“But really,” Eanrin muttered to himself, “is that any of my business?”
órfhlaith would expect a report, as would Iubdan and Bebo, who, even in the midst of celebration, must have heard the voices of the Black Dogs baying. They would even now be standing by Fionnghuala Lynn, awaiting news. He had best investigate, at least discover if the woman lived.
He approached her, placing his feet gently so as to make no sound. She did not stir. Even as he drew near, he did not think she breathed, she lay so still. No features were visible beneath her hair. Ragged, colorless garments covered her body, and what little he could see of her skin was just as colorless. She was slight, gaunt even. He put out a tentative finger and touched her shoulder.
He hissed, drawing back quickly. A blister swiftly developed on his fingertip.
Something was wrong. His nostrils flared as he drew another long whiff of her scent. She absolutely reeked of humanity. But why would her skin burn? He stepped back, and his heart raced. Did she suffer some dreadful fever? It was not unlikely here in the Wood. Humans reacted strangely to many of the plants or beings dwelling here. She may have caught a burning curse or some disease, neither of which would affect Eanrin. He had no reason to fear, he told himself again and again.
Yet he could not still his beating heart. What if she wore a glamour?
He raised his gaze to the caorann tree under which the woman lay. These trees were known to protect against witchcraft and enchantments. It was said their berries would reveal the truth of all but the deepest spells. If this woman was a witch wearing a glamour to disguise her true nature, lying beneath the caorann tree would be a mistake. The berries fallen in her hair would swiftly dissolve her spell.
Only one creature, so far as Eanrin knew, could cast an enchantment strong enough to deceive the caorann. Everything in him told him to flee. But his curiosity was so intense that he stood unmoving.
After all, he had never seen a dragon.
There were many known to stalk the worlds of Faerie. The most infamous, of course, was the Flame at Night, scourge of the mortal realm, who had once been a Faerie queen herself. But there were possibly hundreds of other minor dragons, or so the rumors had it.
His eyes as round as moons, he approached the woman again. Once more he put out a finger but did not touch her right away, trying to feel the heat emanating from her body. The air was cold all around her. Had he imagined the burning? But no, his blistered finger was no lie. Frowning, he touched her again, lightning fast.
Nothing.
Licking his lips, Eanrin rested his finger on her shoulder for a longer moment before drawing back. Still neither heat nor sign of life. He grabbed her shoulder fully, and she did not burn him, nor did she move.
Not a dragon, then, he decided. He must have been mistaken. Perhaps she did indeed suffer from a curse that made her sometimes burn to the touch? Stranger things had happened in the Far World.
Eanrin felt beneath the tangled masses of hair to find the stranger’s neck. There was no pulse, none at all. He took hold of her shoulders and rolled her over into his arms. Her face lolled to one side, half covered in her long hair, which was as colorless as the rest of her. He put an ear to her mouth and nose but could discern no breath.
“Are you dead, then?” he asked and received no answer. He had rarely been so near to death. It did not frighten so much as fascinate and simultaneously appall him. “You appear remarkably dead-ish, at least. Perhaps I should just leave you here to the Dogs.”
He realized, suddenly, that he had heard not a single note of the Black Dogs’ baying since he stepped into the Wood. Odd . . . Should they not be even now bearing down upon their prey? He sniffed the air but could catch no scent other than the dominating smell of mortality. Shivering, he looked down at the woman again and brushed the hair back from her face.
She was strangely beautiful. Too beautiful, he thought, to be mortal, despite her lack of color. Rather like a sketch before the pigment had been added, every shadow and contour perfectly defined but unfinished. There was a hardness to her lines, however, a certain set to her jaw and about her lower lip as well, which should have detracted from her beauty.
Somehow it didn’t matter. She was beautiful enough to make his heart lurch.
But was she even alive?
He could picture Fionnghuala Lynn’s falls alight with torches as the Merry People awaited his return. Iubdan would be anxious for news, and Bebo hardly less so. Eanrin needed to make a decision—either bear the woman back across the lake or leave her here.