The sun was dipping behind the western mountains before the Chronicler and his cousin climbed from the last of the rubble. They had met no one else, and both wondered how many had fled the destruction of their life and faith, and how many had been buried along with their goddess.
At last they stood upon the dry plain, the ruins behind them. Their faces set to the north, they started the long trek, neither trying to think too far ahead, neither ready to consider what they would do when they reached the gorge.
“Oi! Mortals!”
Both started and turned. They saw a familiar figure, small and fluffy, step into view seemingly out of nothing. The cat streaked toward them, tail upright and eyes wide as saucers. “You’re alive!” he cried, taking man form as he reached them, his arms outspread. “You’re both of you alive!”
Then he saw Alistair and stopped, and the smile fell from his face.
“Is the dragon dead?” the Chronicler asked.
“She is,” said Eanrin. “We saw the smoke of her final passing even from the mountains. The others are near.” He waved a hand vaguely behind just as Dame Imraldera and Mouse stepped off the Faerie Path, becoming visible in the Near World even as they took stock of their surroundings.
Mouse’s gaze fixed on Alistair.
The next moment she was running. She did not care how little it befit her dignity. After all, she’d gone in unsuccessful disguise as a slave boy for months, and it hadn’t killed her! So she ran, ignoring the gazes of Eanrin or Imraldera or even the Chronicler. She could not slow herself at the last, and nearly toppled Alistair as she fell into him.
“Steady, Mouse!” he cried. His voice was not as cheerful as she had always known it, but that didn’t matter. She reached up, caught him by the ears, and pulled his face down.
She paused when she saw it. She hadn’t, after all, expected those changes scored across his features where the Black Dog’s ravaging jaws had torn his skin, riddling it with scars puckered in ugly lines over his cheeks, down his jaw, swelling one eye so that it nearly disappeared. She hesitated; his brow constricted, and she felt him try to pull away.
But her hold on his ears was strong, and she gave him a kiss that was no less passionate for its lack of experience. When she let him go, Alistair gulped back a laugh, and his scarred face flushed crimson.
“What was that?” he cried.
“Please, mortal,” said Eanrin, crossing his arms, “do you really need me to translate this time?”
They walked to the gorge together, the two knights, the two North Country men, and Mouse. The Chronicler saw how Mouse and Alistair stayed near each other, and this eased his stride even when his spirit champed to hasten.
But when they stood at the edge of the gorge and looked down on the empty riverbed, Eanrin said, “All right, the time has come. We must enter the Between and hasten on. Gaheris won’t rescue itself, and the prophecy is only partially complete. So, if you can pry that girl’s fingers from your arm, young master Alistair, we should be on our way.”
Imraldera frowned at him. Then she turned to Alistair and to Mouse standing close beside him, her eyes downcast. Imraldera spoke in her gentle voice. “You don’t have to go, Alistair. You can stay here if you wish.”
Alistair shook his head. His ruined face was difficult to read, but Imraldera saw the firmness of resolution set there. He took Mouse by the shoulders and tried to make her look up at him.
“Well, Mouse,” he said, “the time has come when friends must part.”
She didn’t know what he said. But she heard the tone. She knew he would go.
“I may not be part of this prophecy fulfillment,” he said, “but Gaheris is my home.” The death that had passed over him in the Netherworld weighted his voice . . . the death and the glimpse of life. “I will never be what I thought,” he continued. “I will never be earl or king. But I am a North Country man, and I must see the North Country freed. Maybe one day . . .” Here his voice faltered, for he wasn’t certain he dared continue.
Mouse licked her lips, feeling the weight of words she did not understand. Then suddenly she looked up. Her eyes glistened with tears, but they were not weak tears, not anymore. The lie that her life had been was gone, and though she was feeble in the truth, at least truth was firm ground on which she might stand.
She took hold of Alistair by the back of his neck and, standing on tiptoe, put her mouth to his ear. “Sight-of-Day,” she whispered. “My name is Sight-of-Day.”
Alistair looked down and saw many things in her face. He repeated the name as he had repeated the name of the star when they stood on the walls of Gaheris. It was strange in his mouth, but she smiled through her tears and let him go. Her shoulders were back now, her head high. Even so, she was grateful when Imraldera stepped to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“I will stay here for now,” the lady knight said. “I will see Mouse safe, and I will spread the word of the Dragonwitch’s death to the tribes of my people.”