“A Haven of the Farthest Shore,” he went on, for he never required encouragement to talk. “Built by the Brothers Ashiun, two knights who came to these worlds from across the Final Water. Run down beyond recognition now, isn’t it?” he added, tapping one of the tree trunks and shaking his head dismissively. “That’s what happens with knights. Everything begins new and shining, the worlds all praising their virtue! It ends like this Haven. Abandoned. Empty.”
But Imraldera, her eyes slowly traveling about though she was too tired even to lift her head, saw how gently the trees swayed in some almost imperceptible breeze. There was nothing here to disparage, she thought. Vines climbed the trees, spreading their curtains of many-colored flowers among the branches, including gleaming starflowers. It was wild, but it was beautiful in its very wildness.
Imraldera’s breath caught in her throat. In a single instant (very like when she had first seen that the cat was also a man), she saw that the grove was also a chamber. A beautiful round room with walls of dark wood and diamond-shaped windows through which golden light poured upon a floor of green marble. She lay not on a bed of moss but on a pile of silken cushions, their colors faded. Yes, the windows were broken, the marble was chipped, and in many places the ceiling had fallen in, crumbling walls with it. But it was, nevertheless, the richest, the most beautiful room Imraldera had ever seen. More lovely than her wildest dreams could have conjured.
She blinked again, and the vision was gone, replaced by the aspen grove. But the image of what she had seen remained in her head. This is what holy places should be, she thought as her eyes slowly closed. Holiness should be beautiful. Not bloodied.
A sob caught in her throat. Still lying on her side, she covered her face with her arms, hiding herself. And she fell into fitful dreams.
“Will you let me take your name with me?”
Sun Eagle’s eyes are dark as the night, but with a bright golden quality shining in their depths. When he looks at her, she believes he sees her . . . not the lowly woman’s child, or the mute servant who must always keep her head down and obey. She thinks he sees who she is, the person hiding inside. The person who longs for a voice.
“It would give me great pride to carry your name. The name of Panther Master’s daughter.”
Shyly, she holds out her hand. A blue clay bead painted with a white starflower rests in her palm. She offers it to Sun Eagle, who smiles in return.
But his smile melts. His face elongates. And then it is not Sun Eagle who stands before her, but the High Priest.
“You belong to the Beast!”
She runs in the dark. The tunnel closes in, and she cannot breathe the air here. She will suffocate, yet still she must run and run, though the rocks cut her feet and her eyes cannot discern two steps down her path.
Behind her, just at her ear, someone is breathing. . . .
“Wake up, princess. Wake up, I say!”
Imraldera’s eyes flew open, and she gasped. She lay in the grove of aspens. Everything around her—the smells, the sounds, the feel of moss beneath her hands—was comforting and safe. Even the sight of that cat-man, his eyes expressing something between concern and irritation, was a relief.
I am far from the Land, she told herself as her racing heart slowly calmed. I need never return.
Eanrin, who was on his hands and knees beside her, drew back, his eyes narrowed. “It’s time to move on,” he said. “Cozamaloti is near, and I can’t afford to waste any more time on you.”
Despite these harsh words, he offered a hand and helped her to her feet, holding her arm until she had steadied herself. Her muscles ached and her head whirled, for she was still hungry. The cat-man watched her closely.
“Your dreams stink,” he said at last, then turned and led her from the Haven, back into the Wood.
A little swing hung from the roof of the iron birdcage. Just a single bar suspended between two delicate threads, but Gleamdren’s weight was featherlight, and she balanced on it with ease, swinging back and forth. She held on to a thread with one hand. With the other, she played with a strand of her long flaxen braid, which was coming undone. “I would behold the luster of her hair,” she sang under her breath, “And seek the arms of Lady Gleamdrené.”
Her hair wasn’t so lustrous now, was it? After hours and days, weeks, perhaps, without a comb! One by one, she had lost her hairpins, and now only three remained to hold any semblance of style in place. “Not that it matters,” she whispered. She huffed a sigh.
In the distance, she heard the howls of the Black Dogs. They were on the move, she guessed. Perhaps Captain Glomar was giving them a bit of a chase, despite that swollen ankle of his. Well, Lumé light his path . . . but it wouldn’t do Gleamdren a lot of good if only Glomar showed his sorry face! What kind of reputation could she hope to boast if she returned to Rudiobus with only one of her gallants in tow?