There once was a cat with no eyes
Who visited town in disguise.
He sang to the king
And purred for the queen;
He fooled the whole court with his lies.
In the same soothing voice, a voice that beckoned sleep no matter how a little boy might squirm in protest, his nursemaid told of great histories, of heroes, of ancient days. Upon her knee, Lionheart first heard of Maid Starflower and the Wolf Lord; he listened wide-eyed to the tale of the Dragonwitch and the burning of Bald Mountain; he learned how King Shadow Hand bargained with a Faerie queen to save Southlands from invasion. The histories of his kingdom blended as naturally into legends as cream into tea, swirling in indescribable patterns, heightening the flavor.
Within these stories, Lionheart first learned of the Wilderlands.
“We see them,” whispered his nursemaid as the sun sank behind the horizon and evening washed the sky dark, “but they are not of our world. They are the Between. They are the Halflight Realm. Just as dusk and dawn are neither day nor night, so the Wilderlands belong to neither the Near World nor the Far. But within them the two worlds meet.”
The child Lionheart had gazed into her eyes, wondering. She spoke in the voice that meant she wanted him to sleep, but simultaneously it was not the same as when she recited those foolish rhymes and nursery tales. Beneath the soothing tone there lay a trembling truth, perhaps unrecognized.
“It is said,” she crooned, “that the Wilderlands extend across the Continent, but mortal eyes cannot see them. We see only those bits of the Wood that appear in the gorges, but in reality, it covers all this land and on beyond the Circle of Faces, all the way to Goldstone Wood in the northern countries. Some have told me—though I don’t say I believe them—that Goldstone and our Wilderlands are one and the same. Were we to see as the Faeries do, we would know that the Wood never ends. That the Between covers all worlds, all the way to the Final Water. Perhaps even Faeries do not see it. Who can say?”
Thus Lionheart learned of them first. Later, his tutors told him the broader facts. The Wilderlands were the romanticized name given that countryside below the tablelands that was, for all practical purposes, useless. The soil could not be turned, the trees could not be tamed, so the people of Southlands learned long ago to remain in the high country above the gorges and make lives for themselves there. Naturally, over the course of time, fantastic legends sprang into being to explain in mythic terms why the folk of Southlands never ventured into the gorges that cut the country with deep, uncrossable ravines.
But mythic or scientific explanations aside, one thing was certain: Nobody entered the Wilderlands.
Yet as Lionheart followed the cat into the shadows of the mountain forest, he realized he had done exactly that. No sooner did he step from the mountain path into the shelter of the enclosing trees, than he stepped into another world entirely.
He did not scream. He stood a long moment in absolute silence. Part of him wanted to turn around, to look and see if he could still find the mountain path and perhaps the gleam of Hill House’s gate behind him. But he knew he would not. He could feel forest extending all around him—and it was not the forest he had known as a boy.
A memory encroached upon his mind. No matter how he tried to force it back, it returned with vehemence. This was not the forest he knew. But it was one in which he had walked once upon a time.
Lionheart clutched the beanpole in both hands, squeezing until his knuckles whitened. He recalled himself as a young boy, up in the higher, treeless parts of the mountain as night began to fall. He recalled stepping into the forest that was not part of the world he knew, following a Path that held him like a captive. There were phantoms in that forest, dangerous phantoms that preyed upon his fear. If not for Rose Red, he would never have escaped.
But Rose Red would not rescue him this time.
“Fool,” he growled and forced himself to take another step, then another. He did not need rescuing. He was no longer a child but a man. A man with a purpose that he would fulfill. He had sent Rose Red into the Wilderlands, the worst sentence he could give aside from death, perhaps the worst of all. He would not fail her now.
“Did I not tell you to follow me?”
Lionheart pulled himself from his thoughts to find the cat sitting just before him, prim as a dandy at tea.
“I . . . I did not see where you went.”
The cat laughed. Cat laughter is a strange phenomenon. It is a silent charade acted out with the tail, the whiskers, and an almost inaudible sniff. This cat, without saying a word, was inordinately mirthful.
“Did you plan to stumble along pathless and hope to turn up somewhere?” he said.
“I didn’t think—”
“I never suggested that you did.” The cat licked his whiskers. “Have you any notion, my lad, how dangerous it is to wander the Wood without a Path?”
Lionheart, the memories of his last experience in the Wilderlands still present in his mind’s eye, said nothing.
“It will drag you in and twist you about,” said the cat, “and take you where it wills. If you have no Path, the Wood will give you one, and it is unlikely to be a Path you will like.” The cat turned and took a few steps into the trees. “Don’t dawdle. Keep up, or you’ll soon wish that you had.”
“But where are you taking me?” Lionheart demanded, fear holding his feet rooted.
The cat stopped and twitched his ears back. “I’ll lead you by safe ways,” he said, “to the Lady of the Haven. In her house, you will meet with others who may help you in your search.”
Lionheart’s mouth was dry when he tried to swallow. He had heard of the Lady of the Haven before; she was referred to in a number of Southland’s tales. But the idea of going to her house was not one his mind could support. It was too strange.
He planted his feet more firmly and said in a harsh voice, “Why should I trust you?”
Here the cat turned around and paced slowly back to Lionheart’s feet. His shadow, Lionheart noticed, was much bigger than such a small body should have cast. It looked like the shadow of a panther. Every movement spoke of feral grace and power.
The creature stood before him, his eyeless face unreadable. “You have my word,” he said.
The word of a cat. Lionheart drew a long breath, feeling the pressure of wildness, of other worlds, weighing upon him. Within a few steps, he had gone so far from everything he knew. None of his long travels in exile, no matter how far they took him, had left him feeling so cut off. And here this creature, this cat that was not a cat, stood before him, representing everything Lionheart wanted to forget. He saw the cat as he had first seen him, perched in Una’s lap, purring while the princess scratched him under the chin. His stomach lurched at the memory, and bitterness filled his mouth.
“‘There once was a cat with no eyes,’” he muttered, “‘who visited court in disguise.’”
The cat’s ears went back. “Really, jester,” he said with a trace of a growl in his voice, “I would have thought even a man of your profession would know better rhymes than that.”
“‘He fooled the whole court with his lies.’” Lionheart adjusted his grip on Bloodbiter’s Wrath, as though somehow that thin piece of wood might offer him protection. How he wished he’d had the foresight to bring a sword or at least a hunting knife with him! “Whose court was that, cat? Which king and queen did you deceive?”
A long silence strained the air between them. Then the cat flicked his tail. “What, suddenly I am a figure from an ancient bit of nursery nonsense?” He lifted a forepaw and began chewing his toes, the picture of dismissive indifference. “And the next egg you come across you’ll ask, ‘Tell me, sir, what were you doing up on that wall anyway?’”
“Are you ashamed to answer?”
“I am ashamed of nothing. I am a cat.” The cat gracefully placed his paw next to the other, sitting as prim as a perfect statue. “Remember, context makes all the difference. You might think diff
erently of that rhyme if you knew by whom it was written.”
But Lionheart shook his head. “Why should I trust you?” he said again. And his heart sank, for he knew there could be no satisfactory answer.
But the cat merely said, “I have taken part in many fools’ plays and deceptions upon occasion. When I give my word, however, it is one you may trust. I do not make vows or swear loyalties easily.” Then he rose and started once more into the deeper shadows, saying over his shoulder as he went, “Besides, what choice have you, mortal man? You’re far from your world now.”
So it was that, after a moment’s hesitation, Lionheart followed. For the present, he told himself. Just for the present.
The Wood stood tall and menacing about him. He saw an ancient oak, its gnarled roots grasping the ground as a hawk grasps a hare. A cluster of blue-green firs stood just beyond like three old hags, and when Lionheart blinked, he could have sworn that was just what they were. There was nothing left to remind him of the mountain forest in which he and Rose Red had once played. He realized that he did not even walk on an incline. Wherever he was now, there was no mountain.
All this he observed in an instant, yet he had not begun to feel real fear, beyond that first jolt of his heart, when a movement caught his eye.
It came like smoke through the fir trees, seemed to solidify into the semblance of a young man, then returned to smoke, drifting over the moss-grown ground. Lionheart did not breathe as it drew near him, could not move a muscle. Yet the smoke or youth, whatever it was, became aware of him suddenly and wafted toward him. Hazy tendrils reached out like pleading hands, and Lionheart heard a voice.
“At last, you’ve heard my cries. Brother!” The accent was thick and ancient, making brother sound like brether. “Take this, my cord’s frayed end.” The smoke wrapped about Lionheart’s fingers, and he thought he felt something pressed into his grasp. “Take it to the Panther Master’s folk and be sure you fasten it to the stake.”
As though some wind that Lionheart could not feel had caught it, the cloud was dragged away. But the voice lingered, crying, “Bear word of me to the Starflower! Tell her I will yet slay a beast!”
At the last, Lionheart glimpsed the youth again, a savage lad with a fierce, handsome face, clad in skins and armed with a cruel stone dagger.
Then he was gone.
Lionheart looked to see what he now held in his hand. It was a piece of rough woven cord, broken on one end, tied with two clay beads on the other. The beads were decorated with symbols, the names of those who had given them. On one was painted a black panther; on the other, a delicate white blossom, a starflower.
“You know the custom, don’t you?” said the cat, sitting once more at his feet.
Lionheart knew. “The rite of passage into manhood. In bygone days, boys would climb down to the Wilderlands and not return until they’d killed a beast. Most often a bird or a squirrel. But some would bring back creatures more fantastic. Creatures which, they say, turned to stone, then to dust when daylight struck them.”
The cat nodded. “They never entered the Wood without first tying a long cord about one wrist, the other end to a stake. The village men remained by the stake as the boy entered the Wood, and they pulled the cord occasionally to remind him of his own time, his own place. Thus he would always have a Path in the Wood. But sometimes, the cord would break.”
Lionheart looked again at the bit of broken fiber and the two beads. Then he shoved them deep into his pocket. His face set.
“I must find Rose Red. That is my path.”
“That’s no Path, my lad. That’s a quest. Don’t confuse the two.”
Perhaps Lionheart was mistaken, but he thought he saw a look of keen sorrow on that eyeless face. An expression he could not understand. He saw the cat’s pink nose twitch as he turned his face in the direction the phantom youth had gone. He saw the whiskers droop, though the ears were perked forward and intent. And Lionheart wondered (though he told himself it was foolishness and shrugged it off a moment later) if the cat had known that phantom once upon a time.
“Come on, then, mortal,” the cat said and continued on his way.
The final statue in the assembly hall of Palace Var was that of the last Queen of Arpiar. When Vahe originally designed Var, he intended to leave out all depictions of his mother but later reconsidered. The queen had been an important influence on his past and still inspired his future endeavors. It would be a shame to omit her likeness from the statues of his ancestors.
Princess Varvare sat in the shadow of her dead grandmother’s statue, quietly whiling away the time with a little handwork. She was not very skilled and worked slowly, her unaccustomed fingers weaving delicate threads. Her lace-veiled face was set with concentration, and she did not notice the statues watching her or the looks they exchanged when King Vahe entered the room. Neither did she notice her father until he was quite near. Then she looked up, her face relaxing into a serene expression, and quietly set aside her work.
“Hullo, Varvare,” said the King of Arpiar, smiling down upon her. “And how are we today?”
She blinked behind the lace. Her eyes were large and silver.
“Is the Boy settled in comfortably, then?”
She shrugged.
“I hope you know,” the king said, folding his arms and tilting his head to one side, “just how glad I am to have you here, my child. Arpiar is a beautiful realm, but it lacked something essential as long as you were lost to me.”
Varvare twiddled her thumbs.
“This is rather a lonely place for you to sit all day,” Vahe went on, casting his gaze about the great hall. “Don’t you find it drafty?” The statue of his long-dead mother caught his eye, and he looked up at her marble face. Slowly, he licked his lips. “Tell me, Varvare, have you made friends with your grandmother? I’m warning you, don’t believe a word she tells you.” He laughed a chilly laugh.
The princess looked up at the statue looming above her.
“The old queen was very beautiful, you know,” Vahe continued, still studying the image of his mother so that he did not see how his daughter shuddered. “She was the most beautiful creature in all of Arpiar. She hoarded beauty for herself.” He turned to Varvare again, and his eyes snapped like diamond fire. “She hoarded it, Varvare, do you hear me? And she let her people suffer for the lack. You don’t see your father doing anything of the sort, do you?”
Princess Varvare said nothing.
“Arpiar is a place of beauty such as my mother would never have dreamed.” Vahe knelt down before his daughter so that his face was close to her own. Varvare averted her eyes. “She dreamt of no beauty save her own,” the king whispered. “But I dream of beauty for all the worlds. Beauty such as I have given you.” He put out a hand, touching her soft cheek gently through the veil, like a collector handling a priceless work of art. “Here, you can be what you were born to be. Here, you can fulfill your destiny.”
At last, the princess looked her father full in the face. “I weren’t born for this,” she said. “I don’t like it, none of it, and I wish you’d let me go.”
Vahe drew his hand back as though from a snake, and his lip curled. He got to his feet, adjusting the folds of his red robe. “Mind that tongue of yours, Varvare. Your gutter voice would destroy even the enchantments of roses.”
With those words he left her, and all the statues laughed silently when his back was turned, laughed and gestured rudely from their pedestals. But Princess Varvare paid them no attention. She took up her handwork again, scowling once more in concentration.
Somewhere far away, a silver voice sang to her: Call for him, beloved.
She growled through clenched teeth. “Call for him? Not likely!”
4
Lionheart followed his guide through the trees, one footstep plodding after another. The landscape never shifted. In fact, there were many times when Lionheart believed that they made no progress at all but passed the same gnarled oak, the same crone-like f
irs again and again. The light that gleamed here and there in bright speckles among the shadows never shifted. Now and then, Lionheart caught a glimpse of sky through the thick branches, and thought perhaps there was no sun, only empty blue above this Wood Between. There was no passage of time, yet Lionheart felt as though a hundred years had passed. A hundred years since he lost his title and, thereby, himself.
“It very well might be,” said the cat.
“I beg your pardon?”
The cat stopped, one paw upraised to step over the same gnarled oak root he had stepped over a dozen times before. “I said it very well might be. A hundred years, that is.” One ear twisted back, the other pricked forward. It was like a shrug without shoulders. “You step into the Wood without a Path, helpless as a mewling kitten, and you step out of everything you’ve ever known. Time may or may not be your friend. Spring may or may not follow winter. Up may have traded places with down. And who are you to know any better?
“It’s not your world anymore, mortal. Thus it may have been a hundred years since you left home. Or perhaps you won’t leave home until tomorrow and will be hard-pressed to catch up with yourself? No one knows, you least of all.”
“Are you smelling my mind again, cat?”
“How can I help it? It’s so very aromatic.”
The cat progressed on his way, the set of his tail conveying more than words could. The creature maintained an aloof silence as they crossed once more over the same dreary landscape. And this was, somehow, the Path to the legendary Haven of the Wood where dwelt the Lady and her great library of scripts and prophecies? Lionheart shook his head. What a fool he was. Rashly throwing his lot in with this cat, plunging into this awful unknown.
How could he be certain this stranger was his ally? If he could no longer depend on Time itself, why should he trust this creature? What had this eyeless, mat-haired old tom done to earn his confidence? The supposedly blind beast walked this uneven ground with the ease of a dancer on stage, which in itself was unsettling. Lionheart found his hands adjusting their grip almost involuntarily around Bloodbiter’s Wrath.Perhaps he should—
Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) Page 12