“Work? You were playing the fool for Lady Gleamdren!”
“That shows what you know.” The cat stood and stretched, forming a fluffy arch with his back, and when he had finished, he unbent into the form of a man. Sir Eanrin, clad in scarlet with a gold-edged cape and a feathered cap, removed said cap and ran a hand through his tawny hair, as much a cat in this form as he was when more blatantly feline. “I am first and foremost a Knight of Farthestshore, even as you are yourself, my girl,” he said with an easy grace and confidence that never failed to make Imraldera want to smack him. “Servant of the Lumil Eliasul and all that.”
“Eanrin, I—”
“But I am also,” he continued, holding up a silencing hand, “the Chief Poet of Rudiobus, and I have a duty to my king Iubdan and his fair queen, a duty I neglected all the while you were away in your old country so that I could—all by myself, I hardly need add—guard the gates of our watch. Faerie beasts might crawl thick and fast into your homeland, but by Lumé and Hymlumé’s eternal song, they did not get through any of the gates under this guard.” He crossed his arms and gave her such a stare as only cats can give. “Fifteen years, Imraldera. By myself. I think I earned a bit of a holiday.”
She opened her mouth to speak, venom waiting to spit from her tongue. Then she stopped herself and shook her head, momentarily defeated. “All right, you win,” she said, turning back to her desk and taking up her quill. “I can’t grudge you the reprieve. And I’m certain King Iubdan and Queen Bebo both were grateful to have their bard back for a little while.”
The cat-man slid up behind Imraldera and said with a satisfied smirk, “They and—ahem—others too.”
She glared round at him. “I can see that you’re brimming. Tell me, then: Did Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith speak to you this time?”
Eanrin smiled a brilliant smile and began to nod his head. But he stopped and shook it at the last. “Well, no,” he admitted. The big smile sank into a smaller, more rueful one. “A tad awkward, that.”
“I would imagine it is awkward, yes, wooing a woman who has vowed never to speak to you again.”
Eanrin shrugged. “I haven’t lost heart! Indeed, I do hope very soon now to win her over with my perfumed words and glorious lyrics.”
Imraldera gave him a look. “No, you don’t.”
Again he smiled. “No, I don’t. You’re right. But what can I say? It adds to the drama, to the romance! There’s nothing quite like unrequited passion, is there, old girl?”
She shook her head, rolling her eyes and turning back to her work. Eanrin, meanwhile, suddenly flushed and backed away. Finding a chair partially buried under a pile of unused parchment, he shoved aside the clutter and made himself comfortable, lounging with one leg over its arm, the picture of feline grace, clad though he was momentarily in manhood. “I’ve begun composing a new ballad, you’ll be interested to know,” he said. “An epic.”
“Lights Above save us,” Imraldera muttered without looking around.
“You’ll like this one!” said Eanrin. “It’s the tale of how the Dragonwitch snatched my lady Gleamdren from the very bosom of Rudiobus and locked her away in her high tower. It’s taken me long enough to get around to it, but I figured I should begin the composing while it’s still fresh in my mind. Would you like to hear?”
“Spare me, please,” said she.
“Just my favorite bits! Like this one, when the Dragonwitch first carries her off.”
“Eanrin, I’m trying to—”
But the poet, still seated, threw out his hands and began to declaim as though he’d not heard her.
“The witch of fire bound her tight
Before Eanrin’s very eye!
She bore his lady far and fast
And locked her in a tower high!
“Isn’t that grand, then?” He looked eagerly her way.
She sighed, put down her pen, and asked rather gloomily, “Is there more?”
“Scads! This part is the Dragonwitch’s speech:
“‘Where flows the gold, sweet Gleamdrené,
The gold for which I thirst?
Where flows the gold, the shining gold?
Tell ere your life be cursed!’
“And now you hear Gleamdren reply.”
“Really, Eanrin, must you—”
“Attend!
“‘I’ll tell you not, foul fiery dame!
I swear upon my hand,
You’ll ne’er set eye on the Flowing Gold,
Not while Sir Eanrin stands!’”
Imraldera narrowed her eyes. “Oh, is that what she said? I seem to remember things differently.”
“Poetic license, old girl,” said the cat-man. “The joy of my art is in the embellishment.”
“And by embellishment, I presume you mean falsehood ?”