Teeth grinding, my fingers like claws, I tore into the crowd. None, not even the largest men, dared stand in my way. I tore and kicked and even bit as needed until I broke through them all. I leapt at Wolf Tongue with the fury of a wildcat, clawing at his bare chest in my efforts to reach my sister. But he held her out of my reach. Leaning forward, he whispered so that only I could hear:
“Will you spit in my eye again, lovely one?”
If only I had been born a man! If only I’d had a spear in my hand at that moment! How different would be the story I tell you now!
But I had no weapon. I had not even a voice. I had only my decision, made long ago on the dark night my sister was born.
My eyes spoke everything I had to say. Wolf Tongue understood. His own eyes flared with triumph and . . . hunger, I thought.
I took a step back. I held out my arms. Wolf Tongue placed my sobbing sister in my grasp, and I hugged her as she wept into my neck. Then I walked slowly away from the crowd. I spared a single glance for my father, but he did not look up. He knew the choice had been made. He knew, as did all the people of Redclay. They parted, letting me through, and I walked between them as I carried my sister back up the hill to the Eldest’s House.
Behind me, I heard Wolf Tongue shouting orders to the village. “Prepare the procession. Make ready the rites. We journey tomorrow to the Place of the Teeth!”
7
EANRIN
EVERY STEP WAS A BATTLE OF WILLS. He may as well have walked on burning coals. But there was no fire here, no heat; only darkness on all sides.
Except, not complete darkness. Eanrin’s hand trembled as it clutched the handle of Asha lantern. It was unbelievable yet undeniable. He, the Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus, held the Light of Sir Akilun. The glow that lit the many Houses of Lights in the Near World of long ago, before Hri Sora burned those houses to the ground and banished the lights, leaving shadows in the wake of her flames.
And following that destruction, before rebuilding could begin, Akilun himself had journeyed into Death’s realm and never returned.
Eanrin had assumed, along with all the Faerie folk, that Asha had gone out when Akilun died. But here it was. He tried to tell himself he was mistaken; it must be some other lamp. After all, he had never seen Asha with his own eyes. Could this not be a replica?
Might it not, rather than lighting his way out of darkness, direct him only into deeper death?
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Eanrin cursed himself for thinking it. No matter how many blasphemous lies he might try to tell himself, he could not deny what he absolutely knew in the depths of his heart. The lantern was real. And the Path it showed him led to safety.
The face of the Hound flashed before his eyes.
“You fool,” he whispered, his mind crying out against his heart. “You fool, Eanrin! You have given in. You’ve accepted his way and his help. He will devour your soul at last.”
But his heart responded with a shrug. After all, it was follow the light or remain in blindness. It was accept the aid of the Hound or succumb to the will of the Dragon. Was there a choice in the end?
“I should never have rescued Imraldera,” he said. “I should have left her by the River and gone my own way. If I had, I would never have been made to look into the face of Death. At least, not for many generations to come.”
Again he cursed and closed his eyes, wishing he could block the lantern’s light. But it glowed down into the farthest reaches of his mind, separating truth from lies.
“I’m glad I saved her. I’m glad I’ve been brought to this place.”
The light flared brighter still. Eanrin opened his eyes hesitantly, afraid of the sudden brilliance. But it was gentle even in its power, and he found that he could bear to look upon it. He could also now get some sense of where he stood. A tunnel led as far as he could see both before and behind. His feet were turned up an incline, his back to a gaping descent. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that not many paces behind him the Dark Water still waited.
Shuddering, he faced forward and squared his shoulders. As he went, his gaze shifted more and more often to look at Asha, to study the wonder that he held.
It was silver and delicate, made by craftsmen of such skill, Eanrin could not begin to guess who they were. Surely not the goblins, even before they forsook their craft. Nor dwarves, for its beauty was of a different kind than their work. No one he knew in all of Faerie could have done something like this. But still more amazing to his eyes was the light it held.
It was as though one of the moon’s own children had come down from the heavens to dwell inside. White as purity, but full of all the colors of all the worlds, it warmed and it cooled, refreshing the spirit. When he breathed, Eanrin took in the scents of spring, of summer, of autumn and winter together, pursuing their ageless, circular dance.