“I tried to save him,” he said. “I held on to that dragon-eaten stone of his, and I think I might have done it in the end. But . . . but I let go, Imraldera, and Sun Eagle is gone. Vanished in smoke, I don’t know if ever to return.”
How long ago was it now since she’d first wept for the loss of Sun Eagle? It was so difficult to keep track of time. Imraldera put a hand to her heart and felt the swell of sorrow there, and she knew she would weep again. But not now. Not here.
“Eanrin,” she said gently, and there were no tears in her voice, “you did what you could for him. For all of them. Please come inside. Rest awhile, and then tell me what you must.”
“What I must tell you,” said Eanrin, lifting his head but still refusing to meet her gaze, looking instead out to the Wood in the direction Nidawi had gone, “are his final words. He asked me to tell you that you are always with him.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now that is done.”
“Thank you,” Imraldera said. Once more she reached out to him, touching his arm. But her touch seemed to shoot fire through him, and he stepped away, out of her reach, into the growing darkness in the clearing.
“I am leaving,” he said.
“What?”
“Yes. I spoke to the Lumil Eliasul, and he told me that I should go, even as I asked. I am leaving the Haven at once. But don’t worry,” he hurried on before she could make a protest. “You won’t be alone here. The Prince has promised to send more knights, and others as well, squires in need of training. You won’t be alone to keep this watch. Indeed, you’ll have more help than ever, and better help than I can give.”
Imraldera stared at him, and the sorrow in her heart flared up into something else. Frustration, perhaps. Or anger. Something she could not quite name, but it was enough to bring the blood boiling in her ears and her voice snapping a little harshly from her mouth.
“And does my opinion mean nothing in all this? What if I don’t want you to go? What if I don’t want other comrades in this watch? What if—”
She stopped then, for he had given her a look, and in that look she saw a painful hope. One she could not answer. So she stopped and closed her mouth, turning away.
“No, you are right,” she said at last. “It is probably for the best.”
The silence grew so deep around them that she could even hear the voices of Nidawi’s children calling to one another inside, though they could make a sound no louder than a mosquito’s hum. She began to wonder if perhaps the cat-man had slinked away into the shadows without another word, and she could not bear to look and see.
Then he stepped up beside her and took her hand. He pressed something into it, a little scrap of a parchment, and closed her fingers around it. He held on a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s for you to copy,” he said. “Just a little rhyme or two. Copy it out and hold on to it for a while. If you should meet a fellow named Lionheart—a mortal man, a prince—give it to him and tell him it’s for his cousin, Foxbrush.”
She felt then the brush of his lips on her forehead.
“Good-bye, Imraldera,” said Eanrin.
For some long minutes, Imraldera did not enter the Haven but stood in the surrounding evening, holding herself and thinking nothing, for her head and her heart were too tired for thought. Some of Nidawi’s children came to find her and tugged at her hair and clothes, urging her to come inside. She allowed herself to be led down the passage to the library and, at last, to her desk. It sat piled high with neglected work, and someone—one of her new, eager helpers—had lit a candle and trimmed her quill.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then she opened up the page Eanrin had given her and read the badly scribbled lines. She frowned and read them again, then a third time. “What dragon-eaten nonsense,” she muttered at last and felt better for it.
Taking up her quill and drawing an empty page before her, she began to write, copying in her neat script of Faerie letters these lines: Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Follow where you will
Your fickle, fleeing, Fiery Fair
O’er woodlands, under hill.
She’ll not be found, save by the stone, The stern and shining Bronze,
Where crooked stands the Mound alone,
Thorn clad and sharp with awns.
How pleasant are the Faerie folk
Who dwell beyond your time.
How pleasant are your aged kinfolk
Of olden, swelt’ry clime.
But dark the tithe they pay, my son, To safely dwell beneath that sun!
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Hardened ground you till,
And still your fickle, Fiery Fair
Flees o’er woodland hill.
The wolf will howl, the eagle scream.
The wild white lies dead.
Tears of Everblooming stream
As she bows her mourning head.
Bargain now with Faerie queen,
The Everblooming child,
If safe you would your kingdom glean
From out the feral wild.
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There, Heal now the ills
Of your weak and weary Fair,
Lost among the hills.
You would give your own two hands
To save your ancient, sorrowing lands.
Summon now the Faerie beasts
Beneath the spreading tree