The girl turns her eyes upward again, up that long, winding path. For the first time since this endless journey began, her eyes fill with tears.
The girl by the River moaned and stirred. And the River fed her enchanted sleep and suffered her to go on dreaming.
5
GLOMAR CALLED on every ounce of honor in his brawny being to wait on the far shore of Gorm-Uisce while órfhlaith carried the poet over. The last thing he wanted was to make this journey in the company of Bard Eanrin, and only the strongest of all the vows he had made to King Iubdan kept the captain rooted to the spot as the mare trotted across the lake with her scarlet burden.
But honor is honor, however inconvenient. After all, had not Queen Bebo declared that the two must venture out together and fetch her cousin? That was as good as an order, and Glomar always followed orders. He could not, in good conscience, sally forth alone. Especially not with all the people of the court gathered at Fionnghuala Gate, cheering for all they were worth.
So the captain stood on the shore just outside the shadows of the great Wood, hefting his hatchet from one hand to the other and watching how the sunlight gleamed upon the blade. The thoughts he indulged were perhaps unworthy of his captain’s rank, but he did wait.
Eanrin slid from the mare’s back and stepped onto the shore before him. Both of them, to the common eye, appeared as tall as an ordinary man, though órfhlaith, standing still on the lake, was as tiny and delicate as a child’s toy.
“What-ho, good Glomar!” Eanrin beamed. “Shall we off?”
“I’d like to off you!” Glomar growled, or rather, thought about growling five minutes later. He was not one for witty comebacks on a moment’s notice. At the time he bowed to órfhlaith and ignored the poet, turned, and stamped into the Wood. Eanrin did not follow him. The Chief Poet of Iubdan never followed anyone. He happened to go the same direction, and happened as well to be a few paces behind.
Within those few paces, they stepped from the boundaries of Rudiobus into the Halflight Realm. The forest extended for an eternity around them. Lingering in its darker shadows were still some traces of the Midnight of the Black Dogs, but for the most part it had lifted.
Eanrin stood a moment and sniffed. Glomar gave him a sidelong glance and wondered if his eyes deceived him. Did the poet look . . . anxious? But that was ridiculous. Indeed, Glomar would have liked to dismiss his rival as spineless and despicable; however, he knew too much about Eanrin’s exploits beyond Rudiobus to believe it.
Granted, most of those exploits had been recounted by Eanrin himself.
Nevertheless, Glomar could not recall ever seeing the poet out of his depth. He knew Eanrin had traveled many times through the Wood, more than Glomar had himself. Why, then, did the poet’s face look so drawn? Why did he sniff the air with such care? The smell of the Black Dogs was pungent enough, leaving an unmistakable trail. Glomar drew a long breath himself, trying to catch whatever scent it was his rival sought. He smelled nothing but the Dogs . . . and fear.
He shrugged and shouldered his hatchet. “Hurry up, cat,” he growled and started off in the direction the Black Dogs had run, bearing their mistress and captive on their backs. The caorann tree standing nearby waved its branches tremblingly at the two Rudiobans. Well, it should be sorry, Glomar thought. Some protection it had been! What was the use of having caorann trees that couldn’t see through a glamour, dragon’s or otherwise? He stumped past it without a nod and started into the foliage.
He had made scarcely ten paces, however, before Eanrin grabbed his arm. “Just where do you think you’re going, my fine, meatheaded friend?”
“Don’t be touching me, poet!” Glomar snarled, shaking off Eanrin’s hand. “Nor even speaking to me!”
“That will make our little adventure rather tiresome, now, won’t it?” The poet grinned.
“This ain’t our little adventure.”
“Oh no?”
“I’m not the fool you take me for, cat. I know your game.”
Eanrin rolled his eyes, but the smile remained fixed in place. “Tell me, then, since you know it so well: What is my game?”
“You’re a two-faced monster; that’s what you are,” said Glomar. “Aye, you’ll make yourself out to be the hero with all your fine words and fine ways. But you’ll stoop to backstabbing if it serves your purpose.”
“How enigmatic is our good captain,” said the poet mildly. His eyes half closed, and he looked as smug as the cat who got the cream. “Do, pray, continue. Enlighten me to my own treachery.”