Eanrin gazed back at her, his expression shifting between an uncertain smile and an uncertain frown. Then he took her hand in both of his and raised it to his lips. “So it is decided! I am your servant.”
Imraldera blushed and hastily rose, brushing away the dark seeds left from her meal. With a motion of her hand, she pursued her way. She did not know this Wood. She did not understand the Paths she walked. She knew the Black Dogs flanked her. She knew as well that she hated walking the Path they chose for her.
But something had changed. The Path was no longer so dark at her feet, though the Midnight itself had not lifted. And when she raised her eyes to peer ahead, she thought she glimpsed golden light, distant but steadily shining. She thought of her dream and wondered if perhaps it was no dream after all.
And Eanrin, falling into step behind her, sang softly to himself:
“Oh, woe is me, I am undone,
In sweet affliction lying!
For my labor’s scarce begun,
And leaves me sorely sighing
After the maiden I adore,
Bravely marching to Death’s door. . . .”
The Wood gave way at last, and Eanrin, for the first time he could remember (though perhaps there was a forgotten time or two in the generations of his life) stood on the brink of the Near World.
The ocean lapped the shores at his feet. A narrow stretch of land extended out over those placid waters, leading toward the hazy horizon of tall mountains in the distance. Eanrin shook his head, surprised at a sight of such majesty here in the mortal realm. Odd, for though he smelled mortality all around him, it offended his nose much less than it once had.
Imraldera stepped from his side down to the water’s edge. The ocean wind caught at her long hair and the tatters of her white gown, billowing them behind her like contrasting flags. She looked smaller even than before, offset by the vast expanse of water and those looming peaks. But there was strength in the set of her shoulders.
Midnight fell as the Black Dogs stepped from the Wood. Eanrin shuddered, glancing from right to left as they drew alongside him. But their eyes were fixed upon the girl; Eanrin might as well not have existed. One of them sniffed loudly, raising its ugly nose. Then it howled, a low, mournful sound.
Imraldera turned. With swift motion of her hand, she ordered the monster silent. It crouched to the ground, its body quivering, a black, voiceless shadow.
The strange party made their way along the isthmus, Eanrin avoiding the water lapping on either side as much as he avoided the Dogs. These faded into little more than phantom wraiths, invisible against the night. The mortal world was no place for beings such as they.
The journey must have been long, but they followed a Faerie Path, which carried them swiftly across the distances. At length they stood at the far end of the isthmus, and towering above, sheer and impassable, were the mountains. Eanrin sensed what these were in the Far World of Faerie. Giants! Stone giants! Nothing more than rock and silt in this mortal realm of dust and decay; yet their nature remained at their core.
“The Circle of Faces,” the poet whispered. He knew now where they were. Turning to Imraldera, he exclaimed, “You are from the Land Behind the Mountains! I thought no living creature dwelled therein, not anymore. What a marvel you are, my girl, to have found your way out! Even I know that nothing enters and nothing leaves the Hidden Land.” He scratched his head then, making a face. “Which will make things a bit difficult for us, yes? If we are to venture in, I do hope you know the way.”
She nodded. With firm steps that belied her quailing heart, she led the poet and the Dogs to that place where the rivers escaped from their subterranean way. The rushing water nearly overwhelmed the isthmus. But Eanrin spotted what the receding tide slowly revealed: a small stretch of dry land leading into that dark cavern. It was narrow indeed, but it looked solid enough. He touched Imraldera’s arm and pointed. She nodded, unsurprised.
Then she turned to the Dogs. They had hidden themselves from Eanrin’s eyes, deeming him useless. But Imraldera saw them clearly. She signed a command she had used for Frostbite and her father’s lurchers: “Stay.”
The Black Dogs sat. One growled. One faintly whined. Otherwise, they were like stone.
“Are they not coming with us?” Eanrin asked, uncertain if he was relieved or dismayed. After all, as dreadful as the monsters were, they were a known dread. Whomever the Flame at Night had sent them to face—whomever she could not face herself—was unknown and therefore more to be feared.
Imraldera beckoned to the poet and, moving carefully, crossed the land bridge into the cavern. Eanrin followed, leaving behind the Midnight to step into darkness deeper still. But this, at least, was a natural dark. He smelled earth and dirt, and thought for a moment that Glomar would have been much better suited to this mission.