With rhythmic beats, the girl drives a stake into the ground. She is young and lovely, with large dark eyes. But her face is set, her mouth a grim line.
A child tugs at her garments. When she looks down, she sees the little one make silent gestures with small hands. But she shakes her head and continues to pound the stake. When it is securely placed, she turns and claps her hands.
A young dog, shaggy and gray, rises from its resting place in the shade and comes to the girl. Its tail is low and still, its eyes full of dumb worry. It whines as the girl ties a cord around its neck. Then she secures the end of the cord to the stake, pets the dog once, motions for it to sit, and walks away. The dog’s whimpers rise with every step the girl takes. The child begins to cry silent, pulsing tears. She runs after the girl and grabs her hand, pulling.
The girl kneels and takes the little one in her arms, holding her close. Her own tears run into the child’s black hair. Then she stands and gestures firmly. The little one, still crying, obeys. She goes to sit beside the dog, which puts its head in her lap.
The girl watches them, her eyes full of things she does not speak. Then she turns from them and marches up the hill, disappearing over the crest. The morning is cold and gray as it settles about the abandoned child and dog.
The image faded. The poet withdrew, more slowly this time. He did not bother to hear the River, which was by now roaring with merriment at his failure to wake the mortal. Eanrin’s face, for once, was thoughtful. He tilted his head to one side and licked his lips as though to taste and understand better those things that had flashed so vividly through his mind.
“Well, little princess,” he said at length, “you’ve had an odd life so far, haven’t you?” Gently, he brushed more hair back from her forehead. The line on her brow relaxed a little, and she turned her face toward his palm, like a kitten nosing after a caress. She did not moan, but a sigh escaped her lips.
Was the sympathy he felt due to some enchantment? Eanrin shook himself and leaned in to sniff with greater care. He smelled no sorcery, but he’d smelled no sorcery the night before either, and where had that gotten him? He wished he had a caorann tree on hand with which to test the girl. Not that the caorann had proved any help against the Flame at Night!
But the Flame at Night had worn no such bindings on her wrists.
The poet growled, “My dear girl, you have no idea the Time you are wasting. And if you waste an immortal’s Time, that is waste indeed! But you won’t meet a prince here. The Faerie princes will not look at you, and all the mortal princes who are foolish enough to lose themselves in the Wood are almost invariably picked up by Lord Bright as Fire or the serpent, ChuMana.” He grimaced. “It’s not my business. And I am certainly not paying a visit to Bright as Fire’s demesne!”
He made as though to lay the girl back down upon the bank but instead looked once more at her face. She was so young. Like a child in this place, unable to cope with the greatness of many worlds. And he knew the River. It would swallow her up if given half the chance. Or age her far before her time so that she would wake at last wrinkled and white-haired, her beauty and youth spent. It wasn’t as though mortal life afforded her much time to enjoy beauty and youth as it was!
“Dragon’s teeth and ears and snout,” the poet swore. “I should know better than this.”
With a groan, he got to his feet, lifting the girl in his arms. She was not tall, and her mortality made her light. He slung her over his shoulder, and her long hair trailed down his back.
“I’ll not visit the Tiger,” said the poet as he set off through the forest. “But ChuMana . . . well, the serpent owes me a favor. Never thought I’d collect that debt for the benefit of a mortal creature!”
He left the River behind, its waters churning with frustration and fury. He did not see the Hound watching from the deepest shadows across the water.
8
IN THE SWAMP OF CHUMANA countless columns rose from the murky waters. Straight and elegant, built of white marble, they were taller than most trees. One might imagine they had grown up from the ground itself, sprouted from randomly scattered seeds, for there was no rhyme or reason to their placement. They supported nothing. No roof, no arches, no platforms high above. The sky was heavy with iron-gray clouds, always threatening rain, though rarely offering it. Perhaps the columns supported the sky. They certainly reached high enough, save for those few that had crumbled and lay half submerged in swamp water. The weight of the sky must have been too much for these.
All about the marble block bases of each column—carved with elegant depictions of young women in scanty clothing and young men in laurel wreaths—brown water slurped and scrag-grass grew in unsightly clumps.