Starflower (35 page)

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!”

Q
UEEN
B
EBO
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 landed 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.”

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.