Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (38 page)

The unicorn bowed its horn once more and vanished, and in its absence the Boy found himself able to breathe again.

Vahe turned and gave his wife a last contemptuous look, narrowing his eyes at her crumpled form. “You see, Anahid, what good your little warning will accomplish?”

He swept from the doorway then, and the sky plunged into nightfall in his wake. Anahid remained awhile where she lay, and the Boy, sitting up and rubbing his knees, wondered if she had fallen asleep. He crawled over to her and gently touched her hand. “Lady?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

She sat up sharply at his touch, and for a moment he gazed into the hideous face of a goblin. Then she rose, arranging her robes about her, and she was beautiful and cold and terrible once more. She left the Boy shivering on the floor. And he, after a time, wondered what it was he had just forgotten.

Oeric said nothing as he led Lionheart from the Far World back into Goldstone Wood, and Lionheart was grateful. They stepped onto a Path, and once more Lionheart felt the sensation of traveling many leagues with each stride and the kaleidoscope effect on his peripheral vision. But it did not bother him as much as it had. Perhaps he was already growing used to it. He focused on the broad back of the knight in front of him and wondered how far they were from Goldstone Hill.

So strange, he thought, to be traveling that way again. It wasn’t so long ago that he had sat beside an old bridge one afternoon, talking with Princess Una about dreams and hopes for the future. Was it that same bridge to which they hastened now? How cyclical his life had become, returning him to places he never thought to see again. But that, he guessed, must be part of the rhythms of Faerie, as Ragniprava had put it.

The air felt unnaturally warm after the winter of Rudiobus. Lionheart could not guess how much time passed. He knew Moonblood was but one night away, but was that true anymore in this place Between?

“We are near now,” Oeric said at long last, the first he had spoken since leaving the icy lake. He turned to Lionheart and, much to Lionheart’s surprise, held out Bloodbiter’s Wrath. “I thought you might want this,” he said, offering the gaudy hilt. “I believe you do have courage in your heart. Take this and prove me right.”

Lionheart accepted it and slid it into the empty scabbard at his side. Though the knight turned his back on him once more, Lionheart’s spirits lifted at Oeric’s words. Not everyone thought him a hopeless fool.

Even if that was the truth.

Their way took them uphill now, and Lionheart thought he almost recognized his surroundings. But he had never before seen Goldstone Hill from the Between. It was similar in many respects to what it was in the Near World. But as they climbed, Lionheart saw that there was no ocean to the west, only more and more trees, stretching on forever. Surely the Between must connect to the sea somewhere, he thought. But that somewhere was not here.

“Dindeitra Tower once stood at the top of this rise,” Sir Oeric said quietly as they climbed. “Long before Calix built Palace Oriana, Dindeitra watched over the Near World and the Far from this vantage. Until Vahe took it.”

Lionheart wondered who Calix was. He wasn’t particularly keen on his history of Parumvir, but he could have sworn it was one of the dozens of King Abundiantuses who had ordered the building of Oriana Palace.

“Vahe took this hill early in his reign,” Oeric continued, “and grafted it onto Arpiar when he built the Crossing. He renamed the tower
Carrun Corgar.
But after his first death, he lost his hold here, and Carrun Corgar returned once more to the Wood Between.”

Lionheart, uncertain if he was expected to answer, grunted. Oeric ignored him. “I have been to this place many times during the last five hundred years. I have crossed the bridge and been taken to more realms of Faerie than I can count. But it is as Eanrin said—without a call, no one can enter Arpiar.”

Lionheart saw the bridge ahead of them as they climbed, a few old boards spanning a trickle of stream. His heart lurched at the sight. He could almost picture Una, with her flyaway hair half pulled back in a braid, laughing as he juggled stones for her amusement.

“Your life for her heart,”
the Dragon had said.

And he’d chosen his life.

He put his hand on Bloodbiter’s Wrath, grinding his teeth as he followed Oeric to the bridge. He’d not make that mistake again. Not this time.

Oeric stood like a statue before the bridge, his arms loose at his sides. He turned and looked at Lionheart without a word.

“So, shall we step over, then?” Lionheart asked.

“Do you hear a call?” said Oeric.

Lionheart frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure what it would sound like.”

“Neither am I.”

The stream laughed at them as it raced down the hillside into the deeper wood. The trees were not so dense here, and Lionheart could look on up to the crest of the hill. There should be a seven-tiered garden here and, at the summit, a grand palace, perhaps ruined now after the Dragon’s visit. But there was nothing like that to be seen in the Wood Between. Instead, trees thinned away until the crest of the hill was open to the sky. And Lionheart thought he saw the moss-grown stones of what might once have been a tower.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I should try to cross.”

Oeric placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Not without a call. I’d lose you somewhere in Faerie.”

“But there isn’t any call. Not that I can hear. And time is passing! Queen Bebo said I should cross over, so maybe I am the one person who can?”

Oeric shook his head. “Arrogant mortal.” He spoke without malice but rather with sorrow. “You are no different from all the others who thought the same. I am Vahe’s brother, and there was a time when I could pass through his spells with hardly a thought. But no longer. And you are just a man.”

“Then we came out here to stand and do nothing?”

“We must wait.”

“Time is passing!”

“And still we must wait.”

Lionheart writhed under Oeric’s grip until at last he ceased and the knight let him go. He gazed across the bridge that led only farther up the hill and could not imagine how it could possibly lead him to Arpiar and Rose Red. He had stepped into Faerie several times now, and he knew he could believe what Oeric told him, but that did not make it any easier to understand.

Oeric took a seat on a nearby stone and became as part of the hill, he was so still. Lionheart could not sit but paced back and forth, Bloodbiter’s Wrath slapping against his leg. The sun did not move overhead, and the shadows never shifted. But somewhere time moved onward, Lionheart knew. What if the Night of Moonblood was already come, and Rose Red even now was meeting her fate on Death’s throne?

No, Queen Bebo had promised, there in the Gardens of Hymlumé where even mortals could hear the Songs of Spheres. She had promised he would have the chance to make his choice, and she would not lie to him.

Lionheart swung about suddenly and strode for the bridge. “No!” Oeric barked, but Lionheart’s feet were already on the boards, and he was halfway across.

That’s when he saw the unicorn.

It stood in a place outside of worlds, not in the Near, the Far, or the Between. Lionheart saw it as all but pure maidens see the one-horned beast, the fallen child of Hymlumé who heeded the Dragon’s voice rather than the Sphere Songs.

It was like a bull, enormous and powerful, eight feet tall at the shoulder, but its head was that of a horse, or like a horse save that its mouth was full of fangs. Spines grew down its neck, back, and tail, and its cloven hooves could destroy mountains with a single kick. Yet it walked with grace, not turning a blade of grass under its step. Like a star, its body was ablaze with fire, burning but never consuming, and its eyes were the pitiless blackness of space, without sorrow, fear, or anger. A great, flaming horn grew from its forehead.

Lionheart screamed and jumped back from the bridge. He would have fallen had not Oeric caught him. “What?” the ugly knight cried. “What do you see?”

“The beast! The one-horned beast!”

And then it stepped across the bridge, and Oeric saw it too. The terror in Oeric’s yell was almost as horrible as the unicorn itself. The knight grabbed Lionheart’s shoulder and dragged him down the hill. “Draw your sword,” he cried as they fled. “Draw your sword but do not fight it!”

Lionheart couldn’t draw his weapon while running, but at the moment he did not care. His focus was on his feet as they scrabbled down the steep incline, willing them not to slip and fall and allow him to be crushed under the unicorn’s flaming hooves.

Suddenly, it was in front of them, not behind. Lionheart slid to a halt so quickly that he fell. Oeric, however, lunged forward, drawing a long knife as he went and shouting wordlessly. He swung his weapon, but the unicorn turned its horn and cut the blade in two. Oeric, his momentum carrying him, continued down the hill, and the unicorn did not turn to follow him but focused its black eyes on Lionheart.

Lionheart pushed himself up and fled again, uphill this time, numb to all but fear. He knew the unicorn pursued him though he heard not a sound behind him. He knew with the certainty of death.

9

O
NLY THE GHOSTS OF ROSES
lined the halls where Varvare walked. Like forlorn phantoms, they spread their vaporous leaves and petals as though to plead with her for their release. She could do nothing for them. But she had harvested from their enchantments, her fingers deftly taking stems and leaves.

The time was now or never. King Vahe was distracted, amassing his people for some endeavor she could not fathom, and she had scarcely seen him the last two days. She did not know how long this good fortune would last or how long the people of Arpiar would be kept so busy with their mysterious business. It looked as though they prepared for war, and she shuddered at this thought.

No one saw her as she slipped through back corridors and down a deep stairway. As she descended, the shades of roses receded, for even Palace Var did not always wear its veils. In the dungeons, there was no need to disguise its true face.

There were no lights, but Varvare’s eyes required none. Like those of her ancestors who had mined in the deepest mountains, her eyes soaked in whatever light was available and hoarded it away for use in the dark. She walked without hesitation through pitch-black shadows, one hand lightly trailing against the stone wall for support on uneven stairs. The cells in the depths of Var were empty; or if occupied, their prisoners were so silent and still that they may as well have ceased to exist. The princess did not stop to look, for she knew the cell she sought; she had been down this way before.

The final cell was large, and when Varvare looked through the bars in the door she lowered her gaze ten feet to the sunken floor below. The air was dank with mold and neglect, and heavy chains curled like pythons at intervals across the floor. Only one set was in use, binding a lone figure to the wall.

Her age was difficult to guess, for she seemed simultaneously very young and very old. When she sat with her eyes downcast, as she did when Varvare gazed through the bars, she seemed scarcely older than the princess herself, with smooth skin and youthful features, her long hair fallen in tangles about her face. But when she caught the sound of Varvare’s shallow breathing, she raised her eyes and suddenly aged by hundreds of years. Hers were eyes that had seen many generations come and go.

“Rosie!” she cried and tried to stand, but the chains were heavy on her wrists and ankles. “Rosie girl, is that you?”

“Hullo, Beana,” said Princess Varvare. She put her hands to the bars and pressed her face against them.

“I can’t see you to save my life, not in this fierce dark. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I hear them moving about up there, all sorts of awful ruckus. I thought they might take you away with them.”

“I don’t know how you pick up anythin’ down here.”

“Oh, I hear many things you don’t, my girl, just as your wide eyes can see in the dark while mine cannot. I hear the goblins moving, and I hear the palace humming, and I even hear the voice of the unicorn now and then. And I thought I heard . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and Varvare, who could see her sitting in that cell shackled to the wall, watched her face twist into an expression of deep sorrow. But strangely enough, there was also a trace of hope.

“What did you hear, Beana?”

“I thought I heard the voice of someone I knew long ago. I thought I heard him on the edge of Arpiar. I know he’s searching, has been searching for ever so long. If only I could call him!”

Varvare closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the bars. “You could call him,” she whispered.

“Not while I’m in chains, dear one,” Beana replied, shaking her head. “My voice has no power as long as these hold me.”

“Tell me his name, then,” said the girl. “I’ll call him myself.”

“I wish it were so simple,” said Beana. “You cannot call someone you do not know. And if you call, you’ll not reach someone who is not already searching for you. But you know this already. Remember how, when we lived on the mountain, I told you to call me should you become lost in the forest? Remember how you did the same for young Leo?”