“And why not?”
“Because I love you.”
The Wood held its breath. A hundred invisible creatures watched from hidden places, biting nails, eyes bulging. Their ears rang with the shouts, the accusations, but all these faded away into this one final, quiet declaration. They watched and they did not move, even as Imraldera stood like stone, unable to breathe or speak or even think.
The poet took a step, closing the distance between them. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” he snarled. Then, because he could not bear the look in her eyes, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her; kissed her hard, for he had already seen what her answer would be when she found the ability to speak, but he could fool himself still, in this small moment before the answer came.
Imraldera wrenched away, stepping back so suddenly that she would have fallen had he not deftly caught her upper arm. “No,” she gasped, frightened out of her anger. “No, no, no. This is all wrong.”
“Wrong?” Eanrin whispered, unable to look at her now.
She put a hand to her heart, uncertain that it still beat, and was surprised to feel it pounding a thunderous pace beneath her palm. She drew a tremulous breath and closed her eyes. “Eanrin, I didn’t think . . . I’m sorry, I never even . . . I don’t know what to . . .”
She stopped and let that horrible silence linger again, for horrible as it was, it was better than anything she tried to say.
Eanrin spoke softly. “I know. You don’t love me.”
“No, no please. I do care about you! But we are knights; we serve together.” She took hold of his hand and removed it from her arm. His fingers were icy cold. “We can’t . . . there could never be . . . Dragon’s teeth, Eanrin, what about Lady Gleamdren?”
“Who?”
Now Imraldera felt the anger returning, heightened by embarrassment and an odd sensation of shame and even fear. She stepped away from him, shaking her head and glaring furiously. “That woman to whom you’ve dedicated centuries’ worth of romantic poetry! Poetry I’ve been copying for more than a hundred years myself! How . . . how could you?”
Afraid she would disgrace herself with tears and render this whole unbearable scene beyond unbearable, Imraldera turned her back on the poet, pressing her hands to her heated face. He growled behind her, “You know Gleamdren means nothing to me. You’re making excuses. You love this Sun Eagle.”
“No,” she said quickly, without looking round. “No, you don’t understand.”
“But you’ll throw away everything for him. This man you were to marry.”
“I was pledged to him. It wasn’t my decision.” She lowered her hands and raised her head, putting her shoulders back like a soldier ready for battle. “But this is my decision. And I will do as I have purposed. And I hope—” Her voice faltered but she struggled on. “I hope that we can somehow—”
A hideous shriek shattered the air, and both knights startled and turned to see the figures moving through the shadows of the trees. The first was a great white lion; the second was Nidawi, and she clutched a young redheaded maiden before her, her long claw-like nails held threateningly at the girl’s throat.
“Cren Cru!” Nidawi cried. She was old as a hag, but muscled and lithe, and her wild white hair was held back with equally white bones. “Look what I have, Cren Cru! I’ve got you, and I’ll hurt you if you don’t show your wicked face!”
Eanrin and Imraldera stared at the horrible figure. They did not know the girl captive in Nidawi’s clutches, her arm twisted behind her to the point of breaking, blood running down her neck from five thin nail cuts. They saw only that she was mortal and in great pain.
And she wore a bronze stone about her neck.
“What is this? Are you preying on mortal maidens now?” Eanrin cried, his wrath more potent than he had ever known it to be. Quite exhilarating, in fact, ready to carry him off on a tidal wave of destruction. He drew a knife from his belt and leapt forward.
Lioness moved into his way, roaring, the hair on her back bristling. Eanrin, without changing pace, sank down into cat’s form, dwarfed by the massive bulk of the lion but equally vicious. He threw himself at her head, and she was too slow to evade the slash of his claws, which left red lines down her white face. But she caught him with her second swing, the thunk of her paw sending him flying. He struck a tree and landed in the form of a man, groaning.
“Eanrin!” Imraldera cried, then turned on the Lioness and Nidawi. She strode forward shouting furiously, “Drop that girl at once!”
“Girl?” said Nidawi, gnashing her white teeth. “Is that what you think this thing is? A girl? Don’t you see the Bronze? Don’t you know it?”