Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (32 page)

4

S
IT STILL AND TAKE YOUR FINGERS
out of your ears!” Lionheart’s nursemaid had said long ago, when he was still young enough to enjoy her stories but just old enough to start pretending he didn’t. “I’m going to tell you a story of Iubdan.”

“Is there a dragon in the story?” asked young Lionheart.

“A dragon? Lumé’s light, no! You’re much too little a boy to hear stories like that!”

“Foxbrush’s nursemaid tells him stories about dragons.”

“Well, I’m not one to pass judgment on young Master Foxbrush’s nursemaid”—spoken in a tone that was a judgment in itself—“but in this nursery, we shall hear only good and wholesome tales with a moral.”

Lionheart made a face that indicated just what he thought of such a plan. His nursemaid continued. “Now, look at that picture there.” She indicated the nursery wall. The stones and plaster were painted in garish colors depicting a fantastic scene. In the center, on golden thrones, sat a burly king with a black beard and cherry-red cheeks beside an angular queen with long, long,
long
yellow hair. Before them danced a dozen merry folk, yellow-haired like the queen. Others danced as well: a rabbit and a fox, a squirrel and a ferret, clasping hands and smiling as cheerfully as all the yellow-headed little people, with whom they were equal in size.

It was a silly picture, young Lionheart thought. The fox would eat the rabbit as soon as look at it, and he couldn’t remember seeing any dancing squirrels before. What kind of a baby did these mural artists take him for?

To one side stood a singer dressed all in scarlet, with a jaunty cap on his head and a huge smile on his face. Lionheart considered him a right smug-looking person. The artist had painted him gazing with enormous golden eyes at a woman in green, who danced with a badger. Lionheart was no great judge of beauty at that age, but he assumed that the dancing woman was beautiful because of her inordinately large and red lips. She was turned away from the singer; and something about the set of her head implied, even in the childish painting, that she wasn’t merely neglecting to see him, but was pointedly Not Looking at him.

The mural was a new addition to the nursery, one of his mother’s many “improving projects.” Lionheart did not hold it in high favor, but his nursemaid thought it enchanting. “Do you know who those people are?” she asked her young charge.

He squirmed, wrapping his arms and legs into a knot where he sat. “No.”

“Sit up straight. That is King Iubdan and his court.”

“I know Iubdan,” said Lionheart.

“Do you, now?”

“Yes. Master Leanbear says, ‘Iubdan’s beard!’ every time he’s angry.”

His nursemaid’s mouth compressed. “Well,” she said through tight lips, “he’s a very naughty man for doing so. It’s disrespectful, swearing by ancient kings, even if they’re only make-believe. If I catch you using a phrase like that, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Did King Iubdan fight a dragon?”

“I told you, no dragons today.” His nursemaid leaned back in her rocking chair, relaxing into her story. “Iubdan lives in Rudiobus Mountain,” she said, “and it is the loveliest mountain you ever saw, grown over with aspens, and with a snowy peak, not at all like our Bald Mountain. The Merry Folk have carved out the prettiest caverns and hung them with pine and holly, which is why they call Iubdan’s assembly room the Hall of Red and Green.”

Lionheart crossed and uncrossed his feet, huffing loudly.

“You’d think they might get cramped in there,” his nursemaid went on without taking notice, “all the folk of the kingdom living inside one mountain. But the people of Rudiobus are so small, you see, that the mountain seems as big as the biggest country to them! And it is the dearest sight to watch the tiny folk dancing while the Chief Poet sings and Iubdan and Bebo look on and laugh! See how cheerful Iubdan and his lady are?”

They were altogether too cheerful, Lionheart thought, huffing again.

“There is only one gateway into Rudiobus,” said the nursemaid. She was gazing at the mural now with half-closed eyes, recalling the stories she had been told as a little girl. “The Fionnghuala Lynn. And the only way to pass through that gate is on the back of Iubdan’s mare. Such a pretty little steed she is! Her mane is scarlet, and her legs are emerald green, and her tail trails behind her in a long crimson plume. But her flanks gleam as gold as your father’s crown, and her bridle is covered in gems. She is so small, my prince, that she could stand in the palm of my hand!”

Did anyone actually think multicolored ponies interesting?

“I’m going to fight a dragon someday,” Lionheart said, rocking back and forth.

His nursemaid ignored him. “Once Iubdan’s mare carries you through the gate, you pass down the long corridors of Rudiobus to the Hall of Red and Green where Iubdan and Bebo sit.”

Inspiration struck—an idea for a new face, one Lionheart had never tried before. He slowly crossed his eyes and started to protrude his upper lip.

“Queen Bebo is crowned by her flowing golden hair, more bright and beautiful than any crown Faerie craftsman could make for her. And you’ll see the little people dancing, dancing . . .”

Lionheart used his fingers to pull down his eyelids, his thumbs to stick out his ears.

“ . . . and the Chief Bard, Eanrin, plays and sings songs he’s written for love of the beautiful Lady Gleamdren. Ah! ’Tis such a merry sight—
Iubdan’s beard!
What
are
you doing
,
child?”

“SOAP!” Lionheart leapt to his feet and darted from the nursery, his nursemaid in hot pursuit. “Bring the soap! Nurse said a naughty thing!”

Lionheart had been moved from the nursery to the Prince’s Chambers not long thereafter, and as a second child from the Eldest and his queen was not forthcoming, the nursery was left to its lonely self. The mural on the wall faded with time and was for the most part forgotten. But not by Lionheart. Throughout his growing-up years he recalled the childish scene and the silly stories, one of the many threads that wove the fabric of his childhood.

It wasn’t supposed to be real.

Anything at all was possible, he realized now, many years later, as he followed the blind poet through the tree-shadowed halls of the Haven, his imagination aching at the thought of being presented before folk of Faerie tales. But he tried to suppress those thoughts in light of a more immediate concern, which was for clothing. He still wore only a nightshirt tucked into his trousers and no shoes to speak of. Eanrin, however, refused to hear whatever protests Lionheart might make on the subject.

“I know it’s the middle of the night, I know you want your beauty sleep and all that. But if we’re going to make Rudiobus by nightfall tomorrow, we must set out before the sun.”

“I’m not saying I need sleep! I’m saying I need shoes!”

Eanrin waved a dismissive hand and continued without another word. It wasn’t until they had stepped from the Haven into the Wood beyond—which was very much like stepping from one patch of forest into another patch of forest unless Lionheart closed his right eye—and met Sir Oeric waiting for them that Lionheart got any help.

“He’s in his nightshirt, Eanrin,” said the huge knight.

“Cozy enough, then, is he?”

“You can’t present him before the king like that.”

“Why not?”

“Iubdan would not be amused.”

“On the contrary. I think my king would be highly diverted.”

Oeric said, “What would Lady Gleamdrené think?”

“She—”

“Yes?”

The poet frowned, then shrugged. “Very well, then. Find the mortal some clothes and boots, but hurry it up, will you? The sun could rise any minute now.”

Lionheart turned and found Imraldera at the door. Having anticipated his need, she held a green-embroidered long coat, a belt and scabbard, and boots, sturdy but light enough for walking. The coat was very fine indeed, too fine to go with his travel-stained trousers, but Lionheart was not about to complain. He hurried into the garments while the Chief Poet hemmed and hawed and Sir Oeric folded his arms and exchanged looks with Imraldera.

“Is the darling dandied?” Eanrin asked as Lionheart buckled Bloodbiter’s Wrath to his waist.

“I’m ready.”

“Sure you won’t join us, Imraldera?”

Imraldera’s face was a frosty mask. “Good-bye, Eanrin.”

The poet shrugged and suddenly was a fluffy cat disappearing through the forest at a quick trot. Oeric bowed respectfully to Imraldera (who Lionheart guessed outranked the big knight somehow), then motioned Lionheart to follow him on the trail of the cat. Lionheart fell into step behind the enormous man, and soon the Haven was far behind in the moonlight.

“Are we truly going to Rudiobus?” Lionheart asked.

Oeric grunted.

“To see King Iubdan? And Queen Bebo?”

“Yes.”

Not even the strangeness of Ragniprava’s realm had been as overwhelming as the simple thought of visiting Iubdan in the Hall of Red and Green. What if they looked like the little caricatures painted on his wall? This was a thought too terrifying to contemplate.

“Why will Dame Imraldera not join us?” he asked Oeric at length.

The ugly knight gave him a quick glance, his white moon eyes gleaming with their own strange light. Lionheart could not meet their gaze. “Sir Eanrin,” said Oeric, “is famous throughout the ages for being the lover of Lady Gleamdrené Gormlaith, Bebo’s cousin. You did know that, didn’t you?”

“Everyone knows that,” said Lionheart.

“Including Dame Imraldera.”

“And . . . what? She hates his dreadful verses even more than I do?”

Oeric thought a moment, his jaw shifting as he considered answers. At last he said, “What Dame Imraldera thinks of Eanrin or his poetry is, I believe, Dame Imraldera’s affair. And,” he quickly added, “if I were you, I should keep my tongue behind my teeth, where it belongs on this subject.”

Lionheart shut his mouth again and didn’t press for more answers.

They walked for some while in silence other than the crunch of leaves and twigs under Lionheart’s boots. Oeric moved without a sound, and the cat was far ahead. “Did we lose Sir Eanrin?” Lionheart asked.

“No,” rumbled Oeric. “We follow the same Path.”

Lionheart could discern no Path. The night was old now, and the moon had sunk into the tangle of branches. As they went, Lionheart sometimes felt a strange sensation, as though the steps he took were carrying him over much greater distances than one mere stride at a time. His vision was indistinct save straight ahead, so he fixed his gaze on Oeric’s broad back and tried not to glance to either side. The Wood was huge, and he could feel its hugeness all around him, as palpable a presence as either Oeric or the poet.

“Where are we?” he asked after a while.

“We follow the Prince’s Paths,” Oeric replied. “It is unsafe to step into Goldstone Wood without a Path. We Knights of Farthestshore always walk the Paths of our Prince, and we do not become lost.”

Lionheart frowned. “Goldstone? So that’s not just a wood in northern Parumvir?”

Oeric cast him a glance over his shoulder. “Goldstone Wood extends much farther than it appears to in your world, mortal. Here in the Halflight Realm, it connects all worlds. Your Wilderlands are just as much a part of Goldstone as the little clump of trees that bears the name in Parumvir.”

Lionheart shuddered and stopped trying to wrap his mind around concepts too strange to be thought.

Dawn came suddenly, as though they had stepped across some stark dividing line between Night and Day. Lionheart’s head hurt. Nothing was certain to him anymore, not the path he followed, not these strange comrades with whom he found himself linked. Not even his own identity.

The story he had read from Imraldera’s manuscript haunted the edge of his mind. That man he’d read about shared his name. But could he truly be Lionheart, the Eldest of Southlands’ son? All his good intentions and noble ideals faded to nothing in light of Imraldera’s simple presentation of the facts. He’d betrayed the girl he loved. He’d banished his loyal servant. He’d failed to rescue Southlands.

“I’m going to fight a dragon someday,”
young Lionheart had told his nurse.

But he’d never fought the Dragon.

Oeric stopped abruptly, and Lionheart, looking around from behind him, saw the cat sitting in the Path. “Here,” the cat said with a flick of his whiskers. Oeric nodded. The next moment, the cat leapt from the Path and vanished behind an old, moss-eaten stump.

“Step across,” Oeric said to Lionheart, waving him to follow.

Lionheart looked at the stump. “This is a crossing into the Far World?”

“As long as you’re quick enough. Go on!”

It is always good policy to heed someone who stands half again taller than you. Lionheart did as he was told, stepping over the stump; and just like when he had crossed into Ragniprava’s demesne, he felt no sudden jolt, no dizzying sensation, nothing for which he could brace himself. He simply stepped out of the Wood Between and into the world beyond as naturally as stepping from the hall into the dining room.

He stood on the shore of a shining silver lake that steamed with frost as the evening came on. The sun setting behind the mountain cast its crags into black silhouette. Snow covered not just the topmost peak but all the forest of aspens in the lower slopes as well. The air was like knives in his lungs, his face so cold it burned, and Lionheart was more grateful than ever to Imraldera for providing him with the green jacket.

Eanrin, a man once more, smiled brightly from the shores of the lake. “I confess, I was not expecting Winter to be paying a call just now. Last time I visited, everything was awash in Summer. Ah well. Where’s our ugly friend?”

“Here,” said Oeric, appearing at Lionheart’s side. Their breath frosted on the air. “Have you hailed the gatekeeper?”

Eanrin nodded. “I hear her even now.” And he pointed across the lake.

Like dangling prisms on a chandelier, the edge of the water tinkled with forming ice, but most of it remained open. Across its surface, spreading ice beneath tiny green hooves, came the mare of Iubdan, trailing a scarlet tail. Lionheart did not see her at first, despite her brilliant colors, because she was so small she might fit in the palm of his hand.