The stranger cursed. Then he dropped the boy, and the two of them took Alistair’s arms and hauled him upright. “Hurry,” the stranger said as he slung Alistair across his shoulders. He was significantly stronger than he looked. “Into the passage.”
Mouse obeyed, ducking into the darkness, which was soon all the darker when the stranger followed and pulled the door shut behind. Mouse heard him mutter something, presumably some locking or shielding enchantment, and only just in time, for the goblins burst through. Mouse, trembling in near blindness, heard their furious growls as they tore apart Earl Ferox’s room, searching for their quarry.
“Move your feet!” the stranger hissed.
Mouse hastened down the passage as fast as he could go without seeing. The stairway was long, narrow, and steep, and dampness made each step slippery. He nearly fell several times, but the stranger caught him from behind. Beyond the stone walls were sounds of horror and battle. Were the goblins slaughtering all the pale dwellers of this land? Mouse shivered and wept and whispered, “I am no part of this!” But he believed it less every time he said it.
The walls gave way to uncut stone and deeper darkness and heavier dankness, as though fresh air never came to these parts. They were below the castle now, Mouse thought, winding down and down into the rocky outcropping over the river on which it was built. The sounds of war diminished. Now he heard only the tramp of his own feet and the labored breathing of Alistair, still slung across the stranger’s shoulders. The stranger himself moved with catlike stealth.
Suddenly Mouse’s feet touched icy water. He cried out, clawed desperately at nothing in the darkness, and fell to his hands and knees, soaking himself through.
“Hush, mortal!” the stranger said. “We’ve reached the river; it’s still high from autumn rains.” His voice was grim, as though he spoke through clenched teeth. “I never come this way so early in the winter. Dragon-eaten dampness. You’d better have a good explanation for me at the end of this!”
Mouse, shivering and wet, got to his feet. “Go on,” said the stranger with neither kindness nor sympathy. “It opens up eventually. You’ll see light in another minute.”
Mouse stumbled forward as ordered. It seemed like another hour, not a minute. But at last the cold gray of an overcast day gleamed at the end of the tunnel. Wading as fast as he could in the icy water, Mouse hurried forward. But the current became stronger, and he soon had to stop for fear of being dragged into the cold clutches of Hanna.
“Here,” the stranger said and, looking around, Mouse saw that he had climbed up onto a wide ledge above the water and laid Alistair out upon it. He offered Mouse a hand, and soon the quivering child found himself pulled up beside the other two. He sat with his back against the wall, staring at his companion, whose face he could only just discern in this partial lighting.
The stranger was looking back up the tunnel, his fine long nose sniffing delicately. “I don’t think they’re following us. I’d smell them if they were,” he said. Then he addressed his attention to Alistair, rolling the young man over to inspect his wound. “Great Lights above us!” he cried when he saw the blackened gash, which steamed in the cold tunnel. Then he bared his teeth, more animal than man in that moment. “I know whose blade did this. I’ve seen wounds of this kind before.”
Mouse drew himself together, folding up his knees and wrapping them with his arms. He watched the golden stranger close his eyes and press long-fingered hands to Alistair’s shoulder. The next moment, the lapping of river water below became accompaniment for a fey song, the like of which Mouse had never before heard. It was the oddest sound following the terror of that long night and longer morning. Though it was a song of peace and healing, Mouse shuddered.
When the stranger withdrew his hands, his face was drawn and tired. He frowned but nodded. Staring, Mouse breathed a quick prayer: “Fire burn!”
The black spidery lines of poison were faded to an ugly red, and the festering wound was now only a puckered white scar.
“It’ll do,” said the stranger. “Curse that dragon-blasted goblin! He killed more than a few of my people with that poison in the war with Arpiar. We should have done away with him when we had the chance.”
He seemed to be talking to himself, not to Mouse, so the boy did not respond. His mind was numb, but a voice from his memory whispered: “Someone is coming who can put a stay on the poison.”
And that same voice had said:
“You seek the dwarf, little one.”
How could the scrubber have known? How could he have predicted such bizarre happenings? None of it made sense! But then, nothing had made sense since the moment Mouse had turned his face to follow the blue star.
The stranger, his shoulders arched and his eyes snapping fire, turned suddenly like a predator spotting its prey. Mouse shrank still more into himself, wishing he could hide from that gaze.
“All right,” said the stranger, “tell me what’s going on here, girl, before I lose what’s left of my temper.”
10