He turned his black eyes from the list of coronation regulations to his uncle’s face. He was nine. He was his mother’s son. He should be malleable as wet clay.
“As you wish, Light of Endless Noon,” said Sepertin Naga through his teeth and backed out of the room, taking his list with him.
The Dark Brother devour all funny clowns!
But if clowns were required, clowns there must be. Sepertin Naga sent men to all corners of Lunthea Maly, searching the streets and inn yards, the docks and the alleys, bazaars and bandit dens, anywhere clowns might be found, and rounded them up. All of them, loaded in carts and wagons, were hauled up the central hill around which Lunthea Maly was built, at the very top of which sat Phak-Phimonphan, the great Temple of the Emperors, and just beneath it, the Aromatic Palace.
Somewhere, stuffed between a fire-eater and a contortionist, was a clown in outlandish Westerner’s garb with strikingly brown skin and a strong accent. He’d been found in a back alley not far from the docks, performing a comical song for a crowd of peasants, who were at least as intrigued by his unusual garb as they were by anything he said.
“Is he funny?” a guard sent from the palace to collect performers asked one of the gathered peasants.
“You bet your eyes, he’s funny. Just listen to him butchering the language. He’s trying to speak Chhayan now. Listen to that!” The peasant dissolved into asthmatic laughter.
The guard, who was a Kitar and therefore didn’t understand the Chhayan dialect, couldn’t see what was so amusing about the foreign fellow other than his odd, bell-covered hat. But he was getting plenty of laughs. The guard shrugged his way through the crowd and placed a heavy hand on the clown’s shoulders.
The clown yelped and started shouting in the common dialect of the city. “I say, old see you tomorrow in the corn cake! Let loose my monkey’s eye! I love you! I love you!”
The peasants doubled over with laughter, though apparently the clown meant every word he said. The guard growled a curse. “What is your name, madman?” he demanded.
“What?” said the clown.
“Your name!”
“My name?” The clown smiled as understanding swept across his face. “My name is Leonard of the Tongue of Lightning. What is your name?”
“My name doesn’t matter. You’re coming with me.” The guard yanked him through the crowd, but the clown wasn’t ready to come quietly.
“I love you!” he shouted again, furiously this time.
“I don’t care who you love; you’re coming to the palace. By order of his Imperial Majesty, Emperor Khemkhaeng-Niran Klahan, Glorious Light of the—”
“Upward fly the lizard, same as everyone!” the clown shouted again, struggling to get free. “I have a cake!”
He was certainly passionate in his lunacy. And if the peasants found him amusing, perhaps his Illuminated Magnificence would as well. “Stop your insane babble and come with me.”
So it was that Lionheart, a good three years after coming to Lunthea Maly, found himself suddenly propelled from the status of street performer to that of imperial clown in one afternoon.
Coronation ceremonies are always a matter of pomp. In Noorhitam, pomp rose to an extreme unheard of in a country such as Southlands. Lionheart watched with open mouth as priests from all the temples in Lunthea Maly (the city sported no fewer than two hundred) chanted while dancers performed the sacred dances. A procession the size of an entire Southlands barony filed up the hill and through the gates, across the great open court of the Aromatic Palace. Incense, as pungent to Lionheart’s nostrils as the expensive perfumes carted in Captain Sunan’s merchant ship, hung in the air, heavy as the priests’ chanting.
And over all this presided the boy emperor, his face as solemn as a statue.
Lionheart caught a glimpse of him now and then from his tucked-away corner with the other assembled clowns. Young Emperor Klahan looked so small upon the red and mother-of-pearl inlaid throne, the silken robes of his forefathers wrapped about his shoulders, the great pearl-studded crown upon his head. Everything was much too large for him, yet he bore it all with surprising poise for his age.
Lionheart’s heart went out to the boy. He knew what it felt like to be born to a position of authority and never feel quite adequate, to hide behind the mask, letting them think you’re prepared to manage the hundreds upon thousands of lives entrusted to your keeping. There was no room for boyhood in the face of such a task.
Though, a part of Lionheart whispered deep inside, there remained a marked difference between him and this boy. He had run away to play jester; young Klahan sat on his father’s throne.
But he couldn’t think that way. He was on a mission: He must discover how to kill the Dragon. The oracle of Ay-Ibunda must hold the secret . . . if anyone could see the oracle. Three years had slipped by, and though Lionheart had nearly killed himself studying the dialects of the city and befriending more than a handful of shady but knowledgeable characters, no one could give him a breath of word as to the temple’s location.
“Only the emperor knows,” they said.
Lionheart gazed up again at the child ruler of the Noorhitam Empire. Somehow, he doubted the little fellow had a clue.
It didn’t matter. Lionheart adjusted the jester’s hat on his head and smiled. Tonight, by the grace of the Lights Above, he’d have an opportunity to fulfill his childhood dream. He would perform buffoonery for an emperor.
You’ll have your dream, my sweet, my Fool.
Trumpets sounded, gongs rang. Vows were taken and given, chants were sent dancing with incense to the heavens. And suddenly Lionheart found himself prodded between the shoulders, propelled out from his safe cubby into the very center of the open court. All the eyes of the lords and ladies of Noorhitam, as otherworldly to Lionheart as Faeries, looked down upon him. But Lionheart turned to the emperor, saw that solemn mouth set in a firm line, and decided that, while he may fail at everything else he turned his hand to in his life, tonight, he would make the emperor laugh.
Twirling his jester’s hat, he swept a flourishing bow. But he was a clown, so of course he overbalanced and fell flat on his face, legs kicking the air.
Silence.
Lionheart, recovering himself, found he had broken into a cold sweat. He realized that what passed for comedy for peasants in an alley might be considered a mortal offense in the presence of a newly crowned emperor.
This, of course, was absolutely true upon most occasions, which was why poor young Khemkhaeng-Niran Klahan had never met any but the most moralistic of clowns. None dared perform to the full extent of his idiocy while the sovereign of many nations looked on. Lionheart felt that pressure now as he stood upright and bowed again, this time more respectfully. All his creative foolishness began to cramp up inside as his mind raced through his various routines, seeking out something that couldn’t possibly be misconstrued as an insult to his Imperial Gloriousness.
There was nothing.
The boy emperor, whose face looked as though it had never, in all his tender years, cracked a smile, watched from his mother-of-pearl throne.
Lionheart flung wide his arms and exclaimed in a great voice, “BEHOLD! It is I, Leonard the Lightning Tongue! Who, I ask you, could compare to my wit, my singing, my brilliance of phrase?”
At least, that’s what he thought he’d said. To the listening emperor, it sounded much more like, “ELEPHANT! My name is Leonard of the Tongue of Lightning! Why are the trees pink and dripping frogs?”
Young Klahan’s mouth twitched.
“None, I tell you!” Lionheart declared, though the emperor heard, “The cheese fell!”
“Not even the great Sir Eanrin of Rudiobus can compare to the genius you will now hear.”
Whatever the emperor heard this time, he raised his hand suddenly to hide his mouth. His uncle, standing close at hand, sneered deeply and gave a disapproving snort. Khemkhaeng-Niran Klahan ignored him.
And the jester burst into singing meaningless bab
ble:
“With dicacity pawky, the Geestly Knout
Would foiter his noggle and try
To becket the Bywoner with his snout
And louche the filiferous fly.”
He danced quite madly as he sang, like nothing the emperor had ever before seen. Dances in Noorhitam were stately affairs, rhythmic and slow, every movement laden with meaning. The jester danced and juggled with every limb flailing, his knees bending and feet kicking, his arms wide and wild. And his face twisted into expressions that Klahan couldn’t wait to try sometime in the glass when no one was looking (should he ever be blessed with such a moment).
The jester ended with another flourish, declaring, “I eat you! I eat you all!” and blew kisses to the most elegant women in the crowd.
Emperor Khemkhaeng-Niran Klahan, master of the eastern world, burst out laughing.
Once the emperor laughed, of course, everyone must follow suit. Soon the entire courtyard was booming with applause and laughter. Old men wiped tears from their cheeks, and beautiful women hid their faces behind their fans. Lionheart revolved slowly, waving and blowing more kisses, and if there were tears of relief in his eyes, they blended in so perfectly with the pouring sweat that no one could have noticed. The emperor had laughed. He was saved.
Now you’ll have what you asked.
The already unusual evening became even more wonderful. Young Klahan rose from his throne and held up his hands so that all the assembly went silent. Lionheart turned and flung himself prostrate before the emperor.
A sweet, boyish voice declared, “You have pleased me greatly, Leonard of the Tongue of Lightning.”
It took Lionheart a moment to work out his words. He was fairly certain they were favorable.
“Name any desire of your heart. So long as it is within my power to give, I shall bestow it upon you as a gift.”
The assembly gasped. It was like a hurricane wind in reverse. Even the torches seemed to shudder in amazement at these great words spoken by the new emperor on the day of his coronation. The honor was incredible, unbelievable! Of course the Fool, if he had any brains at all, would know better than to accept this offer. He must declare that all he could wish for was fulfilled at the first sight of his Supreme Majesty, then crawl away quietly.
But this Fool was unlike anyone else. After all, had he not already proven his insanity?
As soon as Lionheart worked out what the emperor had said, he sat up. Then he sat awhile longer, desperately trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say. This he dared not bungle.
“I want . . .” He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them wide and finished simply with, “Ay-Ibunda.”
No gasp. No whispers. Only dead silence.
Dead.
The emperor gazed down upon the jester, and in that dead moment Lionheart wondered if the whole world had turned to stone. Then young Klahan spoke.
“No.”
That was all. Two armed men approached Lionheart from either side, and he scrambled hastily to his feet and allowed them to escort him from the courtyard. The coronation celebration continued, but Lionheart was led through the various halls, expecting at any moment to find himself run through the heart for his insolence in speaking thus to the emperor. To his relief, they merely took him to the palace gates and flung him into the streets beyond.
He had performed for an emperor.
But he had failed Southlands.
Lionheart knelt in the dark street, so bleak and wretched after the beauty of the Aromatic Palace. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists and wished for all he was worth that the Dragon had swallowed him alive years ago.
4
THE NETHERWORLD
BEANA WAITED BY THE GATE. She rarely circled the grounds anymore. What was the use? The Dragon had sealed them off thoroughly.
“How long?” she whispered. “How long will you leave her to him?”
The silver song drifted across the distance: I have not abandoned her. Or you.
“It is so hard, this waiting!” The goat bleated and stamped her hooves. “Interminable!”
Trust me.
“I do,” said Beana, bowing her head. “But his poisons thicken every day.”
In the western wing of the Eldest’s House was a long gallery in which all the kings and queens of Southlands were depicted in paint and preserved in gilded frames. Some of the depictions were nothing but fanciful notions. The Panther Master, for instance, who’d been Eldest of Southlands in the time of the Wolf Lord. His portrait depicted him in robes of office that had not been officially accepted until several hundred years after his lifetime. Despite the fierce expression and the dramatic sweep of his arm, his face was one of those dull, everyman faces that could be anybody and nobody simultaneously.
Rose Red rather liked this portrait at the beginning of the gallery. She lifted the silver lantern, allowing its light to illuminate the work as the strange half-light could not. The artist had painted, beneath those rich and unhistorical robes, many wounds scarring the Panther Master’s body. Vicious wounds he had received in another’s place. Rose Red saw the delicate red lines that were almost unnoticeable beneath the gold and saffron cloths and the enormous panther fibula on his shoulder. But when the lantern light shone upon those scars, one could not help but see them. The Panther Master was a kind man, Rose Red thought, though the artist had painted him with a warrior’s face. He was a good Eldest.
Suddenly, though she knew it must be a trick of the half-light, the Panther Master’s painted gaze shifted and he looked directly down at her.
Rose Red gasped, hiding her exposed hand behind her back, and hurried on her way.
She proceeded down the gallery. For the moment, the House held sway, and she caught glimpses only now and then of the Netherworld into which it was slipping. In that world, she walked once more in a narrow tunnel, so narrow that it was difficult to breathe. Better to stay as much in the House as possible.
The eyes of the ancestors stared down from their frames upon the little chambermaid. She could feel their gazes following her, could swear that when she glanced at them she saw the eyes actually moving. She refused to look.
“Why are you coming for me?”
Rose Red stopped. Slowly, she lifted the Asha Lantern so that its beam might carry farther.
Down at the end of the gallery, she glimpsed through the gloom a person standing. Her skirts blended into the shadows, as did her long hair tumbling down from its usual pile of curls, its striking red melted away into twilight hues as though the color had never been. But when the lantern light fell upon her, her eyes were brilliantly blue in her white face, even from across the gallery.
“M’lady!” Rose Red gasped and started to run toward her. The moment she set her foot down, however, the gallery vanished, and she was once more in the tunnel, which constricted around her. She gasped, barely able to breathe. The more she pushed, the tighter the tunnel grew. So she held quite still and felt the stones, like muscles, relaxing. She could draw breath again, and her eyes sought the end of the tunnel.
It was a gallery once more. Daylily still stood there, her face as motionless as those in the portraits facing each other across the long gallery.
“You should let me die, goat girl,” said the Lady of Middlecrescent. “I would if I were you.”
Rose Red dared not take another step. “I’m goin’ to find you, m’lady. I swear it! Don’t give up and don’t believe anythin’ the Dragon tells you.”
“If you should succeed,” said Daylily, “you will one day wish you had not.” Her mouth was hidden in shadows. Only her eyes were visible, as though peering through the slit of a veil.
“I promised Lionheart I’d care for his family. That means you too, m’lady.” Rose Red set her jaw and, without thinking, held up her hand. The ungloved one.
Daylily closed her eyes and turned away. Only her black silhouette remained, just visible against the half-light.
“Wait!” Rose Red calle
d.
“You should let me die, goat girl.” Daylily’s voice faded. “You should let me die. . . .”
“M’lady!” Rose Red stepped forward again. The tunnel returned, crushing her. If her body were not so sturdy, the rocks would have pulverized her bones to dust. She screamed in terror.
Then it was gone, and she stood at the far end of the gallery. Daylily was nowhere in sight.
Rose Red gasped and drew a long breath, exulting in the ability to breathe. But the next moment she coughed and sputtered. A terrible smell lingered in the air. Like the smell of a match just gone out, but multiplied a thousand times. It wasn’t the smell of dragon smoke. More like the lingering smoke from a dead dragon’s carcass. Rose Red gagged.
The gallery stretched behind her, the impersonal stares of the old kings and queens still following her progress. But before her, rather than the wall and following passage she knew she was supposed to find here, a great cliff stretched for miles upward into the darkness. Tufts of struggling vegetation grew from ledges, evil-looking plants, parasites sucking life from the very rocks to which they clung. If those were flowers growing from those stalks, they were not flowers that would bloom with new life. The jagged petals looked more like razors, the centers like evil faces. Little witches, Rose Red thought.
In the cliff, there was a door like the one that was supposed to be in the wall at the far end of the gallery. Except where the real door had been delicately carved with starflowers, this one was carved with replicas of the witch flowers on the rocks. Rose Red put her hand to the knob.
“Don’t touch that.”
The voice sounded like ashes with just the faintest hint of life still glowing in their depths. Rose Red turned. Someone materialized from the darkness on her right. A woman, or at least, what had once been a woman. She was tall and thin and walked as though she had been beautiful at one time and had yet to acknowledge that she was beautiful no longer. Her skin was burned black and gray all over, and the ends of her hair smoldered like dying matchsticks.
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