But he’d kept his grip on Halisa.
And now here he was. He recalled nothing after the rivers closed over his head. Was the Dragonwitch dead? Somehow he believed she must be, and the smoke around him was the last of her final destructive act. The stone on which he sat was the red of the Citadel Spire. It all must have collapsed, fallen into the Netherworld.
Where that left him was anyone’s guess.
The Lumil Eliasul stood before him.
The Chronicler nearly fell over backward. But the next moment he was on his feet. “My Lord!” he cried. Then his tongue failed him.
What could he say? How could he apologize for his doubt when all his life his doubt had been as much a part of him as his own heart? Until the Lumil Eliasul moved in his spirit, the Chronicler had been incapable of believing what, to his mortal mind, was impossible. He was as helpless to save his people as he was to save himself.
And yet here he stood, the despised dwarf armed with the sword of legends, hero and dragon slayer, fool and doubter. Every contradiction of his existence weighed upon his shoulders so that he could scarcely stand.
But the Lumil Eliasul looked at him and smiled. “Will you be king now, Smallman?”
“If you ask it of me.”
“Then go. Return to the home of your fathers and set your people free.”
Like a gusting breath, the wind picked up and blew the smoke away. The Lumil Eliasul vanished, and the light of the sun shone down fully upon the destruction of the sunken Citadel, gleaming brilliantly on the red stone and the brilliant silver-white of Halisa.
The Chronicler looked around and saw the wide, desolate plain, so dry with the Dragonwitch’s spoiling work. He saw the mountains in the distance and thought this country might one day be green and growing again. But he would not see it. He must hasten home. Home to Gaheris.
He began to climb down from the rubble, his head dizzy, and found that the sword was no longer so heavy as it had once been. In fact, though it was still the broadsword of a hero, it was simultaneously the right weight and balance for his small frame. Limitations such as size could never hold it captive. As the Chronicler began to understand this, he bore the sword as well as Etanun ever had.
While descending from the ruins, he wondered how to begin this journey. Where Eanrin, Mouse, and Dame Imraldera might be he could not guess. He knew only that his road would lead north, so north he would march.
A stone shifted beneath his feet. The Chronicler unbalanced and was obliged to leap to keep from falling headlong. His foot came down hard on something soft, and someone yelled: “Ow! Have a care!”
The Chronicler’s eyes widened. Then he was down on his knees, digging through pebbles and dirt and debris. He heard more grunts and growls, which served only to make him work faster. “Is that you?” he cried. “Is that really you?”
Up from the rubble, covered head to toe in red dust, came a long and leggy figure that was almost familiar.
Almost. But not quite.
The Chronicler sat back and stared.
“Well, Lights Above us burning!” cried Alistair, rubbing dust from his face and coughing violently. “I thought I’d had it there. I really did! Unless, of course, you’re dead too and we ended up in the same place?”
He turned to the Chronicler, and the lower half of his face twitched into a smile. But what the Chronicler saw was not the familiar grin. Alistair seemed to feel the difference too. His brow fell, and he lifted both hands to feel his face. He drew a sharp breath at what his fingers told him. The next moment he sat down hard on a stone.
“Is it as bad as it feels?” he asked.
The Chronicler could not find words. He shook his head, licked his lips, and looked away. Then he said, “You searched for me. In the dark. You came after me.”
Alistair, his skin gone a sick shade of green, squeezed his eyes shut. “Did you kill the dragon?” he asked faintly.
“I don’t know,” the Chronicler said. “I think so.”
“Good. That is good.”
“You went over the edge. I saw you pull the Black Dog over the edge.”
Alistair nodded.
“But you didn’t die.”
“No.” Alistair let his hands fall away from his face and once more attempted a smile. “I didn’t die.”
Despair threatened to overwhelm him, and he hung his head. But then he felt something he had not noticed before. With tentative fingers he felt for the puckered scar on his shoulder where the goblin dagger had bitten deep. But it was gone. Tucking his chin to better see, Alistair looked but could find no signs of that poison.
He breathed a sigh and felt the despair flowing from his body. His old self was dead and gone. And yet, he was renewed as well.