“Imraldera,” the poet said, kneeling beside her and Rose Red and the broken body of Lionheart, “I found this. Will it help?” And he handed the ivory object over.
“I found it,” Felix said, but no one paid him attention.
“The unicorn’s horn,” rumbled the rich voice of Iubdan. “It has the power to heal, so they say. But not since the days before the children of Hymlumé fell from grace.”
Holding it, Imraldera recalled how it had touched her hands and face after only moments before she’d watched it destroy what was left of young Diarmid within the dragon’s body. Even in the wake of death, it had brought her healing.
“They still remember, King Iubdan,” Imraldera said softly. “They still remember the time before their fall. Some of the good yet remains.”
But even as she spoke, the light in the horn faded, leaving behind a cold and even ugly object, like a long, twisted knife. Imraldera shuddered at the sight of it. “But I fear its last act will be destruction, not healing.”
Then the goblin princess put out her hand.
She took the horn and grasped it tightly, and when she did, a shimmer passed through it. Blues, greens, and purples shot with gold ran from the tip and blended together into a pure, bright whiteness.
Rose Red saw again the depths of the unicorn’s eyes as they gazed at her across the length of its horn and it said, Forgive me.
“I forgive you,” Rose Red whispered to the still face of the young man she had loved and hated. Then she took the horn and pressed its tip into the cold wound in his heart.
The Prince smiles at Lionheart. “Not yet,” he says.
Lionheart feels a jolt of pain.
Lionheart felt a jolt of pain in his heart as, with a great thump, it learned to beat once more. The awful smells of smoke and death surrounded him, roiling his stomach. Something sharp pulled out of his chest, like the removal of a splinter but a hundred times more terrible. “Iubdan’s beard!” he swore, grinding his teeth. Those assembled on the black dais gasped.
“Leo?” a voice he knew so well whispered.
His eyes flew open. He saw a wide gray face with eyes like great white disks, and pointed teeth, one of which pushed the upper lip into a dreadful leer. His heart, still relearning to beat, bumped painfully in his chest, but he sat up with a glad cry.
“Rosie! I’ve found you at last!”
It was then the Prince of Farthestshore appeared.
1
As soon as Varvare, still holding the unicorn’s horn in one hand and Lionheart’s hand with the other, saw the Prince, a wave of remorse swept over her. Remorse for those long, painful nights of anger, of stopping her ears to his voice. At the sight of his face, she knew the truth, and his words came back to her as clear and strong as the day he had first spoken them to her heart.
I will always protect you, he had said. But that does not mean you will not know pain.
In the darkness of Palace Var, lost in Vahe’s sweet-smelling enchantments, she had rejected him. Shame filled her, made all the more painful because he now looked directly into her eyes and said:
“My child, won’t you come to me?”
She was on her feet in a heartbeat, running to his outstretched arms. Like a little girl running to her father for comfort, without a thought for her vile face, her dirty rags, her burned body. His arms closed around her, and he held her gently but with strength, and she cursed herself again and again for doubting him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You were long since forgiven,” he replied.
The goblins of Arpiar, weak and ashamed of their faces without the veils of Vahe, stared up at the figure on the dais. Many of them howled in dismay and covered their heads with their arms, slinking away into darkness. But others, though tears filled their awful eyes, crept closer, like dogs afraid of a whipping for disobedience but unable to resist the call of the master. They saw how gently he held their ugly princess, how he did not seem to see the hideousness of her face, and the sight gave them courage.
Iubdan’s soldiers saw the goblins approaching, and Captain Glomar plucked at his king’s sleeve. But ageless Iubdan shushed them quickly. The two Knights of Farthestshore, Imraldera and Eanrin, took Lionheart by the arms and helped him to his feet. He too could not look away from the Prince’s face, and the memory of a shining sword blazed bright in his mind. Recollection of the dark realm by the Final Water’s edge was fading in his mind. But he would never forget, not as long as he lived, that he had fought the Dragon and, with the Prince supporting him, had not backed down.
“Aethelbald!”
Felix leapt forward suddenly, his arms flung wide. “Aethelbald, thank the Lights Above you’re here! What is going on? Did you bring me to this place? Nobody will tell me a blessed thing, but did you see? Did you see that I killed the dragon? She was a big one too, but I brought her down!”
“I saw,” the Prince of Farthestshore said, putting out a hand to tousle the boy’s already messy hair. “Well done.”
“How is Una?”
“She is well. She sends her love.”
“Is she here?”
“No, Felix.” At sight of the boy’s crestfallen face, he added, “Don’t worry, brother. You’ll see her again, and soon. But now . . .”
Here the Prince turned, and his eyes swept over all the great cavern of the Village, still red with fire and the light of bleeding Hymlumé. The dragons lay yet in sleeping heaps, their dark dreams undisturbed. But wide-eyed goblins hid among those sleeping forms. They felt the power of the Prince’s gaze piercing down to their souls. They cowered onto their knees, and some fled after their already retreated brethren. Most remained, however. “Now I have business with the Veiled People.”
“Not so veiled anymore,” said King Iubdan quietly, raising a thick eyebrow as he too surveyed the ugly faces surrounding them.
“More so than you think,” the Prince replied. He did not take his arm from around shivering Varvare’s shoulders as he stepped up to Death’s throne. The remaining dragon skulls writhed under his stern gaze. He spoke a word, a strange word in a language that no one present knew. And suddenly the throne broke apart and scattered into shadows that fled with hisses and snarls behind the glow cast by the Bane of Corrilond’s flames. The Prince stepped now into the place where the throne had stood and looked out at those assembled.
“Hear me, people of Arpiar,” he said. “Your king is dead.”
They knew this already, knew it as clearly as they saw one another’s ugly faces. But many moaned to hear it spoken.
“You are a people lost, surrounded by faces you do not know. But I offer you the chance to belong. Come to me, and I will receive you as my own. I will see the rule of Arpiar established once again under a benevolent head. You will be my servants, and I will be yours. What do you say, children of veils?”
No one spoke. Then Varvare, still pressed up against the Prince’s side, tugged at his arm. He looked down at her. “I’m always and ever will be your servant,” she said, “if you please.”
He smiled. “Yes, you are, princess.”
Then he touched her face and a wonderful thing happened.
It was difficult for Lionheart to put into words later on because it was so strange. But when the Prince of Farthestshore touched Rose Red, he removed a final veil, a veil that had covered her face most of her life, a veil through which few people had seen. It dropped away, and her true face was one that Lionheart recognized as surely as he would recognize his own face in a glass. It was not beautiful like the masks with which Vahe had disguised his loathsome people. There was nothing artificial, nothing unreal in these features. It was a true face, and truth made it lovely.
And that’s what she was, Lionheart realized as he should have realized long ago: lovely.
The goblins watching gasped, the soldiers of Rudiobus raised their eyebrows, and Iubdan muttered under his breath, “By my own black beard!” Felix, his jaw dropping, admitted that the ugly g
irl wasn’t half bad looking after all. Not beautiful like Dame Imraldera, but certainly not half bad.
After that, the goblins of Arpiar moved forward, presenting themselves humbly before the Prince. The Prince of Farthestshore spoke to each one, removing the veils of those who asked him. They weren’t goblins after all, Lionheart saw, when they wore the faces they were intended to have from the beginning. They swore allegiance at the Prince’s feet, and soon the cavern was full of people crying and singing, standing unashamed beside the golden-haired men of Rudiobus.
When at last he had spoken to them all, the Prince turned to Imraldera and held out his hand. She gave him his sword, shining like a star. He then turned to Varvare once more.
“And now,” he said, “are you ready for your first task in my service?”
Her silver eyes were round and perhaps a little scared, but she nodded.
“Then kneel here at my feet.”
She did as he bade her, the rags of her goblin gown spilling about her knees. The Prince touched her on the shoulders with the sword as though performing a knighting, for there was no crown. But when he spoke, he said:
“I hereby declare you Queen Varvare of Arpiar, Ruler of the Unveiled People, Mistress of the lands between the Karayan Plains and the Sevoug Mountains beyond Goldstone Wood. Under your rule, streams will flow through the barren places, the people will work the ground and make it fruitful, and Lumé and Hymlumé will smile upon Arpiar once again.”
Even as he spoke, the moon above changed. The bloodred light filtered away into clean white that shone softly through the skylight and fell upon the Prince, the sword, and the young queen. The Unveiled People sent up a cheer, and Felix, though still uncertain what had just happened, whooped and hollered, “Huzzah!”
Lionheart remained silent between the two Knights of Farthestshore as they took the long knives from their belts and raised them in salute, a motion echoed by all the golden soldiers of Rudiobus and by King Iubdan himself.
Young Varvare covered her face, embarrassed and afraid. She was a goat girl and a chambermaid, after all, not intended for great destinies, for the ruling of kingdoms. But the Prince of Farthestshore caught her eye, and she heard the wood thrush sing once more:
I will always protect you.
In that moment, she found the faith to believe.
Far away in Arpiar, the land was heavy with loss and withered for want of its shattered enchantments.
Except for the rose petals that continued to fall, a blizzard of color in that bleak realm. As they fell, something happened in the sky above, something that had not been seen in many long ages of that world.
The clouds parted, and the sun looked down upon Arpiar.
Oeric walked through the shower of soft petals, clutching his wounded arm and shoulder and breathing hard. He found it difficult to see where he was going, but he staggered on, wanting to call out yet afraid to. So it was that he stumbled upon the one he sought long before he saw her.
She was kneeling beside the broken body of a goblin wearing a crown upon its head. When Oeric almost trod upon her, she raised her surprised eyes and exclaimed, “You’re here!” She was crying.
He collapsed on his knees before her and the dead goblin. “What have you here?” he asked, his voice rough as granite. Now that he was here beside her, he could scarcely look at his lady’s face. Centuries of separation, and now he could not meet her gaze.
She swallowed. “It’s Queen Anahid. She’s dead. She died freeing Lionheart.”
Oeric nodded and reached out to touch the dead queen’s face, which was very like his own, but still more misshapen in painful death. Seeing those awful features made him afraid suddenly. He turned his shoulder, further hiding himself from the woman beside him.
“We cannot know her heart,” he said quietly. “We do not know whom she will meet in the Realm Unseen. But she died well in the end.”
“Yes. And she loved my Rosie.” The lady wiped viciously at her tears, muttering, “Bah! Can’t see a thing for these fool flowers!” Then with a loud sniff, she put out a hand to Oeric, gently touching his wounded shoulder. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fiddle. Spoken like a man. You’d say that if your head was cut off.” Then she withdrew her bloodstained hand. “We should be going now, shouldn’t we? I need to find Rosie, and we must tell the others that Vahe is dead, if they’ve not figured it out for themselves. You know which way they went, don’t you?”
Oeric nodded and started to rise. But the lady put out a restraining hand. “Wait.”
His head suddenly went light. The labor of centuries overwhelmed him as though every moment of strain and anxiety had reached its apex here, in this instant. Then it was gone, leaving him weak, unable to think, unable to arrange his thoughts in any order as he sat on an empty plain under the sun and the rain of roses. The sun did shine, and he knew that for truth. The air was sweet, and he knew that for truth as well. His shoulder hurt like fire; he knew that for a truth that would come back to haunt him for many painful months to come.
But when his lady took his ugly face between her hands and kissed him, that was a truth by which Oeric knew worlds were created.
2
Vahe walks along the shores of the Final Water. “It’s not over,” he mutters to himself. “My dream realized. I must have my dream!”
The Lady stands before him. She is miles tall, and her cold white eyes, half closed with disgust, gaze down upon his ugly little form.
“Lady!” he cries when he sees her, falling at her feet. “Lady, my dream! Give me my dream!”
“I gave you everything you needed,” she says, and her voice is harsh. “You were the stronger brother, and I gave you all that you required. And yet you have failed.”
“You promised me!” He feels the pull of the Water but resists it still. “You promised me my dream! I will make the worlds beautiful after my own design!”
But she turns from him as one turning away from a crushed spider, shivering with repugnance. “I give you up.”
Then she is gone, and the Dragon stands in her place.
“All my sister’s children must come to me in the end,” he says and smiles. Flames pour from his mouth. Vahe screams and plunges into the depths of the Final Water. But he cannot escape the burning, not even there.
Hymlumé turned her white eye away from the world for a moment and looked about her garden. It was good to remember pain, she knew. Pain remembered intensifies joy. But no good can come in dwelling on old wounds, so she closed her eye, forgot the spilled blood, and sought joy in the faces of her shining children.
A Lost One approached through the Paths of the sky.
The moon turned and saw him shining, without that cruel horn with which he pierced her long ago. His eyes were deep and more beautiful than before, because in them shone the sorrow of repentance.
“My child,” said Lady Hymlumé, “I was promised you would return to me.”
“How can you love me still, when I rejected you?” it asked in a voice like music. “When I wounded you so?”
“You are my child,” she said. “I loved you before Time and will love you when Time has ceased.”
A new star shone in the heavens above; or rather an old star, returned to its place, gleaming blue and white. And it joined its voice with the voices of its brothers and sisters, with the music of the spheres, singing in praise of the Song-Giver, in praise of rebirth.
3
The bleak landscape of Arpiar was hardly the ideal location for hosting a coronation feast. But twisted Palace Var had vanished completely from the face of the plain, leaving not even a scar but rather mounds upon mounds of sweet-smelling rose petals. These had lost the poison behind their sweetness and were very beautiful, Queen Varvare thought, as they swept and billowed about the hard gray earth.
It was hard to imagine this land ever becoming full and green. Even now, when the golden people of Rudiobus had set up m
erry-colored pavilions—for there was not a single standing structure to be found in all of Arpiar suitable for a queen’s habitation—and the brilliant green and red fabric flapped like flags under the sunlight, she could not be blind to the desolation that was her kingdom.
Her kingdom!
She shivered at the thought but tried to disguise it. For she was on a high seat, another beautiful piece brought by King Iubdan and Queen Bebo for the feast, where all the eyes of Arpiar and the gathered guests could see her. It was a most uncomfortable feeling for a girl who had spent all her life avoiding being seen.
But Beana—only she wasn’t Beana but an ancient and powerful Knight of Farthestshore, dressed in ivory and blue and crowned with ivy—sat beside her. When Varvare turned to her, she smiled a smile that was reminiscent of the looks the old goat had given Rose Red, a look that said, “Now, now, dear girl, what’s all this fuss about? Try to think a sensible thought now and then, and you might find the world easier to manage.”
Beyond her sat Sir Oeric, who was, Varvare had learned, her uncle. He had been her father’s twin, but he looked nothing like Vahe, neither the beautiful creature her father had deceived his people into perceiving him as, nor the monster Varvare had known. Sir Oeric was huge and he was golden and he was powerful. Perhaps not beautiful; taken feature by feature, neither he nor Beana was exactly what one would call good-looking, not by traditional standards. Rather, they were possessed of an inner serenity that made one think them much more beautiful than any other in the room. It was a beauty that started on the inside and grew more and more outward as time went on, or perhaps as the observer’s perception grew.
“I will help you, my queen, if you will have me in your service,” Sir Oeric had said when he first knelt before her and swore his allegiance along with all the other folk of Arpiar. “I can offer you the wisdom of many years, which perhaps you will find useful at the commencement of your reign.”
Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) Page 35