He didn’t believe himself.
The girl did not stir when he lifted her into his arms; her sleep was profound indeed. The similarity of the situation to the scene just outside Rudiobus the night before gave him a shudder. The girl’s head lolled over his arm exactly as the dragon’s had. He was obliged to part the hair to uncover her face, just as he’d done with the Flame at Night. And just as then, her face was uncommonly beautiful for a mortal girl’s.
However, this girl’s beauty was different. For one thing, her skin was a rich dark brown, and her hair glossy black. For another, she was imperfect. Her teeth, visible between gently parted lips, were a little crooked. Mud stained her skin, making it darker still, and her brow, even in sleep, was puckered with anxiety or fear. Her dreams must be wicked indeed.
Eanrin grimaced at the sight and almost put her down again. After all, a princess with dreams like those probably had a tale of woe to match. She would certainly wake with expectations of a handsome hero to aid her. As far as Eanrin was concerned, a dash of heroism was one thing, but commitment to a cause? Never. Rushing off to the rescue of Lady Gleamdren was different, for he had determined that she must be his wife and the sole inspiration of his life’s work. Besides, he loved her.
This creature meant nothing to him.
But blood oozed from the abrasions on her wrists. And her body, mortal and vulnerable, lay in his arms. Eanrin rolled his eyes heavenward as though to seek some holy aid. Then he braced himself and wiped some of the mud off her lips with the edge of his cloak. She frowned in her sleep and stirred but did not wake.
“Nothing for it,” he muttered. Closing his eyes and trying not to smell her any more than he must, he leaned in and kissed her.
“Do not forget!” cries a voice as old as the hills, as young as the wind. “Do not forget the horror loosed upon your grandsires when they failed to heed my warning! They called your servant a liar and refused to satisfy the Beast’s demands. Who among you remembers the screams? Who among you remembers the slaughter? I remember!”
The world is dark, heavy with decay even as the sun beats down in incredible heat. Sweat beads the brows of every man, woman, and child in the crowd listening to the man who speaks. He is the tallest of them, clad in gray wolfskins. His beautiful face is made hideous by the rage in his voice.
“I remember mothers wailing, children lying in pools of blood, warriors choking on their own gore. I remember your elder slain, mauled beyond recognition! You remember, do you not, Panther Master?”
The tall one turns and locks his gaze with that of a mortal man who stands apart from the crowd. This man is stern and strong, yet he trembles under the vicious gaze of the speaker.
“You were there,” the tall one says. “You were a small child, and you saw the death of your grandfather. You remember.”
The stern man cringes away, a young wolf submitting in terror to the alpha.
“Give the Beast what he asks!”
Eanrin drew back with a gasp, his mouth open. Slowly, his ability to breathe returned. He narrowed his eyes at the young woman in his arms. It took all his willpower not to drop her and run.
The images ringing in his mind were clearer than the reality surrounding him. The voice of that tall stranger was stronger and more vivid than that of the River. In that instant when the scene flashed with painful clarity across Eanrin’s mind, it was as though he’d lived it himself.
The River laughed, a lascivious sound. It put up a watery hand and snatched at the girl’s face. Eanrin glared ferociously and pulled her back, clutching her to his chest. If there was one thing he hated, it was being laughed at. His face tightened, and his ears would have flattened to his skull had he been a cat.
Then suddenly he laughed back. Perhaps it was forced, perhaps not even the River was fooled. Still he laughed, smoothing back his hair with his free hand.
“What a joke!” he cried. “Took me by surprise, that did. Never kissed a mortal girl before. An unpleasant experience, to be sure!”
He gave the River a final sneer, then looked down at the girl, still fast in her enchanted sleep. Her brow was more deeply drawn into a line, but otherwise she did not stir.
“Well, I like that,” Eanrin said, raising an eyebrow. “So it must be one of those kisses, eh? A prince, or nothing. Well, am I not the prince of poetry? Come, come, don’t be fussy. It’s not as though many princes walk these woods. You’d better let me wake you, or you’ll remain here a good hundred years at least, unless the River gets you first. Let us try again!”
He inclined his head and gave her another kiss. This one was longer, deeper.