With those words, the golden man dwindled into the golden cat, and try as he might, the Chronicler could perceive him as nothing else. But he was still Eanrin, and he smiled, pleased with himself.
“That wasn’t a half-bad monologue. Do you find yourself inspired to new heights of ambition?”
The Chronicler passed a hand over his face, feeling both very young and very tired. “I can’t believe the impossible,” he whispered as though trying to convince himself against what he had just witnessed. “A man can’t be big and small at once. He can’t be a freak and a hero.”
The cat glared. “Do you believe in justice?” he asked.
The Chronicler hesitated. Then, only once, he nodded.
“Do you believe in mercy?” pressed the cat.
“Yes.”
“Ha!” Eanrin lashed his tail again. “What an impossible contradiction! Ha!”
Then his voice lowered and was, for him, gentle when he spoke. “But a man who can display both justice and mercy is the very reflection of the Lumil Eliasul, the reflection of the divine. In the divine, we find the satisfaction of contradictions. We find the wholeness of broken things and belief in the impossible.” The cat shook his head. “Poor mortal! Your kind has not heard the Sphere Songs in so long, you’ve become deaf without realizing it.”
The Chronicler said nothing.
“You must start believing the impossible,” the cat persisted. “If you’re to have any hope of ‘saving the day,’ as it were.”
The Chronicler set his jaw. “So I’m to abandon my home to monsters, to travel across worlds to fetch some magic sword, all for a fool’s errand?”
“Would you prefer to storm the castle gates and challenge Corgar to single combat as you are?” The cat snorted. “Now, there’s a fool’s errand!”
“I’m abandoning Gaheris.” Too ashamed to speak loudly, he whispered, “I’m abandoning Leta.”
The cat’s whiskers twitched. His cupped ears picked up more than the words, and his sharp eyes saw more still. “Leta, eh?” he said. “Is she that pale little mortal maid I glimpsed in the library last summer? The one who’s sweet on you?”
The Chronicler’s look would have frozen the heart of any man not a cat. “Don’t mock me,” he growled.
“Who’s mocking?” The cat’s tail curled questioningly above his head. “I’m the Bard of Rudiobus, romantic poet of the ages, famed devotee of Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, and I know lovelorn when I see it. For instance, I can see that your cousin is head-over-heels-smitten with our dear Mouse, though I’ve made certain she doesn’t realize it yet. Lumé love us, the last thing we need on this excursion is a romantic entanglement getting in the way!”
The Chronicler stared at the cat with more malice than he might have turned on a snake. “Alistair cannot love that girl,” he said. “He is going to marry my lady Leta, and he is going to make her a good husband.”
“You are a dense one, aren’t you?” said the cat. “You’ve allowed this fixation on size and perceived beauties to blind you. And that, small man, is your true affliction.”
With those words he stalked to the door like an actor quitting the stage. But before he quite got there, his skin shivered as though with an irritating itch. “Dragon’s teeth!” he meowled, looking back at the young man once more. “One conversation! One simple, honest, true conversation, and all your questions would be answered, all your problems solved! Really, man, is that so difficult? Then you’d be free to fall into each other’s arms and live your Happily Ever After. Why make it so complicated ?”
The Chronicler gave no reply at first. It wasn’t so simple; he knew that well. Even in the Faerie Realm he must recognize reality. Unlike the fey folk, he remained bound in his flawed mortal body. All he had left was his pride, a final bulwark of self-respect that prevented him from making himself a fool.
When the Chronicler spoke, his voice was almost lifeless.
“Very well, cat,” he said. “I will attempt to believe the impossible. I will go seeking your Halisa. I will even believe myself a chosen one, a future king, or whatever you need me to believe so that I might hope to see the folk of Gaheris liberated from those ghastly creatures.” He raised his gaze, fixing a dark glare on the cat. “But don’t feed me false hopes. I will not live on dreams.”
“No,” said the cat. “You’d rather live on nightmares.”
And with that, he left the room.
The scrubber stepped into the Wood.
It recognized him, and though it did not welcome his return, neither did it make any effort to reject him. He felt the more hostile trees withdrawing hurriedly, and he could almost hear the ripple of rumor spreading from root to root, leaf to leaf.
He hobbled, his back bent, his head low, but his pace quick, covering leagues in a stride.
Do you expect to die?
The scrubber did not startle at the voice, or voices, speaking suddenly from the empty space beside him. He did not turn. He did not wish to see, though he smiled at the welcomingly familiar presence.
“Good morrow to you, Cé,” he said. “You have done a great service by me.”