“You speak the Women’s Words?” she signed, her mouth gaping.
“Follow me,” repeated the child. “Follow me to water.”
It wasn’t right! Only the women of the Land knew the language of hands. Not even the men would bother themselves to learn those signs. As old as speech and as secret as the hidden face of the moon, it was their one strength, the one thing the men could not take from them in a world where women were nothing but slaves.
How could this creature know? This otherworldly being that may or may not be female?
The child darted off down the street in a gangly, loping stride. Imraldera had no choice but to follow. Her bare feet were so burned and callused by now, they scarcely felt the hot stones beneath them. She thought she would lose the child, who dashed on ahead so wildly. But the street did not shift as it had before. It remained straight as far as the eye could see. When Imraldera thought she saw a tower or a pile of rubble blocking the street, by the time she reached it, it had moved. And still the street pointed straight ahead. She saw the child running up ahead and heard its barking laughter.
At last the street blended into what looked like it had once been a market square. Above Imraldera’s head, many platforms like bird perches stuck out from the high towers, yet these cast no shadows on the stones. She scanned the rest of the square, following the erratic movements of the child. In the center was an enormous well with an arch and pulley built over it. A large, iron-fastened bucket lay on its side beside the surrounding stone wall.
And tied by his feet in that place where the bucket should be, suspended above the black mouth of the well, was a man.
For one heart-stopping moment, Imraldera thought she’d found Eanrin. The hair color was the same, and the aura of immortality. But the clothing was wrong; whereas Eanrin’s was bright, mud stained, and flashy, this stranger was dressed quietly in shades of the forest. The rope twisted, the body turned, and she saw the face and form. It wasn’t the poet she’d found.
It was another Faerie, one who was also simultaneously man and animal. A badger, she guessed, though he did not wear his animal form at the moment. His face was ghastly, and she wondered if he was dead. But no . . . the immortal quality still shone from him, vivid and full of life. He hung upside down like a hunting trophy, but he was alive.
The rope creaked. The stranger’s eyes opened. He saw Imraldera. He saw the child. His mouth opened in a great O, and he bellowed wordlessly for all he was worth.
Imraldera startled, clapping her hands to her ears. But the child laughed, ran up to the poor man, and poked him cruelly in the stomach. The man bellowed even louder and made a snatch at the creature but missed. His body swung sickeningly above the well, and the rope strained.
Imraldera waved her hands. “Stop! Stop!” she signed, but the child did not see her. It circled around the captive, slapping him on the backside and shrieking with delight at the roars the poor fellow made. Imraldera could not endure it.
Her thirst momentarily forgotten, she ran across the square. The child, absorbed in its brutal sport, did not see her until she had taken it by the arm. Then it whirled upon her, teeth bared, yellow eyes flashing. She glared back and signed, “No!”
It pulled out of her grasp and snapped at her, not seriously, merely as a warning.
“No!” she signed again, scowling still more severely. “Go back!”
The child growled. But it could not break her gaze. Lowering its head, it backed away, its bony body trembling with either fear or fury. Yet it obeyed.
She turned to the captive.
“Madam,” said he, craning his neck to still see her even as the rope twisted him around, “you are a witch or a sorceress. No one can control those beasts!”
Imraldera shook her head impatiently. Princess, witch . . . these Faerie folk had such ideas about her! Her hands fumbled with the heavy ropes, but the knots were too strong and too thick. The fibers tore at her fingers. She bit her lip impatiently.
“Lass, look there. My hatchet,” said the twisting man, pointing to a weapon lying on the ground near the tipped-over bucket. Gratefully, Imraldera knelt to pick it up. What a fine piece! She hefted it in both hands, amazed at its make and balance. And what stone was this forming the head? Not any she knew, so bright and so sharp! There wasn’t a man in her father’s village who wouldn’t give his firstborn child for the sake of owning a weapon like that.