“You have worries enough,” he told himself, getting to his feet and brushing leaves and dirt from his cloak. “No time to consider this foolishness. You have a demesne to infiltrate!” This thought was enough to drive all other concerns from his mind, at least momentarily.
Cozamaloti. His lips thinned as he considered the name and what he knew of that gate. Faerie gates can take many forms and substances, depending on the need of the demesne. He could not guess what this one might look like, and it troubled him that Glomar knew. All Eanrin knew for certain was that it was the only way into Etalpalli.
Cozamaloti had been locked, Eanrin recalled, by the last King of Etalpalli. Presumably the last queen had left those locks in place even after she abandoned her realm and became the Flame at Night. Locks or no, Cozamaloti had been unable to withstand her return. Though turned dragon, she had retained her rule, and her demesne would not dare to prevent her reentrance.
Anyone else trying to pass, however, would find their way much more difficult.
“Only true love,” Queen Bebo had said, would save Lady Gleamdren. Eanrin believed there was nothing to worry about. Never was a love so true as his! Gleamdren was meant to be his wife, so naturally he was in love with her. He needn’t worry about Glomar’s silly threats and omens. Need he?
“Don’t think on it!” Eanrin commanded himself. “Watery death, indeed. What does an old badger know about such things? He’s been listening to rumors, or he’s confusing it with some other story he’s heard. No matter. He’s long gone off in the wrong direction, trailing those fool Dogs. Everyone knows that the only way to Etalpalli is by the River, so it’s off to the River I go!”
With a determination found only in a cat that has absolutely set its mind on something, Eanrin proceeded through the forest, following his nose toward water. After a quick search for a safe Path, he found one fit for the folk of Rudiobus, a Path probably built by one of the Merry People long ages ago, or at least by someone friendly with King Iubdan. This Path, he sensed, would lead him safely enough.
The trees melted away as he walked, and he covered leagues in a stride. Such is the magic (as some might call it) of Faerie Paths. A journey that would have taken a mortal man hours, if not days, constituted little time at all for the bard. Only when the music of running water caught his attention did he step from the Path back into the shadows of the forest. The trees became solid once more, not the vaporous phantoms they had been.
The River ran just ahead. Though the Wood itself was gloomy, the River was bright and cheerful. Not friendly, necessarily. Its cheer was of the mischievous kind. Eanrin was not taken in by the smiles its watery surface wore.
He nodded as he approached its bank, and the River laughed back. It was in a jolly mood, Eanrin could tell, though somewhat distracted. All the better. If it was distracted, it would have little time to pester him. He need only follow its course, and so long as he did not allow himself to be drawn aside, he knew he would come at last to Etalpalli.
He took a step. Then he froze.
Not twenty paces down the River stood the Hound.
He was the size of a pony, perhaps a horse. His coat was like white silk but with hints of gold where the reflection of the River gleamed upon it in shivering patterns. His head, viewed in profile, was long and narrow with an arched muzzle. The shoulders were powerful, the feet huge with claws that could tear into the hardest turf in pursuit. He was a creature made for coursing, for running down his prey and rendering it immobile.
He directed his gaze across the water, on into the far Wood, or perhaps looking into a world the poet could not see. He did not look at Eanrin, not yet. The poet’s knees began to tremble. Any moment, the creature could turn and see him.
Eanrin could not wait for that moment.
He spun about so fast, he almost unbalanced into the River. Then he was a cat, running as swiftly as his four legs could carry him, streaking along the riverbank, leaping damp, moss-covered rocks, stumps, and debris washed from unimaginable places. There was no time to be afraid. When he was safe, he would have the luxury of fear, but now there was only running, running, running as fast as he could.
Was he pursued? He dared not look back. But he must! Were those graceful limbs, in deliberate, unhurried chase, set upon his tail? That majestic head bent to the scent, eyes fixed upon his quarry? He must know! He dared not look. But he must know!
The cat leapt for a tree near the water’s edge. He expected to feel teeth tearing into his back even as he scrambled for higher cover. He reached the lowest branches safely, however, and there turned and, from this vantage, looked back the way he had fled.
The Wood was empty behind him. Only the River flowed past, chuckling to itself as it went.
Was that a flash of gold among yonder trees?