Nothing else mattered.
Midnight fell. The Black Dogs closed in. They ran together, their heads low, their mouths open, and fire streamed from their eyes. They howled a ravenous hunting cry, as keen as hatred.
But Alistair was between the Chronicler and the Dogs now, his long legs bounding as he followed the light of the lantern. It was a mad race, a fool’s race, but as his heart pounded in his throat, he knew he would reach the Chronicler first.
“You shouldn’t be here!” the Chronicler yelled. He saw the Black Dogs, their red eyes tearing the darkness beyond Alistair’s tall form. The dissonance of their voices was enough to slay all the senses at once.
“I came to find you,” Alistair said, scarcely able to draw breath as he ran. But he knew what he must say. He had dreamed it too many times to forget.
“You fool!” the Chronicler cried. “Run away!”
But Alistair did not turn and run, even as the Black Dogs neared. He stopped before his cousin, heaving for breath. “You must be king,” he said. “You must save Gaheris.”
It was all clear now: his dream, his doom. His purpose, which was not kingship nor power.
The Chronicler screamed. “Watch out! Behind you!”
He did not hesitate. Though he knew what he would see, he spun on his heel. And as the first of the Black Dogs, racing ahead of its brother, leapt at the Chronicler, Alistair let go of the lantern and leapt as well. He wrapped his long arms around the neck and chest of that monster, and they stood, poised upon the brink of the precipice, the Dog snarling in surprise and horror.
“Alistair!” cried the Chronicler.
The tearing of his flesh.
The burn of flaming teeth.
With a final wrench, Alistair turned. It was the most he could do, this last act before he died. He had not seen it in his dreams. He had seen nothing beyond the pain that now shot through his body as the Black Dog ripped into him. But he turned and he pulled, and his strong arms held fast.
They teetered on the edge.
Then Alistair and the Black Dog fell into the swallowing chasm.
———
There was no Time in this place. The Chronicler might have stood for hours, for years, on the brink of that drop, searching the blindness into which his cousin—his cousin, whom he had despised all his life—had fallen.
The howl of the second Black Dog rang in his ears. The Chronicler turned and found the monster bearing down upon him, its mouth red and ravenous. The Chronicler hurled himself to one side and landed hard upon the strange stone of the Netherworld.
Asha gleamed by his hand, lying where Alistair had dropped it.
The Chronicler, unaware of the tears staining his face, grabbed the lantern handle. Then he was up and running back through the darkness through which he had stumbled, this time following the light of Asha.
The Black Dog pursued, hot on his heels.
14
SO I SHALL BURN YOU, even as I plunge the blade that twice killed me deep into your heart.
“I do not rest at night as you mortals do,” Corgar said, closing the library door. “In darkness my people come alive. But mortals are so blind and helpless.”
Leta felt the weight of the book on her foot, but she dared not look at it, dared not draw attention its way. She stepped away from the table, away from her flickering candle. But she knew the shadows could not shield her from Corgar’s eyes, which gleamed as he moved across the room.
“You,” he said, “do not sleep tonight. I saw your candle from below. You are still about your work.”
If she spoke, what might her voice betray? Had she the skill to disguise it? She did not trust herself, so she remained silent. Corgar inspected the various papers littering her desk, his claw gently shifting them about, studying the marks he did not know. It was a relief to feel his gaze averted. Leta managed to draw a breath, light as moth wings.
“Do you know,” Corgar said, still without looking her way, “that I will be a king?”
He waited so long, Leta knew she would have to answer. Her voice broke in her throat at the first attempt, but she forced it out on a second. “No, sir.”
He cast her a quick glance, his eyes flashing in the candlelight. “King of Arpiar,” he said. “King of the goblins.” His voice was strangely bitter. “My queen, Vartera, has promised to make me her husband if I bring her the light hidden within your fabled House. A small favor but sufficient to make me worthy in her eyes. I am of humble stock, you understand, not the stuff of kings.”
Though she dared not look at it, Leta was desperately aware of the book lying facedown on the floor a few paces from her. What if he should see it? What if he should pick it up, and the page was open, the secret exposed? But no. He couldn’t possibly guess. Ceaneus would not reveal such a sight to his dreadful eyes!