The Dragonwitch, as Gleamdren was beginning to think of her captor, perched on the edge of the flat roof, bundled up like a gargoyle in the tatters of Gleamdren’s own nightdress and her lank, colorless hair. She might be watching the city below, feasting upon the sight of the Black Dogs hunting down their helpless prey. More likely, she was asleep. Or at least that version of sleep dragons know: an outwardly frozen stupor while their insides burned.
High towers notwithstanding, Gleamdren decided that captivity was as boring a lot as she’d ever known.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Gleamdren spoke out loud, with little real hope that Hri Sora was listening. “It does seem a bit odd for you to want the Flowing Gold, doesn’t it? Queen Vartera wanted it to flatter her vanity—she is a stuck-up pig, for all she’s a goblin! Nidawi the Everblooming made a snatch for it once, just for a lark. Even the Mherking tried to find it as a gift to woo Linaherea, the mortal girl he fancied.
“But you? You do nothing for a lark, and I can’t imagine you vain. It doesn’t make sense, you being so glum and unattractive. My best guess is that you want it as a gift for someone, like the Mherking. Ugly as you are, you probably have some trouble getting a fellow to notice you. Am I not right?” Gleamdren simpered on her swing, patting at her limp hair. “I’m something of an expert in these things! So yes, I think that must be what this is all about. But it’s not that knight you were in love with long ago, is it? I remember the story from the Ballad of the Brothers Ashiun. He died, didn’t he? Or his brother did. I can never keep it straight.”
The swing creaked as it swung, the only sound besides Gleamdren’s prattle and the distant howls of the Dogs. The Dragonwitch herself might have been a stone gargoyle for all she moved or responded.
“But you don’t want the gift for the knight.” Gleamdren licked her lips. She was playing with fire, she knew. “You mentioned someone else a while back, when you were having one of your . . . fits. You want the gold for this Amarok, don’t you?”
The explosion was beyond what Gleamdren expected. The blast of it knocked her from her swing. She had the good sense to curl up in a ball and tremble as waves of heat and smoke rolled over the little birdcage. When at last she dared look up, she was surrounded in such a thick cloud of black, she could have sworn the Black Dogs themselves had descended upon her.
Instead, two burning eyes cut through the smoke. Hri Sora gazed in at her captive.
“There is only one gift I will ever give Amarok,” she said.
When the smoke finally cleared, Gleamdren was alone atop the roof under the blistering sun of Etalpalli.
Give her back! Give her back to me!
Eanrin heard the voice of the River long before he saw it. This stretch of the Wood was otherwise silent, as though the trees themselves were afraid of attracting the River’s notice. The poet-cat shivered at the voice. They were drawing near to Cozamaloti. He had never seen the gate before, did not know what it might look like. But he had passed in and out of many realms of Faerie in his day, sniffed out dozens upon dozens of hidden gates. He knew the signs and smells. And he knew that Cozamaloti was near, possibly on the edge of the River itself.
But they could not hope to pass through the gate without the River’s compliance.
“Iubdan’s beard,” he swore, pausing in midstep, his nose high, his tail low (for he was in cat form at the moment). He’d hoped the River would have forgotten Imraldera by now. A vain hope; rivers have long memories.
He looked back at the girl. Her head was down, and she moved slowly, though always just keeping pace with him. Despite the few hours’ rest he’d allowed her at the Haven, her eyes were glassy with fatigue. She didn’t seem to understand the River’s voice. That should make things easier.
The trees tended to point as the two made their way along the Path, especially the aspens, which are terrible gossips as it is. The girl was a sight, Eanrin had to admit. So dirty, her hair a mess of twigs and leaves, the rough-skin dress she wore torn at the hem. At least her face was lovely.
The cat swore again. What was he doing? Never in all the centuries of his life had he considered altering course to help a mortal creature! Much less allowing one to shadow his footsteps like this. Even now, if he stopped and truly thought about it, everyone would be much better off if he left her here. After all, dragging her along to the River was no end of dangerous for her, but he couldn’t, for Gleamdren’s sake, turn aside from his own quest. No, it would be much better to slip away now, to vanish into the shadows and let her learn to fend for herself.
It was all the fault of the Hound. They said, when once you saw him, your life was forever changed.
“Dragon’s teeth and tail!” the cat whispered through his fangs. “Changed, like the Brothers Ashiun, no doubt. And look what happened to them. Dead. Or disgraced. And they, so noble! I’ll be dragon-kissed before I follow in their footsteps.”
Imraldera stumbled.