“Where is the House of Lights?” Corgar demanded. “I know it is near. For many long ages I have watched the gates between the Far World and the Near. I have tested and I have tried. And when I found this one opening, I did everything I could to pry it, even under the very noses of the Knights of the Farthest Shore. Not until now, however, have I found it unwatched and unlocked to me. The moment is ripe. I will have the House of Lights, if I must decimate this entire land!”
“You have to believe me,” the Chronicler said, his voice choked with urgency. “You must believe me. The House of Lights does not exist. Not in this world or anywhere else I know. It’s . . . it’s a story. Nothing but a story.”
“And what about me?” Corgar demanded. “Am I a story?”
The Chronicler gazed at Leta, helpless in the goblin’s grasp. Her eyes rolled like a crazed horse’s, but at last she looked at him. How often in this past year had he repeated to her, “These things are merely the fancies of men trying to make sense of the world’s emptiness. They are not real.”
He had never, until now, wished so desperately to be wrong.
It’s all right. Her eyes, though bloodshot with fear, nevertheless seemed to reassure him: It’s not your fault.
But it was.
He struggled against his chains to stand upright. How heavy were the collar and the great stone links! Bracing himself, he stood like a man tensed for battle, though his short limbs were helplessly bound.
“I cannot tell you what you want,” he said. “I cannot give vapors substance. But I offer you my life. Kill me. Leave the girl alone. She knows nothing, and her death will accomplish nothing.”
“Neither will yours, little majesty,” Corgar said. Even as the dwarf screamed at him to stop, he hauled the girl onto her feet and spun her about to face him, for he would look into her eyes as he sent her to the Netherworld.
And he saw that he held the girl from the courtyard.
He had scarcely noticed her then. She had merely been one of the many beasts fleeing like insects before his stomping feet. Yes, she had assaulted him, but why should he care for her ineffectual sting? Yet something stirred in his memory. He gazed into her ashen face and recognized a quality most would have missed.
Corgar had been a warrior for centuries as the mortals count them. He had marched to battle against kings and princes, against battalions of monsters far more terrible than he. He had lived; he had thrived. In his veins flowed the blood of war, the pulse of battle. His eyes were sharp, never missing a trick or chance.
Corgar knew a warrior when he saw one. Granted, so frail a creature could not lift the weapons he bore. Granted, she could not hope to prevail in a contest of strength. Yet he saw that she would stand before his onslaught and die with courage.
Corgar had been a warrior long enough to know that it was a warrior he held with a dagger beneath her ear.
The small king on the table was pleading, his voice rising and falling and desperate. There was a thump as he rolled to the ground and a clanking as he struggled to his feet, pulling himself up by the chain attached to Corgar’s belt. But Corgar, caught up in the wide eyes of the mortal maiden, could not hear what the king said.
He realized that he was not going to kill her. And he hated himself for it.
“Let her go! I told you, I cannot give you what you ask!” the little king was shouting. A dull blow brought Corgar’s attention down, and he saw that the creature was kicking him and pounding his leg with his chained hands.
With a roar, Corgar flung the girl to the ground. She crumpled, gasping but otherwise unmoving, as though she did not yet believe that she still lived. Her hands clutched her throat. Why was no blood flowing? Why did she still breathe? The Chronicler collapsed by her side, his heavy chains smacking the floor, and tried to touch her.
But Corgar caught up the length of chain, dragged him back, and forced the small man to face him.
“Listen to me, mortal king,” the monster snarled. “Sooner or later, every warrior meets the blade’s end. Her life is forfeit, and I will claim it when I am ready. Tell me where I may find the House of Lights if you wish to spare her.”
The Chronicler wrung his hands, his face colorless. “I . . . I can’t tell you what you ask. I do not know where it is.”
Corgar roared, and goblins came running at his voice. “Take this wretch!” he cried, indicating Leta. “Bind her with the other slaves, and set them all to work. I will tear this castle apart brick by brick, stone by stone if I must. I will have Queen Vartera’s prize!”
The goblin soldiers laid rough hands upon the girl, dragging her from the room. The Chronicler watched until she was beyond his sight. Then he bowed his head and cursed the day of his birth.
11
HOW CAN I EXPLAIN WHAT CAME OVER ME in that moment? I had never known, never dreamed anything of the kind! My parents were Citlalu and Mahuizoa, ageless, immortal, never intended for death.
I felt the pulse of my demesne. I felt the beat of its heart, the draw of its breath. I could sense the flutter of every pair of wings. Oh, my people! My kingdom. My world. I was more powerful then than I had ever believed possible. More powerful . . . and more bereft.