And Bebo said to him: “Are the gates to the Near World watched?”
The smile fell from Eanrin’s face. “Of course, my queen,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave them untended even to see bright Ruaine Hall once more. I know my duties, and I perform them well. Even now, though I am here before you, Dame Imraldera, my comrade-in-arms, watches over the gates to the Near World. No monster of Faerie will get past her to plague the mortal realm.”
“But Imraldera has gone from the Haven,” said Queen Bebo. “The stars have told me thus.”
The poet’s mouth opened. At first he could not speak. Then he cried out, “It can’t be true! She would never leave the gates unguarded! Only great duress could force her to do so, and who would dare set upon Dame Imraldera?”
“The Murderer,” Bebo replied. And even as all the color drained from the poet’s face, she leaned close and whispered in his ear:
“Not in vain the hope once borne
When flees the king to farther fight—
Dark and deepness hold no sway.
The brother dies, the lantern lights.”
7
MANY PATHS EXTENDED BEFORE ME. Enchanted Paths belonging to enchanted beings, leading off into the vast reaches of the Wood. I did not know which to choose, but choose I must, or the Wood would choose for me. I felt the cruelty beneath my bleeding feet, felt the maliciousness in the shadows. Unseen forces reached out grasping fingers as though to snare me, to draw me down into the black places, and I cried out in my terror.
Suddenly a strange voice sang in my mind. A voice I can scarcely recall now, though I know I heard it then. It was simple and small, but it held all hugeness inside it. And it whispered:
Won’t you follow me?
I turned then and saw a new Path open up before me. I did not know where it might lead, and perhaps it was a trap. But I took it, desperate for any guidance in this world between worlds. I could not run, for my legs were too weak and my feet too wounded, but I stumbled along as fast as I could.
Soon I came upon the Haven of Ashiun, rising tall and strong and bright out of the shadows of the Wood.
I called out even as I approached. “Brothers! Hear my plea!”
I did not know if they would be within. Perhaps they were off in the hideous mortal world, aiding the dying ones. But somehow I believed that the voice I had heard while in the depths of the Wood would not lead me wrong. So I called again and fell upon the door, pounding with my fists. “Hear me, brothers! Hear me!”
The door opened. I collapsed into a pair of strong arms. I felt the encircling of strength and comfort. For a spell, I lay there, weeping and resting at once. Then I looked up.
It was the first I beheld the face of Sir Etanun of the Farthest Shore. He was the most beautiful being I had ever seen.
Mouse didn’t have much of a bed.
He didn’t like to sleep with the kitchen boys in the nook behind the kitchens. So he made a place for himself in a broom cupboard near the hearth where it was warm, if cramped. Every night, exhausted after being yelled at from sunup to sundown for not understanding a word spoken to him, he fell asleep instantly, without a thought for comfort. Without even a thought for the faraway home he doubted he would ever see again.
But not tonight. Though he did not understand all that was happening within the busy confines of Gaheris’s walls, he felt the tension. The master of the house was dying, he had guessed. And the masters of surrounding lands had come to . . . to what? To take over rule? To fight for the right to sit in headship over these lands? He couldn’t guess. But he could almost smell the coming bloodshed, and his fear would not let him sleep, though he curled into a ball in his cupboard, squeezing his eyes tight.
“Find Etanun. Find the heir.”
He ground his teeth, trying to drive the voice from his memory. He was trying! In the name of the Fire, he was doing everything he could in this cold, dreadful land where everyone spoke gibberish and pale men of iron enclosed all life in their high stone walls!
“Fire burn,” he whispered between his teeth. “Fire purify—aaaaaah!”
His scream was stifled as someone clamped a hand over his mouth. Grabbed by the back of his tunic, he was hauled from the cupboard and plopped unceremoniously on his feet, flailing ineffectually against some unknown attacker. But whoever had grabbed him let him go without a fight, and he whirled about, fists clenched.
And found himself facing the scrubber.
“Well, little Mouse,” said his master with a grin, “you must come with me. The young lord has fallen ill.”
Mouse stared, his mouth agape. Then he said, “You do speak my tongue! You do understand me!”
“So much fuss,” said the scrubber with a shrug and, using his mop like a shepherd’s crook, prodded Mouse in the stomach. “Hurry up now. We haven’t much time.”