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  The Wood watched her approach, its gaze curious and hungry.

  She stumbled along the isthmus, crossing the bay from her own land to the greater Continent of the north. The Wood grew thick here. She had no choice but to pass into its welcoming arms if she wished to continue her flight.

  The mist was so heavy she could not see two steps ahead. But she felt when the ground softened, the sharp rocks of the isthmus giving way to moss and crackling leaves. Her arms reached ahead as though to push the mist away; from her wrists dangled rough cords that chafed her skin.

  She caught a glimpse of gold. No more than a glance, like the fleeting burst of sunshine through storm clouds, vanishing in an instant. Yet she turned to that sight, her eyes wide and desperate. For a moment, she stood as though blind. Then she saw it again, this time a form as well: slender legs, a shining coat, a powerful body disappearing into the shadows of the Wood.

  Perhaps she dreamed it. It did not matter. Where else could she turn now that the world she knew was shattered?

  A sob choked her, and she stumbled to her knees. How desperately she wished to lie down, to close her eyes, to will away the visions in her mind. But the howls were still too close in her memory, so she forced herself up and staggered on blindly, pursuing that distant golden form.

  The Wood’s dark arms encircled her as she plunged headlong into its domain. She felt no alteration as she stepped out of the mortal world into that place without Time, for her mind was spent.

  But a voice without words spoke to her heart in a language she scarcely understood. She followed the voice, propelled by an urgency beyond fear and all human need. It sang to her as she fled:

  See the truth, my child. See the truth and speak!

  It was a night that would have gone down in history even without the events that followed.

  Every night, the merry Faerie folk of Rudiobus Mountain found excuses to dance and sing and dance and sing some more, so that in itself was not unusual. But not every night marked the birthday of Queen Bebo . . . which was especially momentous considering the queen was so ancient that no one, not even her husband, would dare guess her age. The idea that she should have a birthday at all thrilled her subjects. They considered it so brilliant an occasion that they could bear to celebrate it only once every hundred years.

  Bebo sat in splendor beside her raven-haired husband and watched with a smile while her subjects danced in her honor. She wore an ancient crown of goblin work (wrought in the ages before goblins forgot their craftsman skills), and a veil of delicate silver covered her hair.

  The queen’s cousin, Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, stood beside Bebo’s throne, a jeweled goblet in her hand, ever ready to serve. She kept her eyes downcast, but a not-so-demure smile curved her lips. She was aware of how many doting swains turned their gazes her way, how many hearts beat in desperate hope that she might bestow favors upon them: a smile, a glance even. And oh! to think she might grace one of their number with a dance!

  Lady Gleamdrené was the most desired woman in all Ruaine Hall. And she knew it well.

  The young bucks pretended indifference. They shuffled their feet and elbowed their friends’ ribs. They talked in loud voices of exploits in the great Wood beyond Rudiobus, hoping their voices would carry above the pipers’ playing and strike Lady Gleamdrené’s ears. A few even vowed to themselves that, before the night’s end, they should ask to take a turn about the dance floor with Queen Bebo’s fair cousin.

  But Gleamdren, slyly peeking out from beneath her lashes, missed one particular face in the crowd. Her smile slowly melted into a frown and her covert glances became more and more pronounced. “Lumé love me,” she whispered. “Where is he?”

  Yet she could not find the one she sought. He stood in the shadows just outside the reach of torchlight and lanterns. One of the side passages leading from Fionnghuala Gate into King Iubdan’s central hall provided darkness enough that a man might prowl there beyond the gaze of searching eyes.

  The people of Rudiobus wore green. From the queen’s apple-green gown to the rich forest tones in her husband’s robes to the olive jerkin worn by the lowliest imp, the kingdom of merrymakers were a verdant garden of emerald and spring leaf, moss and teal. This man wore scarlet.

  The Merry People of Rudiobus were rarely seen without smiles, and so it was with this man. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, waiting to burst across his pale, angular face. But his golden eyes were serious.

  He watched the shadows of the dancers winging across the walls of the mountain hall. He smelled the richness of the fresh-hung pine and holly boughs festooning the rocks and littering the floor. He heard the sounds of ageless voices raised in song. He saw how every man in the room turned eventually to gaze with longing upon Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith. But she would have none of them.

  She looked for him. He knew it with a confidence common only in his kind. He lived ever assured of the ultimate desirability of himself. Who would not crave his presence, nor vie for his esteem? He himself admired no man more, for was there ever such a handsome, a quick-witted devil as he?

  “We are alike, you and I, my lady Gleamdren,” he whispered to himself as he watched that fair maid scan the crowds, her face sinking into deeper frowns when she failed to see his. “The Flower of Rudiobus. That’s what they call you. Any man here would give his right hand for your pleasure!”

  The smile, which had been tugging at his mouth for some time, finally won out. He grinned, and his eyes shone even beyond the torchlight. “You, my sweet, should be my wife.”

  “A fine sight, eh, poet?”

  The scarlet man did not startle at the gruff voice that suddenly spoke behind him. He turned, his eyes narrowed, and icily replied, “The queen’s birthday is always a fine display, which is nothing new. It holds little interest for me.”

  “Little interest, you say?” The speaker took a step nearer to the poet, entering the light of the nearest torch. He wore a moss-green doublet that would disguise him from hunting eyes should he venture beyond Rudiobus Mountain, and he carried a lance. His appearance was stocky, broad-shouldered, and powerful, opposite of the scarlet man’s in every way save for his shock of yellow hair. In that aspect, the two might have been brothers. Perhaps they were. But they, like all the men and women of Rudiobus, were so ancient in their immortality that none could remember their heritage. “You’re blind, my friend, if you can find no lovely face to light an interest in you.”

  “Fine sentiments, Captain Glomar of the Guard,” the scarlet man said. “I was unaware that your kind entertained feelings of the higher order.”

  Glomar ignored this last with masterful stoicism. Setting his lance momentarily aside, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his face cast into shadows by the torch. “If none other can touch your heart, there’s one I think who might.” His eyes were bright as he gazed across the hall. “Aye, she’s the image of what every lass ought to be; that’s what I think.”

  “I’m going to pretend I haven’t the least notion what you’re talking about,” the scarlet man said. “And I’d advise you to take advantage of my pretense and sneak away now.”

  Glomar’s sandy eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed for yourself!”

  “Noticed what?”

  “That lass! What else?”

  “Which lass, Glomar? There are a hundred and more ladies careening across the floor as we speak.”

  “Ah, but only one so far as I can see,” answered Glomar, settling back comfortably to continue his long-distance admiration. His voice, though rough as dirt and rock, was almost wistful. “I dare you to find a maid alive who can rival Queen Bebo’s cousin.”

  The scarlet man was not surprised. Why should he be? Who beside fair Gleamdren could have caught even stony Glomar’s eye? Nevertheless, momentary jealousy surged in the scarlet man’s breast. Had he been a cat, the fur on his back and tail would have stood on end. As it was, his lips drew back in something like a snarl, and he turne
d on the starry-eyed captain a look that might have pinned the poor man to the wall. But before Glomar saw, the snarl melted into a smile.

  “You should ask her to dance, good captain.”

  Glomar’s face paled noticeably even in the shadows, and his eyes went hollow and round. “Ach, no! That I could never! Nay, I would not dream to so much as step in her slim little shadow, much less ask to hold her hand in mine! I’m not much of a dancer in any case.”

  “Wise, then. Wise, indeed,” nodded the poet. He too leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. Though in breadth he could never equal Glomar, he stood a half head taller at least. The better to look down upon the captain. “You’d never have a hope with her.”

  Glomar sighed. “Don’t I know it.” Then he glared up at his companion. “Nor can any man in Rudiobus hope to be fair Gleamdren’s match!”

  The scarlet man shrugged. “I could dance with her. If I wished.”

  Glomar snorted.

  “I could,” the scarlet man said, smooth as butter. “Anytime I choose.”

  “Ask her, then. I’m always game for a joke.”

  “I’m not so much in the mood.”

  “Not in the mood? To dance with that vision?” Glomar barked a laugh that caught the attention of several of the nearest dancers, who turned startled faces toward the darkened passage. “You amuse me, friend. Are you a bard or jester? Not in the mood, my eye. Ha! You’re more a coward than all the rest of your kind together, aren’t you?”

  The scarlet man opened his mouth to give a reply, but fortunately, King Iubdan chose that moment to cry out in a voice that instantly silenced the music and the laughter of the revelers.

  “Where is my Chief Poet?” he bellowed. His tones were round and rich as plum pudding, and his eyes, though black, were the merriest in the room. “Where is Bard Eanrin? Send him up to me at once! Make way, you dancers, and find my poet!”

  The scarlet man stepped away from the wall, smoothing down his yellow hair, then jamming a jaunty red cap in place. “Anytime I choose,” he hissed in parting before springing from the shadows, leaving Glomar behind in the gloom.

  The crowd made way for the scarlet man as he crossed the dance floor, his golden face beaming with smiles. He approached the thrones of his monarchs and swept a bow made all the more dramatic by the flourish of his gold-trimmed cape.

  “Ah! There you are, Eanrin,” said the king.

  “Greetings, most noble Iubdan Tynan, Dark Man of the Merry People, Lord of Rudiobus, who sits enthroned above all in fair Ruaine Hall!” cried the poet, his hand raised in salute. “And most illustrious queen,” he continued, turning a gaze of adoration upon Iubdan’s wife. “Fair Bebo, who walks among the stars and sings with the Spheres to the cheer and gladness of the Far World. My best wishes upon the anniversary of your birth!”

  “Many thanks, Eanrin,” said the queen with a graceful nod.

  But Iubdan shook his head and bellowed, “No, no, no! What do I keep you around for, bard, if not for barding? I won’t accept wishes to my queen spoken thus. You must ballad, Eanrin! You must versify!”

  Poet Eanrin gave another bow, less hearty than the first; when he stood again, his face was full of woe, and many a lady in Ruaine put her hand to her heart at the sight of such tender feeling. “I fear, my king,” said he, “that a song is not within me this night. You see before you a man broken. And though I would fain—”

  “I didn’t ask you to feign,” said his sovereign, his dark eyes snapping. “I require that you perform your duty, Chief Poet, and perform it in proper spirit. It is Bebo’s birthday, and she must have a song.”

  “Pray, my Dark Man,” said Bebo with a kindly smile, “do not tax the poet. If he has no song in him—”

  “When have we known our good Eanrin not to have a song?” Iubdan cried, then quickly added in a gentler tone, “Pardon my interruption, sweet one. But my Chief Poet will earn his keep! I put it to you, Eanrin. Can you dredge up a song?”

  The poet raised melancholy eyes to his king’s face and replied, “I can, my king.”

  “Then sing for us, will you? Sing in honor of your queen!”

  Eanrin placed a hand to his heart and turned to Bebo. But his gaze strayed, if but for the space of a heartbeat, to her cousin standing just behind the queen’s throne. And Lady Gleamdren lowered her gaze to the goblet in her hand and blushed most prettily.

  “Queen of my heart,” Eanrin said, a tremor in his voice, “to you I dedicate this ode, composed spontaneously here at your feet.”

  Bebo gave a gracious nod. Gleamdren raised an eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth twitched in expectation, but she schooled her face into a frown a moment later. A lady must take care how much she reveals.

  The poet, unaccompanied, lifted his arms and sang. His voice was so sweet and so golden that he needed no instrument to fill it out, and his song carried to all corners of Ruaine Hall, into every cranny of that vast cavern, even to places where the torchlight could not penetrate.

  “Hers the voice, the look. Obey

  And sing a humble, longing lay!

  Within the Hall of Red and Green

  Behold my sweet, my love, my queen.

  With merry song and manic pleasures,

  Light of foot in lyric measures,

  First pursue and then retreat.

  Bright upon their fiery feet,

  Within the circling dancers’ meeting

  In time to ancient drums a-beating

  Solemn strains, her homage must declare.

  Where falls her glance, the Graces honor pay.

  I would behold the luster of her hair

  And seek the arms of Lady Gleamdrené!”

  A gasp rushed through the hall. The last echoes of the song died away, leaving the merrymakers wide-eyed and openmouthed, and Captain Glomar looking much more like a badger than he had a moment before. Queen Bebo hid either a smile or a frown behind her hand, while her cousin’s face was a conflict of blushes and scowls.

  Only Iubdan laughed.

  He threw back his head and howled so loudly that even Poet Eanrin had the sense to look abashed. When he was quite done, Iubdan cried, “So that’s how it is, bard? And here I thought you were singing as fine an ode to my queen as ever I have heard!”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said the poet with a bow. “Did I misspeak?”

  “Indeed you did. Where we should have heard the name Bebo sweetly sung, we heard instead that of her cousin. Don’t tell me this was a mistake?”

  “If mistake it was,” said Eanrin, turning to fix his gaze upon Lady Gleamdren, “it was a mistake of the tongue, not of the heart! Can I help it if the words that burst from my lips are the truth I feel most keenly?”

  Iubdan guffawed again, and this time much of the court joined with him. Even Bebo no longer tried to disguise her laughter. But more than a hundred pairs of fists clenched, more than a hundred jaws set on edge as the young men of Rudiobus turned angry eyes upon the poet. Not least among these was Glomar, who took up his lance and squeezed it nearly to the point of breaking.

  Gleamdren, however, refused to look at the poet, who stood, hand upon heart, gazing up at her.

  “I thank you, good poet,” said Queen Bebo at length, stilling the laughter with a wave of her hand, “for bringing such jollity to our hall. I look forward to another song when next my birthday is celebrated.”

  Then she bade the musicians take up their playing again, and the dancers returned to the floor. Iubdan rose and offered his hand to his queen, and they joined the others, whirling away in time to the music. Their removal to the floor left Gleamdren momentarily alone behind the thrones. She fixed her gaze upon the dancing monarchs, refusing to look even when Eanrin climbed the stairs and bowed in a fine impression of humility. Her face was fetchingly flushed.

  “Fair lady,” the poet began, “please allow me to—”

  “Not another word!” Gleamdren said, holding up a hand. “Your impertinence does you no credit, Bard Eanrin. Thoug
h really, I should be surprised by nothing you say or do. But good Lumé! Must you embarrass me so in front of all the court?”

  “I never meant to embarrass you, sweet maid,” the poet protested, his hands outstretched in supplication. “I intended nothing other than to sing the praises of our queen! But my heart must always dictate my tongue, and my heart said—”

  “I care little for your heart and its fool notions,” said Gleamdren with a pretty toss of her head that indicated quite the opposite. She was flattered, and Eanrin knew this. “You’re a dragon-kissed fool, Eanrin, that’s what you are. And tonight you’ve proven it to everyone.”

  Here she tempered her words with a smile. It was a subtle dance, this art she practiced, and she was a skilled dancer. She must discourage her beaux just enough to keep them interested, not enough to drive them away.

  The poet smiled in return. “Oh, come now, Gleamdren!” he said. “I know you can’t mean that. You were watching every darting shadow for a sign of me. Admit it!”

  She turned up her nose. “I admit nothing.” But she gave him a sidelong glance that spoke volumes.

  He leapt at the bait. “Not one man in this room is your equal.” He took a step nearer and reached for her hand. “Not one man, save me.”

  She avoided his touch with an “Oh!” and gave him an arch frown.

  He ground his teeth in a smile and spoke softly. “Enough of this nonsense, fair Gleamdrené Gormlaith. You know you are bored to tears by all these fools vying for your attention. What have they to offer you compared to me? I am the Chief Poet of Iubdan.”

  “You’re a silly cat, Eanrin.”

  He slipped a hand about her waist. She pursed her lips, struggling to frown when her whole face longed to smile. She dropped her gaze to her goblet once more but did not resist—at least, not too much—when he drew her to him.

  “I will go down in history,” he whispered. “The greatest bard of all time. The prince of poetry!”