“Lumé’s crown!” he swore. “What is this horror?”
They stood on the slope just above the Place of the Teeth. In the cold light of the sun, the red bloodstains upon the stones showed darkly. The Teeth tore at the sky, and from them Eanrin felt the force of the darkness holding the Hidden Land in its grip.
Indeed, Imraldera could be no princess. No one could rule a land like this. No one, that is, save a Faerie imposter.
Eanrin understood, suddenly, the power behind the curse that kept Imraldera silent. A Faerie beast had crept from the Far World and stolen this land to make a false demesne. He had set up these stones, fed them with the blood of sacrifices, and turned this realm of mortals into his hunting grounds. He had made himself a god among the weaker beings. Wrenching the land from their power, he had bound it to his spirit in ways it was never meant to be bound.
It was a breaking of the Old Laws, a crime against Faerie lords and ladies. A crime against all worlds!
Eanrin turned to Imraldera. Her arms were wrapped about herself, and she stared down at the dreadful stones. The poet looked at her scarred wrists, from which he had cut those cords; then he looked at the central stone. He knew, or guessed at least, what had happened. The Beast had demanded this girl as the next sacrifice. He would have taken her blood or . . . or possibly more.
Fury rose like fire in Eanrin’s breast. He strode down to the dreadful stones and struck them with his fists. “Evil, evil curse at your birth!” he shouted.
Imraldera cringed and backed away. Did Eanrin, now that he knew of this place, also believe in the curse? He was not of this world, after all. Perhaps he understood the Beast. Perhaps he sided with the god of the Land and also pronounced women a plague of nature.
Perhaps she had no friend.
Kneeling, she took up a stone. She had come this far. If he, her only companion, turned on her, so be it. She would fight! Fairbird must be saved, and the Beast must meet his end. Eanrin could not stand in her way.
The poet turned, and his face was that of a fierce animal ready to tear into its prey. Imraldera’s heart plunged to her stomach, and she braced herself, ready to hurl her stone as the cat-man strode back toward her.
Then he spoke: “The Faerie Beast will know we have breached his territory. It is the way of it, even in a false demesne. They set up protections on their borders, and they sense when those protections are broken.”
Imraldera’s grip on the stone relaxed. She drew a shuddering breath and nodded.
“We must be prepared,” Eanrin continued. “I wish you could tell me everything. Curse the monster for taking your voice! But I can guess at most of it, I think. And some, perhaps, I do not want to know.”
He drew a deep breath and turned from Imraldera to gaze down into the Hidden Land. She could strike his head with her weapon. She knew where to hit so that he would fall senseless to the ground, never to move again.
She closed her eyes, whispered a prayer, and let the stone she held drop to her feet. She must trust someone. If she was wrong and Eanrin proved false, so be it. She would not live her life in constant fear of men.
Eanrin turned slightly at the crack of the falling stone. Again, he guessed at many things but chose not to look around. He had made his decision. He would see this adventure through, no matter what became of him in the end.
4
THE LAND WAS BLOODIED with war. Men fought brutal battles, brother slaying brother in a hopeless quest for supremacy. No man could reign supreme over this land that belonged to the Beast. The blood spilled by each warrior poured into the ground and fed the power of the dark god.
And the curse of silence held the women mute. Even if they dared think, “Surely there must be another way!” they could not speak it. They were slaves, shadows passing through the years of their short existences, unable to change what might be.
The season for campaigns was high, and the men were away at their wars. The cat bypassed the fields of blood as best he could, trotting through the villages instead. Every village was the same. Hollow-eyed women tended to the old men and the boys too young for battle as though they were minor gods. The cat would cozy up to one or another, occasionally receiving a pat for his purrs, once or twice a bite of meat. Usually he was repaid with kicks, however. These women to whom no kindness had been shown had little kindness to spare.