Dragonwitch (13 page)

“Lights Above,” he whispered, “what are my life and death to be?”

Something scratched on the far side of the door.

Alistair stood and stared, telling himself he was imagining things. Things that sounded like claws or talons dragging from the top of the door to the bottom in a slow, deliberate stroke.

Then silence. Then . . .

Scratch!

Someone was picking at the wood with a fingernail, with a dagger point.

“Servants,” Alistair whispered. “Mother's servants. Inside. Preparing for the funeral. Preparing his vault. That is all.”

Then came a voice that was not a voice so much as a thought in his head:

Let us out.

Alistair's hand was at the door. There was no lock. Why lock away the dead? The dead do not rise.

Open the gate.

Alistair's fingers trembled. He forced himself to grip the door latch. He would open it and look. He would see that there were no ghosts waiting to judge him. Then he would shut the door and return to his rooms and let the future deal with itself as it must.

“I will die in the dark,” he whispered, and his voice caught in his throat. “I will never be king.”

The door was heavy. It did not want to answer to his touch.

Let us out.

He took hold with both hands and pulled. The door resisted, screaming on its hinges.

Open
 . . .

A crack in the darkness.

Suddenly an enormous hand gripping a dagger shot out from the opening. The blade flashed in light that was not moonlight. Alistair screamed as he felt the cold bite and then the fiery burn sink deep into his shoulder, a snake's bite full of poison. He fell back from the door upon the stone
cobbles, and the knife pulled out with searing pain. His hand pressed to the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, thick and warm.

The door pushed open. Alistair stared. He saw the looming figure standing there. He saw the dagger and the sword and the eyes like white moons.

“Oh no you don't. Not yet.”

A withered hand, frail with mortality, reached out and shut the crypt door as gently as it might close the door to a nursery. A scream erupted from the far side, and a scraping and scratching like a thousand rats tearing at the heavy wood.

“Not yet,” whispered the old scrubber again as he leaned heavily upon the handle of his mop. He looked down upon the tall young man fainted on the stones and shook his head. “Soon enough. Then we'll see what heroes rise to face the monsters.”

“Eanrin! Bard Eanrin!”

The scarlet poet stopped midsong and whirled about upon the dance floor to face the upraised throne of his queen. He saw her hand beckoning him, and with a flashing smile and a great bound, he presented himself before her, bowing with a sweep of his cloak.

“Fairest Bebo!” he cried. “How may I serve you? Do you desire a verse sprung from the spontaneity of my heart? Or a turn upon the dance floor with the merriest of your children?”

Bebo smiled quietly. Though she was queen of all the Merry People, she was more solemn than they. “Neither suits my present need, poet mine,” she said. “I have a question for your waiting ear.”

“You need only ask it!”

And Bebo said to him: “Are the gates to the Near World watched?”

The smile fell from Eanrin's face. “Of course, my queen,” he said. “I wouldn't leave them untended even to see bright Ruaine Hall once more. I know my duties, and I perform them well. Even now, though I am here before you, Dame Imraldera, my comrade-in-arms, watches over the gates to the Near World. No monster of Faerie will get past her to plague the mortal realm.”

“But Imraldera has gone from the Haven,” said Queen Bebo. “The stars have told me thus.”

The poet's mouth opened. At first he could not speak. Then he cried out, “It can't be true! She would never leave the gates unguarded! Only great duress could force her to do so, and who would dare set upon Dame Imraldera?”

“The Murderer,” Bebo replied. And even as all the color drained from the poet's face, she leaned close and whispered in his ear:

“Not in vain the hope once borne

When flees the king to farther fight—

Dark and deepness hold no sway.

The brother dies, the lantern lights.”

M
ANY
P
ATHS
EXTENDED
BEFORE
ME
.
Enchanted Paths belonging to enchanted beings, leading off into the vast reaches of the Wood. I did not know which to choose, but choose I must, or the Wood would choose for me. I felt the cruelty beneath my bleeding feet, felt the maliciousness in the shadows. Unseen forces reached out grasping fingers as though to snare me, to draw me down into the black places, and I cried out in my terror.

Suddenly a strange voice sang in my mind. A voice I can scarcely recall now, though I know I heard it then. It was simple and small, but it held all hugeness inside it. And it whispered:

Won't you follow me?

I turned then and saw a new Path open up before me. I did not know where it might lead, and perhaps it was a trap. But I took it, desperate for any guidance in this world between worlds. I could not run, for my legs were too weak and my feet too wounded, but I stumbled along as fast as I could.

Soon I came upon the Haven of Ashiun, rising tall and strong and bright out of the shadows of the Wood.

I called out even as I approached. “Brothers! Hear my plea!”

I did not know if they would be within. Perhaps they were off in the hideous mortal world, aiding the dying ones. But somehow I believed that the voice I had heard while in the depths of the Wood would not lead me wrong. So I called again and fell upon the door, pounding with my fists. “Hear me, brothers! Hear me!”

The door opened. I collapsed into a pair of strong arms. I felt the encircling of strength and comfort. For a spell, I lay there, weeping and resting at once. Then I looked up.

It was the first I beheld the face of Sir Etanun of the Farthest Shore. He was the most beautiful being I had ever seen.

Mouse didn't have much of a bed.

He didn't like to sleep with the kitchen boys in the nook behind the kitchens. So he made a place for himself in a broom cupboard near the hearth where it was warm, if cramped. Every night, exhausted after being yelled at from sunup to sundown for not understanding a word spoken to him, he fell asleep instantly, without a thought for comfort. Without even a thought for the faraway home he doubted he would ever see again.

But not tonight. Though he did not understand all that was happening within the busy confines of Gaheris's walls, he felt the tension. The master of the house was dying, he had guessed. And the masters of surrounding lands had come to . . . to what? To take over rule? To fight for the right to sit in headship over these lands? He couldn't guess. But he could almost smell the coming bloodshed, and his fear would not let him sleep, though he curled into a ball in his cupboard, squeezing his eyes tight.

“
Find Etanun. Find the heir.
”

He ground his teeth, trying to drive the voice from his memory. He was trying! In the name of the Fire, he was doing everything he could in this cold, dreadful land where everyone spoke gibberish and pale men of iron enclosed all life in their high stone walls!

“Fire burn,” he whispered between his teeth. “Fire purify—aaaaaah!”

His scream was stifled as someone clamped a hand over his mouth. Grabbed by the back of his tunic, he was hauled from the cupboard and plopped unceremoniously on his feet, flailing ineffectually against some unknown attacker. But whoever had grabbed him let him go without a fight, and he whirled about, fists clenched.

And found himself facing the scrubber.

“Well, little Mouse,” said his master with a grin, “you must come with me. The young lord has fallen ill.”

Mouse stared, his mouth agape. Then he said, “You
do
speak my tongue! You
do
understand me!”

“So much fuss,” said the scrubber with a shrug and, using his mop like a shepherd's crook, prodded Mouse in the stomach. “Hurry up now. We haven't much time.”

With those words, he scuttled from the room, using his mop for support. Mouse trotted after, surprised at the speed of the old man, his voice hissing with excitement he could not suppress.

“I knew it! I knew I wasn't mistaken! You understand me. And you know where Etanun is, don't you?”

The old man's eyes were empty with senility when he turned his gaze upon the boy. Mouse found himself drawing back with disgust at the sight of such decrepitude. But the scrubber smiled, revealing his gums. “Come, child, faster.”

Mouse followed.

The whole castle was in a state of quiet unrest. Mouse felt it as plainly as though his ears rang with the clash of mustering forces and brewing battles. Guards were patrolling, possibly searching. Earls and their retainers scurried hither and yon, muttering to each other, sometimes shouting. Ferox was dead, then, Mouse guessed. And what of Lord Alistair? Mouse recalled the face of the young man who had kindly let him through the gates and given him his position, however humble. He was to inherit, and he would be a good master. Why then the cruel looks and nasty words that shushed in the air of the castle passages? Why no mourning tears for the old master and no hearty wishes for the new?

Mouse shivered and hastened after the scrubber. Strange—though the castle was alive with bustle, wherever the old man went, he moved as
though invisible. No one noticed him or Mouse as they progressed up to the wing where the earl's family dwelled.

The old man opened a heavy door, motioned to Mouse, and stepped inside. Mouse hurried in behind. He found himself in Lord Alistair's room.

And the young lord himself lay pale upon his bed, his face lit by a single smokeless candle.

Mouse gasped in horror at the dreadful wound staining Alistair's white shirt deep red and ghastly brown. It was like no wound he had ever before seen, open and, most dreadful of all, boiling.

Boiling! Even from across the room, Mouse could see bubbles of blood bursting and roiling. Vapors like steam rose from the gash. How could anyone live with such a wound as that? Yet Alistair's chest rose and fell with piteous moaning.

“What—” Mouse pressed both hands to his mouth, desperate to keep from vomiting. With a struggle, he forced the words out. “What has happened to him?”

“Aye, it's nasty,” said the scrubber, grunting his way to the young lord's side. “He's been poisoned by a magic dagger. Would you believe it?”

Mouse scarcely heard. He drew back, pressing against the closed chamber door. “What can be done for him?”

“Oh, not a great deal yet,” said the old man. “Was a time I might have helped. But not now. Someone's coming who will put a stay on the poison, and perhaps the Silent Lady will finish the job as soon as she has the chance.” The scrubber gave Mouse a shrewd look. “Not that you'd be knowing anything about that, eh?”

Mouse felt the blood draining from his face. “The Silent Lady is . . . she's . . .”

The scrubber grinned, his eyes disappearing behind wrinkles. “I know, little mouseling. But you'll get her out in time. I have faith.”

“Get her out?” Mouse cried. “How can—”

“Shhh.” The scrubber put a finger to his lips. “You don't know yet, of course, and I don't expect you to. Tend to this young man now, and do as you think best come tomorrow. It'll come right in the end.”

With those words, the old man started for the door. Mouse shied away
from him, drawing back into the shadows. The scrubber chuckled at this and paused as he opened the chamber door. His eyes sought Mouse's in the darkness and did not seem to suffer for lack of light. And he said:

“You seek the dwarf, little one. He's the heir you need.”

“The dwarf?” Mouse squeaked.

The scrubber clucked and shook his head. “Really, child, if you must go about in disguise, you should make some effort to remember it from time to time.”

He shut the door.

Mouse stood alone with the earl's nephew and the ghastly stench of poisoned blood.

The fountain of misery welled up with such strength that it took all in Leta's will to force it back. She sat alone in her chamber, listening to the sounds of the hunt. Like a bunch of hounds running a fox to ground, that's what the men-at-arms, following the orders of Mintha and others, sounded like.

Leta hid her face in her hands. She must not weep. If once she began, how would she stop? This was not the time to be the ninny she'd been brought up to be! Now was the time to
think
!

Florien. It was odd; she had never even thought about his having a name. Not since she asked on that first day. And it hadn't mattered to her. Name or not, he was who he was, and she knew him, and she trusted him. Whom had he to trust now?

Maybe he would come to her. Had she not proven her friendship to him over many months? Maybe he would come to her for help. But there was nothing she could do, and Mintha would watch her like a hawk! No, it would be best if he fled, far and farther still, without a word to her, without a look, without a thought. How he would escape, she could not guess. Even the secret passage rang with the footsteps of soldiers. Mintha had taken the key from the earl's dead body and unlocked the heavy bolts of the door hidden behind a tapestry in Ferox's chamber. Leta had watched her do it and watched the soldiers march into the dark passage beyond.
Even now, she thought she could hear the pound of feet beyond her wall, and she shuddered as though they searched for her.

“Some of the earls might rally to him,” she whispered to her own clenched hands. “Not all of them are like Father.”

Not all of them wished to see the North Country united under a king. Some preferred to master their lands beholden to no authority. Those earls might support Ferox's son. They would see in him no threat of a future king as they might in Alistair. They might fight for his right to inherit his father's lands. They might—

“No,” she told herself and relaxed her fists. “Don't be stupid.”

After all, even if it were true, what kind of life would that be for the Chronicler?

A sudden pounding at her door startled Leta to her feet. Did those fool soldiers think she might hide her former teacher in her own chambers? Drawing herself to her full height, she strode to the door and flung it wide, demanding as she did so, “What cause have you to . . . oh.”

A child, brown and wide-eyed, crouched before her, hands wringing. Leta could almost remember having seen this humble scrubber boy before, hard at work in various corners of the castle. “Lights Above!” she said, taking in the terror in that face. The boy looked as though he had seen a ghost. “What is the matter?”

“Allees-tar,” the boy said, his eyes pleading to be understood.

Leta shook her head. “Say again?”

The boy chewed his lip, his eyes darting up and down the corridor. Then he reached out and took Leta's hand in both of his and spoke urgently. “Allees-tar.”

“Alistair?”

The boy nodded.

A coldness took hold of Leta at the mention of her betrothed's name. “What about him?”

But the boy did not notice her icy voice or stance. He repeated the name and tugged at Leta, motioning and signing for her to follow. There was no understanding the child. Leta shook her head, her teeth grinding. “He must want me. A first time for everything under the sun!”

She grabbed her cloak, for it was far too cold to wander the castle
corridors without one. Best to get the encounter over with as soon as possible, she decided. She followed the boy to Alistair's room. At the door, she pushed ahead and entered first so as not to seem dragged like a dog. She must retain at least some form of dignity.

Then she saw the state in which her betrothed lay.

“Alistair!” She hastened to his side, leaning over him on the bed. Her mouth gaped, and she grabbed the one candle and held it closer for a better look. She saw the boiling, smelled the poison.