Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3)

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Lionheart gulped, his head still spinning. “Why is it so difficult to find? I mean, I know this world—these worlds—are different from mine. But how can you lose an entire kingdom?”

  The stranger reclined back in his chair again, relieving Lionheart of some of the intensity of those enormous eyes. “You’ve heard of islands swept away in massive waves, haven’t you?”

  Lionheart nodded.

  “Arpiar was swept away in a wave of enchantment. Washed beyond discovery. Not destroyed but swallowed whole, five hundred years ago. Soon after Vahe died for the second time.”

  “Died for the . . . the second time?”

  “Surely, mortal, you are not wholly unfamiliar with the ways of Faerie? At the least you must know the tale of the Dragonwitch.”

  Lionheart thought back on the old legend, how the Dragon King’s first daughter had been a Faerie queen before her transformation. Heroes had fought her countless times, and twice she had been slain yet come back to flaming life. Only after her third death had she remained in the land of the dead for good.

  “But that’s just—” Lionheart stopped himself. What good were arguments for reality in this place? The fantastic was all too real here. “Then the King of Arpiar has three lives as well?”

  “Had. As do all the lords of Faerie. Ragniprava, whose hospitality you so recently enjoyed, is another such a one. In rescuing you, I took one of his.”

  “You killed the Tiger?”

  “One of him, yes.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  The stranger nodded. “Two lives yet remain to Lord Bright as Fire. Perhaps only one; I can’t say for sure. All other lords, kings, and queens are gifted the same. Iubdan Rudiobus and his fair Bebo. The Mherking under the sea. Lady Nidawi the Everblooming, the serpent ChuMana, Butannaziba Who Walks Before the Night, and hundreds more. All are blessed—or sometimes cursed—with three lives each. When Vahe took his own mother’s third life, that gift passed to him. But he has lost two.”

  The stranger’s eyes no longer saw Lionheart as he recounted a history so long ago as to be unimaginable for Lionheart, yet which to him must have seemed but yesterday. “One life he forfeited not far from here, in a tower that once stood at the crest of Goldstone Hill; the second he lost in the Near World. Since that time, no one has glimpsed Vahe beyond the boundaries of Arpiar. And if anyone has passed into that realm, no one has returned. There are some few who have escaped—Torkom the trader, for instance, though we must wonder if he escaped or was sent by Vahe as a spy.

  “Besides him, we know for certain of only one other who has slipped through the barriers of Arpiar into the mortal world, and we know that she left against Vahe’s will.”

  “Rose Red?” Lionheart hazarded.

  But the stranger shook his head. “Queen Anahid, Vahe’s wife. Some twenty years ago or more by the Near World’s count, she escaped her husband’s spells, carrying with her a newborn child. She sought to hide the babe from Vahe for reasons we do not know. What we do know is that, in her desperation, she called upon the Prince of Farthestshore for help.”

  Lionheart went suddenly cold all over. “The Prince of Farthestshore?”

  “Do you know my Master, the Prince?”

  Lionheart’s dream flashed across his mind, and he closed his eyes. “I have met him,” he said quietly. “Some time ago.”

  “Not so long, I think,” said the stranger.

  Lionheart shuddered and hastily said, “What became of the queen? Vahe’s wife, who ran away. Did she escape?”

  “No,” said the stranger. “Though offered safe haven among us, she returned to Arpiar. But the child remained in the Near World, safe as long as she dwelt inside the circle of protection Anahid called down for her, and guarded always by a Knight of Farthestshore.”

  His next words, though spoken softly, were as an avalanche in Lionheart’s mind: “It was she whom you call Rose Red.”

  At first no thoughts came, only that rushing crumble of a thousand half thoughts that couldn’t take coherent form. The first that resolved into anything he could understand were the words of Ragniprava, smooth as a well-sharpened knife.

  “You seek a girl in the realm of Faerie. This means you seek a princess, and you will find her where princesses are to be found.”

  Lionheart said, “Then Rose Red really is a princess.”

  “She is Princess Varvare, only child of King Vahe of Arpiar, heir to the throne of the Veiled People,” said the stranger.

  Lionheart put his hands to his head, rubbing his temples and wrinkling his brow. “And I, by banishing her to the Wilderlands, put her outside the Prince’s protection.”

  “You sent her where Vahe could find her, yes. And he sent the one-horned beast to fetch her back into his realm.”

  “The one-horned beast?”

  “A being you must pray you never meet, little mortal. Not even the knight set to guard Princess Varvare could protect her from such a foe.”

  Another image, one he had tried many times to forget, came back to Lionheart: a memory of standing on the edge of the Wilderlands beside a shaggy goat, which turned to him and suddenly was no goat but a fierce woman armed with a long knife. He gulped. “Beana.”

  “What?”

  “Rose Red’s pet goat. She was the knight, wasn’t she?”

  Something like a smile passed over the ugly features of the goblin man. “A goat?” he repeated. “What a form to choose! But, aye, that selfsame goat is a knight in the Prince’s service, and a braver one you will never meet.” All traces of a smile vanished from the stranger’s face. “Now she is gone into Arpiar as well, gone where I cannot follow her, and I do not know if she still lives.”

  Lionheart was too caught up in his own distress to notice his companion’s words or tone. Desperate, he said, “But why all the fuss? If Rose Red is Vahe’s heir, surely she cannot be too badly treated in the land of her birth. As his only child, she would enjoy privilege, yes?”

  The stranger shook his head. “Why then did her mother risk her life to carry her out of Arpiar?”

  “Why?”

  “That we don’t know for sure. But it isn’t hard to make a few guesses. Given Vahe’s history of regicide, he may be concerned that his own child will do the same.”

  “Rose Red wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Vahe does not know that. But then again, if he feared for his own life, why would he labor so long to get her back? In seeking his daughter, Vahe has stolen all the roses of all the realms of mortals and Faeries alike, pulled them into Arpiar never to be seen again . . . no mean feat. But Vahe was always strong.”

  Lionheart didn’t pretend to understand. Instead he asked, “And how are you part of all this? You say you have been seeking Arpiar for the last five centuries, but even by your convoluted Faerie standards of time, Rose Red couldn’t have been taken there that long ago!”

  “No,” said the stranger. “I have been searching for Arpiar since long before the princess was born. For though I am Oeric, renamed and renewed in the Prince’s service, I was once nameless, called Outcast even by my friends. I am Vahe’s twin brother.”

  Lionheart stared. “His brother? Then you are Rose Red’s—”

  “Her uncle, yes.”

  A small eternity passed before Lionheart spoke again. “You must hate me for what I have done.”

  “Hate you?” Oeric shook his head, half closing his great eyes. “I cannot hate you, boy. Though you banished a girl who had done you no wrong but served you faithfully all those years, I cannot hate you. Though you placed my love in gravest danger, perhaps caused her death . . . though you betrayed the Prince’s Beloved into the very hands of the Dragon, still I could not look on you with hatred. For nothing you have done could equal the evil that I myself have committed against all who loved and trusted me. No regret you ever know will compare to the despair I knew when I recognized what I had done. And no forgiveness you may yet receive will ever outshine the grace that was extended to me, the vil
est of all my Master’s servants.

  “No, Lionheart, I can never hate you, for in truth, you and I are alike, and if our deeds were measured against one another, no one could say yours were the worse. So it is not hatred I feel for you, nor is it judgment I will deal upon your head. Instead, I offer you my help in seeking after what you have lost. For our goals have become one and the same. We both must find the land of Arpiar and rescue Princess Varvare from whatever fate Vahe has for her. Will you have me for your companion?”

  The ugly knight offered Lionheart his hand, which was large enough to smash heads with a single blow. Lionheart, pale and wordless, nodded and offered his hand in return. They shook, and then Sir Oeric rose, and if he had seemed huge before, he was a veritable giant now.

  “I will leave you to rest, lad. My brother knight Eanrin has proposed to bring you to Rudiobus as soon as you are able, to see what wisdom Queen Bebo might offer concerning you. But you are not yet well enough for the journey. Sleep. We will meet again soon.”

  Lionheart watched the knight open what was both a door and a branch thick with greenery. Oeric paused and looked back.

  “Lionheart, don’t try to explain what you have done.”

  Then he was gone.

  The moon never shone in Arpiar. The people of Arpiar did not know this, of course, for Vahe could paint a moon in the sky with as much ease as he could paint their faces beautiful. And his moon was as big and luminous as anyone could wish, and no one knew the difference.

  So Varvare alone in all the kingdom knew just how dark the nights were.

  She sat outside with the nameless Boy beside her, surrounded by the ghosts of roses. For once, her fingers were not at work but gently fingered the cord in her pocket. It was so thin and delicate that mortal eyes could not see it, but she felt it was strong. Whether strong enough for her purposes, she could not guess. Nor could she know if she would find an opportunity to use it.

  The Boy sat beside her, staring emptily up at the sky. He saw the enchantments the princess chose not to see. To him, the sky was full of stars save where the moon was so bright the stars disappeared. He turned to Varvare. “Does the moon have a name?”

  “Yes,” said the princess. She remembered what a shaggy goat had taught her years ago.

  “What is it?”

  “Hymlumé.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Harmony,” she said, her voice soft as she recalled the goat’s words. “Like when birds sing different songs together and they all blend into one chorus.”

  “Oh,” said the Boy. He gazed up at the black sky. “That’s pretty,” he decided after a moment. “Do I have a name?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Boy sighed. Restless, he got up and wandered through the ghostly roses, which to his eyes bloomed full and sweet. Varvare watched him go, realizing all over again how helpless he was, how sad and lost without his mind. She felt protective of him somehow, though she did not know who he was. He hadn’t a friend in the world, not one that he remembered, anyway. And he did not realize the evil that surrounded him.

  She set her jaw and vowed to herself, “I’ll take him with me when I go. I won’t let any harm come to him.”

  And then her mind was far from the desolate gardens of Var, speeding across distances greater than time and space to a back stairway in a holiday-filled house. She trembled once more in the darkness, clutching an empty urn.

  Prince Lionheart stood before her.

  “Rose Red,” he said, his black eyes burning with the passion of his words. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I fear some harm will come to you. I don’t know if I could forgive myself were that to happen.”

  Princess Varvare shook her head, grinding her teeth. “Have you done it now?” she growled. “Have you gone and forgiven yourself? You made such sweet promises, and I trusted you, trusted the friendship we’d had so long. But I was a fool to think you’d remember any of that! Not for a goblin. Not for a demon.”

  The wood thrush called to her, the voice in her head more real than the silver moonlight that lit up her father’s land.

  Beloved, call for him.

  “I won’t! I’ll never call for him! I’ll never trust him again, no more’n I’ll trust you! You call me beloved. You said you’d always protect me. Why then have you left me here? All I did was obey you! I helped the girl up the cliff, and look what happened as a result. I’ve learned my lesson! You’ll make me do what you like, then abandon me as quickly as the prince did. The unicorn says I’m in danger, yet you leave me in this cursed place!”

  Varvare bowed her head and suddenly burst into tears, the first she’d cried since that horrible day on the edge of the Wilderlands.

  The Boy, when he returned from his wanderings, found her that way. “Princess!” he cried, distressed. “Don’t cry!” Though he was a tall boy just on the verge of manhood, he put his arms around her like a tiny child and wept too, because he didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t know who she was.

  The enchanted moon vanished behind a cloud.

  3

  Sleep does not come easily to a mind as frustrated as Lionheart’s was following his conversation with Oeric. But when his eyes were so heavy he thought they might fall out if he didn’t close them, he gave up and slept.

  When he woke next, all his frustrations reared their ugly heads to be solved once more, but his shoulder no longer pained him and he felt better able to cope with the rest. He wondered what kind of magic had gone into the medicine used on his dressings to have worked such wonders against the damage done by tiger claws. And he wondered to whom he owed thanks for his healing.

  There was no one else in the room. Its ceiling was now painted in a mural of stars over which clouds sometimes drifted, and the leaves were black silhouettes. He could see the glow of the moon; it had not yet risen far enough for him to spot it above the tree line. A low fire built in what was both an ornamental fireplace and the bole of a tree provided him with enough light. He got up, discovered that he wore only a long nightshirt, and spent the next several moments hunting around for his clothing. There wasn’t much to find. He had left his outer layers of garments behind in the steamy forest of Ragniprava, and the thin shirt that remained to him was shredded at the shoulder, though the blood had been washed away.

  His trousers, at least, were intact, so he put these on, tucked the nightshirt in, and hoped he wouldn’t scandalize any strangers he met by his state of undress.

  Lionheart also found a sword.

  It was all over gold and jewels, exactly what his boyhood imagination would have pictured heroes of old wielding. He had never seen it before and yet . . . His hand closed around the hilt. He knew the blade immediately: his beanpole, Bloodbiter’s Wrath.

  He nearly choked on a laugh as a memory almost forgotten came back to him: Standing in Hill House’s gardens with Mousehand the gardener, the boy Leo had asked the old man for a weapon to use on his monster hunt, and frowned at what Mousehand had handed him.

  “A beanpole?”

  “A mighty sword, good sir knight, if you look at it right.”

  “You mean, use my imagination?”

  “I might. Or I might not.”

  This was no imaginary sword gleaming in the low firelight. The blade was sharp and true, gaudily etched with monsters and vines. Lionheart smiled. He should never have doubted old Mousehand.

  He took the sword with him as he sought to exit the room. A doorknob nestled among branches, and when he turned it, he was able to push the branches aside and step out of the clearing, leaving behind his bed and the little fire in the bole of the tree. A corridor of tall trees stretched before him, dark save for a faint glimmer of moonlight.

  Suddenly, a flutter like that of a dozen butterflies beat against his face. He waved his hands to chase them off, but there was nothing he could see to chase. The feather-light tapping whirled about his face, rustled
his hair, and even pulled at the sword in his hand, and Lionheart yelped and stepped back into the room. Then he steeled himself and strode out of the grove. With a last irritated burst, the invisibles gave a tug at his hair, then left. He drew a deep breath and started walking slowly, pointing his sword forward.

  When he closed his left eye, he walked down a forest path with dense moss underfoot. Not a living thing stirred in this place, but the trees themselves whispered soft secrets at him. When he closed the other eye, he stood in a dark-paneled hall with elegant moldings carved in leaf-and-scroll patterns, the walls lined with diamond-paned windows. There were candle sconces between the windows, but none of them were lit.

  When he opened both eyes, however, he saw the two scenes at once, the forest and the elegant hall, both thickly carpeted and smelling of woodland dampness and growth. And still no sign of a living creature.

  He closed his right eye every couple of paces to better see if he passed other chamber doors. Most of the doors Lionheart saw were shut, and if he tested their handles he found them locked. But he came to a door at last, the largest he had found yet, that was ajar. Closing his left eye, he saw a stand of fir trees spreading their branches like skirts about them, a narrow path leading between. That looked harder to push through, so he closed his right eye instead and walked through the door.

  He found himself in an enormous library.

  There had been few stories told about the library during Lionheart’s boyhood days in Southlands. But he dimly recalled a legend or two in which the handsome hero (his nursemaid’s heroes were all handsome and had all borne a distinct resemblance to young Catspaw of the house guard) visited the Lady of the Haven to learn from her vast collection of writings the secret he required in order to rescue his fair damsel in distress (who looked like the nursemaid).