Dragonwitch

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Please,” said she, crawling across the chamber. Her eyes were wide with the shattering terror of her deity’s tortured voice. Her blistered, raw skin looked red in the light of the heated stones. “Please, don’t do this thing. Don’t kill my goddess.”

  The Chronicler swallowed. Sweat poured down his face into his eyes, and he blinked it away as best he could. The weight of Halisa was tremendous in his small hands. “I must,” he said.

  “Please,” said the Speaker, no longer the powerful figure she had been, drawing her feet back from the deformed prisoner cast at her feet. She was a picture of self mutilation, of womanhood denied, of humanity broken. “Everything I’ve worked for all my life. You would bring it to an end?”

  “Everything about you is a lie,” the Chronicler said.

  Her eyes swam with tears. “But the lie is all I have,” said she.

  The Chronicler saw then the final depths to which this creature had fallen. And his heart broke as he gazed upon her.

  “I am sorry for you,” he said.

  Then he turned to the Final Water and plunged in Halisa, up to the hilt.

  ———

  The rivers ran.

  From the mountains above the lowlands, Eanrin, Imraldera, Mouse, and her grandmother saw the rivers of the gorges surge away. From the Near World they coursed down to the Netherworld, pouring into the source of all rivers. Water, pure and powerful, filled the caverns, flooding the Diggings, where mortals had dared root their way into Death’s own realm. And the rocks, heated almost to the melting point by the Dragonwitch’s flame, hissed with the sudden cleansing coolness.

  The power of rushing, surging water tore into the stone, accomplishing the erosion of centuries in mere moments. The temple’s foundations cracked, and buildings began to fall as the earth opened up beneath them. The Spire wavered in the wind.

  Caught off balance, the Dragonwitch staggered and fell to her knees. Her flaming stopped as she felt the sway of her world giving way. She looked over the roof’s edge and saw her temple falling, saw the rise of water, a relentless, churning white foam that drowned her flames.

  “Ytotia.”

  At the sound of that name—that name that had once belonged to a lovely Faerie queen—the Dragonwitch turned stricken eyes and saw Etanun approaching. Even as the Spire swayed and stones fell from its walls, he crossed the rooftop to her side. He reached down and took her under the arms, lifting her to her feet.

  She was small again, like the delicate creature she had been long ago, watching the life of her father, her mother, her brother drain away before her eyes. Only now she was without her wings, and the immortal glow of Faerie was long gone from her face.

  Yet Etanun looked down at her and saw what he had seen when first he met her.

  “Ytotia,” he whispered, “in my anger I slew you twice. I saw you only as the dragon, and I forgot what you were meant to be. Can you forgive me?”

  Her face, burned and scarred by Death, upturned to his.

  Then she snarled, and there was a dragon in her eyes.

  The foundations shattered. The Spire fell, crumbling as it collapsed into the Final Water. The rivers fountained to the heavens, a white curtain of foam between the mortal realm and the Netherworld shimmering in the sunlight. A million crystal droplets glimmered in Lumé’s light.

  There was a rush, a final roar.

  And the Dragonwitch, held in the arms of her foe, died with him her third, her final death.

  My true name has been forgotten, the name given me by Citlalu and Mahuizoa. It is lost in the fires of Hri Sora. I am the Flame at Night! You could not love me, Etanun. Neither could you kill me. But I did love you and I will kill you.

  And if I must perish in my own flame, so be it.

  20

  THEY’LL BE UNPROTECTED NOW,” SAID EANRIN.

  He stood beside Imraldera, looking down from the mountain to the expanse of lowlands below. They and the two mortal women standing nearby could see the steam of the Dragonwitch’s doused fire even from that distance. A great cloud of ash and smoke hung over all, darkening that part of the world. They guessed at the destruction of the Citadel and the final death of Hri Sora.

  The two knights, their eyes more farseeing than those of their mortal companions, could discern how the rivers, which had cut across the landscape of this realm in deep gorges, were gone. The gorges themselves were dry and deep.

  “The Wood will grow up,” said Eanrin. “Without the protection of the rivers, more Faerie beasts will penetrate this realm.”

  “My people have dealt with Faerie beasts before now,” said Imraldera, though her voice shook.

  “With the Wolf Lord, yes,” Eanrin agreed. “But he could not cross the borders of the Near World on his own. He had to be invited.”

  “And Hri Sora.”

  “She was different,” the cat-man said, and his face was, for once, somber. “The Dragon’s firstborn could burst through even the river gates. But now, with the rivers gone, this country will be far more vulnerable to Faerie. If the Wood grows up, how many beasts will notice and see it as easy prey?”

  “Our Lord will not leave them unguarded,” said Imraldera, her voice confident. “If he allowed the removal of the river gates, he will put other protections in their place. You will see.”

  Eanrin turned to Imraldera with a smile. She stood there before the bigness of the worlds, her body frail from imprisonment, her hair hanging in long snarls. In that moment she looked like the weak mortal girl he had, once upon a time, found lost in the Wood Between. Yet she was different too. There was a greatness in her earnest gaze, the greatness of purpose that made her strong indeed.

  He wanted to reach out and take her hand. His fingers even made the first twitch. But she turned to Granna and Mouse, and the opportunity was gone.

  “Fairbird,” Imraldera said to the old woman, “I must go again.”

  “I know, sister,” said Granna. “I know you must. But you did come to me once more as you promised. I knew you would.”

  “What happened to you?” Imraldera asked. “Since the death of the Wolf Lord and the liberation of our women. What happened to you during all that . . . time?”

  “I did as you said,” Granna replied. “I journeyed across the Land, proclaiming our liberation, teaching the women to speak. But there was war. War and bloodshed. Many preferred the slavery of the wolf to the freedom of which I spoke.”

  “Oh, Fairbird—”

  “Don’t be sad, sister!” Granna insisted with a faded smile that could look back on times past and see the fair amid the foul. “I found a good man, and I had good children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. We fled to the mountains when the Flame came. We watched the wars give way under her rule, and we saw a power more deadly than the Wolf Lord’s take hold of the Land. I heard the lies she spoke of you, but I never believed them. And up here in the high country the smoke clears, and I could wait for your promised return.”

  Tears welled in Imraldera’s eyes, and she looked far younger than she had a moment before. “I did not realize how time was passing,” she said. “I did not feel it in the Between. I never expected to return and find you so . . . so . . .”

  “Decrepit?” Granna suggested with a wry grin. “Well, age does have a way of creeping up on us mortals.”

  “But not on me,” said Imraldera, bowing her head.

  “Who says you’re mortal now?”

  Granna took the lady knight in her arms, and they stood holding each other. Mouse, standing near, saw then how alike they were. It was difficult to discern through the extreme age of the one and the agelessness of the other. But as she watched them, Mouse thought she glimpsed the sisters that they were, the one brave and protective, the other trusting and loyal.

  “Your hair is like hers,” Granna had told Mouse more than once.

  Like Starflower’s. Like her great-great-aunt’s.

  It was too much. Mouse turned away and gazed back across the distance, where the Cit
adel lay in ruins beyond her range of vision. A column of smoke rose as a memorial. The Dragonwitch must be dead. And many more besides. The Speaker, the priestesses, the slaves. Even the Chronicler.

  “And Alistair,” she whispered. “Alistair is dead.”

  For the moment she could not cry. She merely watched the smoke churning in the sky until she felt Eanrin’s hand upon her shoulder.

  “It’s time,” he said. “We must journey back and see what we may find.”

  It was difficult to believe there had ever been anything more than this deep, deep blackness on the far side of dreams.

  Alistair sat, his mind spinning with too many thoughts. He wasn’t certain he possessed a body, wasn’t certain he even wanted one. After all, the last he’d known, his body was being torn apart. Hardly a thing worth having anymore.

  “I wonder,” he said after a long silence, “what will happen if I open my eyes?”

  The Prince of the Farthest Shore, sitting beside him, answered, “You’ll see things as they are.”

  Alistair shuddered. Since that moment of red mouth and black teeth and pain like ripping fire, he wasn’t convinced he wanted to see things as they were. “Maybe,” he said, “I’d rather sit here in the dark.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said the Prince, and there was a smile in his voice.

  “You’re right,” sighed Alistair. “I wouldn’t. I would like to know. But I’m scared of what I’ll see.”

  “If you open your eyes, Alistair Calix-son, you will see me.”

  So Alistair turned to that voice. After a struggle, he discovered his own face, felt his own eyelids pressing down, shielding his vision. That moment took more courage than any other in his life so far, more than the climb into goblin-infested Gaheris, more than stepping into the Netherworld, more even than throwing himself at the slavering Black Dog. For once the deed was done, he knew there could be no going back.

  But then, really, when all was lost, what had he to fear?

  Alistair opened his eyes. And he saw the Lumil Eliasul.

  21

  THE CHRONICLER SAT ATOP A PILE OF RED STONES, and he could see nothing. The smoke was so thick around him, he thought he probably should have asphyxiated in it long ago. But somehow, though it engulfed him, it seemed to be part of some other world and could not affect him.

  So he sat atop the rubble, the sword in his lap, and wondered where he was. When he closed his eyes, he saw in his memory the waters rising through the chamber floor, flooding the room, catching him by the legs. He saw the high priestess, her face filled with hatred and pain, dragged away in the same current.

  But he’d kept his grip on Halisa.

  And now here he was. He recalled nothing after the rivers closed over his head. Was the Dragonwitch dead? Somehow he believed she must be, and the smoke around him was the last of her final destructive act. The stone on which he sat was the red of the Citadel Spire. It all must have collapsed, fallen into the Netherworld.

  Where that left him was anyone’s guess.

  The Lumil Eliasul stood before him.

  The Chronicler nearly fell over backward. But the next moment he was on his feet. “My Lord!” he cried. Then his tongue failed him.

  What could he say? How could he apologize for his doubt when all his life his doubt had been as much a part of him as his own heart? Until the Lumil Eliasul moved in his spirit, the Chronicler had been incapable of believing what, to his mortal mind, was impossible. He was as helpless to save his people as he was to save himself.

  And yet here he stood, the despised dwarf armed with the sword of legends, hero and dragon slayer, fool and doubter. Every contradiction of his existence weighed upon his shoulders so that he could scarcely stand.

  But the Lumil Eliasul looked at him and smiled. “Will you be king now, Smallman?”

  “If you ask it of me.”

  “Then go. Return to the home of your fathers and set your people free.”

  Like a gusting breath, the wind picked up and blew the smoke away. The Lumil Eliasul vanished, and the light of the sun shone down fully upon the destruction of the sunken Citadel, gleaming brilliantly on the red stone and the brilliant silver-white of Halisa.

  The Chronicler looked around and saw the wide, desolate plain, so dry with the Dragonwitch’s spoiling work. He saw the mountains in the distance and thought this country might one day be green and growing again. But he would not see it. He must hasten home. Home to Gaheris.

  He began to climb down from the rubble, his head dizzy, and found that the sword was no longer so heavy as it had once been. In fact, though it was still the broadsword of a hero, it was simultaneously the right weight and balance for his small frame. Limitations such as size could never hold it captive. As the Chronicler began to understand this, he bore the sword as well as Etanun ever had.

  While descending from the ruins, he wondered how to begin this journey. Where Eanrin, Mouse, and Dame Imraldera might be he could not guess. He knew only that his road would lead north, so north he would march.

  A stone shifted beneath his feet. The Chronicler unbalanced and was obliged to leap to keep from falling headlong. His foot came down hard on something soft, and someone yelled: “Ow! Have a care!”

  The Chronicler’s eyes widened. Then he was down on his knees, digging through pebbles and dirt and debris. He heard more grunts and growls, which served only to make him work faster. “Is that you?” he cried. “Is that really you?”

  Up from the rubble, covered head to toe in red dust, came a long and leggy figure that was almost familiar.

  Almost. But not quite.

  The Chronicler sat back and stared.

  “Well, Lights Above us burning!” cried Alistair, rubbing dust from his face and coughing violently. “I thought I’d had it there. I really did! Unless, of course, you’re dead too and we ended up in the same place?”

  He turned to the Chronicler, and the lower half of his face twitched into a smile. But what the Chronicler saw was not the familiar grin. Alistair seemed to feel the difference too. His brow fell, and he lifted both hands to feel his face. He drew a sharp breath at what his fingers told him. The next moment he sat down hard on a stone.

  “Is it as bad as it feels?” he asked.

  The Chronicler could not find words. He shook his head, licked his lips, and looked away. Then he said, “You searched for me. In the dark. You came after me.”

  Alistair, his skin gone a sick shade of green, squeezed his eyes shut. “Did you kill the dragon?” he asked faintly.

  “I don’t know,” the Chronicler said. “I think so.”

  “Good. That is good.”

  “You went over the edge. I saw you pull the Black Dog over the edge.”

  Alistair nodded.

  “But you didn’t die.”

  “No.” Alistair let his hands fall away from his face and once more attempted a smile. “I didn’t die.”

  Despair threatened to overwhelm him, and he hung his head. But then he felt something he had not noticed before. With tentative fingers he felt for the puckered scar on his shoulder where the goblin dagger had bitten deep. But it was gone. Tucking his chin to better see, Alistair looked but could find no signs of that poison.

  He breathed a sigh and felt the despair flowing from his body. His old self was dead and gone. And yet, he was renewed as well.

  The sun was dipping behind the western mountains before the Chronicler and his cousin climbed from the last of the rubble. They had met no one else, and both wondered how many had fled the destruction of their life and faith, and how many had been buried along with their goddess.

  At last they stood upon the dry plain, the ruins behind them. Their faces set to the north, they started the long trek, neither trying to think too far ahead, neither ready to consider what they would do when they reached the gorge.

  “Oi! Mortals!”

  Both started and turned. They saw a familiar figure, small and fluffy, step into view seemingly out of nothing. T
he cat streaked toward them, tail upright and eyes wide as saucers. “You’re alive!” he cried, taking man form as he reached them, his arms outspread. “You’re both of you alive!”

  Then he saw Alistair and stopped, and the smile fell from his face.

  “Is the dragon dead?” the Chronicler asked.

  “She is,” said Eanrin. “We saw the smoke of her final passing even from the mountains. The others are near.” He waved a hand vaguely behind just as Dame Imraldera and Mouse stepped off the Faerie Path, becoming visible in the Near World even as they took stock of their surroundings.

  Mouse’s gaze fixed on Alistair.

  The next moment she was running. She did not care how little it befit her dignity. After all, she’d gone in unsuccessful disguise as a slave boy for months, and it hadn’t killed her! So she ran, ignoring the gazes of Eanrin or Imraldera or even the Chronicler. She could not slow herself at the last, and nearly toppled Alistair as she fell into him.

  “Steady, Mouse!” he cried. His voice was not as cheerful as she had always known it, but that didn’t matter. She reached up, caught him by the ears, and pulled his face down.

  She paused when she saw it. She hadn’t, after all, expected those changes scored across his features where the Black Dog’s ravaging jaws had torn his skin, riddling it with scars puckered in ugly lines over his cheeks, down his jaw, swelling one eye so that it nearly disappeared. She hesitated; his brow constricted, and she felt him try to pull away.

  But her hold on his ears was strong, and she gave him a kiss that was no less passionate for its lack of experience. When she let him go, Alistair gulped back a laugh, and his scarred face flushed crimson.

  “What was that?” he cried.

  “Please, mortal,” said Eanrin, crossing his arms, “do you really need me to translate this time?”

  They walked to the gorge together, the two knights, the two North Country men, and Mouse. The Chronicler saw how Mouse and Alistair stayed near each other, and this eased his stride even when his spirit champed to hasten.

  But when they stood at the edge of the gorge and looked down on the empty riverbed, Eanrin said, “All right, the time has come. We must enter the Between and hasten on. Gaheris won’t rescue itself, and the prophecy is only partially complete. So, if you can pry that girl’s fingers from your arm, young master Alistair, we should be on our way.”