Be the moon waxed full or new!
In all my world-enscoping view
There shineth none so bright as you.”
Imraldera heard murmurs of approval all around her. Eanrin was, after all, the Prince of Poetry, so his work must be genius. Though she considered herself no expert, Imraldera could not help wondering if the song was as brilliant as all that. Gleamdren’s reaction certainly wouldn’t lead one to think so. Imraldera watched as, after the poet ended with another of his elaborate bows, he swept up to the dais, where Gleamdren stood behind Queen Bebo’s throne. He pressed his hand to his heart and, from what Imraldera could make of his face from across the room, spouted professions of undying devotion.
Imraldera frowned. Eanrin’s masks were remarkably good. It was difficult for her, especially on so short an acquaintance, to read his face and hands. But she thought whatever words he said were full of color but no substance. He was playing a part and playing it well, but the truth of the matter she could not guess.
Gleamdren’s reactions were as plain as the sky. She gave the poet one withering look, then turned up her nose and marched away without a single word.
Eanrin cringed and hunched his shoulders, the picture of shame. The next moment he was back on the dance floor, laughing and singing with his brothers. What a strange creature he was. So cat and yet so human.
All these people were strange to Imraldera. Every one of them was both man and animal, just as Wolf Tongue had been. But unlike Wolf Tongue, there was no malice in these merry faces. They were as bright and frothy as bubbles on a stream.
This is no place for me.
Imraldera sighed as the thought came to her. But it was true. When Eanrin had offered to bring her to his homeland so that she might recover from her journey before setting off again, she had willingly agreed. But she knew now that this was not right. Her thoughts drifted longingly to home and hearth . . . to Fairbird and Frostbite . . . to her mother, long dead, and yes, to her father. All those dear ones who had loved her and whom she had loved. They were her home. But they were far from her now.
She was Starflower no longer. She was Dame Imraldera, Knight of the Farthest Shore. From this day on, her journey would be her home.
She slipped from Ruaine Hall, down the long paths of Rudiobus Mountain. It was cold here compared to her homeland. The people of the mountain had given her clothes like theirs and taken away her mother’s ruined wedding dress. The sleeves of her new gown were long and draping, edged in gold. Rich and beautiful, this gown, but restricting, she thought. And it did not cut the chill of the caverns. Nevertheless, these corridors were brightly lit and decorated with greenery. So different from the tunnel beneath the Circle of Faces!
No one stopped her as she made her way back to Fionnghuala Lynn. Guards saluted her as she went. She smiled shyly to them and hurried on.
órfhlaith waited for her at the gate.
“I thought you would come,” said the mare.
Imraldera, growing used to men’s speech in the mouths of animals, startled when she realized that órfhlaith had spoken in the language of horses. Yet the words had translated in her mind, and she understood perfectly. She bowed politely. “I . . . I wish to return to the Wood,” she said.
“Of course,” said órfhlaith. “You have a duty to your Master now.”
Imraldera nodded. She climbed onto the mare’s back and clung to her scarlet mane. órfhlaith turned, and her dainty hooves made little ripples as she started out across Gorm-Uisce.
“Wait!”
órfhlaith drew to a halt, and Imraldera turned to look back. She saw the poet in cat form standing there on the lake’s edge, his tail straight up and his eyes round. “Imraldera!” he cried and suddenly he was a man again. With a curse, he plunged into the lake and waded after them. The water was up to his knees by the time he reached órfhlaith, and the mare laughed at him.
“Wet!” Eanrin snarled. “Every time I’m with you, I end up wet! Give me a hand up, why don’t you?”
“Why?” Imraldera asked. “What are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No,” she said quickly. “You can’t. I must return to the Wood. I must find the Haven of my Master and restore it—”
“And you think you’re going to do that alone?” The poet rolled his eyes. “You’ll end up lost in a devil’s pit before you’ve gone two paces. Or you’ll stop and drink enchanted waters, or you’ll take directions from the old man at the Crossings, or any number of the fool things you mortals are inclined to.”
“Eanrin—”