“Trust him and do as he says.” Her grip tightened on his sleeve. “Run.”
Asha illuminated a Path, and they followed it, uncertain where it would lead. The roar of the Dragonwitch above pursued them like the Black Dogs themselves, but the phantoms made no effort to impede their progress. And then the Path led uphill and became difficult. Eanrin took Mouse’s hand to help her, and Imraldera struggled behind. But the light shone steadily even as the lantern swung wildly in Mouse’s grasp.
Then they saw another light ahead of them: the light of day. They made for it, their strength renewed, and the Dragonwitch’s bellows faded behind them into nothing.
Eanrin felt blinded as he fell through the opening of the cave mouth, landing on his knees upon hard rock, high on a mountain face where the wind blew sharply. Mouse emerged behind him, realizing then that she no longer held Asha, though she had no memory of setting it down. She caught her balance and looked around, recognizing the scene to which they had come. There was the trail leading down to a weather-beaten hut. There were the goats straggling about with little interest in anyone or anything but themselves.
There was Granna, standing with her arms wrapped about her middle, her cloudy eyes suddenly bright. “Granna?” Mouse called, but the old woman did not turn to her.
Imraldera stepped from the darkness. She stood, blinking and blind like the others, her hands shading her eyes. Granna stepped forward slowly, every limb protesting as though the exhaustion of her age had caught up with her. Her voice crackled as she spoke.
“Starflower. You’ve come home at last.”
Imraldera’s hands dropped away from her face, and her mouth and eyes opened wide.
“Fairbird!”
The next moment, the two of them were in each other’s arms. Eanrin turned his face away, unable to watch for fear of the tears that threatened. But Mouse stood and stared and could not believe her ears when she heard Dame Imraldera saying:
“Darling! Little sister!”
The problem with dreams come true is the question they leave behind.
What next?
Alistair sat in the darkness and frowned. His dream had only ever brought him up to the point of death, that moment of unbearable pain. Nothing beyond.
He lifted his hands and tried to feel his face. But he was no longer certain he had hands, much less a face. If he recalled correctly—and this was questionable, considering—he was fairly certain the Black Dog had torn it off.
“Well,” he said, relieved to find that he still had a voice, “this is a bit unpleasant.”
Something moved in the darkness. Alistair hadn’t the wherewithal to be frightened anymore. Now that his dream had come true, he doubted he would ever be frightened again. Or happy. Or sad or hungry or anything. So he sat quite still, and someone else sat down next to him. They remained like so for what felt a long time.
Then Alistair said, “Hullo?”
“Hullo” came the response.
It was a friendly voice. Encouraged, Alistair said, “I’m Alistair Calix-son. Former heir to Gaheris.”
“I am the Lumil Eliasul, Prince of the Farthest Shore.”
If he had a throat, Alistair was fairly sure it was too dry for swallowing. Sitting there, he considered many things. Then he said, “So you’re real too, eh?”
“Very real. Yes.”
Once more Alistair considered. Then he snorted. “Funny how a fellow has to die before he starts to understand what’s important.”
“You’re not dead.”
“It’s awfully dark. I figured I must be.”
“You’re in the Netherworld. It’s always dark here for those without a light. But you’re not dead.”
This was a heartening thought. One that definitely bore mulling over.
“I wish I had a light,” Alistair said at length.
“You’d have to open your eyes,” said the Prince of the Farthest Shore.
19
THE DRAGONWITCH FLAMED LIKE THE END OF THE WORLD.
In days of old this fire would have torn apart her woman’s body, revealing the powerful dragon beneath. But now, her dragon form stripped away, she stood in the frail, wingless body into which she was bound, and the fire was too much for her. It destroyed her from the inside out, and yet she could not die. Her hair fell away in tongues of flame, and her fingers were torches, her eyes blazing coals.
She set the temple ablaze. Her tongue spilled forth lava, which engulfed the Spire, scorching it into a vast torch visible throughout the Land, even to the mountains, where two knights and their mortal companions watched with horror. Fire fell like rain upon the temple city, rooftops caught and blazed, and the air filled with black smoke. Slaves and priestesses alike fled the destruction. The time of the goddess’s final wrath was upon them. It was flee or perish.
On the altar, untouched by the inferno, stood Etanun, immortal Faerie, in his true form.