Now added to their number was a cat-man who looked and spoke like a buffoon, but who had risked his life for her, perhaps more than once.
More for herself than for him, she signed: “Though I am a stranger, you have been a true friend. I am grateful. I will help you find your beloved. I swear on the—I swear on my hand. Before I try to find my own way in this awful world of yours, I will help you, Bard Eanrin. I will rescue your lady Gleamdren.”
He watched her hands fly, his quick eyes moving to follow them. Then he laughed and caught them between his own palms. “Enough, I say! You look like a clown when you flail about so. We must get moving.” Keeping hold of one of Imraldera’s hands as though she were but a child, the poet strode down the narrow street as confidently as if he owned the place. Such is the way with cats.
Imraldera cast a backward glance over her shoulder at the pile of scarlet clothing steaming on the stones. But they turned a corner, and she saw them no more. Despite the heat, a cold sensation inched up her spine. She felt as though, when they turned that corner, the street they’d walked but a moment before had vanished entirely. Not merely from view but from existence.
There were no doors on the lower levels that Imraldera could see. There were, however, tall windows at least three times Eanrin’s height. These were set high but within reach if Imraldera were to jump. Although the sky was bright and the red stone glared almost blindingly, deep shadows lurked within the towers.
Imraldera looked at the street they followed, winding among the red buildings. Every turn it took seemed to her much like the turn before. She wondered if they were going in circles. But when she took time to study the carvings adorning the towers, she saw that each one was unique, as though carved by a different hand. No two buildings they passed boasted the same arrangement of feathers or clouds. They were as individual as faces, and beautiful too. So they couldn’t be going in circles.
The buildings cast no shadows.
Imraldera realized this truth rather suddenly. Already it felt as though they had wandered the streets of the empty city for hours. How could one sense the passage of time in a world that cast no shadows? Everything was wrong. When she looked ahead, she could not make heads or tails of the street. Did it extend forever, or only a few paces? Was that a turn coming up, or did it continue straight? Everything was distorted. Straight lines waved before her eyes. And everywhere was blistering red stone.
Her stomach clenched, and she gagged, doubling over. But she was empty inside, and nothing could relieve the churning in her gut. She could only stand, bent over and panting.
Eanrin dropped his hold on her hand and stood aside, his arms folded. “Poor creature,” he muttered. Then he firmly shook that thought away. After all, she deserved what she got, fool mortal, for venturing into worlds where she didn’t belong! Served her right if she found the ways of Faerie beyond bearing.
And yet, there he went, stepping to her side once more and gently putting a hand on her shoulder. He should be taken by the scruff and shaken until his teeth rattled!
“It’s all right,” he heard his own voice saying, no matter how he struggled against it. “This place would be difficult for anyone. There’s hardly a soul in Faerie who could walk these streets and not feel a hint of what you’re experiencing right now. Perhaps my good Queen Bebo, but few others. It’s a nasty city. The Flame at Night has wounded it to its heart. Even the ground is unstable.”
Imraldera shuddered when she breathed. She was, Eanrin realized, probably hungry and parched as well. He recalled hearing somewhere that mortals could not go for as long without food or drink as the folk of Faerie might. Her face was drenched and gleaming with sweat and her eyes were dull.
“Look, we’re getting nowhere like this,” he said, wrapping an arm across her shoulders and helping her to stand once more. She swayed and leaned heavily against him. “Come,” he said, supporting her as she walked, “let’s get you inside one of these towers. Then I’ll climb to the top, yes? And get a good scout out of the city.”
She rallied at these words and shook her head. But he clucked dismissively. “Never fear, princess! I know what I’m doing. Am I not the Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus, renowned throughout Faerie for my heroic verse? One cannot write that much heroic verse without learning a thing or two about heroics. This is a good plan, I tell you.”
While he talked, he led her to the nearest of the towers. Like all the others, its windows opened into nothing but blackness beyond, and there were no doors. Eanrin leaned Imraldera against the red wall. The stone was hot but not unbearably so. Then he scrambled up onto the windowsill and peered into the shadows. He saw nothing, smelled nothing. “Seems fine enough,” he lied through a charming smile.
Imraldera glared up at him.