“Chronicler!” Mouse shouted.
He saw them. His face was desperate, and the Black Dog was hot at his heels. But he saw them and ran toward them, his short legs unable to make the strides he needed, at any moment expecting to be overcome, to be devoured, dragged down to the Dark Water and beyond.
Imraldera strode forward to that place between the points of light that were the sword and the lantern. She looked at neither but fixed her gaze upon the torrent of fury that was the Dog. As it approached, its great neck straining, its jaws slavering for the kill, Imraldera raised her arms and spoke in a voice of command.
“Be still!”
The Dog came to a halt.
The Chronicler ran on past Imraldera until he reached the pool of light where Mouse stood. There he stopped, panting, his face full of the expectation of doom, and whirled about to see what Mouse, her eyes round and staring, watched.
Imraldera stepped forward, her black hair glinting red in the light of the Dog’s eyes. It was a vast monster, towering over her like a bear. But it whined, a piteous sound in its thick throat.
“Down,” said Imraldera.
The Black Dog collapsed to its belly.
The Chronicler and Mouse exchanged glances. For the moment, her betrayal was forgotten by both in their extreme surprise. They looked at each other, then back at the small woman commanding the great dark monster.
“Stay,” she said.
The Black Dog growled. But it did not move. Imraldera hurried back to the waiting pair. “You did not need to run,” she said, addressing the Chronicler. “As long as you hold Akilun’s lantern, the Black Dogs cannot hurt you. Now tell me, where is the other one?”
“It—I saw it—”
“Where is Alistair?” Mouse demanded, releasing her hold on Halisa with one hand to grab the Chronicler’s shoulder. “Where is your cousin?”
He turned to her. Here in the Netherworld he could understand her words once more. More important, he understood their tremulous meaning. He found he had no answer.
“Where is he?” Mouse insisted.
Imraldera looked from one face to the other. Then she stepped between them, separating them. “We have the sword,” she said, “and we have the heir. Come, let us find our way to the surface. The Dragonwitch’s time is come. Walk before us, Smallman,” she said. “We’ll follow Asha’s lead.”
So the Chronicler, every limb atremble, stepped forward, and the three of them walked as the lantern directed. Imraldera cast a last glance back at the cowering Black Dog, and it snarled at her. She turned away again, her heart heavy. For she had known that Dog long ago, and she had offered it love, which it rejected. But even now it would obey her. She knew it would not try to follow them.
Mouse, her stomach roiling, wondered at the Chronicler’s silence. Her mind nearly burst with a storm of reasons why Alistair was not there. Good, healthy reasons, none of which involved rending or blood or any of the horrible, nightmarish visions that scratched at the edge of her imagination. No, he was fine. He must be!
And the Chronicler wondered why no one had offered him the sword.
The Flame at Night sat upon the altar of her fire. Smoke drifted from her mouth and nostrils, and heat glowed in her eyes. But she sat in dead embers, her fingers digging into the cold ashes. A weak sun gleamed in the sky above. She could not see its light. Her fire burned her from the inside out, driving away all senses save those of flame, of power. So she sat, seeing nothing but her own pain, seeking nothing but control.
“Greetings, Hri Sora.”
The Dragonwitch stood up, scattering ashes in a cloud from the altar top. The ends of her hair momentarily blazed and burned away. She could not see him, but she felt him, every last piece of him.
Etanun walked in several worlds at once.
He walked in the realm of legends, ever a legend himself, more than human and larger than life. In that world, he was beautiful, well muscled from his broad shoulders to his lithe and limber calves. In that world, he was the hero, the dragon slayer, the rescuer and defender of the weak.
In the world of memory, he walked in shame, and darkness hooded his brow. There he was equally strong as his legendary self, but his hands were stained with fresh red blood. And falling like burning oil onto his skin, scalding away those stains, were his own wretched tears.
In the decaying world of mortal dust, he wore the form of a dust-made mortal. Bowed and burdened in this body, he tottered up the long stairs of the Spire, taking each step with gasps and surges of his old, old heart.
Yet in each world equally true and vital, Etanun walked. And the Dragonwitch, standing blind upon her altar, perceived him clearly in her mind through all disguises and assumptions.
Immortal. Faerie. Knight of the Farthest Shore.
“Murderer,” she hissed.