lights Above,” he replied. “I’ve ever been a man of action, not so much for the finer arts. But one thing, Hri Sora, before you kill me. One thing I want you to know.”

  Her lips twisted back from her teeth. Ash poured like saliva over her chin, ash that glimmered with building heat. “What is it, Etanun?” she asked. “What excuses do you make for yourself?”

  “No excuses,” he said.

  She could not see him. But her ears, sharply attuned to his voice, heard the change in it. The loss of age, the melting away of disguises so long assumed as to have nearly become reality. She heard the voice of the Etanun she had once known. The Etanun she had loved. The Etanun who had killed her.

  She trembled at the flood of memories that rose inside, choking her, drowning her. He sat there, a being of immortal power and beauty, his skin bronzed, his eyes like star sapphires, every bone, every muscle exquisitely crafted as by the hand of a master sculptor. She recalled it all, and she felt it now, the overwhelming pain of loving this creature, this hero, this slayer.

  “I have no excuses anymore, dear queen,” he said. The liquid gold of his voice washed over her, and she shuddered at the dangerous sweetness of it, at the longing it stirred even now in the trembling core of her ashen frame. “Only this.” Etanun took her ravaged face between his hands.

  “I love you.”

  A perfect silence hung upon the air.

  Then the Dragonwitch exploded in a roar of flame.

  The sound of fire filled the world above and echoed down to the world below, where the Chronicler hastened along strange Paths as the lantern light revealed them. His two companions followed, Mouse bearing the sword, which still no one had thought to offer him. When the roar of the Dragonwitch boomed above them, the three crouched in the dark, huddling as near Akilun’s lantern as possible. Its light gleamed off Halisa’s blade.

  The roar of the dragon above was deeper than the Midnight of the Black Dogs. They waited, expecting the sound to pass. But it did not. It went on and on with such destructive insistence, the Chronicler began to wonder if he would ever again find the strength to rise.

  Suddenly he felt his hand clasped, and he looked up into Dame Imraldera’s drawn face. “Take it!” she said. Her other hand grabbed Mouse’s arm and drew her and the sword to the Chronicler. “Take it! You must defeat the Dragonwitch! Take it and slay her!”

  Mouse and the Chronicler’s eyes met. The moment, then, was finally come. The moment of truth or lies; he could not guess which. The moment when he discovered whether or not his life had a purpose. He set Asha down upon the stone floor.

  “Take it,” Mouse whispered, her voice an echo of Imraldera’s. And she pressed Halisa’s hilt into the Chronicler’s trembling grasp.

  The sword fell.

  The Chronicler believed his heart had stopped. Even the roar of the Dragonwitch above vanished in the ringing cry of Halisa as it crashed to the stone, too heavy for his arms to lift, too big for his hands to hold.

  The two women said nothing. They did not look at him.

  “I knew it,” the Chronicler whispered. “I knew it all along. I’m not the one. I cannot bear this sword.”

  Without a word, Imraldera picked up the weapon. It did not shine in her grasp, did not even seem to reflect the light of the lantern anymore. Indeed, it had lost all its silver glow and returned to a form of chipped black stone, a dull, lifeless weapon without power or trace of glory.

  “Come,” said she. “We’ll follow the light.”

  The Chronicler did not reach for the lantern again, so Mouse took it up and set the pace, and Imraldera fell in step behind her, letting the Chronicler follow last of all. No one spoke. But Asha shone, and they pursued it.

  Eanrin found the place where the chamber door had fallen in, recognizing it at once though he had never seen it. Springing to the nearest of the broken stones, he listened, and sure enough, heard the sounds of those within scratching away at the rubble. They were close. It would not be long before several large and angry eunuchs with spears freed themselves, and then what? Eanrin shuddered, but he had promised, so he took his man shape again and began picking up loose stones and tossing them to one side. He called out as he worked: “Fear not, my fine mortal fools! I’ll get you out in a trice; then you can have a go at skinning my furry hide.”

  The work on the other side paused, and Eanrin heard a murmured conference before the prisoners set to work once more. Eanrin grimaced as he labored to free those who would gladly slit his throat. He called to them again, hoping they’d take some comfort in his cheerful voice. “Not long now!” he said. “Soon you’ll be able to push your way free.”

  No answer. He tossed aside the last few stones, rolled one of the greater boulders away. There were pieces of intricate carving and tile broken into bits here, but Eanrin threw them away without a care. Only a thin barrier remained now. If he placed his shoulder so and gave a shove, he would be through. But he hated to risk a tumble into that dark chamber full of armed men.

  He stood back, brushing dust from his hands and debris from his fine clothing. “All right!” he called. “It’s your turn now. Feel out the weak place and give us a push.”

  Nothing. Eanrin, rubbing the back of his head, wondered if perhaps he’d lost track of time. It was possible, even probable here in the Netherworld.

  “I should go,” Eanrin muttered. “I should retrace my steps and find Imraldera and see to it that all is made right—”

  He had scarcely spoken when the roar of the Dragonwitch struck his ears. Even down here in the deep place, the sound was as present as a living thing, and Eanrin dropped to his knees, horrified by the pain of it. How that fire must be tearing the poor, sad creature apart!

  Then, near at hand, he heard a voice cry, “The Flame!”

  It was a woman’s voice, full of devotion.

  Eanrin grimaced and braced himself. Harshly barked commands rang beyond the broken wall, and finally warriors with lances broke through the remaining rubble and climbed over. Others came behind, and the last of all turned and assisted the high priestess as she climbed up and out of Halisa’s chamber.

  They stared at one another in the half-light of the Netherworld. Now that their torches were gone, they were
surprised at how improved was their ability to see. The voice of the Dragonwitch continued to echo down through the thickness of dirt and stone above, from Near to Netherworld, and the mortals cringed away from it.

  But the high priestess said again, “The Flame! We must go to the goddess!”

  She started climbing down the rubble pile, nearly falling in her hurry. Her slaves reached out to help, but she refused their offered hands. She stumbled and landed on her knees.

  When she rose, she was eye to eye with Eanrin.

  She dove at his face with a scream, her fingers tearing for his eyes, and he leapt back, grabbing her wrists. “Calm yourself, woman!” he bellowed. “I dug you out. Can you show a little courtesy?”

  The eunuchs rushed upon him, lances at the ready, long knives drawn. He twisted the Speaker’s arms so that she lost her balance and fell again, liberating him to loosen his own knife from its sheath and face the oncoming mortals. He saw death in their eyes, but he hated to hurt them. They were so utterly lost.

  “See, now,” he said, “I’ll lead you to the surface. You can’t find it yourselves. Let me help you.”

  They set upon him, bearing down like wolves upon prey. But their weapons found nothing but empty air. Eanrin, in cat form, darted between their legs, made for the high priestess, and took man shape when he stood before her once again.

  He saw, even in that half-light, how like Mouse she was. And consequently, how like Imraldera.

  “Please,” he said, “let me help you.”

  “Kill him,” she said. And her slaves closed in.

  “Fool!” Eanrin again ducked into his animal form and eluded the lance blades. One, quicker than the others, caught a tuft from his tail. Then he darted into the shadows behind the rubble, and as they scrabbled over to pursue, he slipped around behind them to watch as they allowed themselves to separate from one another. One by one, they were swallowed by the beckoning Netherworld.

  He turned to the high priestess, who stood watching as well, unaware of his near presence, aware only of her lost slaves. He saw her lips move in what might have been a prayer. He felt no qualm about interrupting.

  “I can’t save them,” he said, and she startled and turned to him, her eyes wide and black. “Thanks to you, they’ve gone beyond my help. But I can still guide you to the surface if you’ll accept my aid.”

  “Devil in the dark!” she snarled. “Shape-changer! Amarok! ”

  Then she whirled and darted away, possibly believing that she pursued the upward path, possibly not caring even if she did not. Eanrin hastened after her, shouting, “I am not Amarok! Not all Faerie folk are your tormentors! Come back!”

  She ran faster, her bare feet slapping on the stone. So Eanrin gave chase and paused only once to consider that he was racing headlong into the Netherworld. By then it was far too late.

  The Chronicler felt his mind being slowly swallowed up by the roar of fire above and by the clamor of self-loathing within. Why had he hoped it would ever be otherwise? He’d vowed never to live on dreams. He would not cherish hope of ever being more than the disappointing son, the unnoticed lover, the disregarded and despised. He would spurn legends and prophecies and the idiocy of the chosen one trope. Such things weren’t for the likes of him. One such as Alistair should have fulfilled that role!

  But Alistair lay mauled at the bottom of the pit.

  “I think I recognize this place.” Mouse’s voice, no more than a whisper, should have been drowned out by the ongoing clamor above this world. But the Chronicler heard her clearly.

  “I do too,” said Imraldera. “In fact, I think . . .”

  She turned suddenly where Asha indicated, the blade of Halisa pointed before her. Mouse followed, still bearing the lantern. In their wake came the Chronicler, so heavyhearted he could scarcely drive himself another step. The darkness closed in, becoming a rough-cut tunnel through real, solid stone. Imraldera and Mouse began to run, and the Chronicler might have been left in the dark if the light of Asha had not been too strong for him to lose. So he caught up with them at a place where the tunnel broke into two parts. He saw a pile of rubble. Beyond it, he saw a broken doorway.

  Beyond that, he saw a large black stone.

  “This is the chamber,” said Mouse, “where the Speaker was buried. The cat-man must have got them out!”

  “But where’s Eanrin?” Imraldera said, Fireword held high in her grasp. “Where are the others?”

  “Where’s the Speaker?” said Mouse.

  The Chronicler passed between them. Unsteady on his hands and feet, he climbed through the rubble and looked into the chamber. And he heard the roar. Not the roar of the Dragonwitch, which was the voice of fire. No, this was a deeper, darker, stronger sound.

  Not fire but water.

  “Call up the rivers, Smallman King.”

  Stronger than death is life. Stronger than hate is love.

  Stronger than fire is water.

  “Give me the sword, Dame Imraldera,” the Chronicler said, suddenly turning.

  The lady knight started, opened her mouth, then closed it again at the sight of his face illuminated by Asha. Without a word, she placed Halisa in his hands. It tilted. He staggered, adjusting his grip. It was still too heavy, and the blade fell with a clashing ring to the stones.

  But the Chronicler held on to the hilt, his face set, his jaw clenched.

  The black stone flaked away, revealing the silver beneath. Halisa began once more, gently, to glow. A light that reflected Asha’s own, a light that it drew down into its heart, like blood racing through veins.

  “Go,” said the Chronicler, staring at the blade. “Get out of here. Get to the surface.”

  “What about you?” said Mouse.

  “Run,” the Chronicler said, still without looking up from the blade. He took a step toward the doorway, dragging the heavy sword across the rubble. “Now.”

  Imraldera grabbed Mouse’s hand. “Wait!” Mouse cried. “He cannot do it alone! He cannot lift the sword!”

  “That’s not for us to say,” said Imraldera as she dragged Mouse and the lantern away from the door, leaving the Chronicler behind.

  The roar of Hri Sora was dreadful in their ears.

  17

  A STAR’S VOICE COULD NOT BE IGNORED. It was far too many voices rolled into one being, and it was full of song.

  Leta lay on the cold library floor on a pile of scattered parchments and an ink stain like red blood, staring up at the window through which the blue star gleamed. The air about her face billowed with the whiteness of her quick breaths.

  How may I serve you? said the star once more, and this time it drew near to her window.

  She did not scream. She had enough presence of mind to recall her goblin guards without, and she did not wish to bring them running. So she clasped her throat with both hands as though to somehow catch her voice there as she watched the approach of the star.

  In blinding whiteness, it moved from beyond the world Leta had always known, from a place where stars may have voices to be heard by all with willing ears. It was too huge for comprehension, yet it passed through the narrow window opening and stood before Leta. The walls of the library seemed to fall away, for nothing so transient could contain the radiance of a star.

  It has been far too long since I was able to stand in the Near World, it said, its shining head turning this way and that, curious. The goblin has made this slice of the mortal realm a piece of his own nation now, and for a space at least, I may manifest here.

  “Please!” Leta gasped. “Please, don’t talk! You’ll kill me!”

  Oh yes, it said, and if a star may be embarrassed, this one was abashed. I almost forgot.

  The next moment, a unicorn took the place of the shining being, and it was so luminous and so fair in the world of broken mortality that Leta still found it difficult to look upon. But it was solid, and it stood upon the stone floor and cast a shadow. “There,” it said. “Is this better?”

  Its voice was
now like music Leta could understand, like the sweet strains of a flute at midsummer, full of lightness and warmth. Though her eyes were dazzled, she found the ability to stand. The coldness of the chamber melted away in the unicorn’s presence. Even in her ragged gown, Leta felt warm. Furthermore, though she wore rags and her hair hung in straggling limpness across her face, she had never felt more beautiful than when standing before a creature far more beautiful still.

  Its eyes, like the depths of an ocean in which stars have melted, fixed on her with all sweetness. “Tell me, fair maid, how I may serve you?”

  She put out a hand. Without asking, she knew somehow that it was right for her to touch this pure being, to run her hands through the glossy strands of its mane, even to touch the coiled horn, though it turned away before she might prick her finger.

  “Ceaneus,” she said, using the North Country name for the star, “I am imprisoned by the goblins.”

  “So I saw from above. And so I sang with my brethren,” said the unicorn.

  “I know where the House of Lights hides,” she said. “I saw by your light. Corgar will wrest the secret from me if I do not escape. I know he will.”

  “It is not for Corgar to open the House of Lights,” said the unicorn. “That is for the Smallman King.”

  “But he’s not here.” Leta took hold of the unicorn’s mane like a child clinging to its mother’s hand. “He’s not here, and I am the one who holds the secret. I must protect this knowledge! I must escape Gaheris.”

  “The door is not locked,” said the unicorn, delicate lashes sweeping as it blinked, momentarily hiding those luminous eyes.

  “It is guarded,” Leta said.

  “Ah.” The unicorn tossed its horn, and the movement itself was like song. “Very well. I will sing them to sleep, and then you must follow my light. I will show you a way from the castle and take you to the Haven of my Lord.”