Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (35 page)

Lionheart’s stomach jolted, and though he prided himself on his good head for heights, this was much more than any mortal could stand. He backed away, pressing himself against the rock of the doorway, and had to force himself not to flee back down that long stairway.

Bebo stepped to the very edge of the mountain and tilted her face to the moon.

“Can you see her, mortal?” she asked.

Lionheart struggled to find breath. He realized in a distant sort of way that he was no longer cold, though his breath still steamed the air in small clouds. Perhaps he was dead. No, he couldn’t be dead if he still breathed. Maybe he was dying? He moved his lips but no words came, so he shook his head in answer to Bebo’s question even though she was not looking at him.

She beckoned him to join her, still without turning around. He did not want to. Everything in him told him to hide, to run, anything rather than to obey. But his feet moved, and he came to her side until he stood within an inch of that forever fall. There was a river flowing down below, perhaps just a little one, or perhaps the most enormous river imaginable but so far away as to seem no more than a stream. Lionheart trembled.

Bebo turned her childlike face to him. She was, he noticed, eye level with him. Queen Bebo might be small enough to stand in his hand, yet she could also look him in the eyes; and, he realized with a start, she could also loom far above him, towering like a giant with a majesty of age and wisdom he could never hope to match.

He would not meet her gaze.

“Take my hand,” she said softly. He obeyed. Her fingers were small and delicate, and they could crush every bone in his hand without a thought. “Now can you see Hymlumé’s face?”

He looked again at the enormous moon, wincing away from her brightness. This time, though only for a moment, he saw her, the Lady Hymlumé. Beautiful and awful and vision filling, the sun’s wife sat crowned in silver light.

In that instant, he heard her song.

Lionheart fell to his knees and might have slipped right over the edge of that precipice had not Queen Bebo held so tightly to his hand. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he turned away from the moon and Iubdan’s queen and covered his face in shame.

Suddenly he realized he was speaking. “I’ll make it right!” he was crying. “I’ll find her, I swear it! I’ll find her and I will make it right! I wish I could explain myself; I wish you all could hear me, but I know you can’t, and that’s as well. But I’ll make it right when I find her, and then I’ll find him and tell him that I’ve done so, and I’ll try to make you see that I’m . . . that I’m . . .”

Listening to himself, he flushed and quickly clamped his teeth down. What a fool he was! He wanted to drag his hand from Bebo’s grasp, but she would not let him go. All was silent around them save for Lionheart’s own breathing.

He wiped his face free of any last traces of tears and stood up once more, his face set and determined. “I will find her,” he said, and only then could he turn again to Bebo.

She was looking at him with her old eyes, and he shivered under her gaze.

“You feel guilt, mortal man?” she asked.

Lionheart clenched his teeth, then gave one short nod. “I am guilty. I betrayed her. I betrayed them both, Una and Rose Red. I cannot help Una now. But I will find Rose Red and repair the damage I have done just as I purposed when I left Southlands. I will regain my honor.”

Bebo continued to look. Her golden hair looked white under Hymlumé’s gaze.

“Guilt is not enough,” she said at last.

“I will do whatever it takes,” Lionheart replied.

“Will you die?”

The cold rushed back over him, this time from the inside out. He knew when Queen Bebo asked that her question was not a matter of curiosity. Lionheart stood there on the edge of forever, the river rushing below him. The decision he made now would echo among the gardens of the sky.

“Princess Varvare must die,” Bebo said. “That prophecy was spoken long before her birth, and the sons of Hymlumé sang the truth of it. I heard the song. I know. The Princess of Arpiar must die unless one will die for her.

“You vowed by Hymlumé’s light to save her, mortal man.”

The stars were a million eyes watching him.

“Would you die to honor that vow?” Bebo persisted. “Would you pour out the blood of a lion’s heart so that this girl you have wronged may live? Would your guilt carry you so far?”

But Lionheart could give no answer.

Gently, Bebo lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips. Lionheart gasped at this as though branded, and turned to see that tears gleamed in the queen’s eyes.

“I promise you, Lionheart of Southlands,” she said in the voice of one who had seen worlds created and destroyed, “you will cross the boundaries into Arpiar before the Night of Moonblood has come and gone. You will be given the choice: your life for hers. What you choose is your decision. No one can make it for you. But I swear by Hymlumé’s face, the choice you will have.”

Then she let go of his hand and stepped away from the edge, back to the doorway and the long, winding stair. Lionheart followed, casting only one last glance backward. Perhaps he saw Hymlumé’s face. Perhaps he saw only a gibbous moon. But he turned away from the sight, his shoulders hunched like a slave’s and his heart heavy with a question he could not answer.

Imraldera did not make any sound for a long moment as she stared into those burning eyes. Then she whispered, “It’s been a long time.”

“It certainly has,” the yellow-eyed dragon replied. “I can’t remember when last I stepped into your library.”

“I can.”

“You remember many things, Imraldera, things that others would be just as glad to forget. That’s why you keep the records.”

In her fear, Imraldera could feel the solid walls disappearing. The library was hers, but it dissolved into the night one portion at a time, and the Wood closed in. Her attendants were far from her, probably fled the moment they smelled dragon fumes. She struggled to maintain a steady voice as she spoke. “What are you doing here, Diarmid?”

He snarled as though she had struck him. “That’s not my name!”

He was a dragon now; she had to remind herself of this. It was difficult for her to remember, for she had seen very little of him following his transformation, and in her mind he would always be the golden-eyed, golden-haired youth she had known when he first came to the Haven. Not this strange creature with the sallow face and the blackened hair hanging like rags to his shoulders. But he was a dragon. And if Imraldera knew anything about dragons it was that they could flame suddenly and without provocation. She must tread carefully.

“Have you come to see Eanrin?” she asked.

The yellow-eyed dragon snorted. “My one-time uncle? Not likely. I don’t smell him hereabouts anyway. Is he off courting his cruel mistress again? In all these years, haven’t you yet convinced him to try his luck elsewhere?”

“What do you want?” Imraldera demanded, her voice suddenly cold. In that flash of anger, her fear receded for a moment and with it the Wood. She felt her library about her again, and she clung to that.

“I want nothing from you,” said the yellow-eyed dragon. He could feel her strength, and though his kind, for all their faults, was not given to cowardice, he was a little afraid of her. History had granted him a respect for this dame, soft and frail though she may appear. He took a step back. “I want nothing, but rather I come with a message.”

“From whom?” Imraldera knew she sounded as snappish as a fishmonger’s wife. She was alone and afraid in her own home, and the feeling soured her mood considerably. “Your Father is dead. You are alone in this world. Or have you and your kind found yourselves a new master?”

“Not yet,” the dragon hissed. He seemed bigger now in the shadows of the trees, and his eyes brighter. “My kinfolk are asleep. As they sleep, they watch their dreams die again and again. It makes them very angry. Their fires are building, ready to erupt. But they must wait until the proper time, wait until someone strong enough wakes them. That time is coming, Imraldera.”

“How are you awake when all your kinfolk sleep?” she demanded, hating herself for allowing her voice to tremble. The Wood sprang in around her, and once more she felt her library slipping away.

“My true mistress woke me,” he replied, and his voice was very low. “It is she who has sent me, despite her husband’s power.”

Imraldera caught her breath, for she knew whom he meant. “Anahid.”

“The Queen of Arpiar,” the yellow-eyed dragon said, “sends you and your brethren a message, a warning, rather. Vahe has found himself a body, a mortal one with a broken mind that he is using to move beyond the boundaries of Arpiar. A mortal filled with dragon poison. My own poison, I believe.”

Prince Felix’s young face flashed across Imraldera’s memory. Anger took hold of her again, and she clenched her fists, her eyes snapping. “Vahe does have him, then. Cruel, evil arts! I should have known as soon as Eanrin said the unicorn took him, that Vahe would—”

But the yellow-eyed dragon let out a horrible shriek and fell to his knees, and Imraldera leapt back, pressing against a great tree trunk. “Don’t!” the dragon gasped. “Don’t speak of that one! You’ll draw him! You’ll draw him even faster!”

Blood drained from Imraldera’s face. “What are you saying?”

“I must show you quickly!” The yellow-eyed dragon cast anxious looks over his shoulders at the deep shadows of Goldstone Wood. The moon’s face remained covered in clouds, and the only light came from his frightened eyes. He turned on Imraldera, his face fierce with terror, and lunged at her. She cried out as he caught her arms; his touch burned red-hot. He took both her wrists in one of his hands and grabbed her face with the other, searing her cheek.

“Look into my eyes,” he hissed, steam streaming between his teeth. Her mouth was open in silent agony as she felt his fingers pressing into her temple and brow. “Look into my eyes, and see what I saw all those centuries ago!”

Fire blazed in his black pupils, and she fell into his memory.

The dragons crouch in the shadows beyond the light of their Father’s eyes and watch as he and his sister play for the life of the goblin king. The yellow-eyed dragon trembles with desire to rend Vahe limb from limb, but he dares not step into his Father’s gaze. The Dragon King sits still as stone upon his bloodstained throne and watches his sister’s newly won prey.

“My dream!” Vahe screams, turning to Life-in-Death. “You won the game. I know my rights!”

“You have no rights,” says the Dragon.

But Life-in-Death speaks in the softest tones. “I will see your dream realized, little Vahe.” The dragons shudder at the sound of her voice. “My brother knows that I will. One way or another.”

Their Father rises from his throne, smoke issuing from his nostrils, and approaches his sister as though to dismember her. But her smile is fixed unwaveringly upon him; it is he who turns away first.

He snarls at Vahe. “Very well, King of Arpiar. Perhaps we can make a deal, you and I?”

Even as he speaks, the blood of the moon spills through the darkness and shines red upon the throne. It flows even into the darkest crevices, a glaring light that reveals all the hiding dragons, who try to flee. But the yellow-eyed dragon looks on and hears the words his Father says under the light of Hymlumé’s remembered pain.

“You desire a gift I have given only one other before. The mortal woman Tavé, as the Faeries call her, was willing to pay the price for the sake of controlling dragons. Are you willing to do the same?”

“I can pay any price a mortal woman can!” said the goblin king. “Am I not glorious beyond the dirt of mortality? Tell me what you require, Death-in-Life.”

“You have spun your pretty veils to cover all Arpiar,” says the Dragon King. “All ugliness of your kingdom thinly covered by your illusions, yet you have created not a single work of true beauty. Here is my bargain: Grow your own rose, Vahe, a rose fairer than any other. When the Night of Moonblood comes again in five hundred years, offer this rose of yours as a sacrifice to me. On my own throne, compel a child of Hymlumé to spill the blood of your child, and for every drop that falls, I will give you a dragon.

“Will you make this bargain?”

The goblin king shrieks, shaking his fists. “Not even the kings of the Far World can control one of Hymlumé’s Fallen! What you ask is impossible!”

Life-in-Death places her hands upon his shoulders. “I will give you a unicorn, my sweet king. I shall see your dream realized.”

Vahe turns to her and sees the fulfillment of all his desires, and he laughs. Then he turns to the Father of Dragons and says, “You have my word. The blood of my own lovely rose shall be spilled upon your throne, and the dragons will be mine to command.”

“So be it. But be forewarned, little king.” The Dragon smiles. “Fail to complete your part, and I myself will come and claim you, and my sister will not stop me.”

“No,” says the Lady with a radiant smile. “No, should he fail, I will give him over to you myself.” Then she leans down and plants a kiss on the goblin’s ugly face. “But I shall see your dream realized, my darling, for you are mine.”