Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (40 page)

“Are you going to sound the alarm, Queen of Arpiar?”

Anahid stood in the shadow of the old queen, her former mistress, from whom she had once known great favor. She shuddered as the memory-voice hissed through her mind.

“You know what you must do.”

Anahid turned her gaze up at the statue, so carefully beautiful, just as the old queen had once been, long ago when Anahid had been but an attendant in her service, before Vahe was even born.

“Alert Vahe, Anahid. I command you.”

Anahid smiled. It was more like a snarl. “You have no power over me anymore.”

Then she raised her hand and twisted her fingers sharply. Her husband’s veiling enchantments shifted, then dropped away, revealing the true ugliness of the stone queen’s face. With another twist, Anahid wrapped those same veils around the statue’s open mouth, thus stifling her voice so that she could not give the alarm.

So Princess Varvare grabbed the nameless Boy’s hand and, free of Var, dragged him across the empty plain.

10

H
IS HEART IN HIS THROAT
, Lionheart ran, and in his fear he hardly noticed that he fled uphill. The ground flew by under his feet, not leagues in a stride, for he followed no enchanted Path now. No, he was pathless in the Wood, a dangerous place to be, Eanrin had said, but Lionheart hardly cared. He would wander as a lost vapor beneath these trees throughout eternity if only he could escape the monster behind him.

Only it wasn’t behind him now.

He couldn’t guess how he knew, but he realized with a start that he was no longer followed. Yet the unicorn was near. Nearer than ever, perhaps. But where?

He stopped and stood still in the forest on the hill, surrounded by trees, and he couldn’t see a thing but branches and leaves. At last he pulled Bloodbiter’s Wrath from its sheath. His breath came in pants, and he kept turning and turning, his eyes searching and finding nothing. Slowly, Lionheart let his blade drop a little and began to climb up the hill once more.

And there it stood, gazing down on him, its horn mere inches from his face.

He screamed and fell onto his back, losing hold of his sword. The one-horned beast stood over him, and the flaming horn aimed at his heart. He cried out and closed his eyes.

But the blow did not fall.

He became aware of a silver song, like water, like starlight, flowing through the Wood and surrounding him. A bird’s song, Lionheart thought, but unlike a bird as well. Trembling, he opened his eyes and saw the unicorn above him still. It was not looking at him. Its gaze was fixed on something beyond him.

Lionheart craned his neck around and saw that someone stood just behind him.
Oeric?
he wondered. Sunlight piercing through the foliage overhead cast the man’s face into shadow, and Lionheart could see no features. But he heard a voice, strong as a river, speak.

“Away now, Hymlumé’s child. Your time is not come.”

The unicorn screamed.

It was not a scream that could be described by any comparison Lionheart knew, for its voice was not a sound. It was a life complete in and of itself, a life that suddenly saw itself for what it was and despaired at the sight. It was the whole of disappointment and denial and destruction rolled into a tiny point of time.

Then it was gone.

Lionheart lay for he could not guess how long, his head ringing with the echoes the unicorn left behind. Then he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

“Get up, Lionheart.”

He obeyed. It was one of those voices one simply obeyed without question. Then he turned to face the speaker and still could not see his face with the brightness of the sun shining behind him.

“I have brought something for you,” said the stranger. For it must be a stranger. It could not be Oeric, who never spoke in such a voice. “Something for you to carry with you into Arpiar.”

Lionheart found himself staring at the sword offered to him hilt first.

It was a sorry weapon. It might once have been fine, but that was long ago. Now it was a ridiculous thing, the hilt melted and warped, the blade blackened and twisted as though in a furnace.

“I . . . I have a sword,” he said, casting about briefly for Bloodbiter’s Wrath.

“Not such a one as this.”

Lionheart licked his lips. “I don’t think . . . I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think this will do me any good.”

The stranger continued to hold it out. “This sword has slain dragons,” he said.

Lionheart gasped, and he realized suddenly to whom he was speaking. In that same moment, the stranger vanished, and Lionheart stood alone with his hands clasped around the hilt of a pathetic, ruined sword.

The statue queen stood with her arms upraised, holding the ceiling of the assembly hall. She could not lower them to tear the enchantments from her mouth, thus she could not call out to King Vahe when he entered the hall. And he saw nothing, of course, her brainless offspring. What was left to see? Anahid had coiled up the enchanted thread and carried it away with her, perhaps had destroyed it. She had even closed the window and adjusted all the roses around it so that no sign remained of Princess Varvare’s escape.

No sign, save the absence of the girl herself.

Vahe stood in the old queen’s shadow, his shoulders squared, his gaze sliding slowly across the room as he searched for his daughter. She always holed herself away in this place. None of Var’s courtiers entered this room unless summoned, for they all feared the gazes of their former sovereigns. Gazes full of vengeance and hatred, which the veiled goblins knew they deserved. But Varvare had nothing to fear from her ancestors save their scorn, which didn’t seem to bother her. Thus Vahe had always been certain of finding her hidden away in this room, staring dumbly into space . . . worthless little thing that she was.

But he didn’t see her, and the faintest inkling of concern tugged at his mind. Of course, he had nothing to fear, he told himself. The Lady had promised him the fulfillment of his dream, and she must honor her word.

Yet here he stood on the cusp of fulfillment, mere hours away from the appointed time, and the agony of waiting was almost beyond bearing.

He felt the stone gaze of his mother’s statue and looked up with a snarl. But his snarl melted into a smile when he saw the enchanted gag in her mouth.

“Well, Mother, this is a fine look for you, I must say! You have never been more beautiful than when silenced.”

The old queen stared down at him. She need only hold his gaze long enough for him to think. To think and to realize.

No one in Arpiar had the power to manipulate Vahe’s enchantments except . . .

With a cry, he raised his hand, took hold of the spell threads, and yanked the gag from the old queen’s mouth. “Anahid did this!” he roared, and for a moment the veil on his face slipped to show the foulness beneath. “Why? Tell me!”

The statue smiled, and no veils could make her beautiful in that moment.
“Your little princess isn’t so spineless as she looks, son of my heart. She unwound your roses and made a rope, and by now she’s halfway to the borders.”

“Anahid is behind this, isn’t she?” the king declared, wringing his hands and gnashing sharp teeth.

“Only in keeping her mouth shut. My granddaughter has my blood in her veins after all. She is stronger than you thought!”

Vahe did not hear these last words. He was already running from the hall, shouting for his slaves.

The farther they got from Palace Var, the more the pain increased, first in the Boy’s hand where the rose thorn had pierced him, then slowly spreading through his veins. Fire that had lain dormant reawakened and burned, and there were no enchanted roses to stifle it now.

His footsteps faltered. “I want to lie down,” he told the princess, who dragged him firmly along. The grass under his feet was soft and thick, and the sun was warm on his back. More than anything, he wanted to curl up, close his eyes, and perhaps die. But the princess was firm.

“We’re gettin’ out of here, Boy. Pick up your feet!”

“But it hurts.”

“Nonsense!”

Varvare would not stop. Her eyes saw behind the veils covering Arpiar, down to the barren rock and dust of a plain. Sometimes she glimpsed the ghostly roses of the king’s spells, and when she saw them she also saw the Faerie Paths that crisscrossed the kingdom, Paths that could carry a person across great distances in moments. But she dared not use these. They were Vahe’s.

So they picked their way painfully across the miles. After the first hour, she knew that the Boy was hurting but chose to ignore it. The next hour, it was not something she could ignore, so she fought it, insisting to him and to herself that it was all in his head. But as the third hour rolled around, she was nearly carrying him. She was strong, but he was so tall and gangly that she could scarcely keep him upright.

And as the fourth hour drew near, she knew they were not going to reach the edge of Arpiar. Palace Var had disappeared, yes, but gray plain stretched to the horizon all around, endless and horrible. The sun was setting in a grim red glare to the west, and it seemed to Varvare that it was a flaming eye, watching them as they struggled.

The Boy collapsed. His feet stumbled on each other, and he fell headlong, pulling her down with him. She crawled out from underneath him and took his face between her hands, patting his cheeks. But his skin was pale as death and hot to her touch. There would be no waking him.

She turned her gaze up to the darkening sky, wanting to curse but too overwhelmed to form the words. She should leave him. She would make much better time without him. Unburdened, it might be possible to reach the edge of Arpiar.

“No,” she whispered, touching his burning face again. “I won’t let any harm come to him!”

“Too late for that, princess.”

Varvare blinked, and goblins stepped from Vahe’s enchanted Paths, surrounding her. She should have screamed, should have leapt to her feet and run. But instead, she sat unmoving and watched them closing in. She could feel nothing, neither fear nor disappointment.

“He’s harmed beyond help now,” said the goblin standing in front of her. “You might as well hand him over. And while we’re on the subject . . .” He knelt down and grabbed Varvare’s hands. His claws were long and black, and he made no effort to retract them. She felt their sharpness cutting even her own stony skin as he bound her wrists with a thick cord.

Varvare stared into the goblin’s wide white eyes, and her face was such that even his ugly heart nearly broke at the sight. “Sorry, princess,” he growled, tightening the cord.

One last time, the voice called to her across the unending expanse of Arpiar’s plain.

Beloved, call for him.

Varvare bowed her head and whispered, “Leo. I need you. Come to me.”

His heart beating just as fast as it had when he fled the unicorn, Lionheart turned and found that he stood near the Old Bridge. How had he missed it before? Quickly he approached it and stood looking across to the forest beyond. He hesitated, and his hands holding the twisted sword shook. What if this wasn’t right? What if, as Oeric said, he ended up lost somewhere in Faerie, unable to get back? What if—