“My sister,” she said, “I have found you.”
Fairbird staggered back, tripping over her waterskins and almost falling into the stream. Her heart raced with terror. Blasphemy! A woman with a voice! The Beast would descend upon them, and who would stop him? Not Wolf Tongue! No, though the Beast slay half the women of the village, the High Priest would not move to protect them.
“Sinful woman!” Fairbird signed, her eyes wide with terror. “Sinful, blasphemous, blight among your people! Is this why the Crescent Tribes sent you here? So you could hex us with your wicked tongue?”
The girl’s face was very still. What longing was in her eyes as she gazed upon the other girl throwing curses in her face! But at last Fairbird’s hands stilled and she stood panting in the stream. Then the stranger spoke again.
“Forgive me. I . . . I did not know how long I left you. My poor Fairbird! So alone.”
Fairbird stared. Her face went deathly pale. For the space of three breaths she did not move. Then she gnashed her teeth, and her hands tore the air as she signed: “Who sent you? Was it Wolf Tongue? Because I will not accept his advances! Who sent you to torment me with the memory of my sister?”
“Fairbird,” the stranger said, “I am your sister.”
“Liar!” Fairbird’s hand lashed the word like a curse. “My sister died ten years ago. Offered in blood debt to the Beast. She died in my place. She died and left me with the curse of guilt. She died and she left me!”
The stranger took a step forward, her hands outstretched. They were very alike, those two women. Neither tall, both slender, their dark hair falling away from faces full of sorrow. But in the one face there was hope, while in the other there was only despair.
Imraldera, still struggling with the newness of the words upon her tongue, said, “Fairbird, my darling—”
“Away from me!” Fairbird signed. She turned to flee, nearly falling over Frostbite as she went. She grabbed the dog by the ear and tugged, urging her to follow her back to the village, away from this woman with an unholy voice. Let the skin lie in the water and rot! She must get away, and she must not remember.
But Frostbite would not be moved.
The old dog, her mind as slowed by age as her body, stood with her lips drawn back. Her cloudy eyes could see little, and her ears did not know the voice of the stranger. But her nose . . . her nose was as good as it had ever been.
Suddenly the dog yelped. She tore from Fairbird’s grasp and flung herself upon the stranger. Fairbird gasped, thinking her lurcher would tear the girl’s throat out in her efforts to protect her, and she flung herself after, desperately trying to catch hold.
But the dog, still barking and yelping, stood with her paws on the stranger’s shoulders, licking her face and whimpering, her tail wagging as though it would break. The stranger wrapped her arms around the dog’s hulking body, burying her face in the gray, musty fur.
Fairbird stared. She had been betrayed so many times in life. First, her mother died before she could know her; then her sister was cruelly wrenched from her by a father who appeared as cold and heartless as stone. Only Frostbite had been true. Only Frostbite had remained by her side as the darkness of her god threatened to swallow the last shreds of hope she clutched for herself.
Now even Frostbite betrayed her. It was the final blow.
With a sob, she turned to flee.
“Wait!”
Fairbird stopped. Something in that voice compelled her to stay, to hear words that might be as arrows.
“I told you once,” said the stranger, “that when you heard me speak your true name, I would return to you. Will you hear me now? Will you let me speak the name that is truly yours? If I speak it, will you know me at last?”
Fairbird stood as silent as she had lived.
“Gift,” the stranger whispered, putting Frostbite gently from her and approaching Fairbird’s rigid form from behind. “Love Gift. Gracious Gift. Gift of my mother to me, to my father, to the worlds. That is your true name, Fairbird. You are my Gift.”
Fairbird’s hands trembled. She signed, “I killed my mother. I killed you.”
“You gave us reason to die, my darling. You gave us reason to die, and in that, you gave us reason to live.”
Her eyes stricken with tears, the silent girl turned to the one who spoke.
“My Fairbird,” whispered Starflower. “My sister.”
Then suddenly Fairbird was in her arms. She was a young woman now, but she felt no more than five years old as she buried her face in the shoulder of that stranger who was no stranger but who was in fact the dearest of her heart. She wept and felt the tears of her sister falling in her hair and down her neck. Frostbite, in her joy, pressed up against their legs until they fell over in a pile.
They lay together, the three of them, nobody speaking and nobody signing, trying to explain. Frostbite knew best. Let joy be joy without words! And they followed the old dog’s example.
But at last the time for stories came. The girls’ hands flew as they talked in the silent language. But at last Imraldera came to the end of hers, and she put her hands in her lap.
“The curse is broken,” she said out loud.
Fairbird shook her head. “I cannot believe it,” she signed. “How can a god die?”
“He was no god,” said her sister. “He was Faerie kind, a creature of the Gray Wood.”
“He has been our god for generations.”
“Sister, listen to me!” Imraldera took Fairbird’s face in her hands. She could still see the child whom she had snatched from Wolf Tongue’s grasp and whom she had told to sit by Frostbite and stay behind. Fairbird was grown up now, and so beautiful. What a terrible thing was the Faerie world, filled with immortals caring nothing for time! Eanrin had explained much to her on their journey to Redclay, things Imraldera had not wanted to understand.
It did not matter. The child Fairbird was gone, but Fairbird herself was present. And they had so little time.
“The curse is broken,” Imraldera said again. “You are free. You may speak as boldly as any man, and you can make them listen. You must tell them, Fairbird! You must tell the other women. It was the Giver of Names who freed you. It was he who gave you your name and now gives you a voice. Do you understand?”
Fairbird’s brow drew together. “But I cannot speak. I am not brave like you.”
“You can,” Imraldera said. “Open your mouth, sister. The time of slavery is ended.”
She placed her hands on Fairbird’s lips and parted them. And suddenly the other girl gasped as though drawing her very first breath. In her throat, like a rushing torrent, words sprang up and poured out. She found herself speaking, singing even, and though each word was halting on her tongue, they were loud and strong. In voices unlovely but full of joy, the two sisters sang songs their mother had once sung only in the silence of her heart.
When they were finished, Imraldera rose. “Frostbite,” she said, and the old dog came to her. Not the spry young pup she had rescued from Killdeer, but a tottering old dam. Yet her cloudy eyes were full of love and loyalty. Her soul had been awakened and it would not sleep again. “Guard Fairbird,” Imraldera said, stroking the dog’s head. “Keep her safe, as you have always done. The Beast is dead, and the people are free, but freedom can be so terrible when new! Keep her safe as long as you live.”
Then she turned to her sister and embraced her. “We may never meet again in this life,” she whispered.
“I mourned you these many years,” Fairbird replied, and her new voice trembled. “I will mourn no more. But please, Starflower, come back to me one day. I know you must go. I know you must follow the Giver of Names as you promised. But come back to me, at least once more.”
Imraldera kissed her sister’s cheek. And then they drew apart. Fairbird stood with Frostbite by her side and watched the young woman follow the stream to the gorge and then descend.
“The Beast is dead,” Fairbird whispered. How strange the words tasted.
“We are free.”
“So your name is Starflower?”
The two lonely travelers walked slowly along the Faerie Path winding through the Land. Imraldera, used to silence, did not speak and rarely looked at her companion. But Eanrin was not one for long silences. And the girl looked so down after her parting with her sister. A distraction was well in order. “Starflower,” he repeated. “Hmph. It’s very . . . ethnic, I suppose. I like Imraldera better. Mind if I keep it up, or are you going to insist on Starflower?”
Imraldera shook her head. There was little use in arguing the point, and she knew it. So she smiled and shrugged and continued on her way.
The poet grinned back. “Your sister is quite nice,” he said, seeking to lighten her heart. “She’ll do well, I believe. She’s gotten by for ten years without you, and I think the knowledge that you are alive and well will get her through many more. I know how you women are too! As soon as she gets used to having a voice, it’ll be all anyone can do to stop her! Take my lady Gleamdren, for instance. That lass can chatter a man’s ear off and still find more to say!”
Imraldera gave the poet a sideways glance. He was hiding something, she thought. Hiding behind his lively prattle and flippant ways. But she was a reader of hands and faces, and she saw something more behind his eyes.
“You . . .” She paused, struggling still to form the foreign words. “You have met the One Who Names Them.”
Eanrin’s face went white as a sheet. He swallowed and stared down at the Path for many strides. Imraldera watched his jaw clench and unclench as he considered what to say next. She reached out and lightly touched his arm. He came immediately to a halt, shifting his gaze from the ground to her hand but still not looking her in the eye.
“You faced the Beast for me,” she said. “You fought for me. I thought you were dead.” She smiled at him, though he did not see it. “You met the Giver of Names instead.”
Eanrin nodded.
“What did he say to you?”
And now it was the poet who was struck dumb. He found he could not yet speak of his encounter, of the words that had passed between him and the Lumil Eliasul, of the promise he had made.
“He showed you who you are, didn’t he?” Imraldera said. “And he showed you who you could be.”
“That . . . yes, that about covers it,” the poet said, his voice hoarse. He drew a long breath and spoke through grinding teeth. “Imraldera, I—”
“Do not be afraid, Eanrin,” Imraldera said, reaching up and placing her fingers on his mouth to quiet him. “He knows your true name. Even as I do. You have nothing to fear.”
Then she was moving on her way, progressing down the Faerie Path through the land of her birth. Eanrin fell in step behind.
“He is dead.”
Hri Sora stood on the brink of Omeztli’s rooftop. She felt the presence of her children behind her, and she did not need a look or word to know their story. She smelled Amarok’s blood.
“My love,” she hissed, spitting embers that fell into the darkness below. “My love is dead. I am safe.”
He had seen her vulnerable. He had made her his. And now he was gone.
“What need have I for wings?”
The Dragonwitch threw back her head and laughed out loud. Her children, standing in the shadows of the stairway, cringed back and hid themselves. The fountain of her fire rose to the sky, celebratory flames falling over the dead city in red and orange.
“I am the firstborn!” she cried. “Even wingless, I am powerful! Even wingless, my will cannot be thwarted! I am more dreadful than all my brothers and sisters. Those who trifle with me will know my wrath!”
So she laughed and danced and made merry. Until suddenly she stopped with a terrible sob and fell upon her knees. Oh, for the sweet relief of tears! She screamed, clutching her gut where the fire roiled.
It wasn’t enough!
She had been humiliated before the worlds. She had been made weak and pitiful. And though she was firstborn of all dragons, she had needed—it was poison even to think it!—she had needed a mortal woman to do her work for her.
Cursing, she spat out the venomous fumes of her inner furnace. Her children took flight, their tails tucked, hiding in the darkest recesses of the city. And they watched as Omeztli, the queen’s ancient tower, melted under Hri Sora’s flame and collapsed into a pile of molten rubble.
The Dragonwitch lay buried beneath the wreckage. The fire was consuming her mind, and she knew she would soon be lost to it once more. But before she went, she vowed:
“I will have vengeance on the mortal girl. On her and on all who have wronged me. When next I rise, they will burn!”
8
QUEEN BEBO STOOD before her long mirror, Lady Gleamdren at her elbow. “Take this, my dear,” said the queen and, removing the crown from her head, passed it to her cousin. Gleamdren obeyed and stepped back, her eyes round with surprise at what Bebo did next.
For the queen picked all the pins out of her knot of golden hair. With a shake of her head, she set it free, and gold cascaded in glorious bounty down her shoulders, down her back, flowing to the floor and behind her in a stream of light.
“There,” said the queen with a smile. “Let the secret of the Flowing Gold be secret no more.”
“Your Majesty!” cried Gleamdren, horrified. “What will Iubdan say? When the worlds know the secret of his great treasure, will you be safe?”
Bebo laughed, for she knew the true source of her cousin’s concern. Lady Gleamdren enjoyed the prestige of being one of three to know Iubdan’s secret. For long generations she had tended Bebo’s hair, tying it up in ribbons, securing it with pins, and hiding it beneath crown and veil so that none might guess at its radiance. With the secret out, full half of Gleamdren’s allure would fade. Bebo saw the pout forming on her cousin’s mouth, and though she well knew Gleamdren’s faults, she loved her dearly even so.
“I will be safe,” she said, patting the pretty maid’s cheek. “When the Faerie lords and ladies realize that the Flowing Gold is attached to the very head of Bebo, they will think twice before sending thieves with barber’s shears! And perhaps we shall have no more of dragons and witches endangering my people for the sake of a secret.”
So it was that Bebo swept down from her chambers to meet her husband beside Fionnghuala Lynn, and all the Merry People of Rudiobus gathered there beheld the shining river of her hair. Many sighs of wonder and, soon after, of understanding filled the air as they realized what Bebo revealed.
Iubdan’s thick brow shot up at the sight. “Well, I suppose I couldn’t keep it to myself forever,” he said, taking his wife’s hand and drawing it through the loop of his arm. “It was a grand game while it lasted! And if the Faerie folk set upon us and steal the Flowing Gold one strand at a time, you, my queen, even bald, will always be my greatest treasure.”
Bebo smiled and patted his hand. Then they turned to gaze across Gorm-Uisce, for they had felt the approach of one of their kind on the borders of their realm. All the court of Rudiobus lined up behind them, straining their eyes to see who sat upon Órfhlaith’s back as she skimmed the surface of the lake.
But Bebo’s gaze was downcast, and a smile played upon her mouth, for she knew already who came. So did Gleamdren, standing at the queen’s right hand. Her face was demure, but those near enough could hear her teeth grinding.
“What!” Iubdan exclaimed when the green-gold mare drew near. “Is that who I think it is?” He leapt forward into the shallow waters, little caring how he soaked his bejeweled sandals. “Eanrin, fool cat! Is that you? And do you—oh, Hymlumé have mercy!—do you bring yet another mortal maid to Rudiobus?”
Eanrin, his scarlet cloak and cap long gone, his white shirt browned and torn with travel, yet wore the brightest smile ever seen among the Merry People. With one arm, he waved to those gathered by the gate, while the other wrapped protectively around Imraldera’s waist. He lost his balance when Órfhlaith gave a sudden burst of speed; he would have land
ed in the lake had not Imraldera caught him in time. So it was with this undignified ending, one leg wrapped over the horse’s back, the rest of him scrambling for purchase, that Eanrin made his return to Rudiobus.
“My lord and king!” he cried, sliding from the mare’s back with a thump but righting himself and sweeping immediately into a deep bow. One would have thought he still wore his gold braid and velvet. “I return to you from far-off lands and bring good tidings!”
“Do you indeed?” Iubdan’s bushy eyebrow lowered as he inspected his bard. “Well, you’re a bit late when it comes to Gleamdren. Glomar brought her back safe and sound near a fortnight past. We feasted him proper, but you’ll have to write a ballad or some such in his honor as soon as you get the chance. Otherwise it’s not an official rescue. He said you were ensorcelled by a witch and unlikely to be heard from again.” His dark gaze shifted to Imraldera, still perched on Órfhlaith’s back. “Is this our witch, then?”
Imraldera blushed, but Eanrin shook his head and cried, “No indeed, good king, she is a heroine. Who among you—” He swept his arm as he addressed the gathered throng. For a moment, his gaze caught Gleamdren’s and he faltered. Her eyes were hooded like a snake’s. Licking his lips, he hurried on. “Who among you recalls the name of the shifter, Amarok?”
The response wasn’t as immediate as he would have liked. There was some muttering, someone whispering to his neighbor, “Was he the wolf? The one who disappeared into the Near World a while back?” The neighbor shrugged.
“Yes!” Eanrin cried, resolved to make an epic of the event despite his audience. “The dreadful Wolf Lord, bane of the Wood, scourge of the Near World!”
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call him a bane—”
“He is vanquished!” the poet persisted. “Yes, and vanquished by none other than the lovely maiden you see before you. Princess Imraldera, daughter of the mortal king in the Land Behind the Mountains.”