“That I do,” said the cat-man, his teeth flashing what might have been a smile but was probably a snarl. “And a nose. And a mouth. And an irritable humor this evening, a humor that is urging a certain amount of biting, scratching, and . . . and, yes, I’ll say it. Rending. Rending is the order of the evening, in fact. So if you would prefer not to be rent, answer my question and . . .”
Eanrin stopped. He had drawn closer to Foxbrush by now, swelling up with anger threatening to burst. But his nose was still at work, and he smelled something he was not expecting, something that made him step back, his brow sinking into a frown. His voice altered to a softer tone, a little frightened even, when he asked, “Why are you on that Path?”
Foxbrush looked down at his feet. Once more he saw nothing. And yet Nidawi, Lioness, and Redman had all remarked upon the same thing. So Foxbrush shrugged. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I can’t see it. I wish I could but I can’t.”
“You can’t see that?” Eanrin’s frown deepened still more, dominating his shining face. “And you thought I was blind?” He crossed his arms. “I’ll not ask you your name again, so I suggest you confess it now and we’ll move on from there.”
Foxbrush fumbled in his shirt and removed the scroll Lionheart had given him. “If you please, Bard Eanrin,” he said, “I am the one to whom you sent this message.”
The poet-cat was not one to be easily startled or put from his ease. Thus the expression of surprise and then incredulity that filled his face was even more disharmonious with his golden face than the scowls he wore. “I’ve sent you no message,” he said.
Foxbrush nodded, changed his mind, and shook his head. “Um. Actually, I think you did. Through my cousin. Leo. Prince Lionheart, that is, of Southlands. Except he’s not really prince anymore; I am. But still he, well, um, he—”
“Please!” said Eanrin, and if he had been a cat, his ears would have gone back. “I can’t bear drivel at the best of times, and I’ll not hesitate to say that tonight is not the best of times. So choose your words with care, mortal.” His mouth flashed a smile that did not touch his eyes. “I don’t know this Prince Lionheart of whom you speak, nor this Southlands, unless you mean this dragon-kissed—oh, pardon, I do mean Lumé-blessed—South Land in which we now stand.”
“I do. I’m . . . I’m out of my time.”
“Sylphs?”
It never ceased to amaze Foxbrush how easily the people of this era accepted the idea of time wandering. “Yes. Sylphs.”
The poet-cat sniffed, his lip curling a little. “Fancy that.” His face was now all smiles, but they were smiles of extreme dislike, for cats are quick to form impressions and not so quick to change them. “Either way, I don’t know you, and you don’t look the sort I would ever bother knowing. So speak up and explain.”
“Um,” Foxbrush said, and when Eanrin’s hand twitched, he blurted out hastily, “Please, you wrote this a long time ago, or . . . or . . . or perhaps you will write it very soon now, since I don’t suppose it’s happened yet, and you had it sent to me, and I’d like to know, um, if you please—”
Cursing various bits of dragon anatomy (including but not limited to teeth, tails, wings, and spines), Eanrin snatched the scroll from Foxbrush’s trembling hand and pulled it open with enough vim that, hearty though the parchment had proven over time, it tore on the edges. His eyes darted back and forth, up and down, seeming to read the verses in no particular order, and rather faster than an ordinary man might. In mere seconds, he grinned over the edge of it at Foxbrush and said, “I never wrote this.” Then he looked at it again, and the grin slid away, leaving in its place a puzzled frown. “But . . .” He scratched an ear thoughtfully, closing one eye as he did so. “But this is Imraldera’s hand.”
Foxbrush, who did not understand the significance of this statement, stood silently and waited. The cat-man read the scroll a third time.
“It’s not my usual style.” Eanrin’s face became a degree more thoughtful. “Though I have been experimenting with ballad stanzas recently, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility or chance that I might turn my hand to a piece of this type. Given the right inspiration.” His voice became very bitter as it fell from behind his smile. “I don’t see a word about my lady Gleamdren, however, so there’s really no telling.”
“Please,” said Foxbrush humbly. “I just want to know what it . . . what it means.”
“How should I know?” the cat-man snapped. Then, after a brief battle with himself, he shook his head and spoke in a kindlier and almost melancholy tone, if a being such as he could know melancholy. And his smile softened into something more sincere, if sadder than he had yet worn. “It’s addressed to this Shadow Hand of Here and There, so I would imagine, if I did—or do, in the future—send this to you, you must be he. Is your name, perchance, Shadow Hand?”
“No,” said Foxbrush.