“I am not afraid of you,” she signed. It was a lie, but her face betrayed no falsehood. “I have faced the Beast on the mountain and passed unharmed. I have walked the Pathway of Death and lived to tell the tale. I have looked into the eyes of the River and the serpent, and I have not perished. I am your better. I am your mistress.”
The Dog threw back its head and howled.
Imraldera put out her hand, palm up. The Dog made as though to tear it off. She flinched but otherwise did not move, her gaze never shifting. She clucked gently, just as she had before. Poor, lost creature, her eyes spoke for her. The Dog understood. She knew dogs; she knew their language, their manners. She took another forward step.
“What are you doing?” the stranger cried.
Startled, Imraldera turned. He was on his feet, reaching for his hatchet. A snarl shredded the darkness, and a heavy black form leapt past Imraldera. She had no time to think, only to react. Her hand darted out, and she grabbed the Dog behind the neck, pushing it to the ground just as she had the child. It was huge, and she felt powerful muscle within that skeletal frame. This was no ordinary dog or wolf, but a Faerie beast of absolute brute force.
Inside, however, was still a child.
Imraldera flung herself on the body, throwing it off balance before those powerful jaws could close on the stranger. Though its strength was far greater than her own, it trembled at her touch, shying away from her, submitting without an order. It shook free, and she stood between the stranger and the monster, her eyes blazing, uncertain which she was angrier at. “Bad!” she signed.
The Dog whined pitifully. Then, to her great surprise, it crouched down, pressing to the ground. Rolling onto its back, it exposed its belly, whining still and lolling its red tongue out from its jaws. Pleading eyes gazed up at her.
With a last furious glare at the stranger, Imraldera stepped forward and knelt beside the Dog.
“Good,” she signed and stroked its head. “Good Dog.”
The stranger stood beside the well and stared. “By my king’s beard!” he muttered.
Imraldera, still stroking the Dog’s head, looked up at him, shook her head, and made a silencing motion with one hand. She continued petting the Dog, which rolled upright and laid its ugly head in her lap. The tail flapped once, twice, three times on the stone. It did not look as though it had often wagged before. Imraldera continued stroking, pouring every feeling of love she could into her touch . . . though she was so spent, she had little enough to offer.
At last she rose and staggered back to the well. The Dog, its shoulders rising higher than her waist, followed at her heels, ignoring the man, its eyes fixed only on her. Exhausted, she leaned against the well wall.
The stranger uncertainly bowed. It was an awkward movement, as unlike Eanrin’s flashy manner as it could be. “Glomar, Captain of King Iubdan Tynan’s guard, servant of Rudiobus,” he said. “I am in your debt, m’lady witch.”
“I am no witch,” she signed, though of course he did not understand. She pointed to the bucket lying near his feet.
Glomar obediently picked it up and handed it to her. Moving slowly from fatigue, Imraldera attached the handle to the cut rope and began lowering it the long way down, praying that water waited at the well’s bottom. She heard the splash, and it was better than the clink of gold in her ears. But she was too weak just then to crank the bucket up herself. Glomar, frowning, stepped forward and assisted her. “Not sure you want to drink, m’lady,” he said. “Not all wells in the Far World are safe. You might fall into an enchanted sleep.”
She gave him a cold look. At that moment, she would have gladly slept for a thousand years. If only that flea-ridden poet of a cat had never woken her to begin with! As soon as the bucket emerged from the well, she plunged both hands in and drank deeply. The water was stale and flat, but she did not care. Neither did she fall enchanted.
“May I know to whom I owe my life?” the captain asked in his gruff, earthy accent. He did not sound the bright immortal he was, though his skin remained luminous even in the heavy Midnight shadows.
Imraldera shrugged. She had no desire to go through that routine again. The Dog, sensing her distress, pressed up against her side and growled at Glomar. She put a hand on its head.
“AYYYYYEEEEEEERRRRRRREEEEEEOWWWWL!”
The three of them—maid, captain, and Dog—startled and turned to look across the square. A bright orange tomcat flew across the stones, tail low, eyes wide, fur bristling.
At his heels charged the other Black Dog.
16
IMRALDERA HAD JUST TIME to draw breath before she found herself clutching an armload of trembling fur. Paws wrapped about her neck, claws digging into her shoulder, and she gasped with pain and surprise.
The other Black Dog bore down upon her, fire falling from yellow eyes, black coat like the shadow of Death. Unconsciously she clung to the cat, frozen in place. She saw the great red mouth open, gazed into teeth-lined doom.
The next moment, the monster crashed to the ground under the assault of its sibling. The two Black Dogs snarled and tore at each other, flames and sparks burning the stone around them, their horrible voices echoing through the city so violently it seemed the towers must crumble.
Somewhere just beyond the din, a voice shouted, “Run!”
Imraldera felt her arm taken in a powerful grasp; then she was running, dragged behind the captain, still clutching the cat. In a vague, distant way, she heard the captain swearing with each step he took. He moved with a limp, but he ran anyway, his face grim and gasping.
It did not matter which street they took. All were buried in Midnight. The only thing that mattered was putting distance between themselves and the battle being waged in the square. In that rush of terror, all Imraldera’s weariness vanished. Her whole existence was taken up with flight.
Flight through a dark tunnel.
The Pathway of Death.
No escape . . .
The cat leapt from her arms. She staggered, nearly unbalanced, but suddenly Eanrin was beside her, his steadying hand on her arm. On they ran. And the howls of the Black Dogs pursued them.
Her legs gave out before her will. Imraldera would have sprawled headlong had not the poet still gripped her arm. As it was, he caught her and just prevented her from hitting her head. She could not move. She lay gasping, conscious but inert.
Glomar, who had continued many more paces before realizing he wasn’t followed, stopped. His face was drawn with pain, his ankle swollen double. He barked, “What’s wrong with the witch?”
“She’s not a witch; she’s a princess,” Eanrin replied. “I think she’s broken.”
“Broken? What do you mean?”
“She’s a mortal! I don’t know how these creatures work. Her body just seems to have . . . stopped.”
Glomar hastened back to them as fast as he could move. The noise of the Black Dogs was all too near. “She is not mortal,” he said, kneeling down.
“She is.”
“Can’t be! She tamed one of the Dogs.”
Eanrin ignored this last and gave the girl a once-over. “We’ve got to hide. She’s not good for a step more.”
“Quick!” said Glomar, getting to his feet. He limped to the nearest tower with a window low enough to access.
Was the baying of the Black Dogs closer? Had they forgotten their quarrel and taken up the chase? Imraldera’s heart raced so hard that for a moment she did not realize what Glomar intended to do.
She saw him in the window, beckoning to Eanrin. “Pass me the lass,” the captain said. “We’ll hide in here until this Midnight lifts.”
Her gaze flew to Eanrin’s face, but she saw only an instant’s hesitation. Then he shrugged, stood up, and picked her right off the ground, carrying her more easily than she’d carried the orange tomcat. Glomar reached down to her, and only then did Imraldera realize.
She shook her head and struggled, nearly causing Eanrin to drop her. He let her slip enough that her feet
landed on the stone once more. But she would have fallen had he not kept his arms about her. “I say, steady!” he cried. “No use in fussing. You can’t go on, so we’ve got to hide, and this is the only place. We’ll go in together, I promise. We won’t be separated.”
You can’t promise that, she thought. But he was right. What else could they do? At least now she knew he hadn’t died when they were parted before. That was some comfort.
Eanrin passed her to Glomar, then climbed up, and they held her between them, crouching on the sill. There was no doubting it now; the Black Dogs were certainly getting closer.
“We’ve got to jump together,” Eanrin said, “else we might lose each other in the dark.”
“And wouldn’t that be a tragedy,” Glomar growled.
“Lumé’s crown, Glomar, there’s a time for—”
Imraldera took hold of their hands and jumped into the shadows.
The fall was not great; she was prepared for one much greater. But the landing jarred her, and she lost her hold on Eanrin’s hand. That was it, then. He was gone. She would never find him now.
“Gah! My ankle!” Glomar roared in one of her ears. Then in the other, a golden voice yowled, “Dragon’s teeth and tail, my girl! You could give a fellow warning.”
She had never thought she’d be so glad to hear the cat. Her hand darted out and caught his, clutching as though she would never let go. So the shadows hadn’t separated them. The streets moved, not the space inside the towers. At least, as far as she could guess. Who could fathom the rules of this awful place?
The three of them sat in the dusty dark base of the empty tower, feeling rather than seeing the vastness above them. Imraldera waited several breaths as her heart relearned to beat. Slowly, two separate thoughts formed in her mind. First, the noise of the Black Dogs’ pursuit was gone, replaced with silence.
Second, there was light shining through the window above them.
The Midnight was gone.
“Now, I call that a stroke of luck,” said Eanrin, rising. The gloom was so intense, Imraldera could scarcely make out his form, much less his face. But his voice was as bright and relaxed as ever, giving no indication that he’d just been pursued by beasts of the Netherworld. “Not a sound of them! Shall I pop up for a peek?”
“Be my guest,” said Glomar.
But Imraldera, seeing the poet outlined against the window as he made to jump out, scrambled up and caught him by the foot. She feared that if he climbed out, the streets would shift again, and they would still be separated. He looked down at her, smiled, and seemed to recognize her concern. Rather than climbing all the way onto the sill, he merely held himself up and peered out.
“Sure enough,” he said, “the street has changed. For once the unsettled foundations of Etalpalli do us a favor! As far as I can discern, the Black Dogs are miles from here.”
He lowered himself down into the dark and sat with his back against the wall. It pleased him rather frighteningly when Imraldera settled in beside him, so near he could feel her warmth without touching her. How familiar that mortal smell of hers had become in so short a time. How nice to know she wasn’t dead.
Glomar’s rumbling voice carried through the dark. “You two seem to know each other. Will you introduce me, Eanrin?”
Eanrin, who disliked sharing, said shortly, “Glomar, Imraldera. Imraldera, Glomar,” and crossed his arms.
“Imraldera? A strange name for a mortal lass,” said Glomar. “I didn’t know mortal folk knew the Faerie speech. Is she—”
“She’s none of your business, that’s what she is.”
“I am beholden to her for saving my life,” the captain replied. Imraldera thought she heard his teeth grinding in the dark. “I was at the mercy of the Black Dogs, certain I was bound for the Netherworld. But she saved me. This little mortal maid with a Faerie name—where did you find her, Eanrin?”
“Like I said, none of your business.”
“Then whose business is she?”
“Mine.”
“Is that her notion or yours?”
The poet’s eyes flashed in the dimness. Then he shook his head and, without a word, began searching his pockets for his golden comb. Realizing he’d left it in his discarded outer shirt, he cursed and started running his fingers through his mud-crusted hair instead.
“Well, Glomar,” he said as he groomed, “it has been awfully nice running into you, as it were. So you made it through Cozamaloti in one piece? Wouldn’t have thought it possible. Cats, of course, always land on their feet, so the fall was nothing to me. But badgers aren’t known for their grace, now, are they? No wonder you bungled your leg, eh? Any luck in locating my lady Gleamdren? Didn’t think so. You know what they say: No points for starting first if you finish last.”
“I’m not finished yet,” growled Glomar. Judging from his voice, Imraldera thought, he really must be a badger. She could think of no other sort who would speak with that growl. But he sounded honest, which she liked.
She wondered what kind of woman Lady Gleamdren was to boast two such dissimilar suitors.
Eanrin got to his feet and put out a hand to Imraldera. Surprised, she took it and allowed him to assist her up. The interval out of the blistering heat had revived her somewhat, and she found she retained some residual strength in her limbs. But how hungry she was! She wondered if her fate was to starve in this barren world.
The poet bowed to Glomar. “We must be on our way. We hasten to my lady’s rescue, and since your company would prove more hindrance than help”—he indicated Glomar’s ankle—“we must here make our farewells. Farewell!” He turned and hopped up into the windowsill, his lithe body blocking the light and making the inner tower still gloomier. “Come, Imraldera,” he said, bending to reach her, hauling her up beside him before she quite had a chance to think.
“Wait!” Glomar struggled upright. Imraldera, grabbing the window frame to keep from tumbling out into the street, turned around to face him. His bow was much less graceful than Eanrin’s, but his gruff voice was respectful when he addressed her.
“My lady,” he said, “you need not cast your lot with that dragon-bitten mog. You’ve done me a good turn, and I am grateful. I must continue my search for sweet Gleamdren—she’s this fine lass, you see, the finest, exceptin’ your fine self—but if you would accompany me, it would be my honor, and I’ll see to it you leave Etalpalli safe and sound—”
“I think not!” Eanrin, once more a cat, arched his back and flattened his ears, snarling down at the captain. His tail lashed. “She’s with me, Glomar.”
“Why don’t you let the lady speak for herself?”
“Because she can’t, that’s why. She’s a cursed mute, and she’s mine!”
“Yours? And what would Lady Gleamdren say about that, I wonder?”
“That’s not your business either.”
“But this poor lass is yours?”
“Absolutely! I rescued her!”
“Is that so? It wasn’t her I saw leapin’ into anyone’s arms just now!”
“I’ll claw your eyes out, badger!”
“I’d like to see you try, cat!”
Imraldera, ready to burst with her desire to scream, scooped up the hissing tomcat and hurled him at Glomar’s head. Howls, snarls, and bloodcurdling curses filled the darkness, but she didn’t care. She leapt down into the street.
Eanrin tore at Glomar’s nose; Glomar snapped at Eanrin’s ears. Then both stopped midbrawl, realizing what had just happened.
“Dragon’s teeth!” Eanrin swore.
“She’ll be lost to us!” Glomar growled. He pushed the poet, who was once more a man, off of him, and they scrambled for precedence at the window. Pushing, pulling, they scrabbled up onto the sill and looked out. Both breathed in relief.
Imraldera sat in the middle of the street, collapsed on her knees, her shoulders and head bowed. But she was there. They climbed hastily out of the tower and crept on quiet, repentant feet behind her. Neither sp
oke but stood, waiting for her to acknowledge them in some way. She would not turn. They saw a shudder pass through her body, but otherwise she sat still.
“Is she . . . crying?” Glomar whispered to the cat-man.
Eanrin shrugged.
“Speak to her. Say somethin’ to . . . to make it right,” urged the captain.
“Why me?”
“You’re the poet. You’re the one with the words. Besides, she’s your responsibility, remember?”
Eanrin gave the captain a dirty look. But he took his cat form and, purring shamelessly, sidled up to the mortal maid. He bumped her elbow with his nose, adorable as a kitten, and rubbed his body around until his paws were in her lap. “Imraldera?”
Her face was pale, her eyes closed.
The cat wormed his way still more fully into her lap and trilled, “Don’t be cross. That’s just how Glomar and I are with each other. The whole rivalry business is all in good sport. We’re on a race, you understand. Whoever rescues Gleamdren first gets to continue wooing her while the other backs off. You see how it is?”
She opened her eyes slowly. He blinked up at her, as sweet and charming as he knew how to be. She licked her cracking lips. Then, raising her hands, she signed:
“I do not know your true name.”
He watched the finger movements like he might eye a buzzing fly. Sitting up on his haunches, he caught one of her hands between velveted paws and gave her fingertips a firm lick. “You know I don’t understand. Just nod yes or no. Are we friends?”
She sighed and tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Shooing the cat from her lap with no concern for his ruffled dignity, she leaned forward and started drawing in the dirt of the street. He watched her hands tracing lines and patterns.
The tip of his tail twitched impatiently. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
She nodded. Her jaw was set, and she shifted where she sat to broaden her drawing, giving as much detail as she could with her finger and dirt.
“Is this . . . is this the story of how you came to be by the River?” the cat hazarded, dancing backward out of the way of her arm.