Dragonwitch (28 page)

With those words, the golden man dwindled into the golden cat, and
try as he might, the Chronicler could perceive him as nothing else. But he was still Eanrin, and he smiled, pleased with himself.

“That wasn't a half-bad monologue. Do you find yourself inspired to new heights of ambition?”

The Chronicler passed a hand over his face, feeling both very young and very tired. “I can't believe the impossible,” he whispered as though trying to convince himself against what he had just witnessed. “A man can't be big and small at once. He
can't
be a freak and a hero.”

The cat glared. “Do you believe in justice?” he asked.

The Chronicler hesitated. Then, only once, he nodded.

“Do you believe in mercy?” pressed the cat.

“Yes.”

“Ha!” Eanrin lashed his tail again. “What an impossible contradiction! Ha!”

Then his voice lowered and was, for him, gentle when he spoke. “But a man who can display both justice and mercy is the very reflection of the Lumil Eliasul, the reflection of the divine. In the divine, we find the satisfaction of contradictions. We find the wholeness of broken things and belief in the impossible.” The cat shook his head. “Poor mortal! Your kind has not heard the Sphere Songs in so long, you've become deaf without realizing it.”

The Chronicler said nothing.

“You must start believing the impossible,” the cat persisted. “If you're to have any hope of ‘saving the day,' as it were.”

The Chronicler set his jaw. “So I'm to abandon my home to monsters, to travel across worlds to fetch some magic sword, all for a fool's errand?”

“Would you prefer to storm the castle gates and challenge Corgar to single combat as you are?” The cat snorted. “Now,
there's
a fool's errand!”

“I'm abandoning Gaheris.” Too ashamed to speak loudly, he whispered, “I'm abandoning Leta.”

The cat's whiskers twitched. His cupped ears picked up more than the words, and his sharp eyes saw more still. “Leta, eh?” he said. “Is she that pale little mortal maid I glimpsed in the library last summer? The one who's sweet on you?”

The Chronicler's look would have frozen the heart of any man not a cat. “Don't mock me,” he growled.

“Who's mocking?” The cat's tail curled questioningly above his head. “I'm the Bard of Rudiobus, romantic poet of the ages, famed devotee of Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, and I know lovelorn when I see it. For instance, I can see that your cousin is head-over-heels-smitten with our dear Mouse, though I've made certain she doesn't realize it yet. Lumé love us, the last thing we need on this excursion is a romantic entanglement getting in the way!”

The Chronicler stared at the cat with more malice than he might have turned on a snake. “Alistair cannot love that girl,” he said. “He is going to marry my lady Leta, and he is going to make her a good husband.”

“You are a dense one, aren't you?” said the cat. “You've allowed this fixation on size and perceived beauties to blind you. And that, small man, is your true affliction.”

With those words he stalked to the door like an actor quitting the stage. But before he quite got there, his skin shivered as though with an irritating itch. “Dragon's teeth!” he meowled, looking back at the young man once more. “One conversation! One simple, honest, true conversation, and all your questions would be answered, all your problems solved! Really, man, is that so difficult? Then you'd be free to fall into each other's arms and live your Happily Ever After. Why make it so
complicated
?”

The Chronicler gave no reply at first. It wasn't so simple; he knew that well. Even in the Faerie Realm he must recognize reality. Unlike the fey folk, he remained bound in his flawed mortal body. All he had left was his pride, a final bulwark of self-respect that prevented him from making himself a fool.

When the Chronicler spoke, his voice was almost lifeless.

“Very well, cat,” he said. “I will attempt to believe the impossible. I will go seeking your Halisa. I will even believe myself a chosen one, a future king, or whatever you need me to believe so that I might hope to see the folk of Gaheris liberated from those ghastly creatures.” He raised his gaze, fixing a dark glare on the cat. “But don't feed me false hopes. I will not live on dreams.”

“No,” said the cat. “You'd rather live on nightmares.”

And with that, he left the room.

The scrubber stepped into the Wood.

It recognized him, and though it did not welcome his return, neither did it make any effort to reject him. He felt the more hostile trees withdrawing hurriedly, and he could almost hear the ripple of rumor spreading from root to root, leaf to leaf.

He hobbled, his back bent, his head low, but his pace quick, covering leagues in a stride.

Do you expect to die?

The scrubber did not startle at the voice, or voices, speaking suddenly from the empty space beside him. He did not turn. He did not wish to see, though he smiled at the welcomingly familiar presence.

“Good morrow to you, Cé,” he said. “You have done a great service by me.”

You mean in bringing the girl?

“Indeed,” said the scrubber. “Among others. Everything is falling together rather nicely, don't you think?”

Are you afraid to answer me?

The scrubber shrugged. He looked frailer than ever, and his voice was thin when he spoke. “I'm afraid of very little anymore.”

But you are afraid to see her again.

“Yes. Yes, I am. And I'm afraid of what I must do.”

Then you do expect to die.

“No indeed,” said the scrubber, chuckling to himself. “In fact, I rather hope to finally
live
.”

The star, shining high in the vaults above, watched the old man until the Wood had quite swallowed him up.

I
FOUND
THE
GIRL
.
I had searched long and hard for her, following rumor, following whispers. I learned during that time to contain my fire and to walk in a form similar to my original. I wore a cloak to hide my featherless wings, which hung like a bat's at my back. No one knew what I was unless they smelled the sulfur on my breath.

It was thus I found the girl. Was she a princess of mortals? Was she a beauty, a worthy rival to my queenly glory?

No indeed. She was a farmer's daughter, a creature of mud and labor. Her face and clothes were stained, her hands callused, and she stank of mortality.

But she sang as she worked, a simple, cheerful song of her own invention. And it was a reflection, imperfect yet lovely, of the Songs sung by the Spheres above. Her eyes shone with inner light, and despite her humble state, she was, I could see, lovely.

I hated her.

“Klara,” I called.

She turned and saw me standing at the gate of her father's farm. “Good morrow,” she called, her voice as charitable as it was sweet. “Do I know you?”

“No,” I said.

“May I help you? Are you lost?” She approached me, her face open and kind. “I will share my supper and give you a place to lay your head, for you look weary.”

They were the last words she spoke. I opened my mouth, and fire billowed forth.

I destroyed the entire farm that day, decimated that ground so that nothing should grow there evermore. Every living thing within miles fell under my flame.

Three somber figures stepped from the shelter of the Haven in the wake of the orange cat. They walked with heads bowed, as though afraid to see more of this strange Between than they must, and each face was bound up in unspoken thoughts.

Mouse's bare feet made no sound as she trod behind the cat, allowing him to choose their Path without question. After all, he knew better than she where to find her world. This journey was different from her journey with the star. Though they moved outside of Time, she still felt the presence of Time pressing in around them, and it seemed to her that the journey went on and on, though it may have been mere moments. Sometimes she thought she heard or glimpsed other beings in the surrounding shadows, beings for which she had no name.

“Fire burn,” she whispered. Would all this dreadful experience serve for her purification? In the end, would the holiness achieved be worth the trial and terror?

Could she save the Silent Lady?

She felt the presence of Lord Alistair, a little to her side and behind her. She tried not to startle when he spoke.

“This Wood is something else, isn't it?”

She gave him a quick look. Although the words formed themselves into something comprehensible in her brain, the meaning escaped her. Something else? As in, something not a Wood? Well, perhaps. After all, it certainly didn't
feel
like the mountain forests of her childhood. Still, not liking to make a fool of herself, she opted not to answer.

“It gives you the feeling it's watching you,” Alistair persisted, adjusting his long legs into a stride that matched hers. It was a rather lumbering gait, for she was quite short and he was obliged to keep amending his pace to stay beside her. Mouse glanced up and found him looking earnestly down at her, as though hoping for an answer. Having no answer to give, she offered a small smile. Then hastily looked at her feet again. Women of the Citadel did not smile at men. And men did not speak in a woman's presence.

“Ah, well,” Alistair persisted, “perhaps you're used to it. You're quite the adventurer! Star follower, wood trekker. They could write legends about you without much trouble, couldn't they?”

Here Mouse smiled again, though she tried to stifle it. She, an adventurer? How the Citadel dwellers would laugh at the idea! Mouse the trembling, the hiding, the soft speaking . . . a legend! She rather liked the idea.

Suddenly, with more daring than she felt, she asked, “How long did you know?”

“Know what?”

Mouse licked her lips. “How long did you know that I was . . . that I wasn't . . .”

“That you weren't a boy?” There was a brightness to Alistair's voice, a cheerfulness close to a laugh that seemed strange indeed in this half-lit world between worlds. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you must know, almost at once.”

“What?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes,” the young lord admitted, looking away bashfully. “Practically from the moment I saw you.”

Mouse made herself blink. She felt a hot flush rising and hoped he wouldn't be able to see it. “I . . . I don't understand,” she said. “I cut my hair.”

He grinned again, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is a fine disguise,” he said, and she could hear the lie in his voice despite its kindness. “You did your best, and you certainly are a ragged enough urchin.”

She blushed again and couldn't look at him.

“But see here,” he continued, “there are many more differences between boys and girls than . . . all that. You move like a girl. And from certain angles, you really are rather attractive.”

She couldn't look at him. In fact, she wished the ground would open
up and swallow her—or him—whole then and there. She could feel him watching her, and she wished he would stop.

“I thank you for your honesty,” she managed. “Next time I'll be sure to . . . to take care of
certain
angles.”

With that, she picked up her pace, chasing after the cat and leaving Alistair behind. He could have easily increased his stride and caught her, but his throat had gone strangely tight, and he thought maybe he'd like to be by himself for a while. Then he chuckled quietly, shaking his head. What a funny little creature that girl was!

It was the first time he'd laughed, he realized, in a long time.

This thought brought him up short. What was he doing? What was he becoming? He, the future Earl of Gaheris, destined to wed Aiven's daughter, bound to unite the earls under Gaheris's standard.

But really, what did it all matter? He bowed his head, watching his own tramping feet. How long had it been since the line between reality and dreams had blurred? How long since that same nightmare of the black path and the child and the red, gaping jaws had infiltrated his every living moment, both waking and sleeping?

“You'll never be king,” he whispered.

He blinked.

And he opens his eyes to look upon the realm of his dream. He recognizes it at once, more clearly even than the haunts of his childhood. Every vivid detail: the jagged stone, the ghostly light, and the child ahead of him, turning, eyes wide with terror.

“Watch out!” the child cries, its voice bounding and rebounding in the blackness.

Then, the howling of the dogs.

He blinks again.

Alistair stood surrounded by the Wood. Ahead he saw Mouse behind Eanrin, her ragged, close-cropped head of hair held high. Beyond the cat, he saw the trees that seemed to move themselves out of their way, and he saw the deep green of forest gloom.

“My lord, are you quite well?”

The voice of the Chronicler startled him, and Alistair ground his teeth
to keep down a cry as he looked around. His cousin stood behind him, watching him with concern in his eyes. “You look as though you've seen a ghost.”

“You shouldn't call me that,” Alistair said wearily. “I'm not your lord anymore, remember?”

The Chronicler bowed his head. “Old habits,” he murmured. Then he shrugged. “Did you see something? I keep glimpsing things in the shadows myself. I don't think they can get at us as long as we're on this Path. At least I've not seen any try as yet. But we'd best not get too far behind the cat.”

Alistair nodded. “Yes. Fine.” And he set off with long-legged strides, making up the distance. Though his shoulder pained him where the goblin blade had bitten, he tramped on after the cat and the girl and the prophecy at the end of their journey.

And he thought to himself,
I'm going to die.

The Chronicler stood watching the tall young lord put distance between them. His lips compressed into something between a frown and a smile. It was a wry, self-deprecating expression either way, and he sighed as he too set off to catch the others. His short legs could not bear him so fast, but he felt as though the Path itself carried him, and he knew he would not fall too far behind. Not so long as he kept moving.

There were many things in the Wood. Things he was not seeing but that rather he felt. Lining the edge of the Path, they watched him, bright eyes hidden in shade. So long as he didn't listen for them, he heard strange voices speaking in strange tongues, in words that made themselves understandable in his head.

“It's the dragon slayer!”

“Who? Who do you mean?”

“There, silly! It's the Opener of Doors!”

And someone sang like a chittering insect in a high, shrill voice:

“Fling wide the doors of light, Smallman,

Though furied falls the Flame at Night.”

They all believed him to be some hero. They looked at him and his ungainly form, and they saw a legend! How strange, how dreadful, how wonderful it was.

Perhaps the world was bigger than he had realized. Perhaps he had always limited himself to things that could be perceived by his senses rather than realizing that his perceptions were nothing more than restraints. Perhaps there were worlds and ways and wonders beyond anything he had imagined.

But that didn't, in the end, make a difference.

The worlds may be bigger and grander, but he was still only himself. If anything, he realized now to a much greater extent his own insignificance. At least in the confines of Gaheris he'd had his realm: the library, the books; and he'd had his weapon: his ability to read and write. He could keep himself separate and see himself as superior despite his deficiencies.

Now he saw that even those things he had clung to—his wits, his talents, his hard-earned abilities—were nothing. They were no more useful than his paltry limbs. Here, in these new worlds, he was dwarfed in spirit as well as in height.

He should have stayed behind. He should have made some daring, foolish, useless gesture and been killed. Then he wouldn't have to keep on living. He wouldn't have to watch himself try and, inevitably, fail.

The Path beneath his feet was no longer mossy or leaf strewn. The Chronicler realized this slowly, then stopped and looked around, surprised. He stood on white rock, but rock harder than chalk. Above him, the trees had retreated and the half-light had given way to the full light of day. He was obliged to shield his eyes. Where were the others? He couldn't see them for the light, and he wondered if he should call out to them.

He took a step. And he found that he stood on the edge of a precipice.

The Chronicler's head whirled with a sudden dizzying sensation of height that was so much more than height, he could scarcely take it in. He saw clouds drifting below his feet, far away, like tufts of sheep's wool tossing on a breeze.

Beneath the clouds, he saw the North Country.

How he knew this, he could not say. It was not like the maps in the Gaheris library, which were flat, indistinct, and often inaccurate. Every detail, color, shadow, valley, and crest presented itself with a precision the
Chronicler's eyes should not have been able to perceive, which dazzled and frightened him all at once. He could see Gaheris, every stone of the castle, though the distance between him and it was beyond his ability to reckon. He could see Hanna winding, every ripple and wavelet. He saw Aiven, which he had never before seen in person but which he recognized with a lurch of familiarity, like a father seeing his child's face after a long absence, unfamiliar and yet dearly familiar at once. Every earldom, every fief, every hamlet and village and port . . . they presented themselves beneath the Chronicler's vision, and he knew that he loved them. He loved the North Country with a love that was painful and vital and true.