“Well, all I really need for the moment is one small part of your collection.”
ChuMana gazed at her intruder, the rubies of her eyes flickering with thought. Then, like water falling, she slipped from her upright stance down into the slime of her realm. Once more a serpent, she circled the poet, sometimes sliding over tufts of dirt, otherwise half under water. Her bulk was thicker than Eanrin’s waist, and her length greater than a fallen pine. Eanrin swallowed, his heart racing in his throat. He wasn’t used to being afraid. He should not fear ChuMana now, bound as she was by the laws of the worlds as every Faerie queen or king must be. Yet this inarguable fact failed to ease his mind.
At last ChuMana said, “What do you need of my collection?”
“Just to borrow one, that is all,” said Eanrin. “This girl here”—he lifted his shoulder to indicate the mortal—“has had a bit of trouble, as it were, with the River. Fallen asleep, you see? She needs a prince to wake her.”
The serpent’s head rose from the water. “And you wish to borrow one of mine?”
“Any will do. It’s only for the kiss, you understand,” said Eanrin. Though he trembled under that cold gaze, he met it eye for eye and never ceased to smile. “You cannot possibly refuse such a small request. Not after our history, ChuMana! Not after—”
“Cease your talk!” ChuMana stood once more as a woman, her eyes flashing, her tongue flickering like lightning in and out between her teeth. “I will loan you one prince. But I will not give him up!”
“Oh, quite so,” said Eanrin. “The last thing I need on my hands is a mortal prince as well as this princess! Let them rescue themselves, I always say. Makes for better epics. But just this once . . . you know how it is. Every rule needs to be bent now and then to test its mettle.”
“Very well,” said the Mistress of the Swamp. Then she knelt in the water, her eyes scanning the murk. Suddenly the frogs stopped singing. Dead silence hovered as heavy as the black-clouded sky.
Though her form remained that of a woman, from somewhere several yards away, the end of a serpent’s tail moved. It darted out. There was a splash, then a loud, “Graaaaaup!”
The tail emerged, holding, wrapped in its coils, an enormous bullfrog. It boasted the most mournful face ever seen on one of its kind, its great back legs kicking, its eyes rolling skyward with heavy resignation.
Eanrin nodded, satisfied. As gently as he could, he slid the mortal girl from his shoulder, kneeling so he could support her across his knee. He hated putting her in that swamp water, but she was already so dirty it could hardly matter. He took the offered bullfrog from ChuMana. Turning it until its bulging eyes were level with his, he addressed it sternly:
“Now, you know your part. Kiss the girl like you mean it, and we’ll all be better off, understand?”
“Graup,” it said without enthusiasm. With a nod, Eanrin twitched the frog and its dangling limbs about and pressed its mouth to the mortal girl’s lips.
The River was angry.
As far as Glomar could tell, however, it wasn’t angry with him. His Path had been long and winding indeed, trailing the Black Dogs. Perhaps Eanrin was right and he should have stuck to the simpler way. One would think the Dogs would take the swiftest route back to their lair, but instead they had led Glomar over hill and dale, doing everything in their power, he suspected, to lose him. Well, they got more than they bargained for! Glomar of Rudiobus was no mean footman. He was Iubdan’s captain, a soldier of the field. He knew a thing or two about tracking.
Nevertheless, he frowned grimly as the Path he followed finally led him to the River. If Eanrin took this simpler road, he might indeed have already entered Etalpalli far in advance. Glomar knelt and put his badger’s nose to work, snuffling the turf for any sign of the poet. There was none to be found.
Yet the River was angry. Furious, even. Glomar found it growling like a wild animal with unsuppressed ferocity, tearing at its own banks. But the force of its personality focused elsewhere, farther upriver. What could have caused it so much ire?
Glomar swallowed hard and adjusted his grip on his hatchet. Not that it would do him a great deal of good should the River decide to vent its anger on him. Still, he felt better for handling it. He picked his way from the higher banks down to the water’s edge, following the course it cut through the rocks and roots. The River, like all the Wood, was a treacherous sort; one could never be overcautious when dealing with it. Glomar, his face set in stern lines of concentration, made slow but steady progress.