Yet that one had never smiled.
“There, now,” said the cat-man, seeing how her face slowly relaxed. “There, you’ll be all right, my girl. Can you stand?” He helped her to her feet. She staggered a little, but he caught her and patted her shoulder gently while she clung to his scarlet doublet. “Light of Hymlumé,” he swore softly. “Since when did I transform into the caring sort? Dangerous business, I tell you. Perhaps you are a sorceress?”
She looked up and saw that he still smiled, though he asked the question sincerely. She shook her head and stepped back, releasing her grip on his shirt. They stood in the same clearing where she had first awakened, she thought. Or one exactly like it, with a patch of bright green grass bathed in sunlight.
“I’m glad to see you on your feet,” said the cat-man. “First an enchanted sleep, then a fainting spell, now this little mess . . . It’s been one thing after another, hasn’t it?”
An enchanted sleep? The girl frowned and put a hand to her head. She did not remember that. She remembered nightmares unending but couldn’t be certain which were dreams and which reality. Her only clear memory was of a bullfrog and a kiss . . . but that, she desperately hoped, was another dream!
“No harm done in the end,” the cat-man was saying. “I tried to kiss you awake myself, but that didn’t do much good. Not that your kiss wasn’t sweet enough, I’ll grant you—”
Her eyes flew wide and her jaw dropped. Raising both hands, she formed silent words in the air. “You kissed me?”
He did not know the language of hands. Men never formed the Women’s Words. He went on talking. “As everyone knows, only princes’ kisses work on enchanted sleeps, and dear ChuMana did owe me a favor.”
It would make no difference, but she signed even so: “You had no right to kiss me.”
“I was strolling the Karayan Plains one day, minding my own business. Then suddenly, what did I see but the great shadow of a Roc blotting out the sky! I looked up and saw that old serpent caught in the Roc’s talons, twisting and thrashing and screaming for all she was worth. What a sight that was! I knew a favor from ChuMana could prove useful someday, so I picked up a rock, and— My name is Eanrin, by the way. Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus, Bard of the Golden Staff, etcetera. You’ve possibly heard of me?”
She shook her head.
“What? No?” The cat-man’s smile faltered and his eyebrows went up. “Isn’t that just the oddest! Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“Well, what a primitive lot your people must be, never to have heard the celebrated verses of Bard Eanrin! But then, you probably sing nothing but war chants and suchlike. I, however, write all my poetry out of the inspiration of my deepest heart.” He tilted his head and gazed meaningfully into the leaf-twined sky as though from thence fell that deep inspiration of his. “It is my way of expressing the longing I feel for my great love, and so on and so on. Her name is Gleamdren. Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, fairest maiden to walk the merry halls of Rudiobus Mountain. I intend to spend my life regaling her ears with verses to her honor and splendor.”
The girl blinked at him. Then she raised her hands and signed, “Poor lady.”
“I shall make her name famous across all the worlds . . . almost as famous as my own.” The soulful eyes blinked, then turned to the girl with a frown. “Are you certain you’ve never heard of me? Eanrin? Bard of Rudiobus? Golden voice and all that?”
“No,” she signed.
“Why do you keep flailing your hands about like that? Some native dance of your people, perhaps? Such unusual cultures you mortals have. But come, have done with it. Tell me your name, girl.”
She chewed her lips, narrowing her eyes at him. Then she signed, “I cannot speak.” This involved a slicing motion across the neck.
“No need to make violent gestures,” said the poet-cat, who looked more like a cat when affronted. “Just give us your name, if you please. Then we’ll say, ‘Splendid meeting you!’ and go our separate ways.”
She shook her head and signed again, “I cannot speak.”
“I must say, I do think you’re a bit rude.”
Exasperated, she tapped at her throat and grunted. It wasn’t much of a sound, no louder than the groans she had made in sleep. It was a painful noise both to hear and to make.
The poet frowned. Her black eyes stared at him so earnestly that Eanrin wished to look away. But being a cat, he did not like to break gaze first. At last he said slowly, “Are you . . . you mean you’re a mute?”
The girl opened her mouth wide. He saw the muscles in her throat move. He even saw her tongue and lips trying to shape a word. But not a sound emerged save a whisper of a moan, and even that caused her obvious pain.
The poet put both hands up and backed away, frowning severely, which was a terrible sight on his merry face. “You’re cursed.”