Across from the tomb of Ttlanextu was that of his sister.
“They built me a tomb,” Hri Sora whispered. “They built me a tomb when I left them and took the fire of my Father. They thought I was dead!”
Wonderingly, she stepped closer, gazing up at the great tower without windows that was, she knew, empty inside. As empty as she herself was without her fire. But the fire was mounting once more. She felt her furnace rising, painful and inevitable.
Then her eyes flew wide, and her furious roar shattered the silence of that dead city.
“They carved her name!” she screamed. “They carved her name above the door! Her name, which must be forgotten!”
The fire overcame her then. It burst from her mouth, her nose, her eyes, overwhelming everything. Her children, who had lurked nearby, fled. The towers of Etalpalli trembled.
And high at the top of Omeztli Tower, Lady Gleamdren looked up from her twiddling thumbs and gazed out across the city. She saw the explosion in the street, the flames shooting to the heavens.
With a heavy sigh, Gleamdren rolled her eyes. “That dragon-witch will never keep her mind straight long enough to begin questioning me,” she muttered, twiddling her thumbs some more. “Lumé love me, what a bore this imprisonment business is! I thought for sure she’d try some torture. And I wouldn’t give in, because I am the heroine of this tale, and it wouldn’t do for me to breathe a word of what I know.”
Another heavy sigh puffed between her lips. “No torture. Not a single question about the Flowing Gold! There’s something wrong with that Flame at Night. I do hope the lads are on their way. I’ll die of boredom if they don’t get here soon!”
To entertain herself, she began singing—a song written by Eanrin, of course, as were most of the songs sung in Rudiobus. She liked it because her name was in it many times over. All the best songs, she believed, were about her.
It gleams and glows like river shine
And swiftly golden flows.
In lustrous locks or silky vine,
Which none but Gleamdren knows.
With silver comb and silken twine,
Fair Gleamdrené does bind
The Flowing Gold, so soft and fine,
The Dark Man’s favorite find.
The Flowing Gold of Rudiobus,
The Flowing Gold of Rudiobus.
Anyone who might have caught sight of that iron cage on the tower roof would have heard the chirping of a bright yellow canary as she sang her little heart out. But not even the sun dared peer into that dreadful demesne, so Gleamdren sang for herself alone.
7
EANRIN PEERED around the trunk of a sheltering tree, down to the River’s edge, where the mortal lay. After his first shock, he had leapt into the deeper forest, intending to continue his flight in a new direction. But curiosity had a way of getting the better of him, and he could not keep himself from looking back.
The River’s voice was clearer here. Pretty maid, be mine! it said. And because it was a river and, therefore, rather repetitive, it said it again and again. Pretty maid, be mine, mine, mine!
The girl, lying helpless before that lecherous entity, did not stir. Her attitude suggested that she had fainted while bending over for a drink. Her face was pillowed on one extended arm while the other trailed almost completely in the water. Of all things—here Eanrin the dandy did not try to suppress a derisive snort—she was clad in what looked like animal skins. It was enough to make the poet’s tail bristle.
She was mortal, Eanrin knew even before he worked up the courage to draw near and smell the death on her body. After all, only mortal women were foolish enough to listen to the River’s seductions and drink its water. And always princesses. Mortal princesses, wandering into places they had no business going, listening to voices that any simpleton among the Faerie folk would know to ignore.
“Serves her right,” said Eanrin. “And I won’t be dragged into her business.”
The River continued whispering, either unaware of or bound to ignore Eanrin’s presence. Otherwise, no one else spoke. No one argued with the poet or urged him into action. He looked around, expecting to catch a glint of gold or to hear the scrape of large paws upon stone. But there was nothing. As far as he could conclude, he was alone with the River and the maid, the Hound vanished into the oblivion of an overactive imagination.
Defensive nonetheless, Eanrin folded his arms. “I won’t!”
The River pulled its fingers through the long hair. Pretty maid. Pretty maid . . .
The River held something else in its eager grasp, Eanrin realized with a frown, something tangled with the girl’s locks. At first he thought it must be riverweeds. On second glance, however, he realized that they were ropes, roughly woven cords tied about the mortal’s wrists. Traces of blood washed down the current, lapped up by the eager River.
Eanrin licked his lips. “It’s not my business,” he said. How had he allowed himself to be turned aside? Everyone knew the danger of letting an outside source determine one’s Path in the Between. Yet here he was, far from his goal, almost afraid to move for fear of bringing the Hound down upon him again.
The girl’s sides heaved with labored breathing. At least he knew she was no dragon like the woman he’d found in the Wood only the night before. That one had not breathed, not with her fire sunk so low beneath her glamour. This maid struggled for every breath.
Cursing himself for a fool, Eanrin took a few steps nearer, crouched, and leaned out to catch a better look at the girl without touching her. As he balanced himself, his hands sank into the wet mud on the River’s edge, and he shuddered. He hated dampness!
The girl’s hair veiled her face so that he could not discern her features. He sniffed. Faugh! How she reeked of mortality! This could be no glamour, no disguise. The scent of a swiftly dying body—perhaps still living, but for so brief a span of years!—filled Eanrin’s nostrils and left him gagging. He pulled away, his lips curled back in a hiss, more cat than man for the moment.
“I’ve had enough of damsels in distress to last me a lifetime,” he said, standing and drawing his red cloak about him. “What kind of fool do you take me for? Ha!” He backed several paces up the bank. “I’ll not become involved in a stranger’s affairs again. She should have stayed in her own world, where she belongs. And, light of Lumé, what was she thinking, drinking from a Faerie river? Everyone knows what happens when mortals drink from our waters. Serve her right if she sleeps a thousand years and wakes up with a beard a mile long. If mortal maids grow beards. I forget. Either way, it’s not my business!”
Eanrin turned to pursue his Path down the River’s winding way toward Etalpalli. But he made a fatal mistake: He cast a last glance at the girl’s bound hands.
“Poor little thing.”
Wait! Was that his voice speaking? He shook his head violently and forced himself to stride three steps downriver, his sandals squelching in the mud. “You fool! Don’t think that way! Remember what happened last night? You should have thrown the creature back to the Dogs. It was the Hound’s doing. He frightened you, bullied you. But you’re not blind! You saw the results of your charity, and they are not results you need repeated. Get on your way and rescue your lady!”
Despite this verbal barrage, he had already stopped in his tracks again. Against all sound judgment, he looked back at the girl, at her frail form, her dark skin and hair, her torn and bleeding feet. And especially those harsh ropes, dragging in the water.
“Glomar will find his way to Etalpalli before you at this rate,” Eanrin muttered. “Sure, he’s a blunderer, but even a blunderer can be quick when necessity pushes. You’d be foolish indeed to underestimate your opponent.”
And yet he turned on heel and lost those three steps he’d gained. The River growled at him, She’s mine!
Eanrin ignored it. He didn’t much care for rivers anyway; they were so often wet. He gazed instead upon the girl.
“You’re an odd princess, dressed so,” he mused. “What
a primitive nation you must hail from. I wonder what realm of mortal history you have fled?” He frowned, considering the problem she posed and disliking the answers he saw. “It’ll take a kiss to set you right.”
The River snarled, threatening murder. Eanrin, unbothered, knelt beside the maid’s still body. For some reason, he found her smell less repugnant now. Perhaps this sort of thing happened when one took a turn for the heroic. He must be a hero indeed to turn aside when he knew the risks.
Eanrin whispered, “Surely a quick kiss couldn’t harm anything?”
He didn’t believe himself.
The girl did not stir when he lifted her into his arms; her sleep was profound indeed. The similarity of the situation to the scene just outside Rudiobus the night before gave him a shudder. The girl’s head lolled over his arm exactly as the dragon’s had. He was obliged to part the hair to uncover her face, just as he’d done with the Flame at Night. And just as then, her face was uncommonly beautiful for a mortal girl’s.
However, this girl’s beauty was different. For one thing, her skin was a rich dark brown, and her hair glossy black. For another, she was imperfect. Her teeth, visible between gently parted lips, were a little crooked. Mud stained her skin, making it darker still, and her brow, even in sleep, was puckered with anxiety or fear. Her dreams must be wicked indeed.
Eanrin grimaced at the sight and almost put her down again. After all, a princess with dreams like those probably had a tale of woe to match. She would certainly wake with expectations of a handsome hero to aid her. As far as Eanrin was concerned, a dash of heroism was one thing, but commitment to a cause? Never. Rushing off to the rescue of Lady Gleamdren was different, for he had determined that she must be his wife and the sole inspiration of his life’s work. Besides, he loved her.
This creature meant nothing to him.
But blood oozed from the abrasions on her wrists. And her body, mortal and vulnerable, lay in his arms. Eanrin rolled his eyes heavenward as though to seek some holy aid. Then he braced himself and wiped some of the mud off her lips with the edge of his cloak. She frowned in her sleep and stirred but did not wake.
“Nothing for it,” he muttered. Closing his eyes and trying not to smell her any more than he must, he leaned in and kissed her.
“Do not forget!” cries a voice as old as the hills, as young as the wind. “Do not forget the horror loosed upon your grandsires when they failed to heed my warning! They called your servant a liar and refused to satisfy the Beast’s demands. Who among you remembers the screams? Who among you remembers the slaughter? I remember!”
The world is dark, heavy with decay even as the sun beats down in incredible heat. Sweat beads the brows of every man, woman, and child in the crowd listening to the man who speaks. He is the tallest of them, clad in gray wolfskins. His beautiful face is made hideous by the rage in his voice.
“I remember mothers wailing, children lying in pools of blood, warriors choking on their own gore. I remember your elder slain, mauled beyond recognition! You remember, do you not, Panther Master?”
The tall one turns and locks his gaze with that of a mortal man who stands apart from the crowd. This man is stern and strong, yet he trembles under the vicious gaze of the speaker.
“You were there,” the tall one says. “You were a small child, and you saw the death of your grandfather. You remember.”
The stern man cringes away, a young wolf submitting in terror to the alpha.
“Give the Beast what he asks!”
Eanrin drew back with a gasp, his mouth open. Slowly, his ability to breathe returned. He narrowed his eyes at the young woman in his arms. It took all his willpower not to drop her and run.
The images ringing in his mind were clearer than the reality surrounding him. The voice of that tall stranger was stronger and more vivid than that of the River. In that instant when the scene flashed with painful clarity across Eanrin’s mind, it was as though he’d lived it himself.
The River laughed, a lascivious sound. It put up a watery hand and snatched at the girl’s face. Eanrin glared ferociously and pulled her back, clutching her to his chest. If there was one thing he hated, it was being laughed at. His face tightened, and his ears would have flattened to his skull had he been a cat.
Then suddenly he laughed back. Perhaps it was forced, perhaps not even the River was fooled. Still he laughed, smoothing back his hair with his free hand.
“What a joke!” he cried. “Took me by surprise, that did. Never kissed a mortal girl before. An unpleasant experience, to be sure!”
He gave the River a final sneer, then looked down at the girl, still fast in her enchanted sleep. Her brow was more deeply drawn into a line, but otherwise she did not stir.
“Well, I like that,” Eanrin said, raising an eyebrow. “So it must be one of those kisses, eh? A prince, or nothing. Well, am I not the prince of poetry? Come, come, don’t be fussy. It’s not as though many princes walk these woods. You’d better let me wake you, or you’ll remain here a good hundred years at least, unless the River gets you first. Let us try again!”
He inclined his head and gave her another kiss. This one was longer, deeper.
With rhythmic beats, the girl drives a stake into the ground. She is young and lovely, with large dark eyes. But her face is set, her mouth a grim line.
A child tugs at her garments. When she looks down, she sees the little one make silent gestures with small hands. But she shakes her head and continues to pound the stake. When it is securely placed, she turns and claps her hands.
A young dog, shaggy and gray, rises from its resting place in the shade and comes to the girl. Its tail is low and still, its eyes full of dumb worry. It whines as the girl ties a cord around its neck. Then she secures the end of the cord to the stake, pets the dog once, motions for it to sit, and walks away. The dog’s whimpers rise with every step the girl takes. The child begins to cry silent, pulsing tears. She runs after the girl and grabs her hand, pulling.
The girl kneels and takes the little one in her arms, holding her close. Her own tears run into the child’s black hair. Then she stands and gestures firmly. The little one, still crying, obeys. She goes to sit beside the dog, which puts its head in her lap.
The girl watches them, her eyes full of things she does not speak. Then she turns from them and marches up the hill, disappearing over the crest. The morning is cold and gray as it settles about the abandoned child and dog.
The image faded. The poet withdrew, more slowly this time. He did not bother to hear the River, which was by now roaring with merriment at his failure to wake the mortal. Eanrin’s face, for once, was thoughtful. He tilted his head to one side and licked his lips as though to taste and understand better those things that had flashed so vividly through his mind.
“Well, little princess,” he said at length, “you’ve had an odd life so far, haven’t you?” Gently, he brushed more hair back from her forehead. The line on her brow relaxed a little, and she turned her face toward his palm, like a kitten nosing after a caress. She did not moan, but a sigh escaped her lips.
Was the sympathy he felt due to some enchantment? Eanrin shook himself and leaned in to sniff with greater care. He smelled no sorcery, but he’d smelled no sorcery the night before either, and where had that gotten him? He wished he had a caorann tree on hand with which to test the girl. Not that the caorann had proved any help against the Flame at Night!
But the Flame at Night had worn no such bindings on her wrists.
The poet growled, “My dear girl, you have no idea the Time you are wasting. And if you waste an immortal’s Time, that is waste indeed! But you won’t meet a prince here. The Faerie princes will not look at you, and all the mortal princes who are foolish enough to lose themselves in the Wood are almost invariably picked up by Lord Bright as Fire or the serpent, ChuMana.” He grimaced. “It’s not my business. And I am certainly not paying a visit to Bright as Fire’s demesne!”
He made as though to lay the girl bac
k down upon the bank but instead looked once more at her face. She was so young. Like a child in this place, unable to cope with the greatness of many worlds. And he knew the River. It would swallow her up if given half the chance. Or age her far before her time so that she would wake at last wrinkled and white-haired, her beauty and youth spent. It wasn’t as though mortal life afforded her much time to enjoy beauty and youth as it was!
“Dragon’s teeth and ears and snout,” the poet swore. “I should know better than this.”
With a groan, he got to his feet, lifting the girl in his arms. She was not tall, and her mortality made her light. He slung her over his shoulder, and her long hair trailed down his back.
“I’ll not visit the Tiger,” said the poet as he set off through the forest. “But ChuMana . . . well, the serpent owes me a favor. Never thought I’d collect that debt for the benefit of a mortal creature!”
He left the River behind, its waters churning with frustration and fury. He did not see the Hound watching from the deepest shadows across the water.
8
IN THE SWAMP OF CHUMANA countless columns rose from the murky waters. Straight and elegant, built of white marble, they were taller than most trees. One might imagine they had grown up from the ground itself, sprouted from randomly scattered seeds, for there was no rhyme or reason to their placement. They supported nothing. No roof, no arches, no platforms high above. The sky was heavy with iron-gray clouds, always threatening rain, though rarely offering it. Perhaps the columns supported the sky. They certainly reached high enough, save for those few that had crumbled and lay half submerged in swamp water. The weight of the sky must have been too much for these.
All about the marble block bases of each column—carved with elegant depictions of young women in scanty clothing and young men in laurel wreaths—brown water slurped and scrag-grass grew in unsightly clumps.
And the very air vibrated to the voices of a thousand and more frogs.