Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3)

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  © 2012 by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-1472-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design by Paul Higdon

  Cover illustration by William Graf

  To my Erin . . .

  and sweet Annie!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One: The Prince

  1 2 3

  4 5 6

  7

  Part Two: The Old Bridge

  1 2 3

  Part Three: The Wood

  1 2 3

  4 5 6

  7 8 9

  10 11

  Part Four: The Prophecy

  1 2 3

  4 5 6

  7 8 9

  10

  Part Five: The Sacrifice

  1 2 3

  4 5 6

  7 8 9

  Part Six: The Queen

  1 2 3

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Tales of Goldstone Wood

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  The unicorn stood before the gates of Palace Var. It guarded the paths to and from Arpiar, watching them with eyes that burned through all tricks and disguises. The roses climbing the stone walls of Var cast their moonlit shadows upon the unicorn’s back in dappled patterns. If a wind swelled, those patterns shifted, but the unicorn never moved.

  The Queen of Arpiar could see the unicorn through a window in her chambers, where she lay upon her pillows. She turned her gaze away, closing her eyes.

  “My queen,” said her headwoman. “The child lives. You have a daughter.”

  Across the darkened chamber, a newborn made no sound as gentle hands wrapped it in red and gold. When the babe had not cried at its birth, the queen had thought perhaps it was dead.

  “A daughter,” she whispered. Tears slipped down her cheek. “No.”

  Before she could dash traces of weeping from her face, her husband entered. Without a glance for his queen, he went to the cradle and looked inside. He smiled, and though his face was more beautiful than tongue could tell, the queen shuddered at the sight.

  “A daughter!” Triumph filled the king’s voice. He turned to the queen and laughed in her face. “A pretty daughter, my pretty bride. With blood as red as the red, red rose. Her name will be Varvare.”

  “Please,” his wife spoke in a small voice. “Please, my lord.”

  “Please what, sweet Anahid?” The king laughed again and moved to the queen’s bedside. He took her hand and, though she struggled against him, would not release his hold. “You’d think I was disappointed in you. On the contrary, beloved, I could not be better satisfied! You have proven more useful than I dared hope.”

  He dropped her hand and addressed himself to her headwoman and the other attendants present. “See to it you care well for my darling Varvare. My perfect rose.”

  With those words he vanished from the chamber, though the shadow of his presence lingered long afterward.

  Nevertheless, the moment he was out of sight, Queen Anahid rallied herself. She pushed upright on her cushions, turning once more to that sight out her window. The unicorn stood at its post in the shadow of the roses, and it was hateful to her.

  “Bring me clothes and a cloak of midnight.” She turned to her attendants, who stared at her. “At once.”

  They exchanged glances, but no one moved. In all the realm of Arpiar, not a soul could be found who loved the king. But neither was there a heart that did not sink with fear at the mention of his name. Thus the queen’s servants remained frozen in place when she spoke. The queen stared at them with her great silver eyes, and they would not meet her gaze.

  “Will no one serve her queen?” she asked.

  They made no answer.

  Straining so that a vein stood out on her forehead, Anahid flung back the soiled blankets of her labor and rose from her bed. Her headwoman gasped, “My queen!”

  In that moment, the princess, who had made no more than a whimper since the time of her birth, gave a cry from her cradle. The piteous sound worked a magic of its own on the assembled servants. One leapt to the cradle and gently lifted the child. Another ran to the queen’s side, and a third did as the queen had asked and brought her clean garments and a cloak as black as the night.

  The queen was weak from her labor, but her strength returned in the face of need. She let her servants clothe her, then took and wrapped the deep cloak about her shoulders. “Give her to me,” she said, turning to the youngest of her maids, who stood trembling near to hand, shushing the babe.

  “My queen,” her headwoman spoke, “are you certain—”

  “Do you doubt me?” The queen’s eyes flashed. She took the baby, adjusting the scarlet and gold cloth that bound the tiny limbs tight. She tucked the warm bundle inside her cloak, close to her heart.

  “Tell no one I have gone,” she said, striding to the door. “Any of you who follows me does so at your peril.”

  The blackness of her cloak shielded Queen Anahid and the princess as she made her way through the corridors of Palace Var, unseen save by the roses, which turned their faces away and said not a word. She slid from shadow to shadow. Woven enchantments whirled in endless, grasping fingers everywhere she turned, but these Anahid had long ago learned to see and to elude.

  But all Paths from Arpiar led past the unicorn.

  The queen stood in the darkness of the courtyard, breathing in the perfume of roses, gazing at the silvery gate that stood between her and the empty landscape. She felt the tiny beating heart pressed against her own and gnashed her teeth. “Would that he had been devoured on the shores of the Dark Water!” Then, closing her eyes and bowing her head, she cried out in the voice of her heart, a voice unheard in that world but which carried to worlds beyond.

  “I swore I would never call upon you again.”

  An answer came across distances unimaginable and sang close to her ear in a voice of birdsong.

  Yet I am always waiting for you, child.

  “I ask nothing for myself, only for my daughter. She does not deserve the fate the king has purposed for her.”

  What would you have me do?

  “Show me where I can take her. Show me where she may be safe.”

  Walk my Path, sang the silver voice.

  There in the darkness of Arpiar, a way opened at the queen’s feet. The one Path that the unicorn could not follow. Anahid stepped into it, full of both gratitude and shame, for she had vowed never to walk this way again. But she had no other choice. She followed the Path to the gate, pushed t
he bars aside, and stepped onto the plains beyond.

  The unicorn did not see her. She passed beneath its gaze, her heart beating like a war drum against the bundle on her breast. The unicorn was blind to her passage.

  Queen Anahid strode from Palace Var without a backward glance, her daughter held tight in her arms. As she went, the silver voice sang in her ear, and she almost found herself responding to the familiar, half-forgotten words:

  Beyond the Final Water falling,

  The Songs of Spheres recalling.

  Won’t you return to me?

  She followed the song across the hinterlands of Arpiar, speeding along the Path so quickly that she must have covered leagues in a stride. She came to a footbridge, just a few planks spanning from nowhere to nowhere. But when she crossed it, she stepped over the boundaries from her world into the Wood Between.

  The unicorn felt the breach on the borders of Arpiar. It raised its head, and the bugle call of its warning shattered the stillness of the night. Anahid, even as she stood beneath the leafy canopy of the Wood, heard that sound across the worlds. She moaned with fear.

  Do not be afraid. Follow me.

  “It will find me!”

  I will guide you. Follow me.

  “Only for my daughter!” the queen cried. “Only for my daughter.”

  Her feet, in dainty slippers, sped along the Path as it wound through the Wood. She could feel the unicorn pursuing, though it could not see her. But the nearness of its presence filled Anahid with such dread, she nearly dropped her burden and fled. But no! Though she had come so far, she was still too close to Arpiar.

  “Please,” she whispered. The silence of the Wood oppressed her. “Please, show me somewhere safe.”

  Follow, sang the silver voice, and she raced after that sound. Her feet burned with each step. How long had it been since she’d followed this Path? Not since she was merely Maid Anahid, a lowly creature unworthy of a king’s notice. She had not known then and did not know now where it would lead. She only knew the unicorn could not catch her.

  It may have been days; it may have been minutes; for all she knew, it may have been centuries. But the Path ended at last, and once more the forest grew up around her. The queen stood with her heart in her throat, straining her senses for any trace of the unicorn’s presence. Panting from her exertion, she struggled to draw a deep breath and almost gagged.

  “The Near World,” she said. “I smell mortality everywhere. How can my daughter be safe here?”

  Follow me, sang the silver voice.

  “Will you not accept her into your Haven?”

  Follow me.

  She saw no choice but to obey. The trees thinned and ended not many yards distant, and though the undergrowth was difficult to navigate in the darkness, Anahid broke through the forest at last. The ground was rocky and inclined steeply uphill, but after a few minutes’ climb she was able to take stock of her surroundings. She stood at the bottom of a deep gorge filled from one end to the other with forest, twisting on around a bend beyond her sight. A trail that looked as though it had not been traveled in generations led up from the gorge to the high country above. And over her head, in fantastic, impossible beauty, arched a bridge, gleaming white in the moonlight. She recognized its Faerie craftsmanship and wondered that the world of mortal men should boast so beautiful a creation.

  The climb up the trail was difficult, and the queen was near the end of her strength when at last she emerged upon the high country. This was not a land she knew, but it was far from Arpiar. She smelled roses, free blossoms unsullied by her husband’s hand. And the moon that glowed above was no illusion. By its glow, she could discern the contours of an enormous garden or park. A king’s grounds, she thought. A fit home for her daughter.

  The unicorn sang from the Wilderlands below.

  Anahid screamed at the sound and started to run but tripped on the uneven soil and staggered to her knees. The baby wailed.

  “Why have you brought me to this place?” the queen demanded, though she did not speak aloud. “We are unprotected in the Near World. Even my husband’s enchantments must fade. It will find her for sure!”

  The Fallen One may not enter the Near World. It must remain in the Wood Between.

  The unicorn sang again. But it did not call for the queen, so she could not understand the words. Her daughter ceased crying, and when Anahid looked at her, she was surprised to find two wide eyes blinking up at her. “Don’t listen,” she said, trying to cover the baby’s ears.

  She cannot hear its voice. Her ears are full of my song.

  Anahid breathed in relief and got to her feet. She moved unsteadily across the terrain until she came to a rosebush, not far from the great bridge. Kneeling, the Queen of Arpiar placed her bundle there and stopped a moment to gaze into her child’s face, watching it wrinkle and relax and wrinkle again as though uncertain whether or not to be afraid.

  Sorrowfully, Anahid watched the change spread across the little face as the enchantments of Arpiar frayed and fell away. She closed her eyes and placed a hand upon her daughter’s heart.

  “With all the love I have to give,” she murmured, “though that is little enough.” Then she closed her eyes and raised both her hands toward the moon, cupping them as though to offer or receive a benediction. “I cry your mercy, Lord, and beg your protections upon my child! Shield her within this land from my husband’s gaze. So long as she dwells in this high country, let her escape the spells of Arpiar.”

  A flutter drew her gaze, and she saw a bird with a white speckled breast land in the rosebush above the child. Its wings disturbed the blossoms so that they dropped great red petals upon the baby’s face, the most delicate of veils.

  Your child is safe in my protection, now and always.

  “Do you promise?” said the queen.

  I promise. I claim her as one of mine.

  “Then I shall return to Arpiar glad.”

  You may stay, child. You are not bound to that world.

  “I will return,” she said.

  Another voice disturbed the night, an old voice as rough as the earth, rugged with mortality. “Oi! Who’s there?”

  Anahid leapt to her feet, cast one last look at her daughter, and fled into the night. At the edge of the gorge, she turned, her enormous eyes watching from the darkness. She saw a stocky mortal man, a gardener perhaps, with gray beginning to dominate his beard, step off the Faerie bridge. He went to the rosebush and knelt. Anahid held her breath. She heard the sharp intake of breath; then the man exclaimed, “Well now, ain’t you a sight, wee little one! How’d you end up out here on so dark a night?”

  I claim her as one of mine, sang the wood thrush to Anahid.

  The queen watched the gardener lift her child, then bowed her head, unwilling to see more. The next moment, she vanished down the trail, swallowed up by the Wilderlands below.

  The unicorn met her there.

  1

  The Prince of Southlands was bewitched.

  It was common knowledge. Rumor of his bewitchment had been spreading like a plague through the kingdom ever since he was sixteen years old: how the prince had returned from a summer in the mountains, bringing with him a demon child and installing her as a servant in his father’s house.

  Cheap chitchat, to be sure. But fun fare with which to scare the children on a cold winter’s night. “Watch out that you put your muddy boots away where they belong, or the prince’s demon will come fetch you!”

  At first, nobody believed it. Nobody, that is, except the servants of the Eldest’s House, who worked with the girl in question.

  “She gives me the shivers!” said Mistress Deerfoot to Cook. “With those veils of hers, she looks like a ghost. What do you think she hides behind them?”

  “Her devil’s horns, of course. And her fangs.”

  “Go on!” Mistress Deerfoot slapped Cook’s shoulder (for she was rather keen on him). “Do be serious!”

  Cook shrugged and said no more, for the de
mon herself passed by just then, carrying a bucket of water. That bucket was large, with an iron handle, and when full probably weighed nearly as much as the girl herself. Her skinny arms did not look as though they could support such a load, yet she moved without apparent strain. Her face was so heavily veiled in linen that not even the gleam of her eyes showed.

  She did not pause to look at Cook or Deerfoot but hastened on her way without a word or glance. When she vanished up a servants’ stair, Deerfoot let out a breath she had not realized she held. “Coo-ee! Unnatural strength that one has. What can the prince be thinking to keep one like her around here?”

  “He’s bewitched,” muttered Cook. Which was the only natural explanation.

  So the demon girl remained at the Eldest’s House. And it was she, said the people of Southlands, who called the Dragon down upon them.

  Prince Lionheart stood before his mirror glass, gazing into a face he did not recognize. It was not the face of an ensorcelled man, he thought, despite the rumors he knew people whispered behind his back. It was the face of a man who would be king. A man who would be Eldest of Southlands.

  It was the face of a man who had breathed deeply of dragon smoke.

  The stench of those poisons lingered throughout Southlands, though in the months since the Dragon’s departure it had faded to a mere breath. In the Eldest’s House it was the most prominent. On dark nights when the moon was new, one smelled it strongest of all.

  But life must go on. Five years of imprisonment under that monster had taken its toll on the people of the kingdom, but they must struggle forward somehow. And Prince Lionheart would struggle with them.

  He adjusted his collar and selected a fibula shaped like a seated panther to pin to his shoulder. He never allowed his bevy of attendants to help him dress, rarely even permitted them into his chambers. He’d been five years on his own, five years in exile while the Dragon held his kingdom captive. During that time, he’d learned to button his own garments, and he would not have attendants bungling about him now.

  Besides, their questioning gazes unnerved him. Every last one of them, when they met his eyes, silently asked the same question: