Starflower (29 page)

And despite all the sorrows and curses of her own life, she had followed him to Etalpalli and worked so hard to help him.

“Brave girl,” he whispered so that he could not hear his own voice. There was movement in the mist. His quick cat eyes focused, pupils dilating. Something just beyond his range of vision approached.

Eanrin got to his feet, taking a tentative step or two, ears still listening to the vengeful River, but eyes fixed upon the bridge.

“Ah well,” said Glomar, coming alongside him. He did not like to see the cat show more courage than he. Cats were notorious cowards, while
badgers were renowned for their valor. By all the Faerie queens, Glomar wasn't about to let that slip today! “She is a woman worth jumping for, isn't she, Eanrin?”

The mist shifted. Eanrin peered intently, telling himself his eyes lied but wanting to believe them. Then, a glimpse of light in the darkness. A gleam of golden-white fur; dark eyes more compelling than suns and moons.

“Lumil Eliasul,” Eanrin whispered.

The mist swirled. The vision was gone.

“Eh?” said Glomar. He gave the poet a sidelong glance. What a strange expression had come over that sardonic face! In that moment, Glomar wondered if he indeed stood beside the Eanrin he knew. Had some phantom imposter taken his place? “Come again?”

“I said . . .” Eanrin cleared his throat. “I said yes. Yes, she is.” And he strode down to the bridge.

It swayed and groaned terribly when his feet touched it, and he wondered if Hri Sora had put some new protection on her realm and the bridge would break before he could even make the leap. It did not matter. In that moment, Eanrin began to understand something he had never felt the need to consider before the events of the last few days. Before he found the dragon woman sleeping beneath the caorann tree. Before he had seen the Hound.

“Make the leap, make the leap,” he muttered as his feet stumbled and staggered on the swaying bridge and his hands clasped at the ropes suspending it. “Make the leap, not for yourself. Not for yourself, Eanrin! Life is too long to live that way.” He glanced down the forever drop, and his stomach surged to his throat. “Oh, great merciful beards of monkeys!”

His heart beat a drummer's quick march, and his limbs were like water. But he would have climbed over those flimsy ropes and hurled himself into rushing torrents in another moment, shouting for Etalpalli and hoping, hoping . . .

Footsteps reverberated along the flimsy boards. Eanrin turned. A figure appeared through the mist.

“Imraldera!” the poet cried.

She could not have heard him, not above Cozamaloti. But within a
few more paces, she caught sight of him and paused. Then—miracle of miracles!—she smiled.

Perhaps it was a trick of the mist. Perhaps it was his own fool of an imagination inventing nonsense in the wake of his near death and harrowing journey. Eanrin did not care. With a whoop, he bounded across the bridge, little caring how it swayed under his weight. Her eyes widened, and she clutched at the ropes on either side, bracing her feet. He covered the distance in moments and they stood face-to-face, gripping the bridge and staring at each other. Her smile was faded to almost nothing, and her face was pale. Droplets from the heavy mist beaded her black hair.

“Brave girl!” Eanrin cried, though she could not hear him. “Brave, brave girl!”

Then he took her hand and led her back. For now, he wouldn't think about returning to Etalpalli or of rescuing Lady Gleamdren. He wouldn't consider how Imraldera might have escaped the Black Dogs or Hri Sora. She was safe, and she needed to stay that way. He must get her off the bridge as soon as possible and away from the River.

They met Glomar a few paces out. The bridge was too narrow. Eanrin motioned for him to turn around so they might all reach the land. But Glomar's face lit with a brilliant smile, and he pointed and gestured wildly, paying no attention to Eanrin. He was speaking, but Eanrin could not hear him, nor did he bother to try understanding. “Yes!” he shouted back, equally inaudible. “Yes, she's here and she's safe!” He raised Imraldera's hand to show that he held her. “Now back up, you lump of a badger, back up!”

Glomar wouldn't turn. He continued gesturing and tried to push past Eanrin, making the bridge sway still more wildly. It gave a jerk and a drop, and everyone's heart stopped. Only then did Eanrin look around to see what had excited Glomar so.

Lady Gleamdren, wet and ragged with a face fiercer than any dragon, stood but a few paces behind Imraldera, her face red with screaming things that no one wanted to hear. There was murder in her eyes as she looked from Eanrin's face to his hand holding Imraldera's.

Eanrin let go his hold. Swallowing hard, he turned back to Glomar, gave him a push, and the four of them hastened off the bridge and
back to the Wood. As they scrambled up the bank, their ears cleared of Cozamaloti's dissonance enough to be filled with Lady Gleamdren's.

“Well, I like this! Look at the pair of you! Do you have anything to say for yourselves? You
left
me behind in that dragon-blasted, smoke-stinking city without a thought, you pigs, pigs,
pigs
!”

She continued on in this vein until they reached the shelter of the forest, still within sight of the bridge but far enough away that Eanrin could breathe easy again. He tried to focus on Gleamdren—who was difficult to ignore, standing just under his chin, her angry face upturned to his, gifting him with the full force of her wrath—but his gaze kept straying to Imraldera, who stood quietly a few steps back.

“And allowing a
maiden
to do a
man's
work!” Eventually, Eanrin hoped, Gleamdren's voice might give out. Not for a few hundred years, perhaps, but eventually. “And
such
a maiden too! A mortal? Have you no feeling, Eanrin? Have you no
feeling
at all?
Are you listening to a single word I am saying to you?
”

“Yes, delight of my eyes,” Eanrin said. “I am indeed. So is Glomar, if you care about that, which I'm sure you don't, but you really should because he's been a good sport through all this nonsense—”

Glomar growled, disliking the sound of his praises spoken by his rival. It did not matter, for Gleamdren burst out again.

“Good sport? You call my peril
good sport
? Was this nothing but a
game
to you, Eanrin?”

“No more than it was to you,” Eanrin said darkly.

Gleamdren's jaw dropped. She went from red to purple as she struggled to draw a complete breath. One rancorous gasp and her fury would have been unbearable indeed. But just then, Midnight descended.

The Black Dogs stepped from Etalpalli into the Wood Between.

G
ET
DOWN
!”

Eanrin and Gleamdren dropped at Glomar's whispered command, pressing their bodies flat to the woodland floor. Eanrin, his nose quivering at the too-familiar scents assailing it, carefully lifted his head to peer down to Cozamaloti. His cat's eyes struggled in the impending Midnight, but he could see the two enormous forms stepping off the bridge. Their eyes gleamed.

“It's all right,” Gleamdren whispered much too loudly for anyone's comfort. “They weren't sent for us.”

“How do you know that?” Eanrin hissed.

She stuck out her tongue at him. “I've been in the Dragonwitch's company for some time now. It's difficult
not
to overhear a plot or two!”

“What are you talking about?”

“What do you think I'm talking about?”

Another movement caught Eanrin's eye. He turned his scowling face
from Gleamdren to dart a quick look up. He choked on his own breath. Imraldera was striding swiftly down to the River.

“Ah! I told you she was a witch, Eanrin!” Glomar growled. “She's brought the Dogs upon us, you see.” The captain reached out and grabbed the poet's arm. “Quick, man, let us find a safe Path to Rudiobus, or we're all lost.”

“No,” Eanrin muttered. “It isn't true.” He sat for the space of three heartbeats, cursing his own cowardice. Then he was on his feet and sprinting after the girl, praying the Dogs would not catch his scent and knowing they must have it already. “You fool!” he heard Glomar call after him, but he ignored the badger-man and caught up with Imraldera.

“What are you doing?” he demanded in a low voice, turning her to face him. She shook her head and pushed him away, pointing back up the incline to where the others hid. “No, no!” Eanrin snapped. “I'm not leaving. Not until you tell me what is going on.”

She rolled her eyes helplessly and shrugged. Eanrin could feel the Black Dogs watching them from below, but the girl did not seem afraid, merely tired and frustrated. She raised her hands and began to sign, but Eanrin caught them both. “That's no good, my dear. We're going to have to play at guessing, but never fear, I'm a quick guesser. Tell me, did you make a bargain with Hri Sora? To rescue Gleamdren?”

To his dismay, after an instant's hesitation, the girl nodded.

“Great dragon's teeth and flame!” His hands tightened on hers. “You offered yourself in exchange for Gleamdren!”

But here she shook her head hastily. Pulling her hands free, she tried again to sign. She pressed a hand to her heart, then pointed to the Dogs. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. And Eanrin did try for all he was worth, his eyes round and worried as he struggled to guess at any possible explanation. He knew so little about her! He knew she was mortal and cursed. He guessed, from the cords he had cut from her chafed wrists, that she had been a prisoner of some sort.

But nothing about her made sense. Not in the context of the dreadful Black Dogs, those merciless hunters who dragged their victims to Death's realm. For in Imraldera's eyes he saw only love.

He had not recognized it before. Their time together had been so
short, and he had been unable to read or understand her for most of it. Following his encounter on the edge of the Dark Water, however, he found himself looking at her with new eyes. He could see the love in her every move and expression. Not love for him, no. How could she love someone like him? He was foolish even to consider it. But love for . . . for someone. Or something. Love that could not be quenched even when standing in the presence of Death's own brood!

The Black Dogs snarled. Midnight surrounded Eanrin and Imraldera as the monsters drew near.

“Please, Imraldera,” Eanrin said, wishing she would let him take her hands again. But she took a step back from him. How ghostly she looked, her white dress shining faintly in that darkness. “Please tell me you haven't given yourself to Hri Sora.”

She shook her head.

“Is that no, you have, or no, you haven't? Dragon's teeth!” Eanrin ran his hand down his face. The Dogs were closer now. He could hear their rhythmic breathing. If he did not move soon, it would be too late. Those great jowls could swallow him in a second. Against his will, his feet carried him back, first one step, then two.

Imraldera made a sign he did not know, perhaps a blessing, perhaps a farewell. She turned and strode down to the Black Dogs until she stood between them, her tiny form framed by their hideous bulk. She cast a final look up at Eanrin.

Then she was gone. She passed into the forest, and the Midnight trailed behind her as the Black Dogs followed.

“Dragon's teeth, dragon's teeth, dragon's teeth!” Eanrin tore at his hair, took a few running steps after, backed up, darted forward again, and stopped. “Don't get involved. She means nothing to you! The affairs of mortals are none of your business. What does she matter? Her life is only a moment. She doesn't concern you! She doesn't . . .”

He whirled and darted up the incline. He found Glomar and Gleamdren waiting for him there, sheltered by friendly trees. Glomar was speaking to Gleamdren, but her attention was not on the guardsman and his faltering attempts at pretty words.

“There you are!” she cried when Eanrin appeared. “Is this how you
intend to demonstrate your devotion? Running off after mortal wenches at the drop of a hat? I thought you a man of high feeling, Eanrin, a man of taste! I thought—”

“What do you know about Imraldera's arrangement with Hri Sora?” Eanrin demanded.

“Imral-who?”

“The maid, the mortal maid. What bargain did she make with the dragon? You said you overheard a plot or two. Tell me what you know about this.”

“Oh, so you weren't behind it?” Gleamdren threw up her hands. “I thought at the very
least
you had concocted this fool arrangement for my release! Am I really to believe that you were so hapless you had to let this mortal do your thinking for you?”

Eanrin was within breaths of taking Gleamdren by the shoulders and giving her a sound shake. His voice became a growl, so low, so full of menace, that even the queen's cousin must take notice. She gasped and stepped away from him as he spoke:

“Gleamdren, by the golden staff of my order, if you don't tell me what you know, I'll retract every poem I ever wrote in your honor.”

“Oh!” Her hands pressed to her heart. “Oh, you don't mean it, Eanrin!”

“Every rhyming couplet.”

Her mouth opened and closed several times. Then, in a tiny chirp, she said, “Hri Sora wants her old enemy, Amarok, destroyed. The mortal agreed to help. The Black Dogs are escorting her back to her homeland, and there she is to do the Dragonwitch's work. All on the condition that I was to go free and you two were to be released from the city.”

Eanrin stared at Gleamdren. None of it made sense! His mind sifted through the information, struggling to find pieces that might fit together. Who was Amarok? Why would Hri Sora send Imraldera back to the Near World, and why with the Black Dogs as escort? How could the gentle maid possibly be an instrument for the Flame at Night's vengeance?

And why, in the midst of all these horrors, would Imraldera concern herself with his, Glomar's, and Gleamdren's safety?

It was too much. Too much! For a mind as old as memory and a life
lived longer than the mountains and rivers of a hundred worlds . . . it was more than Eanrin could bear.

“Curse that Hound! Curse that lantern!” Eanrin snarled, grinding his teeth. “I shall never be the same.”

“What?” Gleamdren demanded. “What are you muttering, Eanrin? The girl is gone, thank Hymlumé's grace, and we are free of that wretched, wretched city. You certainly have done nothing of which to write epics, but at least you can escort me home. And here I thought I would return in company with a score of suitors, not two sorry little— Eanrin! Where are you going?”

The poet, running back down the incline, did not pause but called over his shoulder, “I'm going after her! I'm going to help!”

“Eanrin! Lumé love me, cat, if you take one more step after that creature, I will
never speak to you again
! Eanrin, do you hear me?”

But it was too late. Whether the poet had heard or not, he was gone, vanished into the Wood and pursuing the trail of Midnight. Gleamdren stood aghast, her hands on her hips.

Glomar crept to her side. “If I may be so bold, my lady, I should like to offer you my—”

“Be still!” Gleamdren turned eyes full of sparks on the captain. “I don't know who you are, nor do I care. Take me home at once, do you hear? I've had enough of this adventuring to last me a lifetime!”

So it was that Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, on the arm of a single escort, was returned to the welcoming bosom of Rudiobus. And wherever she went for generations after, she could hear the women giggling behind her back, “A
hundred
suitors, Lady Gleamdren? Have you bothered to count them recently?”

Omeztli stood empty. The black corridors echoed nothing but silence; the bustling life of Etalpalli was forever stilled. The queen's tower looked out upon a ghost city. It was barren and forlorn save for its last inhabitant.

She sat on the tower's roof. And she was as empty as Omeztli.

Her hand pressed to her chest, feeling that place where her heart had
once pulsed. Usually it was warm with the blaze of her inner furnace. But now even that was dulled to almost nothing. She felt as hollow as a dead tree.

“You'll never get your wings now.”

The Dark Father stood behind her. She sensed his presence with distaste but did not move. Her gaze was fixed on the far, blank horizon of her demesne. Even her hated offspring had left the city. Her prisoners were swiftly putting distance between themselves and Etalpalli. The vastness of her solitude was impressive, to say the least.

“You let Bebo's cousin go.” The Dark Father placed a long-fingered hand on Hri Sora's shoulder. She wanted to flinch but wouldn't. “She was a good chance. She is weak, at the mercy of her own vanity. You could have wrung the secret from her had you made the effort.”

In the cold clarity of her mind without fire, Hri Sora acknowledged the truth of her Father's words. But it did not matter. Learning Gleamdren's secret would not have guaranteed her the Flowing Gold. And even had she succeeded and laid the fabled treasure at the Dark Father's feet, who could say if he would have honored his side of the bargain? He was a liar. He was the inventor of lies.

But this way—if it worked, if the girl was smart and did as she was told—this way, Hri Sora's deepest desire could be fulfilled. And the Death-of-Dreams himself could not stop it!

“I'm no fool, my daughter,” said her Father. “I can piece together this little puzzle.”

He needed no motivation, and she did not care to give him any. She sat as though stone. He laughed to himself, and embers fell from his mouth and singed her tatty hair.

“You came back from your second death stronger and more beautiful than tongue can tell,” he said. “The Flame at Night rekindled! And you dared laugh in my face and tell me your fire was the greatest to burn in all of Time. To prove your words, to make your defiance complete, you declared before all your brethren in the Netherworld that you should do what I dared not try. You would rise to the vaults of heaven and devour Lady Hymlumé, the moon herself, destroying the harmonies of the Sphere Songs forever.

“You flew far and you flew fast. You rose to the highest reaches. You looked Hymlumé in the eye, and the worlds felt it when she, frightened, stumbled in her dance and lost the beat of her Song. How powerful you were, my daughter! How glorious beyond all created beings!

“But I am your Father. I will not be undone. You will not defy me to my face and go unpunished.

“I stripped away your wings. I stripped away your dragon form and left you in the frail, wingless body of a woman. And there you stood before the moon. And she looked upon your pathetic state and said:
‘Poor little thing.'

“It was too much for you, wasn't it, my darling? In despair and disgrace, you flung yourself from the heavens, willing to die your third and final death rather than be pitied. The flame of your fall was like the destruction of worlds, fire spilling from your mouth, lashing from your hair, your fingertips. Your screams shattered the sky. And you streaked to your destruction, striking that mountain in the Near World with such force that the fire could be seen far and wide. It burned for days, for months, possibly for years as counted in that mortal world. When at last it died away, the nations assumed you had met your final end.

“But that wasn't how it went, was it, my child? You didn't die. You lay exposed upon that bald mountain peak for a year or more. But you did not die.

“At last you woke. Your fire was gone, and your shell of a body was empty. You wandered down the burned slopes of that mountain, helpless as a new babe, no memory of yourself or your past glories. The mortals of the Near World found you. They took you in as one of their own, and you became no better than they. A Faerie queen turned dragon turned beast of the dust. And so you lived for years. . . .