Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (26 page)

She looked up into the face that had once been Diarmid’s. If she felt pain at the sight, he did not see it, for her mask was absolute. “I’m glad you’ve come,” she said.

“Anahid,” the dragon said again, as though speaking her name was the sole pleasure he had known in many long generations. He dropped to his knees before her. His hair was long and lank about his face, his skin sallow and his cheeks sunken. Though his features were human, no one could look into those reptilian eyes and fail to see the dragon inside him. The fire that had replaced his heart long ago burned and filled the air with heat.

But for a moment Anahid glimpsed the young man he had once been.

“Tell me,” she said quietly, “do you love me still?”

The yellow-eyed dragon could not look at her, but he remained kneeling at her feet, his hands outstretched as if he would clasp hers, though he did not touch her. “No,” he said. “I can no longer love. I have no heart. It was burned away by Death-in-Life long ago.”

The queen nodded at this, and for a moment they sat in silence. Then she said, “Do you remember your love for me?”

“That,” he said, “I will never forget.”

“Then I will not command you,” Anahid said. “Though because I woke you, I could if I chose. But instead, let me ask you. Let me beg, in light of that love you once bore for me.”

“I will do anything for you,” the yellow-eyed dragon said.

She took his hands in hers. They burned at first, but she did not let go, though he struggled to pull them away. The burning died back, and his fingers lay helpless in her grasp. Only for a moment, however. Then he clutched back, drawing her hands to his breast as if clinging to a lifeline.

Anahid said, “I want you to go from Arpiar. I want you to return to the Prince’s Haven. Return to that place where we met so long ago, and where you loved me once. Find the Knights of Farthestshore and warn them of my husband’s plan.”

The dragon paled, his wan skin turning ashen.

“I have a daughter,” Anahid said. “Varvare is her name. You must have guessed what the king intends to do with her.”

He nodded. “I saw the . . . the one-horned beast.”

She drew his hands up to her lips and kissed them almost fiercely. “Please, my one-time love. Please, the Night of Moonblood will be upon us soon.”

“Anahid,” said he, “you know what will be my fate if I do as you ask.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, but her voice was even when she spoke. “Our lives were both destroyed by Death-in-Life long ago. But my daughter, my sweet Varvare, she may yet live, Diarmid. She may yet know the grace from which we have strayed so far. But only if . . .”

Her words ended in silence as the yellow-eyed dragon raised his face to meet her gaze. Age-old memories passed between them in a moment, along with a knifelike flash of the future to come. And suddenly the dragon took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, gently, so that his lips would not burn her skin.

Two tears rolled down her cheeks.

Then he was gone, and Anahid remained among the roses, which had turned their faces away, their petals drooping and brown-edged with sorrow.

Fear was not well-known to Sir Eanrin. He generally found it got in the way, so he bypassed the emotion entirely. The last time he could remember being truly afraid, he had lost his eyes, so really, what good had it done him? And after the loss of his eyes, what could anything or anyone take from him that he valued more? His life? What a foolish thing to fear, especially for a cat!

So as he sped through the ruins of Ragniprava’s palace, Eanrin was not afraid, though he felt the hot breath of the Tiger on the back of his neck more than once. A touch of concern, perhaps, seeped into his heart; concern for the mortal, though, not for himself.

The twisting passages were easy enough to navigate. For century upon century, Eanrin had explored all the most fantastic palaces and temples and labyrinths of Faerie, and he knew what to expect, even among these ruins. In the darkness that fell as suddenly as the snuffing of a candle, he moved more easily than a man with sight would have, used as he was to blindness.

Lionheart, however, was not so lucky. When all the lights gleaming from the strange plants of Ragniprava’s demesne suddenly extinguished, he gasped where he crouched under the table. It was as though ink had been poured into his eyes. He heard the Tiger breathing, snuffling, attempting to get his huge body underneath the low table.

“Come out, little prince,” he said. “I don’t want to damage you before adding you to my collection, but I will if I must. Come out and it will be easier on you.”

Lionheart said nothing. His ears were his only ally, so he scarcely breathed as he strained them to hear every movement the Tiger made. He knew when Ragniprava had drawn up to his right, and he rolled left just in time. He felt the wind of enormous claws swiping into empty air.

“It’s no good,” Ragniprava said, and Lionheart heard him leap onto the table above. Platters clanged and fruit rolled; then the Tiger came heavily down on the other side. Lionheart rolled right, and again just missed losing an arm. His lungs screamed for air, but still he dared not draw a complete breath. He started, very slowly, to crawl toward the end of the table, between the rows of stone princes’ feet.

The Tiger leapt onto the table again, walking just above Lionheart as he moved. “I can hear you, mortal. And I see well in this pitch night. Don’t think you can escape the will of Ragniprava!”

But Lionheart crawled on, feeling carefully before him as he went. He thought he must be near the end of the table now, and reached forward, his hand seeking.

The Tiger guessed his plan.

Just as Lionheart’s hand touched the hilt of the enormous sword, Ragniprava sprang down, his great bulk knocking aside the chair, shattering it to pieces. The sword, which had been propped against it, clattered down out of Lionheart’s reach. The Tiger paced heavily up to it, then instantly was a man again. He picked up the sword, hefting it in both hands. Predatory eyes gleamed in the darkness, fixing upon Lionheart where he crouched beneath the table.

“Come out, come out, mortal man,” said Ragniprava. With a heaving cry, he swung the blade. It clove through the stone table, shattering the air as it rang out its strength. Lionheart gasped and crawled back even as the sword came down again. This time a whole chunk of the table fell away. No giant’s cleaver could have dealt so deft a blow. “I’ll have you out myself if I have to cut away all the stone in my realm!”

Lionheart’s hand touched something on the floor. Long and thin but familiar. He took hold of Bloodbiter’s Wrath and, dragging the beanpole along, backed out from under the table, opposite Ragniprava. He stood up, bracing himself, the beanpole brandished in both hands.

Ragniprava smiled. “You think to stop my blade with that?”

Lionheart didn’t know what he thought. He knew that the table could offer him no more shelter. He knew that he could see nothing in the dark save Ragniprava’s gleaming eyes and the light from them glancing off the sword edge. He knew with cold certainty that his final moment had come.

The Tiger leapt over the table, his great sword upraised for the kill. On instinct, Lionheart raised the beanpole to protect himself.

The ring of steel upon steel clanged in his ears, and both he and the Faerie lord cried out in surprise. For Ragniprava’s sword had broken into a thousand pieces and lay in shards upon the floor.

Lionheart stood eye to eye with the Faerie. Then he was a tiger once more. Before Lionheart could think to move, the Faerie’s bulk came down upon him. Claws drove into Lionheart’s shoulder, and his scream was lost in the Tiger’s roar. He felt the creature’s hot breath on his face, and still he screamed, in rage as much as pain, and waited for powerful jaws to close about his throat.

Then, suddenly, the Tiger’s roar ceased. His body fell atop Lionheart, smothering him with its weight. Lionheart gave one last gasp. His eyes rolled wildly and, for a moment, he gazed into the awful face of the Hunter.

Then Lionheart too was silent.

Eanrin, deep in the passages, heard Lionheart’s scream and its abrupt end. He cursed and spun around, bracing his feet, his long knife held in both hands. The second Tiger sprang at him, but at the last possible instant, the poet ducked and somersaulted so that the huge cat went over him into the darkness.

Then Eanrin was on his feet and running again, and this time he pursued the Tiger.

Ragniprava turned about in surprise to find the poet lunging at his face with a knife. His bellow filled the whole valley as the blade entered his eye.

Eanrin jumped back, just avoiding a slash of claws to his stomach. He sprang several steps away, crying, “You’re yet alive, Lord Bright as Fire. Would you like to retreat, or would you rather I took this life of yours?”

The Tiger crouched to the ground, blood seeping from his mangled eye.

“I’ll oblige you either way,” Eanrin said, taking a step forward. “What’s a single life, after all, to one such as you? But make a decision swiftly, for I must return to the jester.”

“You took my eye!” the Tiger snarled. “Death-in-Life devour you!”

“You have another,” said the poet. “Not everyone’s so fortunate.” He took another advancing step. “Would you rather I killed you now?”

The Tiger snarled again, feinting an attack. Then he turned about and disappeared into the darkness of his palace. Eanrin, relieved, let out a huge breath, then whirled and ran back the way he had come.

Lionheart! The dragon-kissed fool! Why had he not done as he was told and stayed put? The Tiger could never have reached him under that table, not if he was careful! The poet cursed to himself again and again as he sped through the corridors. Then he came to the banquet hall where the stone princes and their chairs lay toppled about the shattered table. The Faerie lord’s own seat lay in splinters, and . . .

Eanrin took a deep breath and smelled death. But it wasn’t a mortal’s death.

“Great Lumé’s crown!” he cried. “Have I misjudged you, jester? Did you actually slay the beast?”

“No,” spoke a voice, terrible though sharp teeth. “I did.”

11

L
IONHEART STOOD IN STONY DARKNESS
, and it was not as bad as it could be, considering. He was pain-free, which was not something he could say for his last few convoluted memories. These were indistinct on all but one point.

Ow!

Among the rest of the jumble that was his mind, that part stood out with crystalline clarity. Better not to try remembering too much, or to try recalling how he came to this place of darkness and silence. He was comfortable, and for the moment, that was all he cared about. So he closed his eyes—or maybe he didn’t? It was hard to say in this place—and let out a sigh that did nothing to disturb that enveloping, solid quiet. For the first time in many years, he felt at peace.

That’s when he heard a sob.

“By the Flowing Gold, what are you doing here?” Eanrin cried as he stepped into the banquet hall, his hand extended. It was clasped warmly in return, and a voice like falling rocks growled an answer.

“I felt a trembling on the edge of Arpiar,” said the Hunter. “Someone calling from within. Only once, and very faint, but I felt it. I could not follow it to its source, but I was able to trace its destination. Here. That mortal, lying yonder underneath Ragniprava’s old carcass.”