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  She rolled her eyes and gave a little shrug. “For what that is worth!”

  “Every song could be yours.” He bent his head to whisper in her ear. Her white-blond hair tickled his nose and smelled of pine needles. It was an exciting scent. “I shall dedicate my work to you. Every song I write. Every lyric stanza . . . yours! What say you to this?”

  “Is what you sang just now an example of things to come?” she asked, turning her face suddenly up to him. Her nose bumped his, and he drew back, startled. Then he leaned in to kiss her.

  “No! No!” she cried with a laugh and backed out of his grasp, tossing her head. “Such bosh and nonsense! What girl wants all that romanticized drivel dedicated to her? Throughout history! People will get silly notions about me. They’ll start to say I’m some sort of famous beauty. Insignificant me!”

  She was fishing for compliments, but Eanrin was no longer feeling generous. “Come now, dearest of my heart,” he growled. “Give us a kiss, won’t you?”

  “Oh, Eanrin,” said she, still laughing. “A kiss you will never have from me!” Her glance said otherwise.

  “A dance, then?” said the poet, emboldened by that look. “This reel is your favorite, I know. Give me your hand, Gleamdren, and we’ll show these beggars what dancing is!”

  Gleamdren blinked at him, long and slow. Then she turned, swept down the steps, and grabbed the arm of the nearest unengaged gentleman, declaring in a voice of honey, “I’ll not dance with you, Eanrin, for I have already promised this dance to—” She turned to discover the identity of her new partner. “Who are you?”

  “Captain Glomar of the Guard!” gasped he, his face full of the beautiful terror of a dream come true.

  “Yes, you then,” said Gleamdren.

  Glomar stared down at the little white hands clutching his arm. A flush swept over his face, as red as Eanrin’s cape. “Why . . . why, my lady! I’m not much good at dancin’.”

  “But you have promised to dance with me, haven’t you?” said she, gazing up at him in such a way that he would not have contradicted her for the world. Without another word, Glomar swept her into his arms, dragged her across the floor, flung her in a twirl, caught her at the last second, and hurled her again. Gleamdren was out of breath and gasping within moments. But her face fixed into a smile that was intended less for Glomar’s pleasure than for Eanrin’s misery.

  And every man in Ruaine Hall saw the Chief Poet’s disgrace.

  Eanrin stood, his mouth agape, his heart beating strangely in his breast. This must be what jealousy felt like. Best to remember it; a poet must be keen on his emotions, able to dredge them up at a moment’s notice. Gleamdren cast him one last dogged smile, and her eyes flew wide as her arm was nearly wrenched from the shoulder.

  The poet could bear no more. He turned on heel and stalked from the hall.

  2

  THE PATH AT HER FEET was narrow indeed.

  The mortal stumbled through the Wood. Once or twice, she still thought she glimpsed the golden form running ahead of her. Strange guide though it was, it was the only guide she had, and she forced her bruised body to follow. But her mind was so tired, full of clashing images and sounds.

  Her father’s face, pale for loss of blood.

  Moonlight on stones like teeth.

  “Run!”

  The girl gasped, her mouth twisted in a silent scream.

  The trees drew back from her as she continued her flight. They dared not interfere while she walked that Path, no matter how they might wish to. She took no notice of them. How long had she fled now? Had it been one night, or days and weeks of this nightmare? And always the howls pounded her memory.

  Suddenly, the howls vanished. A new voice spoke from the gloom.

  Come to me, pretty maid.

  The girl stopped, swaying where she stood, on the verge of collapsing. Slowly, as though she dared not hope to find what she sought, she turned her head to the left. Between the trees a river sparkled like a ribbon of pure light and sweetness.

  Her thirst was overwhelming. Even the snarls faded from her mind, replaced by the River’s inviting babbling. Come to me, pretty maid, it said, though she heard only the sound of water.

  Her feet left bloodstains on the moss and rocks as she hastened down to the River’s edge. A glint of gold shimmered in the tail of her eye, shining even in the Wood’s oppressive shadows. She ignored it. Falling to her knees on the bank of the water, she plunged in both hands. The water stung her wrists where the harsh cords had bitten into her skin.

  Drink deeply. Drink.

  The water flowed about her arms, fresh and alive. She cupped her hands and lifted the cooling liquid to her lips. She drank.

  She drew a long, shuddering breath, then fell upon the bank, one arm extended into the water, the other upon the shore. Her black hair covered her face, and the River ran its fingers through the ends of it, pulling, pulling.

  Sleep deeply. Sleep, said the River.

  From the shadows of the trees, a fine, narrow face watched with solemn dark eyes. The shape was that of a hound with a coat of white-gold luster. But the eyes shone with an angelic light, or a light of a higher order still. Unhurried, he approached the girl and looked down upon her sorry state. He saw the Path she had walked and would later walk again. He saw how the twisting and winding of this Path would baffle her.

  The shining one bent his head and placed a kiss upon the girl’s forehead. Then he turned and loped into the forest, vanishing as though he had never been. The girl slept where she had fallen, her thirst unsatisfied.

  Eanrin sat on the banks of Gorm-Uisce Lake, which lay at the base of Rudiobus Mountain and reflected both the mountain and the stars above. On such a night, with all the Merry Folk dancing in the Hall of Red and Green, the lake was a lonely spot. The voice of Fionnghuala Lynn, the waterfall gate into Rudiobus, was distant enough to be no more than a murmur. The only living soul within calling distance was the guardian of Fionnghuala, who would recognize a poet’s need for solitude and leave him in peace.

  Eanrin stared across the still waters to the far shore, where a dark forest stood. “Woe is me, for I am undone,” he whispered. He quite liked the phrase and thought he’d round it out with a lyric stanza or two. “Woe is me, for I am undone . . .”

  Unfortunately, he had no more. What rhymed with undone? Homespun. No. Bludgeon?

  “Poetry be dashed!” he snarled and clenched his hands into fists. “What in the name of Lumé, Hymlumé, and the entire starry host is wrong with Lady Gleamdren?”

  Neither the lake nor the stars seemed inclined to answer.

  Eanrin frowned. Obviously, the first fault lay with Gleamdren’s womanhood, he decided. Had he not already written a score of popular verses on the fickleness of women, on their temperamental, unpredictable natures? That much, at least, was no surprise. But he knew without a doubt that Gleamdren wanted him. She must! They were so alike, she and he. She, with her beauty and her pretty ways, bidding every lad to join her entourage even as she simultaneously repulsed romantic advances. If hers was not a heart akin to that of a true poet—desperate for notice, still more desperate for solitude—than whose could be?

  “Why then does she resist me?”

  Eanrin sighed, casting his gaze to the heavens, which offered no sympathy. So he took a comb from his pocket and leaned out over the lake. It was quiet enough beneath him to make a fine mirror, and he began smoothing his hair. With his mind so unsettled, a good grooming was the only recourse. He slicked his golden locks into place and slicked them again, the rhythmic motions soothing until he found himself better able to think.

  “Patience, Eanrin,” he told himself, tilting his face above the lake to get a better perspective on his features. “Patience is all you need. A turn or two about the dance floor should be enough to settle this business. Once Glomar has shown the lady his paces, she will be sick to death of him and longing for my return.”

  The poet’s smile broadened at this thought. By pure compa
rison, how could he fail to shine the brighter in his lady’s esteem? And he had time. His merry life had extended more centuries than he could remember and would continue, so far as he could imagine, for many centuries still. He need not hurry.

  “Though I wait a thousand years and more,” he whispered to the stars, “I will yet win the hand of Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith. This I vow upon the crown of the moon, upon the scepter of the—”

  A chilling howl trembled on the edge of the night.

  Eanrin startled and fumbled to catch his comb before it was lost forever beneath Gorm-Uisce’s glassy surface. He stood and backed away from the lake, his eyes fixed upon the dark line of forest across the water. The sound must have drifted from the worlds beyond, from the Wood Between or even the Near World of mortals. Such a cry, so lost and so horrible, had never been uttered in Rudiobus.

  The guardian of Fionnghuala emerged from behind the waterfall and trotted along the lake’s edge to stand beside Eanrin. She was a golden mare with a scarlet tail, a beautiful and solemn animal. Her name was Órfhlaith, and she spoke to Eanrin in the language of horses.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Eanrin nodded. “The Black Dogs,” he said, and trembled. “I know them when I hear them. That was the cry of the Black Dogs. Are they come to Rudiobus?”

  “Not they. Their prey.” Her nostrils flaring, the mare tossed her head to indicate the far shore of the lake. The white light of Hymlumé above, which had been bright only minutes before, had vanished behind a cloud, and the poet could discern nothing on the far shore. “Some poor soul they pursue has fallen on the edge of Rudiobus.”

  “But not entered,” said Eanrin quickly, as though to assure himself. “No one can enter Rudiobus uninvited. Not even Death or his minions.”

  Órfhlaith stamped a hoof, splattering Eanrin’s shoes with silver droplets. “You’re right, king’s poet,” she said. “Quickly, on my back!”

  “Why?”

  “The Black Dogs are terrible. They always run down their quarry in the end. But they may not enter Rudiobus, and perhaps we can offer their luckless victim shelter.”

  “It’s not our business!” Eanrin protested.

  “No,” agreed Órfhlaith. “But we can make it so. On my back, at once.”

  Eanrin nearly argued. But his eyes lit suddenly with an insatiable curiosity. Who might the Black Dogs pursue that would think to turn to Rudiobus and the Merry Folk for aid? The poet licked his lips. He had never glimpsed the Black Dogs. Word of them had first come to Rudiobus in the last century, and he thought them a dreadful tale, but one he was unlikely to encounter. According to rumor, they chased only those upon whom they were set, pursing their quarry without flagging until they ran it down. But no one would set the Black Dogs upon Iubdan’s Chief Poet. It would be a safe enough venture to take a peek beyond Rudiobus.

  “I suppose I should investigate anyway,” he said. “My duty to the king and such.”

  With that, he scrambled up on the golden mare’s back and held on to her mane as she leapt out onto the warm waters of Gorm-Uisce. She did not swim, for she was herself so light, so airy, that she could not sink. Her hooves left spreading ripples where they glanced on the water’s surface. The water was dark without the moon to shine upon it, and darker still the nearer they came to the far shore, where the trees swallowed all light.

  The forest beyond the lake marked the edge of Rudiobus. Although many boasted of it, few of the Merry People actually walked the shadows of the forest beyond the lake. To pass amid those trees was to pass into the Between, the thin realm of existence that separated immortal Faerie from the mortal world. The undying folk of Iubdan Tynan avoid proximity with mortality. But Eanrin was more daring than most of his kin. Always eager for some inspiration for new songs with which to delight his king and queen, he had explored deeply into the treacherous Wood. He had learned which Paths he might safely follow, and which he would do well to avoid.

  So it was with little care or concern that, when Órfhlaith drew close to the far shore, Eanrin leapt from her back to dry land, avoiding wetting his feet as much as possible. A strange thing happened the moment he stood upon that shore. While neither he grew nor the mare shrank, suddenly he towered above her, and she was so small that she might have fit into his hand. For he no longer stood in Rudiobus, and height and girth could keep no rigid hold on him. But these alterations on the fabric of reality were as commonplace as breathing to Iubdan’s bard, and he took no notice.

  “I’ll just have a look,” he told the mare. He took two strides into the shadows of the Wood and left behind the realm of his birth.

  The trees themselves did not change in the Between. The lake had vanished; Eanrin could no longer smell it behind him, nor the scents he always associated with Rudiobus—pine sap and rock and the heady scent of laughter, which only a nose as keen as his might discern. Stepping from the darkness of night into the gloom of tree-shadowed midday gave the poet momentary pause.

  The Wood was lit in half-light. Perhaps above the woven branches a sun shone brightly. No one could say for certain. Eanrin took a deep breath, glad to be once more in the Between and the thrill of danger it offered. Fire lit his spirit, and he took three steps.

  Then he drew up short as a foul stench assaulted his nostrils.

  It was a wonder he had not noticed it the moment he stepped from Rudiobus. It was the smell of a dying body. It was the smell of mortality.

  The poet made a face, his lips drawn back from his teeth. The Black Dogs must have been set on the trail of some poor mortal who had wandered foolishly from the Near World into the Wood. He cast about for the source.

  She lay fainted beneath an old caorann tree. Did she know how close she had come to Rudiobus? But of course not, how could she, ignorant, dying beast that she was? Her hair covered her face in a tangled snarl, and some of the caorann berries had fallen in it, like drops of red blood.

  From where he stood, Eanrin could not tell if she breathed.

  The poet stood a while regarding her, struggling to keep from gagging. If there was one thing he hated, it was obligation. He knew, now that he had seen this creature lying in such a helpless state, he should feel obliged to help her. The Black Dogs could not be far off. If they came upon the mortal lying thus, they would rend her to pieces and carry her spirit down into the Netherworld.

  “But really,” Eanrin muttered to himself, “is that any of my business?”

  Órfhlaith would expect a report, as would Iubdan and Bebo, who, even in the midst of celebration, must have heard the voices of the Black Dogs baying. They would even now be standing by Fionnghuala Lynn, awaiting news. He had best investigate, at least discover if the woman lived.

  He approached her, placing his feet gently so as to make no sound. She did not stir. Even as he drew near, he did not think she breathed, she lay so still. No features were visible beneath her hair. Ragged, colorless garments covered her body, and what little he could see of her skin was just as colorless. She was slight, gaunt even. He put out a tentative finger and touched her shoulder.

  He hissed, drawing back quickly. A blister swiftly developed on his fingertip.

  Something was wrong. His nostrils flared as he drew another long whiff of her scent. She absolutely reeked of humanity. But why would her skin burn? He stepped back, and his heart raced. Did she suffer some dreadful fever? It was not unlikely here in the Wood. Humans reacted strangely to many of the plants or beings dwelling here. She may have caught a burning curse or some disease, neither of which would affect Eanrin. He had no reason to fear, he told himself again and again.

  Yet he could not still his beating heart. What if she wore a glamour?

  He raised his gaze to the caorann tree under which the woman lay. These trees were known to protect against witchcraft and enchantments. It was said their berries would reveal the truth of all but the deepest spells. If this woman was a witch wearing a glamour to disguise her true nature, lying beneath the caorann tree would be a mis
take. The berries fallen in her hair would swiftly dissolve her spell.

  Only one creature, so far as Eanrin knew, could cast an enchantment strong enough to deceive the caorann. Everything in him told him to flee. But his curiosity was so intense that he stood unmoving.

  After all, he had never seen a dragon.

  There were many known to stalk the worlds of Faerie. The most infamous, of course, was the Flame at Night, scourge of the mortal realm, who had once been a Faerie queen herself. But there were possibly hundreds of other minor dragons, or so the rumors had it.

  His eyes as round as moons, he approached the woman again. Once more he put out a finger but did not touch her right away, trying to feel the heat emanating from her body. The air was cold all around her. Had he imagined the burning? But no, his blistered finger was no lie. Frowning, he touched her again, lightning fast.

  Nothing.

  Licking his lips, Eanrin rested his finger on her shoulder for a longer moment before drawing back. Still neither heat nor sign of life. He grabbed her shoulder fully, and she did not burn him, nor did she move.

  Not a dragon, then, he decided. He must have been mistaken. Perhaps she did indeed suffer from a curse that made her sometimes burn to the touch? Stranger things had happened in the Far World.

  Eanrin felt beneath the tangled masses of hair to find the stranger’s neck. There was no pulse, none at all. He took hold of her shoulders and rolled her over into his arms. Her face lolled to one side, half covered in her long hair, which was as colorless as the rest of her. He put an ear to her mouth and nose but could discern no breath.

  “Are you dead, then?” he asked and received no answer. He had rarely been so near to death. It did not frighten so much as fascinate and simultaneously appall him. “You appear remarkably dead-ish, at least. Perhaps I should just leave you here to the Dogs.”

  He realized, suddenly, that he had heard not a single note of the Black Dogs’ baying since he stepped into the Wood. Odd . . . Should they not be even now bearing down upon their prey? He sniffed the air but could catch no scent other than the dominating smell of mortality. Shivering, he looked down at the woman again and brushed the hair back from her face.