“Every song could be yours.” He bent his head to whisper in her ear. Her white-blond hair tickled his nose and smelled of pine needles. It was an exciting scent. “I shall dedicate my work to you. Every song I write. Every lyric stanza . . . yours! What say you to this?”
“Is what you sang just now an example of things to come?” she asked, turning her face suddenly up to him. Her nose bumped his, and he drew back, startled. Then he leaned in to kiss her.
“No! No!” she cried with a laugh and backed out of his grasp, tossing her head. “Such bosh and nonsense! What girl wants all that romanticized drivel dedicated to her? Throughout history! People will get silly notions about me. They’ll start to say I’m some sort of famous beauty. Insignificant me!”
She was fishing for compliments, but Eanrin was no longer feeling generous. “Come now, dearest of my heart,” he growled. “Give us a kiss, won’t you?”
“Oh, Eanrin,” said she, still laughing. “A kiss you will never have from me!” Her glance said otherwise.
“A dance, then?” said the poet, emboldened by that look. “This reel is your favorite, I know. Give me your hand, Gleamdren, and we’ll show these beggars what dancing is!”
Gleamdren blinked at him, long and slow. Then she turned, swept down the steps, and grabbed the arm of the nearest unengaged gentleman, declaring in a voice of honey, “I’ll not dance with you, Eanrin, for I have already promised this dance to—” She turned to discover the identity of her new partner. “Who are you?”
“Captain Glomar of the Guard!” gasped he, his face full of the beautiful terror of a dream come true.
“Yes, you then,” said Gleamdren.
Glomar stared down at the little white hands clutching his arm. A flush swept over his face, as red as Eanrin’s cape. “Why . . . why, my lady! I’m not much good at dancin’.”
“But you have promised to dance with me, haven’t you?” said she, gazing up at him in such a way that he would not have contradicted her for the world. Without another word, Glomar swept her into his arms, dragged her across the floor, flung her in a twirl, caught her at the last second, and hurled her again. Gleamdren was out of breath and gasping within moments. But her face fixed into a smile that was intended less for Glomar’s pleasure than for Eanrin’s misery.
And every man in Ruaine Hall saw the Chief Poet’s disgrace.
Eanrin stood, his mouth agape, his heart beating strangely in his breast. This must be what jealousy felt like. Best to remember it; a poet must be keen on his emotions, able to dredge them up at a moment’s notice. Gleamdren cast him one last dogged smile, and her eyes flew wide as her arm was nearly wrenched from the shoulder.
The poet could bear no more. He turned on heel and stalked from the hall.
2
THE PATH AT HER FEET was narrow indeed.
The mortal stumbled through the Wood. Once or twice, she still thought she glimpsed the golden form running ahead of her. Strange guide though it was, it was the only guide she had, and she forced her bruised body to follow. But her mind was so tired, full of clashing images and sounds.
Her father’s face, pale for loss of blood.
Moonlight on stones like teeth.
“Run!”
The girl gasped, her mouth twisted in a silent scream.
The trees drew back from her as she continued her flight. They dared not interfere while she walked that Path, no matter how they might wish to. She took no notice of them. How long had she fled now? Had it been one night, or days and weeks of this nightmare? And always the howls pounded her memory.
Suddenly, the howls vanished. A new voice spoke from the gloom.
Come to me, pretty maid.
The girl stopped, swaying where she stood, on the verge of collapsing. Slowly, as though she dared not hope to find what she sought, she turned her head to the left. Between the trees a river sparkled like a ribbon of pure light and sweetness.
Her thirst was overwhelming. Even the snarls faded from her mind, replaced by the River’s inviting babbling. Come to me, pretty maid, it said, though she heard only the sound of water.
Her feet left bloodstains on the moss and rocks as she hastened down to the River’s edge. A glint of gold shimmered in the tail of her eye, shining even in the Wood’s oppressive shadows. She ignored it. Falling to her knees on the bank of the water, she plunged in both hands. The water stung her wrists where the harsh cords had bitten into her skin.
Drink deeply. Drink.
The water flowed about her arms, fresh and alive. She cupped her hands and lifted the cooling liquid to her lips. She drank.
She drew a long, shuddering breath, then fell upon the bank, one arm extended into the water, the other upon the shore. Her black hair covered her face, and the River ran its fingers through the ends of it, pulling, pulling.