She was mortal, Eanrin knew even before he worked up the courage to draw near and smell the death on her body. After all, only mortal women were foolish enough to listen to the River’s seductions and drink its water. And always princesses. Mortal princesses, wandering into places they had no business going, listening to voices that any simpleton among the Faerie folk would know to ignore.
“Serves her right,” said Eanrin. “And I won’t be dragged into her business.”
The River continued whispering, either unaware of or bound to ignore Eanrin’s presence. Otherwise, no one else spoke. No one argued with the poet or urged him into action. He looked around, expecting to catch a glint of gold or to hear the scrape of large paws upon stone. But there was nothing. As far as he could conclude, he was alone with the River and the maid, the Hound vanished into the oblivion of an overactive imagination.
Defensive nonetheless, Eanrin folded his arms. “I won’t!”
The River pulled its fingers through the long hair. Pretty maid. Pretty maid . . .
The River held something else in its eager grasp, Eanrin realized with a frown, something tangled with the girl’s locks. At first he thought it must be riverweeds. On second glance, however, he realized that they were ropes, roughly woven cords tied about the mortal’s wrists. Traces of blood washed down the current, lapped up by the eager River.
Eanrin licked his lips. “It’s not my business,” he said. How had he allowed himself to be turned aside? Everyone knew the danger of letting an outside source determine one’s Path in the Between. Yet here he was, far from his goal, almost afraid to move for fear of bringing the Hound down upon him again.
The girl’s sides heaved with labored breathing. At least he knew she was no dragon like the woman he’d found in the Wood only the night before. That one had not breathed, not with her fire sunk so low beneath her glamour. This maid struggled for every breath.
Cursing himself for a fool, Eanrin took a few steps nearer, crouched, and leaned out to catch a better look at the girl without touching her. As he balanced himself, his hands sank into the wet mud on the River’s edge, and he shuddered. He hated dampness!
The girl’s hair veiled her face so that he could not discern her features. He sniffed. Faugh! How she reeked of mortality! This could be no glamour, no disguise. The scent of a swiftly dying body—perhaps still living, but for so brief a span of years!—filled Eanrin’s nostrils and left him gagging. He pulled away, his lips curled back in a hiss, more cat than man for the moment.
“I’ve had enough of damsels in distress to last me a lifetime,” he said, standing and drawing his red cloak about him. “What kind of fool do you take me for? Ha!” He backed several paces up the bank. “I’ll not become involved in a stranger’s affairs again. She should have stayed in her own world, where she belongs. And, light of Lumé, what was she thinking, drinking from a Faerie river? Everyone knows what happens when mortals drink from our waters. Serve her right if she sleeps a thousand years and wakes up with a beard a mile long. If mortal maids grow beards. I forget. Either way, it’s not my business!”
Eanrin turned to pursue his Path down the River’s winding way toward Etalpalli. But he made a fatal mistake: He cast a last glance at the girl’s bound hands.
“Poor little thing.”
Wait! Was that his voice speaking? He shook his head violently and forced himself to stride three steps downriver, his sandals squelching in the mud. “You fool! Don’t think that way! Remember what happened last night? You should have thrown the creature back to the Dogs. It was the Hound’s doing. He frightened you, bullied you. But you’re not blind! You saw the results of your charity, and they are not results you need repeated. Get on your way and rescue your lady!”
Despite this verbal barrage, he had already stopped in his tracks again. Against all sound judgment, he looked back at the girl, at her frail form, her dark skin and hair, her torn and bleeding feet. And especially those harsh ropes, dragging in the water.
“Glomar will find his way to Etalpalli before you at this rate,” Eanrin muttered. “Sure, he’s a blunderer, but even a blunderer can be quick when necessity pushes. You’d be foolish indeed to underestimate your opponent.”
And yet he turned on heel and lost those three steps he’d gained. The River growled at him, She’s mine!
Eanrin ignored it. He didn’t much care for rivers anyway; they were so often wet. He gazed instead upon the girl.
“You’re an odd princess, dressed so,” he mused. “What a primitive nation you must hail from. I wonder what realm of mortal history you have fled?” He frowned, considering the problem she posed and disliking the answers he saw. “It’ll take a kiss to set you right.”
The River snarled, threatening murder. Eanrin, unbothered, knelt beside the maid’s still body. For some reason, he found her smell less repugnant now. Perhaps this sort of thing happened when one took a turn for the heroic. He must be a hero indeed to turn aside when he knew the risks.
Eanrin whispered, “Surely a quick kiss couldn’t harm anything?”