She nodded again. At last she sat back and pointed. Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, to try. Under that gaze, Eanrin had no option but to sit and stare at the scribbles in the dust, stare with all the intensity a cat can muster. His pupils dilated until the golden irises were like rings of eclipsed sunfire. Imraldera watched him, chewing her bottom lip and waiting.
At last the cat lashed his tail and raised his whiskered face to her. “I’m sorry, my girl. It looks to me like the Greater Stick Bug pursues the Lesser Stick Bug over the back of a giant alligator. Can’t make a thing of it otherwise.”
Imraldera tossed up her hands and shook her head, desperate to force back the tears that would insist on springing to her eyes. The cat, ever sympathetic, purred again and rubbed his cheek along her bowed shoulder. His whiskers tickled her skin, and she pushed him away. So he became a man again and, suddenly embarrassed, backed away from her.
“See here,” he said, crossing his arms over his stained white shirt, “I promised you that as soon as this little adventure was through, I’d help you find your way home.”
“What if I don’t want to go home?” she signed.
“Please stop waving your hands! Help me, and I’ll help you. That’s a nice way to work, isn’t it? But we’ve got to find Lady Gleamdren and, as you know, neither Glomar nor I”—Eanrin cast a glance back at the captain, who waited several paces away, avoiding as much female emotion as possible—“has any notion how to navigate this dragon-blasted city. But we’ve got to find some way.”
Imraldera scarcely listened as the poet rattled on. She gazed at her drawing, at the scenes she had tried and failed to depict.
If only the Beast had devoured her.
See the truth, Starflower.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head, willing it to clear. But when at last she opened them again, she saw something in the dirt, just beyond the marks of her drawing. Interested, she got up and, still ignoring Eanrin, stepped over for a closer look.
It was a Dog’s enormous footprint.
“What are you looking at?” Eanrin demanded as both he and Glomar stepped up beside her.
She pointed. Glomar swore. “So they have passed this way! We’d best get away quick-like, or they’ll double back and find us.”
Eanrin agreed and both turned in the direction opposite the footprint. But they’d not gone two paces before looking back to find Imraldera, still intent upon the street, following another print, then another.
“What are you doing?” Eanrin demanded, beckoning her. “Come back, princess!”
She looked his way and shook her head. Then she started off at a trot, following the trail of the Black Dogs. Eanrin and Glomar gave each other bewildered glances. With shouts of “Beard and crown!” they hurried after the girl, along the ever-shifting streets.
But where the Black Dogs ran, the road remained straight.
Fascinated, Hri Sora watched the events playing out in her city like a grand lady in a theater box watches a haphazard play. It was a mess, a disaster, a tangle of impossibilities, yet she could not look away.
“The girl is no fool,” she observed.
“I beg to differ!” Gleamdren’s voice twittered and chirped as she blustered about her little cage. “If she’s keeping company with that fool Eanrin, she can be nothing but a fool herself!”
The Dragonwitch ignored her noisy captive. She saw the Black Dogs loping through the streets, dragging their darkness behind them. She saw how the maid picked up their trail and led the others through twisted Etalpalli as straight and true as a flying arrow. “She caught the Path of the Black Dogs.” Hri Sora hissed, impressed and frightened all at once. “The Faerie folk could not think to catch onto my children’s trail, but she caught and pursues it. A real woman of the Land!”
Yet this knowledge contradicted her earlier observations. The gentleness with which the girl had managed one of Hri Sora’s own dark brood conflicted with the story. “None who have met Amarok could bear to show kindness to one of my beasts,” she whispered.
She must test the girl. She must know for certain.
So she stretched out her hands and cast a glamour over Etalpalli. Not a glamour of beauty. No, this was a vision breathed into being by Death’s own daughter, as much a truth as her hate, as much a lie as her love.
17
THE SKY BOILED RED ABOVE ETALPALLI, its heat oppressing Imraldera as she led the poet and the captain straight through the writhing streets. She heard a rumble like thunder, but how could there be thunder in this cloudless atmosphere? Perhaps the sky itself growled with a voice greater than those of the Black Dogs, threatening these intruders, warning them away.
A flash of blue drew her eye. Before her mind caught up with her leaping heart to shout its silent warning, she turned. She looked.
Oh, gods and devils! Not here!
Before her spread, not the towering red structures of Etalpalli, but a sweeping vista of a thousand colors, of light and shadow and depth. Green valleys and dark forests; great rivers cutting the land in gorges; scattered villages, and smoke from a thousand hearths curling to a deep sky. Not a tortured sky scalded as though by brands. A healthy, thriving, blue sky with a warm sun. A sun that shone down upon the Land she had known and loved all her life, never realizing she loved it until it was taken from her.
Only one place in all the worlds afforded this view.
Not the dead mountain!
If she gazed south, would she see the home fires of her village? Would she see the light of her own hearth shining from the top of the hill? Would Fairbird sit in the doorway, waiting?
No!
She grabbed her head in her hands, forcing her eyes away from that view. The prints. Look at the footprints!
She saw them. They swam before her dizzy vision, but they were there, solid in the red dirt of the street. For she did not stand on the mountain, and the Land did not spread below her, awaiting her return. She had left that life behind when her people abandoned her on the mountaintop. This world, this dead, twisted world, was all the reality left, and she would not lose her mind to visions and dreams! That would be the final defeat in a life born defeated.
Her feet were heavy weights, but she lifted one, then the other, following the rubble-strewn street of red. Dead, just like the mountain, yet not the mountain. She must not look right or left. She must follow the trail.
The footprints, she saw, were no longer those of a Dog. They had become the prints of a small child.
Glomar and Eanrin, a few paces behind, exchanged looks. The girl was staggering drunkenly, bent over as though climbing a steep incline while the street remained level.
“What ails her, do you think?” Glomar whispered.
“Mortality?” Eanrin suggested.
“Hadn’t we ought to . . . I don’t know . . . help her? Give her an arm, or something? She looks about to topple.” The captain, favoring his twisted ankle, made a face. “I’d volunteer but, you know, with my game leg and all—”
“Of course, leave it to Eanrin,” sighed the poet. “Seems to be the popular theme these days. Let Eanrin take care of mortal maids. He’s bound to like the task! Let Eanrin mind the weak and infirm. He’s got the stomach for it!”
“You said she was yours, didn’t you?” Glomar snarled.
“Oh, well, she is. I’m merely pointing out—”
Imraldera screamed.
It was a sound she should not have been able to make. Even hearing it was pain, the pain of fire and ice. In that tormented moment, the curse holding her trembled, then renewed its grasp with agonizing strength that Eanrin and Glomar, both attuned to the workings of Faerie, felt almost as keenly as the girl did. Both gasped and recoiled from her, even as silence once more slapped upon her so heavily that she fell facedown in the street, her arms around her head, her body crumpled.
“Imraldera!” Eanrin, shaking himself free of the curse’s aftereffects, sprang forward, putting his arms around her and trying to draw her
to him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He struggled to make his voice soothing, but his body quaked with fear of her and the curse she bore. She fought him weakly at first, then fell against him, quivering with noiseless sobs.
“Is it the city?” Eanrin suggested, stroking her hair and rocking her gently. “It is a wicked place. It gets to you, I know. I feel it too.”
Her shudders eased, but her face, when she finally gazed up at him, was stricken. He did not see that they sat in the Place of the Teeth.
It is only an illusion, she told herself. If she put her hands to the ground, she felt, not the smooth sacrificial stone, but the edges of broken cobbles, the dust and ash of the city’s destruction. And she smelled the burning stench of Etalpalli. Her vision alone was manipulated, making her see what was not there.
She gagged and might have been sick had her stomach not been empty.
Eanrin could smell the enchantment. Etalpalli reeked of dragon smoke and dragon death, but this was a dragon’s enchantment, similar to the glamour placed over his eyes on the shores of Gorm-Uisce. Only this time it was directed at Imraldera, so he could not see it; and unlike that time by the shore, he could sniff it out.
He took Imraldera’s face in his hands. “Princess, my dear,” he said, “I know you’re seeing something. I don’t know what it is, but obviously it is none too pleasant for you. You know it is false, don’t you?”
She nodded, staring desperately into his eyes. It could not be real . . . but oh, at the same time, how real it was!
Eanrin glanced about quickly, then focused on Imraldera, holding her gaze. “This is a place of power. Perhaps the center of Etalpalli. It’s good you’ve brought us here!” That was a lie. As far as he could tell, the center of the labyrinth held no more answers than its edges. But the poor girl needed some encouragement. “You did well, Imraldera. Much better than I could have expected from a mortal maid! Now just keep looking at me, and the enchantment will wear off. You will see we are on the same dirty old street in the same dirty old city.”
A tear trailed down her cheek. She must look at him. She must not see the stones like teeth rising beyond his shoulders. Her dark skin took on a ghastly hue.
“Dragon’s teeth!” Eanrin drew her to his chest, laying her ear against his heart. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Rest and close your eyes.” He felt each breath she took trembling through her body. Pressing his cheek against her tangled, dirty hair, he shut his own eyes and sang.
It was a song so old, he’d forgotten when he first heard it. Perhaps he had composed it himself, back in the days of his forgotten youth, when first he had learned that life was not all joy—the first great step one must take if one is to grow, but a step he seldom paused to remember. Why should he, whose life extended forever before his feet, pause to consider pain?
But when he was young, he had known.
“‘Lilla lay, lilla lay,’ softly she sighs,
The fair willow maiden with silver-gray eyes.
But over her sighing, the white birch maid laughs:
‘Lilla lay, lilla lay, sorrows won’t last!’
“So listen, sweet child. Oh, lilla lay, ly!
To the voice of the birch tree who laughs to the sky.
For today may be gray, and the rain may be falling,
But lilla lay, lilly, a new day is dawning.”
He rocked the girl and felt her body relax as the mellow tones of his lullaby worked their own enchantment. She slept, and it was, he smelled, a sleep without dreams.
Glomar stood over them, his weight shifted off his bad leg. “That was . . . very pretty, Eanrin,” he said, his voice gruff. He sniffed and wiped his nose. “It was like something . . . I don’t know. Something I heard a thousand years ago, perhaps. When I was young. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”
“Shhhh,” said the poet with a sharp glare. “Don’t wake her. Let the glamour wear away.”
But he dashed a stray tear from his face before the badger might see. No wonder he had forgotten this song! And as soon as he could get rid of this maid, he would make every effort to forget her as well. He was a fool to allow himself to care.
The longer he cared, the longer he risked that which he feared most.
Gleamdren sulked. She was good at sulking, whether she knew it or not. Her face fell naturally into all the right grooves, letting anyone with eyes know exactly what she thought, which was that the world was not behaving as it ought.
What was this fascination with mortal women? First, Rudiobus falling for the glamourized dragon (which, granted, only looked mortal) and now this! The Eanrin she knew wouldn’t be caught dead speaking to a mortal girl. He certainly wouldn’t drag one along on a noble quest! Was he going to start writing poetry in her honor too? Insufferable man.
And now even the Dragonwitch was enthralled by the little insect. Her dragon. Her captor, who was supposed to be torturing her, striving to wring secrets from her unwilling mouth! Instead, Hri Sora spared not a glance for the iron birdcage and its inhabitant. Her attention was fixed upon whatever events were unfolding in the streets of Etalpalli.
Perhaps, Gleamdren thought, she should bring up the subject of Amarok again. That would get a reaction from the Flame at Night! Setting her jaw, Gleamdren scrambled to her feet and approached the bars of her cage. “Oi!” she began.
Howls split the air, drowning her voice.
The Black Dogs raced each other up the stair spiraling up the outside of their mistress’s tower. Midnight followed swiftly on their heels, giving Gleamdren’s eyes their first relief from the glaring red of Etalpalli’s sky since she’d come to this place. Not that it felt like relief. Used as she was to the bright ways of the Merry People, it was oppressive. She stepped back from the cage bars to avoid attracting attention from the two monstrous Dogs barrelling across the rooftop and bellowing like an entire pack of wolves.
The Dragonwitch silenced them with a look.
Cringing like whipped puppies, the Dogs crawled on their bellies to her feet. Their heads were bigger than hers, their jaws capable of breaking her in half without a thought. But they were in terror of her, the shabby queen of this city, standing above them in a tattered green nightdress, her hair wild about her face.
“My children,” Hri Sora said.
They whined; they groveled. One dared the barest wag of a tail. This one she struck across the face. Not with any force that could have hurt the creature, but with a cruelty that wounded its spirit. It rolled onto its back, exposing its belly, the picture of subservience. Gleamdren felt sick at the sight but could not tear her gaze away.
“I was right,” said the Dragonwitch. Her eyes barely saw the beasts abasing themselves before her. They gleamed with a light that was full of memory and hatred. “I was right. How such a girl came to my demesne, I do not know. Perhaps, for once, the fates work in my favor? She is come, and it is a sign. I know it is a sign!”
She knelt and took one of the Dogs by the scruff of its neck, lifting its jowly head so she could snarl in its face. “Bring her to me. Alive.”
The Black Dogs rose and fled the tower, tails tucked, ears flattened. They would obey. They were too full of fear and love to consider otherwise.
The Midnight lingered long after they had gone. Gleamdren, her sulk momentarily forgotten, huddled down on the far side of her cage, warily watching the Dragonwitch pace along the roof’s edge.
Imraldera sat with an orange cat pressed up against one side of her and a badger on the other. Both were fast asleep. How odd these Faerie creatures were. They flaunted their immortality with such casual ease! In the midst of this evil city, enchantments surrounding them and the Black Dogs on the loose somewhere close by, these two slept as peacefully as a pair of kits.
Imraldera, however, could not. When the last echoes of Eanrin’s lullaby faded from her mind, she had awakened to find her two companions snoring soundly. Careful not to wake them, she idly stroked the ears of one furry bundle, then the other. How long it felt
since she had sat thus in her father’s house, her gray lurcher sleeping with its head on her lap, her baby sister leaning against her shoulder. Those were beautiful days, she realized. Days she had always known must come to an end.
But what a strange, terrible end!
When she looked about, she still saw the Place of the Teeth, the central stone slab, the five jutting stones like fangs rising from each corner and the center. But she knew, now that her heart had calmed its mad racing, that what she saw could not be the truth. The winds were always harsh in the Place of the Teeth. Here, there was no wind. The illusion affected only her vision.
It was fading. Slowly, the stones, the mountain, the vista of green below her melted away, and she saw the burned streets and towers, red and shadowless once more. How had she come to this? She could make no sense of it, find no underlying reason. She had fled, and her flight had brought her here, to a world she could scarcely begin to comprehend, to companions who wore their fur coats as naturally as their cloaks and doublets. Imraldera did not want any of it to be real. If only reality consisted of nothing more than a dimming hearth, a small child, and a faithful dog! How sweet life might be then.
The Midnight descended.
She saw it creeping softly across the red stones like a bloodstain spreading as it soaked into the ground. It crawled up and over her own limbs, shrouding her and her sleeping companions. And ahead of her, Imraldera saw the flaming eyes of the Black Dogs and heard their deep breathing.
Eanrin and Glomar slept on.
The creatures approached, their heads low. Imraldera looked from one to the other. They were as like as twins can be, their grotesque faces more monster than Dog. But she saw the difference in their gazes.
She turned to the monster on the left and signed, “Good Dog.”
Its tail came up and its ears pricked. Softly, it whined. But its sibling snarled and snapped at its ear. Both lowered their heads and growled deep in their throats. Then they turned and marched at a sedate pace back up the street. One paused and looked around, its eyes beckoning.
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