Dragonwitch (26 page)

“No,” the prisoner whispered. “Oh no.”

“She is the prophetess,” Mouse persisted. “She liberated us from slavery and prepared us to receive the goddess. She is the great servant of the Flame. And . . . and you are she, aren't you?” She was down on her hands and knees now, her face close to the stone barricade. “Aren't you?” she repeated.

“No,” said the prisoner. “No, it isn't true.”

Mouse thought she would burst with frustration. “Don't lie to me!” she cried. “I
know
you are! I don't know how I know, but I
know
!”

The prisoner's body tensed as though she wished to draw back, but there was nowhere for her to go. The close confines of the cell held her, and the most she could do was sit with her knees up to her chest, her head pressed into them; the stone grating above nearly touched her ear. But she still held the starflower gently in one hand, and it gleamed.

The prisoner said, “I saw to it that the Wolf Lord was slain.”

“I knew it.” Mouse breathed the words, overwhelmed by the sudden relief that flooded her. “The Flame sent you.”

“No!” The prisoner's hands balled into fists. But there was deep sorrow etched on her face, and almost immediately she contradicted herself. “Yes. I came at the behest of the Flame at Night. I came because she wished vengeance upon her former lover. But it wasn't vengeance I meted out on Amarok! I did not come to do the Dragonwitch's dirty work.”

Mouse sat up, pulling her face away from the cold stone. A weight
dropped in her stomach, and her mind whirled. “The goddess would not take a lover,” she said at last. “She is Flame. She is Fire. Fire cannot love.”

“You are right,” said the prisoner. “Fire cannot love.”

“Fire is too holy to love!” Mouse insisted.

“There you are mistaken.”

Mouse could not see the prisoner's face. But she saw the white light of the starflower shifting, casting the shadows of the stone bars in several directions. Then, turning her gaze up to the grate once more, the prisoner looked at Mouse.

“Only holiness,” she said, “can truly love.”

Blasphemy. Mouse had never heard it spoken before. Not out loud. Sometimes she had suspected her old grandmother of harboring thoughts unworthy of those who served the Flame. But Granna had never dared speak those thoughts.

Yet there lay the prisoner—the prophetess, the Silent Lady—speaking words that earned her nothing less than flaming death. Mouse could not speak. She sat staring down into eyes that were too familiar.

“Mouse is not your name. Is it?” said the prisoner after a long silence.

Mouse shook her head.

“I didn't think so,” said the prisoner. “Your name is bigger than that. Your name is full of hope. Your name is—”

“No one knows my name!” Mouse snapped, though her voice was still scarcely more than a whisper. “The names of the Flame's servants are secret.”

“I am sorry for you,” said the prisoner. “The greatest tragedy is to never be known.”

Tears welled up in Mouse's eyes. Unbidden, a picture of Granna flashed across her mind's eye. And with it came Granna's warning:
“If you go down to the temple, child, no one will ever know your true name, and you yourself will forget it.”

Had she forgotten it already? Was she becoming nothing more than Mouse? Would she someday be like the Speaker, her whole being caught up in her temple role?

Mouse bowed her head. At last she said in a low tone, hoping the dark echoes of the passage would not catch and carry her words:

“They're going to kill you, Silent Lady.”

“I know.”

“But you are the prophetess.”

“I am not whom you have believed me to be. Nor are the worlds what you have been told they are.”

Trembling so that she could scarcely get the words out, Mouse said, “Is there no one who can save you?”

Suddenly the prisoner's hand darted out between the slats and grabbed hold of Mouse's. “My life or death matters little now,” said the prisoner. “What matters is that my mission here is not without purpose. I came to relay Etanun's message, and this I have done. It is up to him to see the rest of my Lord's purpose accomplished. But Etanun must know! He must know that I have told Hri Sora where Halisa rests. And he must name his heir.”

“The heir,” Mouse repeated. “The heir who can carry the sword from that chamber and not die?”

“Yes,” said the prisoner. “The time is coming, the end of Halisa's sleep. The heir will take up the sword. And he will put an end to these chains that bind you. The heir will set free the captive names of my people!”

Mouse tried to draw her hand back, but those gentle fingers were stronger than they looked. “The goddess requires Fireword,” Mouse said. “The goddess will use it for her great purpose.”

“She will use it for no purpose other than vengeance,” said the prisoner. “And when she is done, she will destroy it.”

“It is an evil weapon,” said Mouse. “I saw it kill Stoneye.”

“The sword did not bring about his death,” said the prisoner. “His misplaced loyalty was his undoing. His misplaced love.”

“Love is a terrible thing,” Mouse whispered.

“Only love gone astray,” said the prisoner. “Only imperfect love.”

Mouse tried once more, feebly, to shake off the prisoner's grip. “You frighten me.”

“Oh, child!” said the prisoner. “The time has come you
should
be frightened. If fear will awaken you, be afraid! And then be courageous in your fear and act!”

“There's nothing I can do.”

“You aren't the mouse they have made you be. You were meant for so much more!”

“The goddess has made us more,” said Mouse. “She liberated us from the Wolf Lord, and she gave us back our voices. Now we are stronger even than the men, and we rule this land.”

But the prisoner shook her head, and she squeezed Mouse's fingers. “You do not rule,” she said. “You are more enslaved now than you ever were. And you know it.”

Mouse bowed her head and did not say what she thought. But she whispered at last: “How can I help you, lady?”

There was a long silence. Then the prisoner said, “Bend down here so that I may see your face.”

Mouse did not like to, but she could think of no excuse to refuse. She leaned down, her face once more close to the stone bars. The gleaming starflower shone in her eyes, but its light was mild. It reflected in the dark depths of the prisoner's eyes, which studied her and read things Mouse suspected she did not wish to show. She could not meet that gaze. She felt as though it could look down into the hidden places of her soul, and she feared what it would see there.

“Poor lost one,” said the prisoner. “But my Master has always used the most unlikely to accomplish his ends. Perhaps, little mouse, you are bound for a greater destiny than this future of ashes before you.”

Then the prisoner pressed her face as close to the stone as she could and spoke her next words in a hushed, hurried tone. “Listen now; listen carefully. I am going to ask you to do something quite dreadful. I know they have required things of you as well. I know they are driving you, like the Black Dogs themselves at your heels. But I am asking you to do this for my sake, not for theirs.”

Mouse went cold as stone inside.

“Follow the blue star,” said the prisoner. “You will see it in the north sky tonight. Follow the blue star, without turning to the right or left, walking straight and true after its course. It will lead you to Etanun, Halisa's former master. When you find him, tell him that I have done as he asked. And tell him that the rest is up to him.”

Mouse's voice shook so that she could scarcely speak. “Will he know where to find the heir?”

“Ask him,” said the prisoner. One hand reached up between the stone
bars and touched Mouse's cheek. “Ask him,” she said again, “but don't think you'll deceive him.”

“Deceive him?” Mouse said. “What do you mean?”

“You will know what I mean soon enough.”

Then she drew back into her cell, and the light of the starflower was hidden so that Mouse could no longer see her. “If you meet my comrade, Sir Eanrin the cat, he will help you. He is good and noble, though he may not at first seem so to you. Tell him of my fate, and he will help.”

The prisoner's voice was low and strong despite the darkness into which she was now plunged. “Follow the blue star, child. Do what you must.”

I
WAS
TOO
WEAK
TO
FLEE
.
The Dragon took my face in his hands and they burned me, yet somehow the burn felt right.

“You are my kin,” said he, the Dark Father. “You don't belong in this world or any world where Lumé and Hymlumé sing. They sing in praise of the One whom Etanun serves. Can you bear that?”

I shook my head even as he held it.

“No,” he agreed. “You cannot. So let us make these worlds after our own fashion. Let us see what songs they will sing when fire rains from the sky.”

I whispered, “Fire from the sky.”

“Let me kiss you,” he said.

“Kiss me, then,” said I.

Mouse, dressed as a boy, slipped unseen from the Citadel of the Living Fire into the night. She scarcely believed it. It must all be a dream, a
nightmare even. She was not one to run away, unless it was to hide. She was not one to step beyond the rules of life, to risk the anger of the Flame.

But here she was, clad in the rags of a slave boy, disgraceful attire for one of the Citadel's own. She dared not venture beyond the temple grounds as herself, however. She must be secret; she must be unseen; she must attract no watching eye.

So she passed between the guards at the gate and fled across the plain, and above her shone the blue star. She followed it as she had been told. The way was straight across the empty plain. She ran without turning until she reached a place where a deep gorge cut the dry plain.

Mouse stood upon the brink of that sharp drop, looking down at the rushing river below, and at the forest into which that river flowed and disappeared.

There could be no going around. The gorge stretched for miles in both directions, and the star led right over it.

To do as the Silent Lady asked, Mouse would have to climb down that rocky way, and she would have to cross not only the river, but also the forest.

Dawn was approaching. The blue star, having run its course across the sky all night, was fading away. In the half-lit gloom that was neither night nor day, Mouse scurried down the gorge. The river churned dark and swift, and she thought at first it was hungry for her, the white crests of rapids like a salivating mouth. But as she drew near, she thought instead that it was merely wary of her approach.

When she reached the bottom of the gorge, she found her feet on slick stone dampened by the river, which, this close, seemed more than ever to be a living entity, watching her as it flowed. Though she wanted to wash her gritty hands in the running water, she did not dare. Instead, she picked her way along the bank, keeping close to the gorge wall. The sun was rising. When she looked up, she could scarcely see the blue star.

The forest loomed large. The trees grew right down to the edge of the river, some plunging great, twisting roots into its rapids and clinging defiantly. Mouse trembled as she drew near. She did not like the looks of this forest, so different from the mountain jungles in which she had herded goats as a child. There, she'd had only to worry about wolves and panthers stalking in the shadows.

Here, she felt she must fear the shadows themselves.

“
Follow the blue star,
” the Silent Lady had said,
“without turning to the right or left.”

Mouse looked up at the gorge wall and thought there was no way she would ever climb out again in any case. The river could not be crossed. There was no option left to her. She must do as she was told. She must deliver her message to Etanun, or she must perish in the attempt.

“Fire burn,” she whispered. “Fire purify.”

She stepped into the shadows of the trees.

Immediately she knew, without knowing how she knew, that she had stepped outside of her world. The river still ran close by, but she sensed that if she turned, she would not see the open gorge behind her. She felt the forest surrounding her, extending forever, unimpeded by gorge walls, overshadowing the river, wherever it flowed.

She was beyond her own world. And in this place of thick-woven tree branches, she could not see the blue star.

Mouse stood like a statue, not daring even to breathe. If she breathed, she would scream; and if she screamed, she would panic; and if she panicked, she would run and run and run and never stop.

She peered up, trying to see between the branches and leaves, and she couldn't help wondering if there even was a sky beyond them, much less any stars.

Should she go? Should she start walking, following the flow of the river, hoping the star, wherever it was, still led this way?
“Without turning to the right or left
,
”
the Silent Lady had said. But what about when the star was no longer visible? What hope or help was there for her then? Was she to sit here in the world beyond her own and . . . wait?

Mouse, standing undecided, suddenly saw a light, far away, almost hidden by the trees, so faint it might have been no more than a flickering candle. It grew steadily brighter and, she thought, drew nearer.

A whirring and shushing filled the air, as of trees speaking to one another in voices of leaves and bark and branches. Roots lifted from the soil and, grasping and coiling, pulled the trees away, parting them to create a path, and even the river itself seemed to rise up and alter its course. The ground beneath Mouse's feet shifted, though she herself remained where she stood,
staring at that approach of light that was more than light, for it did not merely strike her eyes but penetrated down to places in her being that she had not known existed, perhaps that never had existed until now.

And suddenly the blue star stood before her.

In the shadows of the trees it stood, gleaming so brightly that it should have blinded her except that she did not see it with her eyes. It was not a being that could present itself in a mortal's view, so it presented itself in her heart, in the fantastical realm of her fancy, yet no less real. Its flanks were white but shone blue, and they were dappled like a starry night. A long, luxurious tail and a rich mane of light flowed like clouds behind it. Its eyes were like the depths of the sky, but also full of light and, more vividly, full of song made visible to the eyes of her heart.

Why are you following me?
it said.

It spoke as though even when standing alone it still sang in unison with the whole starry host of the heavens. The sound of its voice sent her to her knees. But there were tears upon her cheeks because it was so beautiful and so good. And its body was fire from its dainty, cloven hooves to the tip of its graceful horn, which rose from the middle of its forehead like a battle standard.

I watched you,
it said.
I watched you even as I danced across your mortal sky, and I lingered long after I should have pursued my brothers and sisters into the west. I watched you follow me. But you are no sailor, and you are no hero. So tell me why.

She could not speak before such a being. Even in her wildest dreams of stepping into the presence of the Flame, Mouse had not imagined this feeling of utter insignificance that overwhelmed her now.

Those deep-as-night eyes blinked slowly, long lashes covering their depths for an instant. Then it spoke again.

Poor little thing. It has been so long since I spoke to a mortal. I forget how frail you are. Does this help?

Without any apparent change taking place, a different being stood before Mouse. It was still a strange, phenomenal creature, but not so terrible, not so overwhelming. Rather than moving and existing in a place beyond worlds, its form was solid and it stood upon the ground. It reminded Mouse, rather oddly, of nothing so much as a goat.

Not entirely a goat, of course. Perhaps a little of a deer as well, and of a much larger animal for which she had no name. The feet were cloven, prettily feathered, the legs delicate and thin. A beard wisped daintily from the end of its chin, and the tail was long and sweeping. Its face was much longer, much more noble than a goat's, and its ears were upright, oval, and soft as kitten fur. White lashes framed its black eyes, and the flanks, still dappled, were faintly blue.

It was a beautiful, frightening, wonderful creature. A desperate feeling, rather like love, rose in Mouse's breast, and she found herself exclaiming, “Oh! What are you? Please tell me!”

The beast looked down and around at itself and flicked its ears, rather like a shrug. When it spoke, its voice was singular, no longer the voice of millions, and she heard it with her ears, not her heart.

“I suppose, in this form, you would call me a unicorn,” it said.

Mouse had heard of unicorns before. But she had always believed they were creatures of the water, for so her Granna had told her. This, however, was a creature unbound by water, fire, air, or stone. “You're lovely!” she said.

It bowed its head as though embarrassed. “I feel a little lost,” it said, “without my brothers, my sisters. It's not often that I take on flesh. Stars don't, you know, especially not for mortals. I only do so now because you are a pure maiden. Would you like to touch me?”

How did it know that she was longing with all her heart to plunge her hands into the silky strands of its mane, to wrap her arms around that powerful neck? Though the thought frightened as much as thrilled, Mouse was on her feet in a second. It bowed its head, and she shied away from that sharp horn. Then, her fear stepping back to make room for her desire, she put out her hands and stroked the velvety nose and gently caressed the soft oval ears.

“I love you,” she said without a thought.

It chuckled. “Little maid, you don't know what love means. But you will. Now tell me, what is your name?”

She told him. She had not told anyone her true name since she came to the Citadel, and she was certain no one but Granna remembered it. But she told the unicorn without a thought. And it nodded solemnly,
accepting the knowledge with quiet grace. What a strange sensation to be known by name to a star!

“What is yours?” she asked then.

“You could not say my name,” it said. “You do not speak the language of stars, nor have you or your kind heard our songs since the last House of Lights was closed. But you may call me Cé Imral, as the Faerie folk do.”

She whispered it. The name was strange on her tongue, and she stumbled over it. The unicorn laughed, a sound at once like water and fire and springtime. “Close enough,” it said. “But tell me, mortal, why are you following me?”

Her trust complete, and her fingers twined with white-blue strands of silk, Mouse told the star. She told it everything about the Silent Lady and the dungeon and the Diggings and the message for Etanun.

“Ah!” Cé Imral said when she spoke of Etanun and the sword. “Of course. I have sung this chorus and will sing it again, but for you the time has come. The Murderer will return, the Smallman will claim Fireword, and kingdoms will, for a breath, be established. This is much for you to understand, is it not?”

Mouse did not understand, but she didn't really care. “Can you help me?” she asked. “Can you lead me to Etanun?”

“Yes. But if I do, will you then fulfill what you have purposed in your heart?” Cé Imral asked.

Mouse bowed her head, wondering why she should suddenly feel ashamed. “I must . . . I must do as I am told. I am not a great lady, and I am not wise or strong. I must do as I am told.”

“As must I,” said the unicorn. It tossed its mane, and Mouse stepped away, though without fear now that she'd touched it. It could have run her through with that glorious horn, and she would not have made a sound.

“You stand in the Between,” Cé Imral said. “On both sides of you are the Near World and the Far, all close and all more distant than you can imagine. I will lead you through the half-light and bring you to where Etanun awaits your coming. But once there, I will return to the heavens and you will be alone.”

Mouse nodded. “I understand.”

“No. You don't.”

And the unicorn turned and started through the Wood. The trees backed away, bowing reverently after it, and the river laughed and waved as though pleased to see an old friend; for rivers, even the deadly ones, love the stars and feel close kinship with the sky. Mouse followed in the unicorn's wake. They did not move in Time, or not in a flow of Time familiar to Mouse. But she was not afraid, though perhaps she should have been. When she dared snatch a look away from the unicorn's streaming tail, she caught glimpses of vistas she had never imagined, waterfalls and forest glades and desolate shadows. Sometimes she even thought she peered into other worlds entirely, so strange and unearthly were the sights she saw.

At last the unicorn turned to her, and those deep eyes filled her vision, love driving out her fear.

“Here I leave you. Here you will find what you seek,” Cé Imral said.