“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,