He turned to Imraldera then and helped her down from Órfhlaith. She glared at him. How many times had she told him she was no princess? But he only smiled back and presented her to Iubdan and Bebo. She bowed to them after the manner of her people and signed “chieftain” to each.
“Hmph,” said Iubdan. “Did you run her beneath the caorann tree, just to be sure?”
“I assure you, my king,” said Eanrin, “she is as mortal as they come.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“It’s true this time!”
“Is it?” When Queen Bebo spoke, all others silenced. She stepped forward and placed her childlike hands upon Imraldera’s face, tilting her chin up so that she might look in her eyes. Imraldera had thought that she gazed into the faces of ancients when she met Eanrin and the Flame at Night and Wolf Tongue. But as she and the little Queen of Rudiobus studied each other, Imraldera began to tremble. This face, she realized, was as old as the sun and the moon.
“Brave Starflower,” whispered Bebo. “You looked upon the Beast and saw worth. I said that only true love would rescue Lady Gleamdren. Rescue Gleamdren, yes, and so much more!”
And to the surprise of every watching eye, Bebo leaned forward and kissed Imraldera upon the forehead. “Welcome to Rudiobus, sister,” she said.
The people of the mountain cheered. Eanrin beamed, as proud as though he’d done something grand himself, and once more caught Gleamdren’s stare. He ducked his head and stepped around to the other side of his monarchs. Iubdan threw up his hands and said, “Well, that does it, then! The girl is welcome, and so are you. I do hope you have a song up your sleeve, cat, or I’ll demote you and make Glomar Chief Poet. Just see if I won’t!”
The Hall of Red and Green had never before seen such dancing or such music. The torchlight shining on Bebo’s golden hair reflected in the eyes of all the revelers, driving them near mad with joy and merriment. Oh, to be subjects to such a queen as she! And to be ruled by such a king! So they danced their wild dances and sang their wild songs, sometimes in animal shape, sometimes clothed as men and women.
Imraldera stood to one side, away from the throng, and watched with eyes darting like a frightened doe. These dances were nothing like the dances of her people. They were manic yet full of laughter. And Eanrin, she thought, was the wildest of them all.
He took the center of the hall at one point and, at Iubdan’s behest, burst into a song he claimed to have composed on the spur of the moment.
“Oh, Gleamdren fair, I love thee true,
Be the moon waxed full or new!
In all my world-enscoping view
There shineth none so bright as you.”
Imraldera heard murmurs of approval all around her. Eanrin was, after all, the Prince of Poetry, so his work must be genius. Though she considered herself no expert, Imraldera could not help wondering if the song was as brilliant as all that. Gleamdren’s reaction certainly wouldn’t lead one to think so. Imraldera watched as, after the poet ended with another of his elaborate bows, he swept up to the dais, where Gleamdren stood behind Queen Bebo’s throne. He pressed his hand to his heart and, from what Imraldera could make of his face from across the room, spouted professions of undying devotion.
Imraldera frowned. Eanrin’s masks were remarkably good. It was difficult for her, especially on so short an acquaintance, to read his face and hands. But she thought whatever words he said were full of color but no substance. He was playing a part and playing it well, but the truth of the matter she could not guess.
Gleamdren’s reactions were as plain as the sky. She gave the poet one withering look, then turned up her nose and marched away without a single word.
Eanrin cringed and hunched his shoulders, the picture of shame. The next moment he was back on the dance floor, laughing and singing with his brothers. What a strange creature he was. So cat and yet so human.
All these people were strange to Imraldera. Every one of them was both man and animal, just as Wolf Tongue had been. But unlike Wolf Tongue, there was no malice in these merry faces. They were as bright and frothy as bubbles on a stream.
This is no place for me.
Imraldera sighed as the thought came to her. But it was true. When Eanrin had offered to bring her to his homeland so that she might recover from her journey before setting off again, she had willingly agreed. But she knew now that this was not right. Her thoughts drifted longingly to home and hearth . . . to Fairbird and Frostbite . . . to her mother, long dead, and yes, to her father. All those dear ones who had loved her and whom she had loved. They were her home. But they were far from her now.
She was Starflower no longer. She was Dame Imraldera, Knight of the Farthest Shore. From this day on, her journey would be her home.
She slipped from Ruaine Hall, down the long paths of Rudiobus Mountain. It was cold here compared to her homeland. The people of the mountain had given her clothes like theirs and taken away her mother’s ruined wedding dress. The sleeves of her new gown were long and draping, edged in gold. Rich and beautiful, this gown, but restricting, she thought. And it did not cut the chill of the caverns. Nevertheless, these corridors were brightly lit and decorated with greenery. So different from the tunnel beneath the Circle of Faces!
No one stopped her as she made her way back to Fionnghuala Lynn. Guards saluted her as she went. She smiled shyly to them and hurried on.
Órfhlaith waited for her at the gate.
“I thought you would come,” said the mare.
Imraldera, growing used to men’s speech in the mouths of animals, startled when she realized that Órfhlaith had spoken in the language of horses. Yet the words had translated in her mind, and she understood perfectly. She bowed politely. “I . . . I wish to return to the Wood,” she said.
“Of course,” said Órfhlaith. “You have a duty to your Master now.”
Imraldera nodded. She climbed onto the mare’s back and clung to her scarlet mane. Órfhlaith turned, and her dainty hooves made little ripples as she started out across Gorm-Uisce.
“Wait!”
Órfhlaith drew to a halt, and Imraldera turned to look back. She saw the poet in cat form standing there on the lake’s edge, his tail straight up and his eyes round. “Imraldera!” he cried and suddenly he was a man again. With a curse, he plunged into the lake and waded after them. The water was up to his knees by the time he reached Órfhlaith, and the mare laughed at him.
“Wet!” Eanrin snarled. “Every time I’m with you, I end up wet! Give me a hand up, why don’t you?”
“Why?” Imraldera asked. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No,” she said quickly. “You can’t. I must return to the Wood. I must find the Haven of my Master and restore it—”
“And you think you’re going to do that alone?” The poet rolled his eyes. “You’ll end up lost in a devil’s pit before you’ve gone two paces. Or you’ll stop and drink enchanted waters, or you’ll take directions from the old man at the Crossings, or any number of the fool things you mortals are inclined to.”
“Eanrin—”
“I won’t hear of it! You need a guide. Someone who knows the workings of this world.” His face was as woebegone as any kitten’s in a bath. “Please, my dear, give me your hand, and let’s have no more of this debate.”
Imraldera pursed her lips. Then, shaking her head and telling herself she would regret this, she gave the poet her arm and, with a great deal more splashing, helped him onto the mare’s back. They crossed the lake and dismounted on the edge of the Wood.
It was so vast. Imraldera stood on its edge, peering into the shadows through which she could see so little. She felt as though she struggled to see her future, a future she had never imagined, more frightening than death. And yet she felt that now, for the first time, she lived. She was the Silent Maid no longer. She had a voice, and with it she would speak the truth, even in the very depths of the Gray Wood.
“What do yo
u think, my girl?” Eanrin said, folding his arms. “Are you ready for another adventure?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
“Me either.” Eanrin grinned. “But the glorious unknown waits for no one! Shall we off?”
Imraldera’s stern mouth relaxed, if only for a breath, into a smile. Then she strode forward, disappearing into the foliage. The poet meowled and darted after, and the two of them vanished into the shadows. Órfhlaith, standing a while on the edge of Rudiobus, thought she caught the faintest whisper of the poet’s song:
“Oh, woe is me, I am undone,
In sweet affliction lying!
For though my labor’s scarce begun,
It leaves me sorely sighing
After the maiden I adore,
Who marches bravely to Death’s door.
Be bold, my heart! Now is the hour!
You’ve dared to love the Maid Starflower.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
MANY OF THE THEMES found in Starflower were inspired by a beautiful poem written by Francis Thompson. The poem is called “The Hound of Heaven,” and Thompson succinctly (after the manner of poets) expresses so much of what I want to say rather less succinctly (after the manner of novelists) in the story I just shared with you. I encourage you to read the poem in full but thought I’d include the first stanza for you here:
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titantic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat—and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet—
“All things betray thee, who betrayest Me.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anne Elisabeth Stengl makes her home in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband, Rohan, a passel of cats, and one long-suffering dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys Shakespeare, opera, and tea, and studies piano, painting, and pastry baking. She studied illustration at Grace College and English literature at Campbell University. She is the author of Heartless, Veiled Rose, Moonblood, and Starflower. Heartless and Veiled Rose have each been honored with a Christy Award.
TALES OF GOLDSTONE WOOD
* * *
Heartless
Veiled Rose
Moonblood
Starflower
COMING SUMMER 2013
THE NEWEST
TALE OF GOLDSTONE WOOD
Dragonwitch
Timeless fantasy that will keep you spellbound.
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Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
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Anne Elisabeth Stengl, Starflower
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