The blaze of sunset vanished. Howling Midnight fell upon the world as the noise of War and Blood rose up from where they had hidden themselves and appeared in dark-bound flesh.
Mouse screamed and fell to her hands and knees, but her voice was unheard in the din. She saw the Black Dogs, beasts she had glimpsed only twice before, when they brought the Silent Lady to the temple and when they swept down upon the Chronicler. Creatures of nightmares made real, they stood one on either side of the altar, and they could not be told one from the other. Even when they closed their great gaping mouths and swallowed their baying, the echoes rang through the Midnight, and Mouse scarcely could hear the voice of the Dragonwitch saying:
“He’s escaped! The heir has fled into the darkness. Find him! Fetch him back to me!”
First one, then the other raised its ugly head and howled a joyous, bloodthirsty howl, the deadly song of the hunt. Then eyes like meteors streaked past Mouse. Though neither Dog could possibly fit through that narrow doorway, they vanished, dragging their Midnight behind, disappearing down and down, mad for their quarry.
The remnants of Midnight lingered. The bonfire itself had expired, and only the light of the Dragonwitch’s eyes shone through the gloom. Any moment now she would turn to either Mouse or her high priestess and doom would fall upon them.
But then a voice spoke from the doorway.
“That was an unnecessary bit of dramatics.”
It was a voice Mouse knew well.
She spun about where she crouched and saw the tottering figure emerge from the stairway to stand before the altar of the Flame at Night. A figure who leaned upon his mop handle as a magician of yore might lean upon his staff, though with perhaps less dignity.
“But then again, dear queen, you always were one for a bit of drama, weren’t you?”
The Dragonwitch shrank back, nearly tripping over her own feet, and her flaming eyes narrowed. She could not see, so great was the fire burning her from the inside out. But she stood, her head to one side, listening to the echoes of a voice she knew. Her shriveled nose sniffed, and a long forked tongue slid between her teeth as though to taste something on the air.
Then she spoke, and her agonized voice caught and tore at her throat.
“So,” she said. “You have returned to me at last.”
The Chronicler fled.
How long ago had he escaped the procession and dashed down a narrow passage so small that it must have been dug by children? A fortunate discovery; he’d had no difficulty slipping through its opening, his fingers feeling the shadows ahead, unable to take precautions in his haste to slip away. He didn’t think the eunuchs would fit through, but he must hurry, for other passages might connect to this. He must lose himself, and fast, if he hoped to escape the clutches of the Citadel folk.
The passage ended, opening into a wide cavern. His every footstep echoed, and somewhere far away water dripped. He still heard the indistinct shouts of his captors, and when he looked back along the passage, his blind eyes played tricks enough on him that he believed he saw torches gleaming. But no one could have pursued him. For once in his life, he thanked whatever fate had seen fit to let him be born malformed.
He turned toward the empty cavern, half wondering if another step or two would bring him to an endless chasm, so great were the echoes, so complete was the darkness. But what choice had he now? He could not go back, not that way. They would force him to take the sword, should it exist, and as soon as he had delivered it to their wretched goddess, they would kill him.
If he must die, he wanted to die on his terms. If he must die, he would die a man not a mistake.
So he stepped forward and heard the ghosts whispering.
They surrounded him, though unaware of his presence. In the deepness of the Netherworld, they were lost to all but themselves. And yet he heard them weeping, wailing, sighing for dreams dashed and dreams achieved, calling out the names of those they had once loved or hated.
One whispered close to his ear in a voice of tortured agony, “Starflower, my love!”
The Chronicler turned.
He could see nothing in the darkness, but the voice revealed all. A wolf. The Chronicler smelled the stench of fresh blood, and his mind saw blood-matted fur, felt the brokenness of spirit.
Then the creature was gone, moved on its blind, wandering way. But the Chronicler, horrified, sensed the nearness of many more straying souls.
“I have earned the right!”