“Don’t be a fool!” snarled another. “They came this way. I saw the little one take a dive into yonder thicket.”
The Chronicler stepped away from the wall and curtain; Alistair and Mouse drew up behind him, and Mouse twisted the shreds of her gown between her hands. The goblins stomped and cursed and shouted at one another beyond the wall. Several even tried to penetrate the thicket, looming so near that the heavy velvet curtain of hawthorn wavered. But they could not get through.
“Corgar will kill us if we’ve lost the little one!” someone said.
“Don’t be daft,” said another. “Why should he care? It’s not as though the beast was any good to him.”
“It’s the prophecy,” said a third, and its voice was low and tremulous. “It’s the prophecy, I tell you, and this is the first step to its fulfillment.”
“What prophecy?”
“Didn’t you hear? The Murderer came to Queen Vartera. He told her Corgar would break through to the Near World, just as he did!”
“So? Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“But there’s more. The Murderer also said that, though Corgar would break through and assert his will over all the mortalings, the king of that country would drive him forevermore from the Near World. And Corgar believes the little one is that king.”
“Yeah, that’s all well and good. But did you get a look at the creature? He’s tiny! Corgar could swallow him in one gulp and still be hungry after.”
The goblins laughed at this and moved on. “Aye,” they agreed among themselves, retreating back through the Wood, “not all prophecies are bound to be fulfilled.”
Eanrin observed the Chronicler throughout this exchange. He saw how first a flush of red crept across his face, swiftly exchanged for a pallor like death.
Suddenly the Chronicler looked up and met Eanrin’s gaze. For the first time, a sliver of doubt slid into the poet’s assured mockery of the whole affair.
The last of the goblins departed and the mortals all sighed and sagged. Alistair sat down heavily, hiding his face in his hands. His head still rang from his contact with the goblin in the courtyard, and he suspected it would continue to ring for quite some time. Mouse withdrew from the others, embarrassed now.
But the Chronicler never broke Eanrin’s gaze. “Where are we?” he demanded.
Eanrin snorted. “As if you didn’t know.”
The little man swallowed, his jaw clenching. “This . . . this is the Haven of the Lumil Eliasul. The Haven of the Prince of the Farthest Shore. Built by the Brothers Ashiun.”
“Well done, Chronicler,” said Eanrin. “You’ve done your research.”
“I don’t believe in this place.”
“I don’t see what your lack of belief has to do with anything.”
“And you’re Bard Eanrin.”
“That I am.”
“I don’t believe in you either.”
The cat-man smiled. “Be that as it may, you must admit that I did save your sorry skins when you yourselves were obviously unable to do so.”
To this, the Chronicler had no answer. So he turned to Alistair and stopped in surprise. The young man had stripped off his remaining goblin armor, all but the boots, revealing the torn and bloodied shirt beneath, and the nasty pucker of his scarred-over wound. Its appearance had improved since morning, but here in the gentle light of the Haven it looked nastier than it might have elsewhere.
The Chronicler felt an unprecedented surge of concern and pity for his former pupil and recent rival. “My lord!” he cried. “What happened to you?”
Alistair felt his shoulder and grimaced wryly. “I couldn’t tell you for certain,” he said. “It appears I’ve had a rum go, but I can’t remember much. A nasty sight, eh?”
“It’s not as bad as it was,” said Mouse softly from behind.
Alistair whirled about. “Why do I understand you?” he cried. Then he turned to Eanrin, pointing first at him and then back at Mouse behind him. “Why do I understand her?”
“Her?” Mouse’s eyes went wide. “No, no! I’m a boy. Really, I am!” Then she saw the look exchanged between the Chronicler and Alistair, and her face flushed hot. Bowing her head and shrinking into herself, she said, “Oh. So you know?”
“I’m afraid so,” Alistair said, rubbing the back of his head.
“But . . . I cut my hair.”
“Yes, you did.” Alistair nodded.
“And I . . . I bound myself up in . . . in places.”
Now Alistair blushed. He couldn’t look at the girl, so he turned to Eanrin again and repeated his question. “Tell me, cat-man, why can I understand her?”
“First,” said Eanrin with a glower, “you will not call me ‘cat-man’ again. I am a knight, a poet, and a gentleman, and you will address me as sir or not address me at all.”
“Yes, sir,” said Alistair, undaunted. “Why can I understand her?”