“Call up the rivers, Smallman King.”
Stronger than death is life. Stronger than hate is love.
Stronger than fire is water.
“Give me the sword, Dame Imraldera,” the Chronicler said, suddenly turning.
The lady knight started, opened her mouth, then closed it again at the sight of his face illuminated by Asha. Without a word, she placed Halisa in his hands. It tilted. He staggered, adjusting his grip. It was still too heavy, and the blade fell with a clashing ring to the stones.
But the Chronicler held on to the hilt, his face set, his jaw clenched.
The black stone flaked away, revealing the silver beneath. Halisa began once more, gently, to glow. A light that reflected Asha’s own, a light that it drew down into its heart, like blood racing through veins.
“Go,” said the Chronicler, staring at the blade. “Get out of here. Get to the surface.”
“What about you?” said Mouse.
“Run,” the Chronicler said, still without looking up from the blade. He took a step toward the doorway, dragging the heavy sword across the rubble. “Now.”
Imraldera grabbed Mouse’s hand. “Wait!” Mouse cried. “He cannot do it alone! He cannot lift the sword!”
“That’s not for us to say,” said Imraldera as she dragged Mouse and the lantern away from the door, leaving the Chronicler behind.
The roar of Hri Sora was dreadful in their ears.
17
A STAR’S VOICE COULD NOT BE IGNORED. It was far too many voices rolled into one being, and it was full of song.
Leta lay on the cold library floor on a pile of scattered parchments and an ink stain like red blood, staring up at the window through which the blue star gleamed. The air about her face billowed with the whiteness of her quick breaths.
How may I serve you? said the star once more, and this time it drew near to her window.
She did not scream. She had enough presence of mind to recall her goblin guards without, and she did not wish to bring them running. So she clasped her throat with both hands as though to somehow catch her voice there as she watched the approach of the star.
In blinding whiteness, it moved from beyond the world Leta had always known, from a place where stars may have voices to be heard by all with willing ears. It was too huge for comprehension, yet it passed through the narrow window opening and stood before Leta. The walls of the library seemed to fall away, for nothing so transient could contain the radiance of a star.
It has been far too long since I was able to stand in the Near World, it said, its shining head turning this way and that, curious. The goblin has made this slice of the mortal realm a piece of his own nation now, and for a space at least, I may manifest here.
“Please!” Leta gasped. “Please, don’t talk! You’ll kill me!”
Oh yes, it said, and if a star may be embarrassed, this one was abashed. I almost forgot.
The next moment, a unicorn took the place of the shining being, and it was so luminous and so fair in the world of broken mortality that Leta still found it difficult to look upon. But it was solid, and it stood upon the stone floor and cast a shadow. “There,” it said. “Is this better?”
Its voice was now like music Leta could understand, like the sweet strains of a flute at midsummer, full of lightness and warmth. Though her eyes were dazzled, she found the ability to stand. The coldness of the chamber melted away in the unicorn’s presence. Even in her ragged gown, Leta felt warm. Furthermore, though she wore rags and her hair hung in straggling limpness across her face, she had never felt more beautiful than when standing before a creature far more beautiful still.
Its eyes, like the depths of an ocean in which stars have melted, fixed on her with all sweetness. “Tell me, fair maid, how I may serve you?”
She put out a hand. Without asking, she knew somehow that it was right for her to touch this pure being, to run her hands through the glossy strands of its mane, even to touch the coiled horn, though it turned away before she might prick her finger.
“Ceaneus,” she said, using the North Country name for the star, “I am imprisoned by the goblins.”
“So I saw from above. And so I sang with my brethren,” said the unicorn.
“I know where the House of Lights hides,” she said. “I saw by your light. Corgar will wrest the secret from me if I do not escape. I know he will.”
“It is not for Corgar to open the House of Lights,” said the unicorn. “That is for the Smallman King.”
“But he’s not here.” Leta took hold of the unicorn’s mane like a child clinging to its mother’s hand. “He’s not here, and I am the one who holds the secret. I must protect this knowledge! I must escape Gaheris.”
“The door is not locked,” said the unicorn, delicate lashes sweeping as it blinked, momentarily hiding those luminous eyes.