Starflower

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Ùna might be nice,” the poet was saying. “It’s always been one of my favorites. . . . Oi! Where are you going?”

  Eanrin turned where he sat to watch the girl step over to the vine and gently lift one of the branches without plucking it. Then she turned to the poet and pointed at one of the star-shaped blossoms.

  Eanrin, watching her, blinked his wide gold eyes. He spoke coldly. “Well, you needn’t like Ùna. I’ve plenty of other choices for you. What about Mallaidh?”

  She shook her head. Once more she pointed at the flower.

  “Dollag? That’s getting a bit pretentious, but—”

  She glared at him and signed, “Don’t be thick!” though she knew he wouldn’t understand. Yet again she pointed at the flower and raised her eyebrows at the poet.

  He tilted his head to one side, opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. Swallowing, he said, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  She mentally cursed back at the curse that had taken her voice. Grinding her teeth, she jabbed more forcefully at the blossom.

  “Pretty that, yes,” said the poet. “The little starflowers.”

  She nodded and smiled. Her teeth, though crooked, were white against her dark face. It was a pretty effect, Eanrin noticed, and he blushed.

  No, wait . . . blushed ?

  He shook himself. Eanrin of Rudiobus, Iubdan’s Chief Poet, did not blush; he caused blushes. Among all the ladies of Rudiobus. On the scaly face of ChuMana. Any woman he met would fall for his voice, the charm of his swift-flying words, and dissolve into the reddest flushes!

  This was all wrong. This girl must be an enchantress of some kind. What a mess he’d gotten himself into! He wished he’d left the girl to the River, and this forlorn wish made him sulky.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “How about Éibhleann? It means radiant beauty. Not that you can ever boast beauty like that, mortal creature that you are!” he quickly added.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. Setting her jaw, she stepped over to the poet and took hold of him by the scruff of the neck. The moment she did so, she held an enormous growling tomcat, which she carried to the vine. She stuck his nose up to the flower.

  The cat twisted out of her hands and landed on sandaled feet, once more a man. He shook himself and gave her such a look as would have curdled milk. “Yes! Fine, lovely flowers those! I agree! We call them imralderi, the starflowers.”

  She nodded again, pointing.

  The poet scowled at her. “Is that your name?”

  Nod.

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Nod, nod.

  Suddenly his face was all smiles again. “Ah! What a fine and pretty name it is! And so unusual for a mortal girl. I would not have thought anyone in the Near World knew the Faerie tongue.” He snatched up one of her hands and, raising her fingers to his lips, saluted her ceremoniously. “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance, Princess Imraldera of the mortal realm.”

  She drew back her hand. “I am no princess,” she signed, “and that is not my name!” Once more she indicated the little flower.

  “Indeed,” said the poet, still smiling. “You are named for the flower, yes?”

  “Yes!” she signed.

  “The little starflower?”

  She nodded and smiled as though to a simple child. “Yes, yes!”

  “Princess Imraldera, then. Lovely name! Not one I’ve heard more than a handful of times, and never among my own people. Well, Imraldera, it’s nice to be on such friendly terms, isn’t it?”

  She flung up both hands, then rubbed them down her face. But the poet’s mind was settled on the matter. He had named her Imraldera, and Imraldera she must be.

  “Well, now that’s decided,” said the poet, adjusting his cap and cloak, “we really must be off. Glomar has such a start on me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already found the gates to Etalpalli! This whole ‘helping the helpless’ business really is for the dogs. You can’t begin to understand how drastically you’ve slowed me down, Imraldera, and every moment is precious! If Glomar rescues the fair Gleamdren before I’ve so much as set eyes upon the Cozamaloti Falls, well, it’s all up for me! I will have to abandon my pursuit of the true love of my heart, and with it abandon all dreams of poetic greatness! You see what a tragedy that would be, don’t you?”

  And he started off through the Wood, following a brightly lit Path, singing as he went:

  “Oh, woe is me, I am undone,

  In sweet affliction lying!

  For my labor’s scarce begun,

  And leaves me sorely sighing

  After that maiden I adore,

  Who something, something, something more . . .”

  He called back over his shoulder, “Thus does the poet’s work progress! Do, please, withhold all judgment until further notice.”

  Newly christened Imraldera stared after him. Then with a sigh, she picked up her feet and made them follow her noisy guide. For now, she would let her path wander with the poet’s. But soon, she would have to part ways with him. She would have to plunge alone once more into the threatening Wood.

  Etalpalli shuddered.

  The towers had stood vacant for a hundred years. The streets were crumbled, melted from that old fire. Like a sad and lonely graveyard, the city had stood undisturbed in the ruins of its once fair demesne.

  So when a stranger fell through its gates and landed hard upon the stones, the city trembled to its core. And somewhere, deep within that tangle of streets, two Dogs started baying.

  Hri Sora, returned to the summit of Omeztli Tower, gazed with far-seeing eyes across the many spires to the edge of her city and saw the intruder. The fall had been, apparently, much greater than he had expected. She smiled. Her little deceptions could still govern the borders of her realm, ruined though it may be. The man had landed on the stone and fallen, his face twisted in pain. She watched him reach down to one ankle, which was already showing signs of swelling. Yes, that fall had taken him by surprise. Cozamaloti was not to be underestimated!

  “What are you staring at?” The petulant voice of her prisoner rang through the otherwise silent air. “I don’t recall ever seeing you so alert. You look almost conscious!”

  “We have a visitor,” Hri Sora responded without looking around.

  “A likely story,” said Gleamdren with a sniff. “Who would come calling on . . . wait a moment. My suitors! They’ve arrived!”

  “Suitors? No.” Hri Sora smiled as she watched the poor captain struggling to get to his feet. “Only one.”

  “What?” Gleamdren pressed herself up against the bars of her cage, her sulky eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re teasing me. I demand you let me see!”

  “You can make no demands here,” said Hri Sora, turning suddenly. “You are bound by my pleasure, Gleamdrené Gormlaith.” Nevertheless, she lifted the cage by its handle, not caring how it swayed. Gleamdren, unbalanced, fell to her hands and knees. “But it is my pleasure,” Hri Sora continued, “that you should see.” And the dragon carried her prisoner to the edge of the roof and held out her arm.

  Gleamdren gasped. She hung suspended over a drop of unbearable length. As the cage swung, she caught glimpses of the red stone so terribly far below. Without the cage, she would not fear. Heights never bothered her little head, and she would gladly cast herself from the highest peaks of Rudiobus Mountain. Such was her nature, flighty as she was. But not in a cage, without freedom of movement. Not with those iron bars surrounding her, pulling her down . . .

  But the dragon did not let go. “Look,” said Hri Sora.

  Gleamdren looked and gasped again as her gaze sped across the miles, seeing over the distance with such unnatural clarity that she felt dizzy. “What are you doing to my eyes?” she demanded.

  “Giving you my sight. Behold your suitor, queen’s cousin!”

  And Gleamdren saw Captain Glomar writhing on the stone street at the city’s edge. She frowned, her fear forgotten. “Wh
ere are the others?”

  “What others?”

  “My suitors. Where are the rest of them?”

  “There are no others.”

  “You’re wrong. There should be a dozen at least. More, even!”

  “Only one.” Hri Sora’s smile was cruel and cold. “And that one not for long.” She raised her other hand, gleaming with long black talons. She snapped her fingers.

  Gleamdren saw the movement of darkness deep in the city. The flow of a black shadow that was deeper than shadow, moving like a living animal through the streets. And even at that distance, she heard the baying.

  “I have put the Black Dogs on his trail,” said Hri Sora. “They’ll drive him into my city. He will never find you, Lady Gleamdren. Unless, of course, you tell me what I wish to know.”

  Gleamdren watched that blackness flowing like spilled ink, drawing ever nearer to where Glomar lay still, clutching his swollen ankle.

  “Tell me the secret of the Flowing Gold,” hissed the dragon. “Tell me, and I may even now let him go.”

  The voices of the Dogs were the death tolls on a booming bell.

  “Tell me,” said Hri Sora. “Tell me what I need!”

  Gleamdren’s face was pale and cold, as though a piece of her had died as she watched the scene being played out below her. At last she pulled herself to her feet and walked unsteadily across the swaying cage floor to the other side, where she could face the dragon. Though the iron made her dizzy, her small white hands grasped the bars, and she raised her gaze to meet the dragon’s as she said:

  “I cannot believe there’s only one. I have scores of beaux! Are you sure there aren’t more knocking at your gates?”

  Hri Sora nearly flung the cage over the roof’s edge then and there.

  12

  THEY TRAMPED THROUGH THE FOREST for what seemed both forever and an instant, though the light never changed. All was still, yet Imraldera sensed that life moved through the blurry shadows just beyond the Path she trod behind the poet. Life, and death as well.

  How long had it been since she’d last eaten? Since she’d last sipped water that was not ensorcelled? Her steps shortened and she stumbled.

  Eanrin whirled about, his eyebrows drawn into an irritable line. “You mortals are such a poorly put together lot, it’s a wonder you survive as long as you do! You look as though you’re ready to fall into little pieces, and who will be left to pick you up?”

  She glared at him but could not suppress a relieved sigh when he continued, “Sit down and rest. This is as safe a place as any. Can’t have you fainting on me again, especially once we come to Cozamaloti Gate.”

  This name meant nothing to Imraldera. But it didn’t matter. Though she hated to demonstrate any weakness in front of the Faerie cat, at the word “rest,” her knees gave out beneath her, and she sank gratefully into a cushion of soft moss, resting her head on her crooked arm. She was too tired even to sleep.

  Eanrin prowled about the periphery of the grove of silver aspens, his long nose sniffing and twitching so that she almost thought him in cat form. “This was a Haven once,” he declared at last.

  She watched him, offering no response.

  “A Haven of the Farthest Shore,” he went on, for he never required encouragement to talk. “Built by the Brothers Ashiun, two knights who came to these worlds from across the Final Water. Run down beyond recognition now, isn’t it?” he added, tapping one of the tree trunks and shaking his head dismissively. “That’s what happens with knights. Everything begins new and shining, the worlds all praising their virtue! It ends like this Haven. Abandoned. Empty.”

  But Imraldera, her eyes slowly traveling about though she was too tired even to lift her head, saw how gently the trees swayed in some almost imperceptible breeze. There was nothing here to disparage, she thought. Vines climbed the trees, spreading their curtains of many-colored flowers among the branches, including gleaming starflowers. It was wild, but it was beautiful in its very wildness.

  Imraldera’s breath caught in her throat. In a single instant (very like when she had first seen that the cat was also a man), she saw that the grove was also a chamber. A beautiful round room with walls of dark wood and diamond-shaped windows through which golden light poured upon a floor of green marble. She lay not on a bed of moss but on a pile of silken cushions, their colors faded. Yes, the windows were broken, the marble was chipped, and in many places the ceiling had fallen in, crumbling walls with it. But it was, nevertheless, the richest, the most beautiful room Imraldera had ever seen. More lovely than her wildest dreams could have conjured.

  She blinked again, and the vision was gone, replaced by the aspen grove. But the image of what she had seen remained in her head. This is what holy places should be, she thought as her eyes slowly closed. Holiness should be beautiful. Not bloodied.

  A sob caught in her throat. Still lying on her side, she covered her face with her arms, hiding herself. And she fell into fitful dreams.

  “Will you let me take your name with me?”

  Sun Eagle’s eyes are dark as the night, but with a bright golden quality shining in their depths. When he looks at her, she believes he sees her . . . not the lowly woman’s child, or the mute servant who must always keep her head down and obey. She thinks he sees who she is, the person hiding inside. The person who longs for a voice.

  “It would give me great pride to carry your name. The name of Panther Master’s daughter.”

  Shyly, she holds out her hand. A blue clay bead painted with a white starflower rests in her palm. She offers it to Sun Eagle, who smiles in return.

  But his smile melts. His face elongates. And then it is not Sun Eagle who stands before her, but the High Priest.

  “You belong to the Beast!”

  She runs in the dark. The tunnel closes in, and she cannot breathe the air here. She will suffocate, yet still she must run and run, though the rocks cut her feet and her eyes cannot discern two steps down her path.

  Behind her, just at her ear, someone is breathing. . . .

  “Wake up, princess. Wake up, I say!”

  Imraldera’s eyes flew open, and she gasped. She lay in the grove of aspens. Everything around her—the smells, the sounds, the feel of moss beneath her hands—was comforting and safe. Even the sight of that cat-man, his eyes expressing something between concern and irritation, was a relief.

  I am far from the Land, she told herself as her racing heart slowly calmed. I need never return.

  Eanrin, who was on his hands and knees beside her, drew back, his eyes narrowed. “It’s time to move on,” he said. “Cozamaloti is near, and I can’t afford to waste any more time on you.”

  Despite these harsh words, he offered a hand and helped her to her feet, holding her arm until she had steadied herself. Her muscles ached and her head whirled, for she was still hungry. The cat-man watched her closely.

  “Your dreams stink,” he said at last, then turned and led her from the Haven, back into the Wood.

  A little swing hung from the roof of the iron birdcage. Just a single bar suspended between two delicate threads, but Gleamdren’s weight was featherlight, and she balanced on it with ease, swinging back and forth. She held on to a thread with one hand. With the other, she played with a strand of her long flaxen braid, which was coming undone. “I would behold the luster of her hair,” she sang under her breath, “And seek the arms of Lady Gleamdrené.”

  Her hair wasn’t so lustrous now, was it? After hours and days, weeks, perhaps, without a comb! One by one, she had lost her hairpins, and now only three remained to hold any semblance of style in place. “Not that it matters,” she whispered. She huffed a sigh.

  In the distance, she heard the howls of the Black Dogs. They were on the move, she guessed. Perhaps Captain Glomar was giving them a bit of a chase, despite that swollen ankle of his. Well, Lumé light his path . . . but it wouldn’t do Gleamdren a lot of good if only Glomar showed his sorry face! What kind of reputation could she hope to boast if she
returned to Rudiobus with only one of her gallants in tow?

  The Dragonwitch, as Gleamdren was beginning to think of her captor, perched on the edge of the flat roof, bundled up like a gargoyle in the tatters of Gleamdren’s own nightdress and her lank, colorless hair. She might be watching the city below, feasting upon the sight of the Black Dogs hunting down their helpless prey. More likely, she was asleep. Or at least that version of sleep dragons know: an outwardly frozen stupor while their insides burned.

  High towers notwithstanding, Gleamdren decided that captivity was as boring a lot as she’d ever known.

  “So I’ve been thinking,” Gleamdren spoke out loud, with little real hope that Hri Sora was listening. “It does seem a bit odd for you to want the Flowing Gold, doesn’t it? Queen Vartera wanted it to flatter her vanity—she is a stuck-up pig, for all she’s a goblin! Nidawi the Everblooming made a snatch for it once, just for a lark. Even the Mherking tried to find it as a gift to woo Linaherea, the mortal girl he fancied.

  “But you? You do nothing for a lark, and I can’t imagine you vain. It doesn’t make sense, you being so glum and unattractive. My best guess is that you want it as a gift for someone, like the Mherking. Ugly as you are, you probably have some trouble getting a fellow to notice you. Am I not right?” Gleamdren simpered on her swing, patting at her limp hair. “I’m something of an expert in these things! So yes, I think that must be what this is all about. But it’s not that knight you were in love with long ago, is it? I remember the story from the Ballad of the Brothers Ashiun. He died, didn’t he? Or his brother did. I can never keep it straight.”