“What . . . what secret?” The fire in her temples was mounting. Thinking was agony, as was remembering. Perhaps she should flame it out and destroy this creature, destroy this foul cage, and sink into forgetfulness.
“What secret?” The tiny woman flung up her hands, then planted them on her hips, shaking her head. “See here, you stole me away from my home because you desire the fabled Flowing Gold. I am one of only three who know its whereabouts, therefore—”
“Why should I desire gold?”
Gleamdren blinked. “How should I know?”
Hri Sora pressed her hands to her forehead. Her breath came in short pants. “I desire . . . many things. But not gold.”
Lady Gleamdren tilted her head to one side. “If you don’t want the gold, why bother kidnapping me? Pure sport? Well, you’ll have plenty of that, I can assure you. I expect no fewer than two dozen brave suitors have set forth from Rudiobus by now. Stalwart heroes bent on my rescue, fired with the passion of their adoration for . . . well, for me.” She simpered prettily. “I have quite the assortment of beaux, you see. They’ll all be in a state now that I’ve been torn from the bosom of my homeland. How do you like the notion of two dozen or more heroes bringing war to your demesne?”
For a long time, the Flame at Night stood silent, warring against her own inner furnace. When at last she spoke, her voice was so hot that the air about her mouth shimmered.
“In my day,” she said, “I have swallowed more than a hundred heroes in a single breath. Armies of every nation, every world, have set upon me with arrows, with engines, with weapons beyond your imagination. These I have devoured.”
She stood, her arms wrapped about her belly, where the depths of her flame flared into greater, more awful life. Her voice rose even as she forgot to whom she spoke. “The warriors of Etalpalli, winged and helmed, spears in hand, flocked to me in angry legions, ready to tear me apart, to mount my head upon my own city gates! I, who ruled them. I, who ate them. Ate them and burned their city, for they were mine to devour, and it was mine to burn!”
Her eyes squeezed tight, and when they again flared open, sparks flew. Flames ringed her eyelids. Lady Gleamdren screamed at the sight and covered her face, though the iron cage kept away the shower of fire that fell about her.
“You see, little creature with your laughing face,” Hri Sora said, “I do not care for whatever sport you may bring upon my realm. Even without my wings, I am the most glorious of my Father’s children! But what—”
She broke off, bending double with the pain in her gut. For a moment she was lost, perhaps never to return from this agony. She struggled against it. In a barely audible whisper she gasped, “What shall I do? I must have my wings!”
Then she was gone. The flames swallowed her once more. With a roar that tore the sky and brought rocks tumbling from the higher towers of her realm, she spewed fire from her belly. All memory was gone, all plots and plans. Lady Gleamdren, who lay prostrate on the floor of her cage, watched between her fingers as the dragon spat and writhed in the agonies of her burning.
“Lord Lumé love us!” Gleamdren whispered, though she could not hear her own voice above the dragon’s din. “She’s quite mad.”
When at last the Flame at Night fell spent upon the tower roof, her body smoking and ash spewing from her tongue, Gleamdren heard these words gasped from a tortured throat:
“Amarok. My love.”
Then she was still. She did not sleep, for dragons never know rest. But she lay quiet for a time, and Gleamdren sat in silence in the middle of the cage, keeping well away from the iron bars. She realized, with a sinking heart, that she was likely to be here for a long, long time.
She wondered if she’d got ash on her face.
6
THE SNARL OF A TREE is unlike anything else in the worlds. It is deeper than a lion’s roar, more piercing than an elephant’s bugle. It slices through the senses, striking fear into every beating heart.
This tree snarled and three roots burst from the soil like enormous witch’s hands, gnarled fingers grasping. One root went for Eanrin, another for Glomar, and the third for the hatchet in Glomar’s hand.
None found what they sought, however, for a tree, no matter how angry, is never agile. The moment its snarl interrupted their argument, both poet and captain vanished. Anyone observing would have seen instead a bright orange tomcat with a plume of a tail streaking one direction and a lumbering badger, all silver and black, bowling his way through the undergrowth opposite. The roots, which were snatching at man-shaped objects, found only empty air. But the tree continued roaring, its roots blindly reaching after them, and the two animals continued running until far beyond that hateful sound.
At last the cat made himself halt. He stood a moment, his hair on end, his eyes saucer-round, then turned and began to groom his tail. This done, he sat with his front paws together and his ears pricked, pretending to any who might be watching (one never knew in the Wood) that his heart wasn’t racing double-time. When at last he could make himself breathe normally, he raised a white paw and gave it a lick.
“Well, that does it for Glomar, then,” he said to himself. “Gave him a good shock, didn’t it? And he’s run off in the wrong direction! Probably still trying to follow the Black Dogs’ scent, poor fool. He’ll get twisted up in moments, and I’ve got the advantage on him for miles. So much for rivalry.”
Somehow, this wasn’t as comforting as it might have been. The cat slicked back his whiskers thoughtfully. To all appearances, he might have been dozing at a hearthside on a summer’s noon, not just escaped being pulverized by a tree given to righteous anger. Usually, if the cat pretended enough indifference to circumstances and people around him, he began to believe it, which made life simpler.
But he could not convince himself that he liked being in the Wood alone.
Until today, he had never been uneasy exploring the byways of the Between. Many an adventure he had met in his time, and on more than one occasion he had come close to losing more than a tuft of fur. Spooks and monsters aplenty could be found in the Wood, and the cat was happy to root them out. Danger added flavor to a life otherwise far too long, and he was never afraid. At least never before.
But then, never before had he seen the Hound.
The cat shivered, wishing he had not allowed that thought to slip through. The vision he’d glimpsed the night before pressed upon his memory. The slender but powerful body; the great head held high as though crowned.
With a meowl, he shook himself hard and dropped the semblance of a cat, assuming his man’s shape once more. It was not a drastic shift. It was as though the cat turned his head and, in turning, revealed a new but natural view of himself. Man to cat, cat to man: It was all the same for him.
He drew a long breath and slowly let it out. “Don’t think about it, Eanrin,” he told himself. “It was a trick of the light, that’s all. You heard the Black Dogs, and the dragon’s spell was working on your mind. You invented the rest of it. Curse that lively imagination of yours!”
The sound of his own voice calmed him. He even managed to laugh. The notion of that one taking an interest in the Chief Bard of Iubdan? Incredible! Unbelievable, so why bother believing it?
“You have worries enough,” he told himself, getting to his feet and brushing leaves and dirt from his cloak. “No time to consider this foolishness. You have a demesne to infiltrate!” This thought was enough to drive all other concerns from his mind, at least momentarily.
Cozamaloti. His lips thinned as he considered the name and what he knew of that gate. Faerie gates can take many forms and substances, depending on the need of the demesne. He could not guess what this one might look like, and it troubled him that Glomar knew. All Eanrin knew for certain was that it was the only way into Etalpalli.
Cozamaloti had been locked, Eanrin recalled, by the last King of Etalpalli. Presumably the last queen had left those locks in place even after she abandoned her realm and became the Flame at Nig
ht. Locks or no, Cozamaloti had been unable to withstand her return. Though turned dragon, she had retained her rule, and her demesne would not dare to prevent her reentrance.
Anyone else trying to pass, however, would find their way much more difficult.
“Only true love,” Queen Bebo had said, would save Lady Gleamdren. Eanrin believed there was nothing to worry about. Never was a love so true as his! Gleamdren was meant to be his wife, so naturally he was in love with her. He needn’t worry about Glomar’s silly threats and omens. Need he?
“Don’t think on it!” Eanrin commanded himself. “Watery death, indeed. What does an old badger know about such things? He’s been listening to rumors, or he’s confusing it with some other story he’s heard. No matter. He’s long gone off in the wrong direction, trailing those fool Dogs. Everyone knows that the only way to Etalpalli is by the River, so it’s off to the River I go!”
With a determination found only in a cat that has absolutely set its mind on something, Eanrin proceeded through the forest, following his nose toward water. After a quick search for a safe Path, he found one fit for the folk of Rudiobus, a Path probably built by one of the Merry People long ages ago, or at least by someone friendly with King Iubdan. This Path, he sensed, would lead him safely enough.
The trees melted away as he walked, and he covered leagues in a stride. Such is the magic (as some might call it) of Faerie Paths. A journey that would have taken a mortal man hours, if not days, constituted little time at all for the bard. Only when the music of running water caught his attention did he step from the Path back into the shadows of the forest. The trees became solid once more, not the vaporous phantoms they had been.
The River ran just ahead. Though the Wood itself was gloomy, the River was bright and cheerful. Not friendly, necessarily. Its cheer was of the mischievous kind. Eanrin was not taken in by the smiles its watery surface wore.
He nodded as he approached its bank, and the River laughed back. It was in a jolly mood, Eanrin could tell, though somewhat distracted. All the better. If it was distracted, it would have little time to pester him. He need only follow its course, and so long as he did not allow himself to be drawn aside, he knew he would come at last to Etalpalli.
He took a step. Then he froze.
Not twenty paces down the River stood the Hound.
He was the size of a pony, perhaps a horse. His coat was like white silk but with hints of gold where the reflection of the River gleamed upon it in shivering patterns. His head, viewed in profile, was long and narrow with an arched muzzle. The shoulders were powerful, the feet huge with claws that could tear into the hardest turf in pursuit. He was a creature made for coursing, for running down his prey and rendering it immobile.
He directed his gaze across the water, on into the far Wood, or perhaps looking into a world the poet could not see. He did not look at Eanrin, not yet. The poet’s knees began to tremble. Any moment, the creature could turn and see him.
Eanrin could not wait for that moment.
He spun about so fast, he almost unbalanced into the River. Then he was a cat, running as swiftly as his four legs could carry him, streaking along the riverbank, leaping damp, moss-covered rocks, stumps, and debris washed from unimaginable places. There was no time to be afraid. When he was safe, he would have the luxury of fear, but now there was only running, running, running as fast as he could.
Was he pursued? He dared not look back. But he must! Were those graceful limbs, in deliberate, unhurried chase, set upon his tail? That majestic head bent to the scent, eyes fixed upon his quarry? He must know! He dared not look. But he must know!
The cat leapt for a tree near the water’s edge. He expected to feel teeth tearing into his back even as he scrambled for higher cover. He reached the lowest branches safely, however, and there turned and, from this vantage, looked back the way he had fled.
The Wood was empty behind him. Only the River flowed past, chuckling to itself as it went.
Was that a flash of gold among yonder trees?
The cat did not wait for a second look. A hiding place in a tree’s boughs would not stop that Hound, not for a moment.
He dropped to the ground and continued his flight, speeding over the terrain until his paws bled. Stick to the River! he told himself. Otherwise, in his madness, he might set foot on a Path he did not wish to take. No point in running himself into a trap just to flee that Hound. But he must get away! Stick to the River and don’t look back!
If the Hound caught him, he would lose everything. If the Hound caught him, he would swallow him whole. Not just his physical body . . . no, no. Much worse than that.
When the Hound caught his quarry, he swallowed it down to the essence of the soul. There would be nothing left of Eanrin, nothing at all.
The River rocks could tear the cat’s feet to ribbons, and still he would not slow. He would run the rest of his long, long life, run until eternity ran out.
Or so he thought.
He took a turn in the River, scrambling to round the bend, and encountered a body lying on the bank. He should have kept going. Years later, he would often wonder what would have happened if he had followed his natural instincts, leapt over that fallen form, and sped upon his way unheeding.
Instead, he came to a scrambling halt, just before his weary paws trod upon the person’s arm. And he swore violently.
“Dragon’s spittle and flame! What kind of fool do you take me for?”
Lying on the River’s edge, collapsed with her arms and the ends of her hair trailing in the water, was a young mortal girl.
Someone was kissing her face.
The knowledge came to Hri Sora before she was truly conscious. She felt the kisses on her cheek, on her forehead, and they were tender. Her body shuddered in revulsion before her mind was even awake, a natural reaction against affection.
Who was kissing her?
The question was the first coherent thought that returned to her fire-blackened mind. She could not remember her own name or where she was, but that question forced itself upon her angrily, demanding an answer. Was it—
She sat up with a snarl. “Amarok!”
He was not there.
Her eyelids were heavy, but she forced them open. She wasn’t inside the dark hut on the hill. Rather, she lay upon an empty street. The stones were hot beneath her, pleasantly so. Her dragon spirit relished the heat and the pain, though her woman’s body suffered from it.
Shaking herself and wiping the memory of the kisses off her cheeks, she cast about to get her bearings. Ah yes! Her city. Her demesne. It was dead now, just as she was, but like her, it was reborn in this monstrous form. Burned beyond all recognition, it reflected its mistress to perfection.
Hri Sora smiled. How she had loved her city, once upon a time. How she hated it now! But it was hers more than ever. Hate was a fearful binding.
She got to her feet. It took time to recognize where she stood, on Ehikatl Road. This road had led straight through the city once, from the Omeztli Tower to Itonatiu. But it wasn’t a road intended for walking. Hri Sora swore as she took her first step. The Sky People had never walked these ways; even the fledglings had flown.
Yet here she was now, picking her way along like a guest of the city, or an enemy. But she was no enemy. The city belonged to her! The inhabitants, they had been the enemy when they dared to fly when she could not.
She must get her wings back.
A shadow caught her eye. She turned and caught a glimpse of a small form darting into hiding behind one of the towers. The riddle was answered; she now knew the source of the kisses.
“Away with you!” she cried, flinging up her arms, tearing at the air with her talon fingers. “Out of my sight, monsters!”
She received no answer, and this was good. The creatures had fled, then. They were useful beasts, but they looked too much like their father.
She continued up the road, uncertain why. Trapped in a woman’s body, exhausted from a fire that was too p
owerful for this form, she struggled once more to regain her memory. She could not yet recall Gleamdren or the Flowing Gold, so she wandered without aim, feeling the death of her city beneath her bare feet. What a malevolent force Etalpalli had become! She felt the hunger in its stones. Helping her destroy its inhabitants had whetted its taste for death. But no living creatures remained aside from Hri Sora. And of course her children. They, however, could not be eaten, for they were of her own flesh, heirs to Etalpalli.
She’d have to provide more food for her city in time.
The road turned unexpectedly. Why? In olden times, it had run straight from Moon Tower to Sun Tower. Hissing, Hri Sora took hold of the city with her mind, trying to wrench it back. But then she saw where the turn had brought her.
The tombs.
Hri Sora cried out at the sight. The tombs of the Kings and Queens of Etalpalli! Tall and grand and horrible were they, especially now with all their green growth stripped away. The dragon woman turned wildly, her gaze flying about her to see the names inscribed above the door of each tomb. Faerie kings and queens were not meant to die! Yet here the beautiful immortals lay, their remains secreted away in darkness. Here lay her mother, her father. And . . . oh!
Hri Sora fell to her knees, hands pressed to her cheeks. Before her, looming to the tortured red sky, was the tomb of Ttlanextu. Her brother.
She could not cry. She had been a dragon far too long, dying twice in fire. The tears she might have shed were long since burned away. So she sat, hollow and empty, before that awful edifice. Once, long ago, a little Faerie queen, her head bowed with the weight of her new crown, had carved that name above the solemn doorway. That Queen of Etalpalli had cried; this one did not.
Shaking her head, Hri Sora forced herself to stand and turn away. A new and more terrible sight met her eyes.