“But everything has a price, my child,” Hri Sora continued. Her voice was that of the Dark Father. “Everything has a price.”
The cat and the badger ran along the River’s edge, the badger barrelling forward without a thought, the cat jumping and dancing aside to avoid letting his paws touch the water. The River had not forgotten. It would dart out a hand and drag him under in a second if he was to let his guard down. He should know better; he should take himself far from here as fast as possible! Only a fool or a sop would return to Cozamaloti under such circumstances.
“Call me a fool, then,” Eanrin muttered as he ran, head and tail low. “But, Lumé love me, don’t call me a sop!”
Being the faster of the two, he was ahead of the badger. But his pace slowed as he drew near the storming falls. They were bigger than the last time he had been this way. Not only were the falls themselves deeper, but the breadth was so great that he could not see the far end of the bridge, which vanished in heavy mist across the way. Cozamaloti gave such a long, continuous roar that it drowned out even the petulant anger of the River.
Eanrin put his ears back, and his eyes were wide as moons. He thought he might prefer to stand on the brink of the chasm in Etalpalli than look into the face of Cozamaloti again. At least the pit was dry!
“Hurry up, cat,” panted Glomar, drawing up beside him and taking man’s form again. He choked midpant as he got a good glimpse of the falls. “By the sin-black beard of my king! Tell me we’ve come to the wrong place.”
The cat looked up at the guard. “Afraid, Glomar?”
“Not a bit of it!” Glomar’s voice trembled.
With a shake of his whiskers, Eanrin became a man once more, sitting cross-legged at his rival’s feet, gazing out at the crashing white water. He was pale, and his voice was so small that it could not be heard above Cozamaloti. “I am.”
“It wasn’t like this when last I came,” Glomar said. “She must have realized I was trying to enter and opened the gate for me. I . . .” He licked his lips. “This will be much harder.” Then he scowled down at the cat. “What I don’t understand is how you, you of all people, managed to pass through this way! Did Hri Sora unbar the gate for you as well?”
Eanrin shook his head. He thought of Imraldera, snatched by the River’s strong arm, dragged under, hauled toward those falls. The ignorant little mortal maid, lost and far from everything she knew. And yet . . . what a wonder! How brave she had been in the face of what must be utmost terror to her. He couldn’t begin to guess at her story, where she had come from or why. But he remembered how she had bravely squared her shoulders, her eyes blazing, and started off through the Wood with the commanding stride of a queen! Certainly, she had almost walked—several times, in fact—straight to her own doom. But she was no coward.
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.
2
GET 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?”
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