Dragonwitch (19 page)

I
WAS
CROWNED
WITH
M
AHUIZOA
'
S
CROWN
on the peak of Omeztli, the Moon Tower. Kings and queens, lords and ladies, Faerie masters of many far demesnes came for my coronation, and Cozamaloti permitted their passing. I was small on the throne of my mother, and the crown was heavy upon my head. But I felt the surge of Etalpalli itself inside me, and I knew I would see my city rebuilt to the glory it had known before Cren Cru's coming.

I saw the Brothers Ashiun standing quietly among the brilliant throng of fey folk, their weapons quiet at their sides. When the coronation feasting was at its height, they came to me and drew me aside.

“Reign long and well, Queen of Etalpalli,” Akilun said, then kissed my hand and departed.

I turned to Etanun. “You are a great hero.” The surge of power I had known seemed to vanish, and I felt small and weak beneath his gaze.

“As are you,” he replied with a gentle smile that was strange and beautiful on his warlike face. “Reign long and well,” he spoke in echo of his brother.

“Will you return one day?” I asked him as he turned to go.

“I will,” he replied. “To see how you are getting on.”

Then he left. With his promise soaring in my heart, I returned to the feasting.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alistair whispered.

They stood in the earl's empty bedchamber, which was a disaster. The goblins had torn the room apart while searching for Mouse and Alistair. The heavy bed-curtains hung in tatters on the broken bedframe. Every piece of furniture from the flimsy screen to the heavy wardrobe had been gouged with stone weapons, and the wardrobe had also been partially burned.

The three invaders had slipped into the chamber from the passage, Eanrin working the locks from the outside without any apparent difficulty. Alistair wore goblin armor so heavy he could scarcely stand upright. The helmet, which was swiftly bringing on a headache, disguised his face, and the jagged visor muffled his voice. “They're not going to believe I'm one of them,” he growled.

Mouse, huge skirts gathered in her arms, stepped from behind the earl's broken screen. Alistair and Eanrin both looked at her, and the cat gave a noncommittal nod. “Not bad,” he said.

Mouse scowled and reached around to fumble with one of the many ties and braces. The light green gown was gorgeous with heavy embroidery. It must have belonged to one of the ladies of the castle and was entirely impractical. It was hardly possible to walk in the thing, much less run.

Alistair spoke behind his visor. “You look very pretty.”

Mouse looked to Eanrin. “He sounds concerned. What did he say?”

“He said they're never going to believe you're a girl.”

Mouse clamped her mouth shut but shot a swift glare Alistair's way. Alistair turned to Eanrin, attempting but failing to shove up the visor. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her you're afraid to face goblins.”

“That's not true!”

“Then stop criticizing my brilliant scheme. If you can manage to humble yourself and follow an order, recite to me your part.”

Giving up on the visor, Alistair let his gauntleted hand drop to his side. “I'm to march her through the castle like I've caught a prisoner, somehow drawing no attention to either of us.”

“Good. And once you're in the great hall?”

“We're to fetch the Chronicler in the midst of the distraction you will have provided.”

“Excellent.”

“But won't he be chained?”

“Oh, he definitely is.”

“How are we to manage that?”

“Find the key, I would imagine. This is
your
side of the rescue, my dear boy. You can't expect me to do everything.”

“What if someone stops me on the way to the hall?” Alistair persisted. “They'll know as soon as I open my mouth that I'm not one of them.”

“Then don't open your mouth. Grunt and growl; pretend you're too good for this world. Besides, I told you, I'm going on ahead. I'll take care of any in your way and give you a clear path.”

Mouse, who had only understood Eanrin's side of the conversation anyway, stepped forward then. “What of that great goblin?” she asked. “What will you do about him?”

“I told you, I'll see to it,” said the cat-man, his voice as smooth and calm as a summer stroll. “Your job is to rescue the Chronicler, understand?”

“But who will rescue us?”

Eanrin shrugged, sank to the floor in his cat form, and trotted to the cracked door. “I had rather hoped you'd rescue yourselves.” And with a flick of his tail, he slipped out into the hall. “Remember,” his voice called back to them, “we'll all meet in the inner courtyard!”

By the time they reached the doorway, the corridor beyond was empty.

This really was a dreadful world.

So Ghoukas thought as he staggered up the stairs from the kitchen into the keep. For one thing, it was much too cold. Not that Arpiar was a realm of balmy comfort. Icy winds blew across its broad plains, driving
luckless goblins back into the warrens below, thankful for the warmth of close tunnels. But here the cold seeped into the bones. It crept through every crevice and cranny until a goblin felt he could never escape it.

Ghoukas growled as he stumbled along the corridor, laden with findings from the castle storerooms. Corgar had sent for food, and he would be disappointed in Ghoukas's feeble scavengings. Did mortals know what real food was? Did they know
anything
?

Well, they knew ale at least. Good, strong ale for quaffing after hunts, and Ghoukas and his friend had quaffed large quantities while inspecting the larder. Muttering and cursing, anticipating a beating for his failure to provide Corgar with exactly what he wanted when he wanted it, Ghoukas proceeded at a lagging pace, decidedly ale-sick.

A vague part of his brain noticed dimly that the passages were strangely deserted. Distantly he heard goblins shouting orders to human slaves laboring at tearing down the castle. The maggots were so puny, it would take them weeks to accomplish the task!

A rustle and thumping of booted feet drew Ghoukas's attention. Down the nearest staircase came one of the human females, prodded from behind by a goblin.

“Hey! Krikor!” Ghoukas called, his ale-dimmed eyes blinking blearily but able to recognize his friend's armor. “Hallo, brother!”

The goblin's violent start knocked his helmet askew, and in his haste to clamp it back down on his head, he dropped his spear. It was this dragon-blasted cold and the stink of mortality, Ghoukas thought. It got into a fellow's blood and made him jumpy.

“Krikor!” he said again, swaying his way to the foot of the staircase. “Remember me?” More than willing to put off his unpleasant duties, Ghoukas began climbing the stairs to meet them. “Look at the sorry piffle these mortals eat. Would you believe it? Want to try a bit? It's vile! Something to tell the folks back home about.”

He reached out to slap his friend's shoulder, but the goblin dodged, and the little mortal female ducked away, pressing herself against the banister, her skirts gathered up in a bundle to her chest but still falling nearly to her feet. Ghoukas turned to her, looking her up and down. She was so little, she scarcely reached his breastplate! But unlike the pasty
mortal womenfolk he'd seen all day, she was a nice brown and healthy looking.

Ghoukas tipped back his visor, revealing a hungry face. “Are you taking this morsel to Corgar? He's ordered all the mortals put to work, you know. A shame, really. A beastie like this might have other uses.”

He leaned down. The girl tried to back up the steps but tripped over her skirts and sat down in a pile of petticoats and brocade. Ghoukas laughed. “Pretty!” he said. “I think she must be pretty. What do you think, Krikor?”

The goblin said nothing. Ghoukas turned to him, his huge eyes narrowing, his stony brow wrinkling into puzzled crevices. “I said, what do you think, Krikor?”

Silence—other than surprisingly light breathing from behind the helmet. Ghoukas frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said, his addled brain slowly catching up. “Wait a minute, you're not—”

Suddenly he dropped the food, snatched the helmet away, and stared at the pale human face with the shock of bright red hair.

Then Mouse leapt on his back, managing despite her heavy skirts to get purchase on his shoulders and cling there. Ghoukas roared, surprised, and twisted about, trying to loosen her grip, but she clung with the tenacity of ivy, and Ghoukas could not reach her to pull her off.

Alistair, moving heavily in his armor, picked up the goblin spear. He breathed, timed his stroke, then swung the stone spearhead and struck Ghoukas such a blow across the face that the goblin stopped, his vision whirling.

“Jump!” Alistair cried to Mouse, and though she did not understand, she obeyed, sliding from the goblin's back and landing in a cushioned cloud of skirts. Alistair struck again, and the goblin, not so impervious to one of his own weapons as to those of mortals, tumbled down the stairs. He landed at the bottom, lost in a stupor.

Alistair assisted Mouse to her feet, and they both stared down at the hulking form of Ghoukas.

“Nicely done,” Mouse said, grinning up at the young lord.

He understood her smile, if nothing else, and smiled back. Then he reclaimed his helmet. “We'd best hurry,” he said, indicating the passage with his spear. “If the cat missed this one, we don't know how many others
might have slipped his notice. I don't know that we can repeat this little performance.”

Mouse took her place as the captured slave, and the two continued on toward the great hall. All was gloomy, lit only by the dimness of moonlight through the windows. The air was thick with things unseen.

The Chronicler crouched behind Corgar's chair, his senses dull. For hours, it seemed, Corgar had sat with his feet up, barking orders to goblins, sending them skittering about Gaheris at his whims. He had ignored the Chronicler's existence since Leta was dragged from the room, and for this the Chronicler was grateful.

His manacles were large and appeared too loose for his small hands. Yet, although the stone neither shrank nor expanded, they held him fast.

The chain piled up beside him on the floor. He studied every stone link leading from the mass beside him up to the ring on Corgar's great belt. Everything about the goblins was stone, it seemed—their chains, their armor, their weapons. Stone should not be stronger than the iron weapons of Gaheris, yet the Chronicler had seen swords crumble into clay when they met the goblin hewers. He had seen lances break upon the hides of goblin warriors.

He hung his head, cursing under his breath. What could he, with all his book learning and his short limbs, hope to accomplish if he slipped his bonds? It would take a rare man indeed to stand up against such fiends. A rare man . . . not a freak.