Her eyes swam with tears. “But the lie is all I have,” said she.
The Chronicler saw then the final depths to which this creature had fallen. And his heart broke as he gazed upon her.
“I am sorry for you,” he said.
Then he turned to the Final Water and plunged in Halisa, up to the hilt.
———
The rivers ran.
From the mountains above the lowlands, Eanrin, Imraldera, Mouse, and her grandmother saw the rivers of the gorges surge away. From the Near World they coursed down to the Netherworld, pouring into the source of all rivers. Water, pure and powerful, filled the caverns, flooding the Diggings, where mortals had dared root their way into Death’s own realm. And the rocks, heated almost to the melting point by the Dragonwitch’s flame, hissed with the sudden cleansing coolness.
The power of rushing, surging water tore into the stone, accomplishing the erosion of centuries in mere moments. The temple’s foundations cracked, and buildings began to fall as the earth opened up beneath them. The Spire wavered in the wind.
Caught off balance, the Dragonwitch staggered and fell to her knees. Her flaming stopped as she felt the sway of her world giving way. She looked over the roof’s edge and saw her temple falling, saw the rise of water, a relentless, churning white foam that drowned her flames.
“Ytotia.”
At the sound of that name—that name that had once belonged to a lovely Faerie queen—the Dragonwitch turned stricken eyes and saw Etanun approaching. Even as the Spire swayed and stones fell from its walls, he crossed the rooftop to her side. He reached down and took her under the arms, lifting her to her feet.
She was small again, like the delicate creature she had been long ago, watching the life of her father, her mother, her brother drain away before her eyes. Only now she was without her wings, and the immortal glow of Faerie was long gone from her face.
Yet Etanun looked down at her and saw what he had seen when first he met her.
“Ytotia,” he whispered, “in my anger I slew you twice. I saw you only as the dragon, and I forgot what you were meant to be. Can you forgive me?”
Her face, burned and scarred by Death, upturned to his.
Then she snarled, and there was a dragon in her eyes.
The foundations shattered. The Spire fell, crumbling as it collapsed into the Final Water. The rivers fountained to the heavens, a white curtain of foam between the mortal realm and the Netherworld shimmering in the sunlight. A million crystal droplets glimmered in Lumé’s light.
There was a rush, a final roar.
And the Dragonwitch, held in the arms of her foe, died with him her third, her final death.
My true name has been forgotten, the name given me by Citlalu and Mahuizoa. It is lost in the fires of Hri Sora. I am the Flame at Night! You could not love me, Etanun. Neither could you kill me. But I did love you and I will kill you.
And if I must perish in my own flame, so be it.
20
THEY’LL BE UNPROTECTED NOW,” SAID EANRIN.
He stood beside Imraldera, looking down from the mountain to the expanse of lowlands below. They and the two mortal women standing nearby could see the steam of the Dragonwitch’s doused fire even from that distance. A great cloud of ash and smoke hung over all, darkening that part of the world. They guessed at the destruction of the Citadel and the final death of Hri Sora.
The two knights, their eyes more farseeing than those of their mortal companions, could discern how the rivers, which had cut across the landscape of this realm in deep gorges, were gone. The gorges themselves were dry and deep.
“The Wood will grow up,” said Eanrin. “Without the protection of the rivers, more Faerie beasts will penetrate this realm.”
“My people have dealt with Faerie beasts before now,” said Imraldera, though her voice shook.
“With the Wolf Lord, yes,” Eanrin agreed. “But he could not cross the borders of the Near World on his own. He had to be invited.”
“And Hri Sora.”
“She was different,” the cat-man said, and his face was, for once, somber. “The Dragon’s firstborn could burst through even the river gates. But now, with the rivers gone, this country will be far more vulnerable to Faerie. If the Wood grows up, how many beasts will notice and see it as easy prey?”
“Our Lord will not leave them unguarded,” said Imraldera, her voice confident. “If he allowed the removal of the river gates, he will put other protections in their place. You will see.”
Eanrin turned to Imraldera with a smile. She stood there before the bigness of the worlds, her body frail from imprisonment, her hair hanging in long snarls. In that moment she looked like the weak mortal girl he had, once upon a time, found lost in the Wood Between. Yet she was different too. There was a greatness in her earnest gaze, the greatness of purpose that made her strong indeed.