Eanrin grimaced and braced himself. Harshly barked commands rang beyond the broken wall, and finally warriors with lances broke through the remaining rubble and climbed over. Others came behind, and the last of all turned and assisted the high priestess as she climbed up and out of Halisa’s chamber.
They stared at one another in the half-light of the Netherworld. Now that their torches were gone, they were surprised at how improved was their ability to see. The voice of the Dragonwitch continued to echo down through the thickness of dirt and stone above, from Near to Netherworld, and the mortals cringed away from it.
But the high priestess said again, “The Flame! We must go to the goddess!”
She started climbing down the rubble pile, nearly falling in her hurry. Her slaves reached out to help, but she refused their offered hands. She stumbled and landed on her knees.
When she rose, she was eye to eye with Eanrin.
She dove at his face with a scream, her fingers tearing for his eyes, and he leapt back, grabbing her wrists. “Calm yourself, woman!” he bellowed. “I dug you out. Can you show a little courtesy?”
The eunuchs rushed upon him, lances at the ready, long knives drawn. He twisted the Speaker’s arms so that she lost her balance and fell again, liberating him to loosen his own knife from its sheath and face the oncoming mortals. He saw death in their eyes, but he hated to hurt them. They were so utterly lost.
“See, now,” he said, “I’ll lead you to the surface. You can’t find it yourselves. Let me help you.”
They set upon him, bearing down like wolves upon prey. But their weapons found nothing but empty air. Eanrin, in cat form, darted between their legs, made for the high priestess, and took man shape when he stood before her once again.
He saw, even in that half-light, how like Mouse she was. And consequently, how like Imraldera.
“Please,” he said, “let me help you.”
“Kill him,” she said. And her slaves closed in.
“Fool!” Eanrin again ducked into his animal form and eluded the lance blades. One, quicker than the others, caught a tuft from his tail. Then he darted into the shadows behind the rubble, and as they scrabbled over to pursue, he slipped around behind them to watch as they allowed themselves to separate from one another. One by one, they were swallowed by the beckoning Netherworld.
He turned to the high priestess, who stood watching as well, unaware of his near presence, aware only of her lost slaves. He saw her lips move in what might have been a prayer. He felt no qualm about interrupting.
“I can’t save them,” he said, and she startled and turned to him, her eyes wide and black. “Thanks to you, they’ve gone beyond my help. But I can still guide you to the surface if you’ll accept my aid.”
“Devil in the dark!” she snarled. “Shape-changer! Amarok! ”
Then she whirled and darted away, possibly believing that she pursued the upward path, possibly not caring even if she did not. Eanrin hastened after her, shouting, “I am not Amarok! Not all Faerie folk are your tormentors! Come back!”
She ran faster, her bare feet slapping on the stone. So Eanrin gave chase and paused only once to consider that he was racing headlong into the Netherworld. By then it was far too late.
The Chronicler felt his mind being slowly swallowed up by the roar of fire above and by the clamor of self-loathing within. Why had he hoped it would ever be otherwise? He’d vowed never to live on dreams. He would not cherish hope of ever being more than the disappointing son, the unnoticed lover, the disregarded and despised. He would spurn legends and prophecies and the idiocy of the chosen one trope. Such things weren’t for the likes of him. One such as Alistair should have fulfilled that role!
But Alistair lay mauled at the bottom of the pit.
“I think I recognize this place.” Mouse’s voice, no more than a whisper, should have been drowned out by the ongoing clamor above this world. But the Chronicler heard her clearly.
“I do too,” said Imraldera. “In fact, I think . . .”
She turned suddenly where Asha indicated, the blade of Halisa pointed before her. Mouse followed, still bearing the lantern. In their wake came the Chronicler, so heavyhearted he could scarcely drive himself another step. The darkness closed in, becoming a rough-cut tunnel through real, solid stone. Imraldera and Mouse began to run, and the Chronicler might have been left in the dark if the light of Asha had not been too strong for him to lose. So he caught up with them at a place where the tunnel broke into two parts. He saw a pile of rubble. Beyond it, he saw a broken doorway.
Beyond that, he saw a large black stone.
“This is the chamber,” said Mouse, “where the Speaker was buried. The cat-man must have got them out!”
“But where’s Eanrin?” Imraldera said, Fireword held high in her grasp. “Where are the others?”
“Where’s the Speaker?” said Mouse.
The Chronicler passed between them. Unsteady on his hands and feet, he climbed through the rubble and looked into the chamber. And he heard the roar. Not the roar of the Dragonwitch, which was the voice of fire. No, this was a deeper, darker, stronger sound.
Not fire but water.