Glomar snorted but Queen Bebo said only, “We were all deceived. We all welcomed her to our bosoms.”
“As does us credit!” Eanrin cried, still smiling. “We are a darling lot, aren’t we? But darlingness aside, we’ve got ourselves in an awful fix. Not only does the sweetest maid that ever walked the meadows of Faerie lie even now in the clutches of Evil’s own daughter, but also, how long shall the protections we have enjoyed in our own dear realm last? For should the Flame at Night, by her fell arts, wrench from Gleamdren’s lips the secret—though she will find the courage of my queen’s cousin nigh unto impenetrable, I grant you!—what should stop her from storming Rudiobus once again? Or even—and I shudder at the thought—holding fair Gleamdren for ransom?”
“Enough babble!” cried Glomar, turning to Queen Bebo. “Talking will get us nowhere, my queen, and Lady Gleamdren is even now in danger! I shall set out at once for Etalpalli to see if what this idiot says is true.”
“And I,” declared Eanrin, “shall go with you.”
“Never! I’d not have you for a companion though my life depended upon it.”
“You have no choice in the matter, my blundering badger. I shall go whether you wish it or no, and you may do as you like with your life.”
“I know your games, cat. You’ll do nothing but put yourself in my way!”
“If that is so, I’d suggest you get out of mine.”
“Why, I’ll—”
“Stop.”
Queen Bebo’s face was quiet when poet and guard turned to her. They dared not speak, though both thought her silence lasted too long. She appeared to be listening, but there was nothing to hear in that chamber of rock deep within the mountain. A muscle in her jaw twitched and her eyes first closed, then opened slowly.
“You shall indeed go,” she said. “Badger and cat. Soldier and poet. One who loves too much; one who loves not at all.” She stopped again, once more listening to voices no one else could hear. Eanrin and Glomar shuffled their feet and looked about, but a glance from Iubdan quieted them again, and they stood like statues.
Suddenly Bebo smiled. It was strange, considering the dire events. But she smiled, her face lighting up with unexpected joy that radiated down upon the two would-be heroes.
“Go to Lady Gleamdren’s aid, both of you!” she cried. “Seek out Etalpalli, storm its gates, and demand the prisoner freed. But—” Here she laughed outright and shook her head as though disbelieving what she herself was about to say. “But I tell you this, my little darlings: Only one who truly loves will at last break through the Flame at Night’s defenses and bring my cousin safely home. True love! Only true love . . .”
The poet raised his eyebrows; the guard lowered his. “My feelings for Lady Gleamdren are well known throughout Rudiobus,” said Eanrin. “Did I not sing just last night of my undying passion?”
“Undying rot!” snarled Glomar. “The truest love is that least spoken.”
Eanrin shrugged. “Time will tell, my friend. And time enough have I!”
But Bebo said no more. She smiled at her husband, who watched her with keen eyes and suspected much, though he could make no final guesses.
In the Wood Between, the girl by the River dreamed.
The sun is hot upon her back as she follows the winding path. Spring has met a swift end, giving way to a brutal summer. But though her body is drenched in sweat, she shivers with a cold that freezes her from the inside out.
Up the path into the mountains flows a long, fluid line. Warriors head the procession, solemn torchbearers armed with stone daggers. Next come three men in robes of deerskin dyed brilliant scarlet, their faces smeared with black streaks like streaming tears. Behind them walk the elders of the united tribes, the Red Feet, the people of Black Rock, the North Walkers, and more. The Eldest follows these, and his is the face of a man who died long ago.
Behind the Eldest march twelve maidens to represent each tribe. They are hooded in black, and their feet are bare and bleeding, marked with intricate cuts. They weep silent tears.
In the midst of these maidens walks one in white. Her black hair is her only hood, hanging over her face, shielding her even from the eye of the sun, who watches her progress. Her feet are bare but uncut. In her hands she carries a wooden bowl filled with blood and struggles to spill not a drop even as they climb the uneven pathway up the mountain. Starflowers adorn her head, a circlet of red blossoms.
Following the maidens march the people of the Land, members of every tribe and village. The girl feels their eyes upon her as they climb higher and higher into reaches where the air is thin—people she does not know who look to her for salvation. When she dares cast a glance behind her, she sees that they all wear the same face. In that one face is sorrow and pity but no mercy, for they have no hope. They are a beaten people. But they are determined to survive.