Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (8 page)

Your dream, my darling,
said the Lady. Her fingers grasped inside his mind.

“Una, your voice . . .” he stammered, inwardly cursing how he trembled as he spoke. “What are you saying? Of whom are you speaking?”

“You know whom I mean.”

Both her hands latched hold of his arm. Heat seared through the cloak, through his fine clothing, all the way through his skin down to the bone. He yelped and shook her off.

“You burn!” he cried. It was then he knew beyond doubt what had happened. But he could not admit it even then. He forced the thought away with a sickening wrench and said, “Una, are you ill?”

“Yes,” she whispered. It was a snake’s hiss. “Yes, I am. What was your side of the bargain, Lionheart? When the Dragon agreed not to kill you?”

“You’re babbling nonsense,” he growled, pressing into the bridge railing. “I’ve made no bargains with anyone. I came here, just as I told you. Why don’t you listen?”

“No bargains?” She stared at the boards of the bridge. Lionheart silently prayed she would not turn those eyes upon him again. “What about the bargain you made with me?”

His mouth was too dry to speak.

“You asked me to trust you,” she said. “You asked me to trust you, Lionheart.”

“I shouldn’t have said that.” His voice rasped in his throat. “I must have forgotten. But I should never have said that or anything of the kind to you.” He rubbed a hand down his face, struggling again to breathe. What was that smell? Like the poison of the Dragon seeping up from the foul water in the ditch. “And your ring,” he said. “The one you so generously lent me. I’d almost forgotten that as well. I will pay you back for it. I promise.”

He could never give it back to her. It was long gone from his keeping. Ever since he had offered it to the Dragon in exchange for his own life.

“You promised you’d return.” The air was hot when she spoke.

“If I did, I shouldn’t have,” he said, still struggling to get the words out. “I should have known my obligations would keep me here.”

“And her?”

Lionheart grimaced. Then he forced himself to try to look into the girl’s eyes. She turned from him. If only he could tell her what he thought! If only he could explain—

You have your dream, sweet one!
said the Lady.
Don’t lose hold of it!

“I am going to marry her, Una,” Lionheart said. “I had no right to say any of those things I said to you. I am ashamed of any implications I made. They were foolish, thoughtless—”

“Which gives you a right to unmake them now?”

The sun passed behind a cloud as if even his golden eye could not stand to watch the two upon the bridge. Lionheart shivered inside his cloak.

“You asked me to trust you,” said the girl.

“I take it back!” Lionheart flung up his hands. “Things change, Una. People change. Can’t you get that into your head? My promises to her are good, unlike any I might have made to you.” What a lie! But his whole life was a lie now, so what difference did it make? “I made them after winning back my kingdom, under my true name, not in disguise as a . . . as a Fool. As a lackey cleaning the dirty floors of those who should have been my peers! I am not ashamed of any promises I have made to her.”

The girl reeled back as though he’d struck her. “You are ashamed of those you made to me?”

“Una—”

“You are ashamed of me?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth!” He allowed anger to take over now. Anything to hide the fear and the horror he felt. “I am ashamed of that whole period of my life, that degrading, despicable—”

“You never fought the Dragon.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There. He had said it. But even then, he dared not face the truth of it. “And there’s no shame in that,” he growled. “I must do what’s best for my kingdom. That includes not being devoured by monsters. Can you understand that? My people need me alive, not roasted.”

“You never fought the Dragon.”

“I told you, Una, sometimes plans change. I’m sorry, but—”

“It isn’t enough.”

“I can’t help that!”

“You never fought the Dragon.”

“No.” He set his jaw and squared his shoulders. “And I won’t.”

She looked at him.

Her lips drew back from her teeth. The gums were red as blood. The teeth were long, sharp fangs.

Before he could make a sound, she was upon him, striking at him with an arm that was covered in scales and tipped in razor claws. He flung himself to one side, knocking her arm away as he went, and she careened forward, staggering, doubled over in great pain. She heaved as though vomiting, and a great billow of flame spilled from her mouth.

Fire engulfed the bridge at her feet. Fire filled Lionheart’s vision, surrounding the distorted face of the princess. Then she lost all trace of humanity, and a young dragon stood before him.

Lionheart screamed and fell flat on the bridge as a spurt of fire lanced the air over his head. Then he pushed himself up on his hands and knees, backing away as the dragon that had been Una rose up on its haunches and black wings arched on either side of its awful face. “Una!” he shouted.

“You never fought the Dragon.” The monster’s voice was harsh and full of fire, yet he still heard traces of Una deep inside. Smoke rolled between the long fangs, full of dank poison. “Will you fight me now? Will you kill
me
?”

He was paralyzed in her shadow as she loomed over him. Perhaps he tried to scream. Perhaps he tried to move. But his muscles constricted and would not do as he bade them. He lay helpless before her.

She lowered her head, the fire in her eyes like two ovens melting his face. “Won’t you try, my prince?”

With a last effort of will, he flung his arms over his head, allowing the cloak to take the brunt of the heat. This small relief gave him the strength he needed to crawl, and he scrambled to escape. But she caught him from behind and pressed him down flat. A gleaming claw grazed his cheek, like a dagger of polished obsidian. The bridge groaned beneath their weight.

“You killed him,” growled the young dragon, embers spilling between her teeth and searing his face. “You killed my Leonard, Prince Lionheart, killed him cruel as murder. But you won’t fight the Dragon.
Coward!
”

Lionheart relaxed. His death was certain, and he could no longer struggle against her. He lay like a limp doll beneath her claw, waiting for the fire to strike.

But instead, he heard—like water striking the flames and bursting in cool relief across his mind—birdsong. And in that instant between life and death, he heard words in the song:

I am coming for you.

Wait for me.

The song struck them both with the sharpness of a sword. The dragon raised her head and roared, bellowing flames and agony to the frozen sky. Then black wings tore the air, lifting the monster from the bridge and carrying her off into cold, iron clouds.

So he would live another day.

Lionheart lay amid the wreckage of the dragon’s wake.

He would live his death of a life.

“Leo! Leo, no!”

Hands plucked at his sleeves, his shoulders. Through the numbing haze of the smoke, Lionheart thought he saw a wafting veil. “R-Rosie?”

“Leo, I’m so sorry!” Rose Red cried. She wrapped her arm behind his lolling head and neck, grabbing hold of his shoulders. With a grunt of effort, she hauled him into a sitting position. “I’m so sorry!” she repeated. “I came as fast as I could, but I couldn’t find her, and they wouldn’t let me through the gates, and I only just came . . . oh! I thought you were goin’ to get it!”

Lionheart coughed violently. His stomach heaved and contracted at the stench all around him.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.” Rose Red shook her head as though to clear her own mind. Then she braced herself on her stumpy legs, strained a little, and lifted Lionheart to his feet. He vaguely recalled in his stupor how, from the time they were children, she’d always been able to toss him around like a rag doll. Such amazing strength she had! “Put your arm round my neck. That’s right. Now this way.”

They moved awkwardly, and Rose Red shielded him as they went from the licking flames. Lionheart wondered distantly how much she had overheard and was grateful that she asked no questions. She half carried him from the bridge and out of the smoke that was rising in a tall column to the sky, a memorial to the young dragon’s presence.

“Come on, Leo.” Rose Red spoke in a soothing, encouraging voice. “Let’s get you back to—”

She broke off, freezing in place.

The dragon’s smoke had served as a signal. A large crowd of city folk, their terrified faces contrasting horribly with their merry clothing, approached with makeshift weapons in hand. They too paused, hundreds of frightened eyes taking in the sight of their singed prince in the arms of the veiled chambermaid.

Then someone shouted:

“Demon!”

5

T
HE CRY WAS TAKEN UP
.

“Demon!”

“Friend of dragons!”

“Monster!”

As the shouts rose, the courage of the people rose as well. They swarmed the prince and the girl, dragging them apart. “No!” Rose Red cried, trying to cling to Lionheart. “Help him! He’s hurt—”

Lionheart, his head full of smoke and fire, held tight to Rose Red without thinking and shouted at those who struck her. But his strength had left him, and before he had time to react, she was pulled from him. Others stood around him, supporting him and saying, “Are you hurt, Your Highness? Did she harm you?”

He shook himself, staring after the mob into which Rose Red had disappeared. They were flowing toward the city gates. He struggled to pull himself into full consciousness. “What are they doing?”

“They’ll hang the little beast at last,” someone said. “She’s bewitched our land long enough.”

It took a moment for the words to fit inside his brain. Then he shouted. Energy surged through him and he burst from the arms of those who would help him and raced after the mob. With speed he did not know he possessed, Lionheart caught up with the tail end of them, bellowing for all he was worth. “Unhand that girl! Do you hear me? Unhand her, I say!”

But the crowd was beyond hearing now. They flowed back into the city and round to the city gates, climbing the stairway to the top of the southern wall. In an older, crueler age, Southlands had hanged its criminals from this wall, a gruesome welcome to all those who would enter the Eldest’s City. This practice had been abandoned within the last two generations. But the people had not forgotten.

Lionheart beat at the heads of those in front of him, desperate to force his way through the throng. Some thought to fight back, and he received a punch in the eye and a cut lip before the terrified townsfolk recognized their prince and disappeared as quickly as possible. But he could not break his way through; he could not find Rose Red.

He saw a guardsman standing on the fringes of the mob, surrounded by a cluster of soldiers. They uncertainly held their weapons ready. Lionheart raced to the captain, shouting, “Send your men! Cut down these fools and find the girl!”

“Your Highness,” the captain said, his face pale, “they want a hanging, and a hanging they’ll get. We don’t want more dragons in these parts.”

“Dragons?” The prince lunged forward and wrested the sword from the captain’s hand. Grabbing the man by the cloth around his neck, Lionheart pushed him against the wall and pressed the blade against his throat. “By all the powers of Death and Life-in-Death, if you won’t send your men, I’ll cut out your heart and feed it to the dogs!”

The captain gasped an answer, and Lionheart backed away, releasing his hold. He held on to the sword and plunged into the mob. He heard the captain give a shout, and suddenly Lionheart was flanked by soldiers. They pressed through the crowd, and the people, seeing the weapons, parted and let them by. Lionheart thought he would smother in that mass of hatred and blind fear, but he pressed on up the stairs, his sword blade forward to plow a path. The stairs up the wall were narrow, and he feared he would never make it through in time. Fire still blazed in his mind, battling with the cold voice in his head that whispered,
She doesn’t matter. Hold on to your dream! She doesn’t matter, my darling.

“She does!” he roared. “Out of my way, you devils!” He knew it was hopeless. How could he gain the top of the wall before they flung Rose Red over the side?

Just when he thought he must give up, another voice spoke, drowning out the mob’s din, the fire, and the dark whispers of the Lady. It was a voice he recognized.

Make way,
it sang.

The crowd before Lionheart parted. With a last burst of energy, he reached the top and found himself face-to-face with a burly man—a butcher, by the stains on his hands—and a bearded merchant, and several other self-appointed leaders of the mob. One of them was twisting a thick noose. The butcher held Rose Red by the shoulders, driving his fingers into her collarbone.

Just as Lionheart gained the top of the stairs, they tore the veil from her face.

Lionheart stared once more into those hideous, moon-wide eyes set in a craggy, bald head. The skin was pasty as dead fish but harder than granite, the jaw set with jutting teeth. For a moment, Lionheart faltered. He gazed into the awful eyes of his childhood friend and shuddered.