Starflower

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Imraldera understood. She could not pretend otherwise. She rose quietly, careful not to disturb either the poet or the captain. Somehow she knew they would have slept on even had she kicked them. The Midnight carried with it an enchantment of stealth. The Black Dogs wanted her and no other.

  She wondered if the Dogs led her away to devour her as she should have been devoured long ago. She almost hoped so. The Midnight was so heavy as she followed her guides that she could scarcely make out the street. But at last the Dogs came to a tower identical to the other towers, except perhaps more blackened than some.

  They trotted up the outside staircase, which spiraled high into the gloom. Imraldera followed without question. Round and round, higher and higher. Her heart beat fiercely from fear and exhaustion. She must follow; no more flight.

  The stairway ended. Imraldera found herself standing on a flat, circular rooftop. She turned about, observing the whole city from here, both the dark patches where Midnight lingered, and on to the outer stretches, where the red burning sky arched over all. The city went on for miles and miles on all sides, but from this vantage, her vision extended just as far. She saw all the way to the city’s edge, where the crumbled towers trailed off into . . . nothing.

  What an isolated world this was, Imraldera thought vaguely. More isolated even than her homeland. Her bare feet moved silently across the flat roof, feeling the way in the dark. She stubbed her toe on something and heard a tiny voice shout, “I say! Watch where you’re going, blundering mortal oaf.”

  Imraldera knelt and peered between the iron bars of a birdcage. It was difficult to discern the inhabitant, but she heard the rustle of wings and thought she glimpsed a furious, sputtering songbird.

  Lady Gleamdren, she thought.

  “Stop staring at me!” the songbird chirped and was suddenly not a bird but a tiny woman shaking her fists at Imraldera’s nose. “Stop staring! Go back where you came from and tell Eanrin that if he wants to rescue me, he’d jolly well better do it without the aid of a sniveling mortal wench! What have you to say for yourself? Speak up, witch, or I’ll—”

  “Pay no attention to my prisoner.”

  Imraldera sat upright and turned at the deep voice speaking from the shadows. She had never before heard such a voice. It was ancient and dark, bound in a body it was not meant to inhabit. A figure stepped into view, slight, rag clothed, and flanked by the Black Dogs. Those monsters made the figure seem smaller, though she stood a full head taller than Imraldera.

  She was a woman.

  Imraldera stared, not believing her eyes or her ears. Leaping to her feet, she bowed after the fashion of her people and made the sign for “chieftain,” for what other word could describe this person before her. A woman! A woman who spoke in a voice both like and unlike a man’s! There never was such a marvel, such a horror. Imraldera, dizzy with both fear and hunger, feared that she might faint. And what a dreadful fate would that be, to display such weakness before a woman of such power!

  The Dragonwitch smiled. “Perhaps I should speak to you in your own language,” she said. Then she raised her hands and formed the words known only to the silent women.

  “You are from the Land Behind the Mountains.”

  Imraldera gasped.

  18

  SHE HAS PROBABLY BETRAYED US. You know how mortals are.”

  Eanrin and Glomar sat in the street in their animal forms, staring at the fresh footprints of the enormous Dogs heavily pressed into the dirt along with the lighter prints of Imraldera. They had slept so long and so deeply that by the time they woke, the Midnight had already lifted on the street, and Imraldera’s scent was fading.

  The poet-cat fixed a glare upon the badger, his ears twisted back irritably. “Idiot,” he growled. “If she’d betrayed us, we’d be dragged off to the Netherworld by now. She’s been kidnapped.”

  Glomar stood, taking his man’s form as he stretched. He tested his weight on his ankle. The men of Rudiobus heal quickly. Sure enough, he found his ankle almost as good as new. “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said to the cat, who was eyeing him with a blend of disinterest and dislike. “I saw how she was with the Dog yesterday. Wee little girl like her, and she forced one of those brutes to the ground! I could break her arm between two fingers! Either of the Black Dogs could swallow her whole without a thought. But she bullied it and made it obey her. That’s witch work.”

  “I told you: She’s no witch. She’s a princess.”

  Glomar shrugged and looked up and down the street. He wondered if he could find his way through this maze back to the square with the well and locate his hatchet. He felt bereft without it, like a man who went out one day and forgot one of his arms. But there was no telling where the well might be. Shrugging, he picked a direction and started walking.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the cat meowled. He remained where he was, sitting very upright, but his tail lashed, sweeping dust up in a cloud.

  “I’m going to fetch Gleamdren,” Glomar replied without looking back. “Just as I said I would.”

  “You don’t know where she is!”

  “Neither do you, so I don’t see much use in keeping your company.”

  “What about Imraldera?”

  Here Glomar stopped and slowly turned about. He was a badger down to his bones, his mind full of tunnels and rock, the good clean smells of fresh-turned dirt. In badger form, his nose was long, capable of sniffing out all manner of things through many layers of sediment. It took time for his mind to catch up with notions that his nose had sniffed out in a moment.

  “You like her,” he said with a snort that may have been a laugh.

  “What?” The cat’s ears pricked and his whiskers twitched. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you like her. The mortal.”

  “I never!”

  “You really do.”

  “Impossible!”

  “You, who’ve never liked anyone but yourself all your life.”

  And the captain snuffled again, his rugged face lit up with laughter. Eanrin stood with his mouth open, whiskers bristling, which was funnier still. Glomar had never known the Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus to be at a loss for words. Miracles still happened in Faerie after all.

  The cat hissed at the captain. “Now you’ve done it, Captain Glomar, meatheaded bungler. Badger!” His ears went back like horns. “Now you have incited the wrath of Bard Eanrin, Prince of Poetry!”

  “And what will you do, poet? Versify me to death?”

  “You think I can’t?” A light of fire blazed in the cat’s eyes. “I’ll find my lady Gleamdren,” he said. “I’ll find her so fast, it’ll make you ill! And when I’ve carried her home to the Mountain and all Rudiobus is singing my praises, where will you lay your shamed head to rest? And when songs of my valor fill your ears, where will you go to find peace?”

  Glomar raised his bushy eyebrows. Then he shrugged. “Do your worst, cat,” he said, turned on heel, and continued down the street, snickering to himself as he went. The cat hurled insults at his back, but these had no effect. Within a few paces, the street made a sudden, gut-wrenching twist, and Glomar knew without a backward glance that he was now separated from the cat by distances he couldn’t begin to guess.

  The separation caused him little anxiety. Lumé’s crown, he was happy to be rid of the orange devil! The shift, however, left him uneasy. It reminded him that, since he no longer followed in the Black Dogs’ Path behind the slight mortal lass, the city could do with him what it liked. It was no longer grounded as it had been before its queen destroyed it. It was as changeful and untrustworthy as the Wood Between, and angry besides. Its spirit had been killed, leaving behind a hollow shell of wrath, more than willing to swallow up intruders. A reflection of its furnace-hearted mistress, no doubt.

  So Glomar proceeded with more care, his lumbering pace slower than before. Dragon’s teeth, being pursued by the Black Dogs had been easier than this! Every street, every tower, looked just like the one
before.

  The captain stopped suddenly. What a fool he was, using his eyes! Every badger knew to trust his nose first and foremost. He sank down into badger form, closed his beady eyes, and sniffled and snuffled long and hard. He caught an unpleasant scent that drew his interest. At this point, any change must be preferable to the continuing sameness. Perhaps it would be a clue to lead him to his lady.

  He trundled off in pursuit of that scent, glad to have a goal. But when he found the source, he swore in badger tongue.

  The towers had given way to a street lined with tombs. These were nearly as tall as the towers, but their purpose was unmistakable. There were no windows, for one thing, no doorways opening to the sky. They were carved all over with wings, wrapping around as though enfolding each tomb in a fond embrace. Glomar knew they must be the final resting places of the city’s former kings and queens.

  A dreadful thought: The Sky People, like all Faerie, were not meant to die.

  The death of a Faerie king or queen was a horror even to one of Glomar’s stoic nature. He took on his man’s form when he beheld the tombs—so many of them for one kingdom!—and fell to his knees. Each one signified three deaths for those entombed.

  Glomar’s hard face melted into that of a young boy struggling to hold back tears. He had seen the work of Death before upon occasion. In the war with Arpiar, he had put an end to the immortal lives of many goblins and had seen comrades fall, their spirits carried (he was told) across the Final Water. But never a Faerie king or queen. Iubdan and Bebo had ruled Rudiobus since the Mountain was no more than a small Faerie hill. Etalpalli must be a land of fearful history to have lost four of its kings and queens to Death’s appetite.

  On trembling legs, he advanced, drawn to this horrific street as though against his will. And he saw that the names of the monarchs were carved in Faerie tongue over the doorways: Citlalu the Star King; Queen Mahuizoa the Glorious; Tlanextu of the Coming Dawn. All names of power. All names of those who succumbed to unnatural death three times.

  The name on the last tomb had been obliterated, the stone melted until the letters were indecipherable. A recent destruction, by the smell of it, Glomar decided. Its doorway on ground level was open; the doors of the other tombs had been blocked up. Their walls rose sheer and unbroken to the sky.

  Glomar thought, This is her tomb. They built it for her when she changed and lost her heart. For she died that day, and they mourned her. Poor Sky People.

  “Glomar! Captain Glomar!”

  The voice came from the darkness. It startled Glomar so badly that he fell back into badger form, teeth bared. But he knew that voice, and when his ponderous mind caught up with his beating heart, he recognized it.

  “M’lady Gleamdrené?”

  Out of the shadows within the tomb’s doorway, a face appeared. There she stood, lovely in her green dressing gown, her flaxen hair wild about her face. She smiled at him. At him, Glomar, the oaf to whom she’d never cast a glance save to irritate Eanrin! How beautiful she was, and how frail and sweet she looked here among the awful sepulchers of Etalpalli.

  Glomar lurched forward, his baggy hide quivering with delight. “M’lady!”

  She laughed and reached her hands to him. “You have come for me at last! I knew you would, faithful Glomar. Hurry now! I’m caught by a spell, but you can break it. Only you, Glomar! Only you, my dearest!”

  He realized after the fact that he should have known better. It was so clearly a trap, he should have laughed. Gleamdren would never call anyone her dearest, after all. Not a soul could claim that honor from the maiden who simultaneously held all her suitors in highest regard and lowest contempt. But that voice and those tender words fulfilled the deepest wishes of his simple badger heart, and he lacked courage to face the truth of the matter while making the split-second decision to run to her arms.

  To run into the gaping doorway of the tomb.

  The shadows pulled him in, and he was blind. Glomar heard the rumble of the door closing behind him and knew he’d been had.

  Curse all females and their pretty talk!

  Eanrin took a stroll.

  Being a cat, he disliked appearing out of his depth. So as he sauntered down Etalpalli’s malevolent streets, he did so with the air of a dandy on his way to call on some maiden aunt, anticipating an evening of dreadful boredom, yet keenly aware of his own charm. His tail was up with the faintest curl at the tip, his whiskers were smooth, his eyes half closed.

  No one would have guessed how madly his heart raced.

  He couldn’t tell which distressed him more, his outward circumstances or his inward fury. Possibly the fury, which would be much more manageable if he could figure out exactly what he was furious about.

  “Glomar and his heartless accusations, clearly,” he told himself. “The boor, hurling such slanderous notions my way! I am a Faerie, a Rudioban, an immortal bard. And I do not like the mortal girl.”

  But he did. Which was the worst part.

  At least for the moment he could enjoy the gift of solitude. He needed it desperately if he was going to clear his head and reevaluate his situation. Here he was, deep in Etalpalli. Why was he even here? He remembered the rush of the River, the feel of Imraldera’s hair in his hand, the fall . . . He had leapt into the water to save her, but why had they even ventured near the River?

  “Gleamdren,” he said. “Of course, Gleamdren! You are here for your own purpose. Forget the other wench. You are well rid of her, and you never wanted anything to do with her in the first place. It was all the—”

  He stopped. The face of the Hound appeared before his mind’s eye. With a shudder, he shook it away.

  What a shambles his life had become since he’d glimpsed the Hound! He’d rather have been run to the ground by the Black Dogs, torn to shreds in their ravenous jaws, and dragged to the Netherworld. In Death’s realm, though but a ghostly vapor, he would remain Eanrin.

  But once the Hound caught him, what of himself would be left?

  “He drove you to the mortal girl,” he muttered, walking on. “He drove you against your will. And now see what has become of you! She ran you completely off course, and now she’s . . . gone.”

  His heart hurt in his chest. The thought of Imraldera dragged off by those monsters to some unknown fate sickened him. He reeled, shaking his head, and suddenly took on his man’s form again. Leaning against the wall of the nearest tower, ignoring how the stones burned through his thin shirt, Eanrin took his head between his hands.

  “You should never have done it!” he snarled. “You should never have helped her. Curse that Hound! Curse that girl! Curse them all and let them rot in their curses, or they’ll destroy everything you are.”

  No time passed in Etalpalli. No shadows or drifting clouds. It might have been a thousand years, for all Eanrin knew or cared, before he stood and shook himself out. He was hollow inside.

  Once more in cat form, he continued on his wandering way. The streets he walked were more ruinous than those he had traveled earlier. More than half of the towers were toppled into rubble; most of the cobble road was burned and blackened. A thousand evil smells assaulted his pink nose, and his pupils dilated until his eyes were large black disks on his face. “At least it’s a change,” he told himself without conviction. “At least it’s not the same street again and again.”

  He wondered how many hundreds of immortal lives had ended in this very spot in a flood of torrential fire.

  Ahead of him lay a pit.

  In this place so blasted by fire, the ruins gave way to flattened, melted rock that vanished into blackness at the center, blackness more absolute than the shadows hiding within the towers. Eanrin felt the pull like the currents of a river dragging him to this place. He realized suddenly that all Etalpalli was nothing but a whirlpool of hatred, and the center of that whirlpool was here, down that pit.

  He must resist it, he knew. He must back away and flee up the street, fight with everything in him against that inexorable draw. Inst
ead, he found himself creeping low to the ground, placing each paw carefully, but drawing ever nearer to the edge. He smelled rather than saw indications that a tower had stood here once, perhaps the greatest tower in the city. But it was long gone, swallowed up in that hole.

  It gave Eanrin the wild urge to jump.

  He knew that was wrong, evil even. Yet something about that chasm, that plunge into nothingness, beckoned to him, filling his body with unholy need—a need for the pitch, the fall, and the swallowing that must follow.

  Shaking himself and backing up a step or two, he cast about for some anchor, anything at all to hold him back! He knew in his rational mind that this wild, consuming craving was suicidal. Yet all the deathly smells of Etalpalli rolled in upon him, urging him to give in. His ears pricked, then went flat to his head, for he thought he heard thousands of voices calling, rising from the darkness. Did the dead Sky People call his name? Did they cry out for him to join them?

  It was the foul city! He knew, but the pull was so great he did not want to fight it. Etalpalli would swallow him, and he would willingly leap down its gaping throat.

  A new voice, like a caress, crooned to him.

  Choose my darkness, Eanrin.

  Eanrin had never before in his life been so afraid. Until that moment, he realized, he had not known what fear was.

  Choose me.

  There must be some escape! There was always an escape for the heroes of epics. Hissing, flashing his sharp fangs, Eanrin drew himself together. The fur on his spine and tail bristled, but there was no one to combat. Only the pit.

  Choose me, before I choose you.

  As though a noose had closed around his neck and dragged him, Eanrin found himself pulled to the lip of the void. He strained and twisted, but deep inside he knew he could not resist, wasn’t even certain he wanted to. The choice was so easy! The fall, so inevitable.