“That light!” he said. “The evil light!”
Other dancers stopped as well, the pause rippling across the whole dance floor until they all stood still once more.
Then the yellow-eyed monster snarled again. “Douse the light! Kill it!”
They were all roaring then, rushing down to the edge of the water—though careful not to touch it, for dragons do not like to get wet—stretching out their bejeweled fingers and arms as though they would pluck the silver light, which was like a white sun moving toward them across the surface of the lake, from its place and crush it into nothing. At first it was too distant for them to see what caused the glow so unlike the glow from their own chandeliers; they only knew they hated it.
It represented everything they had lost long ago.
The dragon with rubies in her hair pushed to the forefront, and it was she who first saw the person carrying the light. A tiny chambermaid, ragged and covered in a veil, trembling as she clutched the handle of a silver lantern. The ruby dragon gnashed her teeth, longing to devour the girl in a single bite.
And still Rose Red’s boat drew nearer to that crowded shore. She could not tell faces apart, could not even discern man from woman, so united were they in their hatred. She saw claws and teeth; she saw jewels and crowns. She saw death in every pair of eyes.
Walk before me, child, sang the wood thrush.
She bowed her head over the lantern and held it before her face.
“Stop!”
The Dragon’s voice rolled across the mass of his children. Their roaring ceased. They parted ways, crowding into each other with only little snarls and snaps, creating a path through their midst. Down this the Father of Dragons walked, majestic in black robes, crowned in white fire. He paced to the edge of the Dark Water and waited as the narrow stick boat drew to shore.
“Princess,” he said, “you have come to me.”
His face was that which she had seen a hundred times and more in her mountain dreams. How strangely friendly and welcoming it seemed when compared to the faces of his swarming children. Rose Red peered through her veil at him and took comfort from his very familiarity.
Her lantern dimmed.
“Welcome to the Village of Dragons.” The Dragon extended a hand to her as the prow of her little boat touched the shore. “Allow me to assist you.”
“I’ll assist myself,” she snapped and jumped from the ship to the black rocks of the shoreline. Immediately, a wicked current took hold of the twig boat and dragged it out into the deeps. Rose Red looked over her shoulder and watched as her craft sank and vanished, joining the others at the lake’s bottom. “Silent Lady,” she whispered again and turned back to face the Dragon.
He smiled down at her. “You have not dressed properly for the occasion.”
“And . . . and what occasion is that?” she managed. Her voice was small; the heavy breathing of hundreds of dragons threatened to drown it out.
“The occasion of your arrival, of course,” the Dragon said. “We have all longed for you for years now. Have we not, my children?”
The dragons murmured and growled. There wasn’t a trace of longing in their voices. One dragon somewhere in the crowd said, “That light! Rid us of that evil light! It hurts my eyes!”
The Dragon’s lips drew back sharply, and Rose Red glimpsed black fangs where a moment before had been even white teeth. “Enough! Do not frighten the princess who will soon be your sister.”
“Father.” The voice that spoke was deep enough to belong to a man, but it came from the great red-clad dragon. She was tall and strong, but Rose Red had never seen a more heartbreaking face. Vengeance and fire had swallowed up all trace of womanliness. The rubies were like sparks and embers in the darkness of her hair. “Is this not one of the Veiled Folk? Is she not Vahe’s lost one?”
“Indeed,” the Dragon purred.
“Does he know you have her?”
“Do you think he would have tried nothing by now if he knew?”
The ruby-clothed woman laughed. There was fire in her mouth. “He hasn’t long until the Night of Moonblood. He must be anxious.”
“When have we known Vahe to be anything else?” The Dragon laughed as well. “He still has hope, after all these years. All these centuries. Hope is so beautiful, such a delicate flower! One must take a certain delight in watching how he nourishes it.” He gazed at Rose Red’s lantern as he spoke, and yet again, the light diminished.
“Is she the one, then?” the ruby-clothed woman continued. When she asked this question, a hush ran through the masses of dragons as they leaned in to hear what the Dragon might say. “Is she the one you seek?”
The Dragon’s gaze did not leave the silver lantern. “That remains to be seen.”
“She does not look as though she would have the fire in her.”
“The fire has burned in stranger places.”
The ruby-clothed woman was dissatisfied with this, and she stepped closer, inspecting Rose Red, making strange snuffling noises as though she were a hound sniffing out quarry. “What makes you think she is your Enemy’s Beloved? She is so puny.”
“Have you not noticed,” said the Dragon, “the protections surrounding her? She reeks of him. See the Asha Lantern he gave her? And he set one of his knights to guard her.”
“A Knight of Farthestshore?” The woman drew back from Rose Red. “Here?” She gnashed her teeth. “Where? I’ll tear the flesh from his bones!”
“No, she is not here, my child,” said the Dragon, his voice low and dark. “I would not let her through the gate. She’ll not come this way again if I have anything to say about it.”
Rose Red glared from the Dragon to the woman in rubies, not understanding a word that passed between them. Suddenly she stamped her foot.
“Here now! Don’t you talk about me like I’m a hunk of meat or somethin’! I’m here with a purpose, and I mean to see it through. I ain’t goin’ to put up with any more of this nonsense.”
The Dragon smiled down on her again. The black fangs were gone, and his face was remarkably handsome. Beautiful, even. “What makes you think you have a choice, my love?”
She quailed inside but forced herself to keep speaking, though her voice trembled. “I’ve come for m’lady. I know you have her down here. She doesn’t belong to you, and I mean to fetch her back.”
“She came of her own will,” said the Dragon.
“Only ’cause you poisoned her!” Rose Red cried. Her fury at the Dragon rose, disguising some of her fear for the moment. “Only ’cause you tricked her. She ain’t yours . . . she ain’t dead yet, and I ain’t goin’ to let you keep her down here.”
“But, darling, this isn’t the Land of the Dead.” The Dragon’s voice was as smooth as the silken clothes he wore. “This is but one stopping place on that long road. Lady Daylily may remain here as long as she pleases and not die.”
“She don’t please to stay.”
“That’s what you think.”
“Let me see her!” Rose Red cried. “Let me see her and talk to her! She’ll want to come back with me, and you’ve got to let her go if she does.” She held up the lantern, and the gathered dragons drew back, hissing like a pit of vipers.
But the Dragon stood firm. “I’ll make you a deal, my sweet.”
“No deals.”
“If, after you speak to her, Lady Daylily wants to return with you to the World Above, I will let you both go. Otherwise, you both must stay. And I will kiss you.”
“No deals!” Rose Red repeated. “I know better than to bargain with the likes of you.”
“Princess,” said the Dragon. “Shall we dance?”
Her free hand, the one not holding the lantern, was taken in his. He pulled her to him, one hand around her waist, and they were dancing. The other dragons danced around them, but she could not see them. She heard unreal music in her head, dizzyingly nightmarish. At first her surprise was so great that she did not think to struggle. By the time surprise faded, her fe
et were falling naturally into the rhythm of the song, and Rose Red could not think to break away.
The lantern dimmed to a mere glimmer.
“Your hand is so soft, princess,” said the Dragon. “So beautiful.”
“No . . .” Rose Red licked her lips behind her veil. “No it ain’t.”
“But it is. Have you looked at it?”
“No, and I . . . I ain’t goin’ to!”
“And you yourself,” the Dragon continued, his eyes running over her from head to foot. “You are beautiful.”
She realized that her servant’s dress was gone, and she wore instead a rich gown of midnight hues, studded with jewels that snapped like sparks. The veil covering her face was soft indeed.
The Dragon was very handsome, his face that of an ardent suitor. They whirled beneath the brilliant chandeliers, and Rose Red glimpsed only here and there the world around her. The Village of Dragons. But, she realized with a pang, also the Great Hall of the Eldest. So, the Eldest’s House was dragged still deeper into the Netherworld.
She gritted her teeth and scowled, though the Dragon could not see it behind her veil. “You look stupid in that getup,” she said. “You look like a fop and fool! I know your real face. You cain’t trick—” Her voice broke. Then she gasped, “Iubdan’s beard!”
She no longer danced with the Dragon. It was Leo who held her in his arms.
“Rose Red,” said Leo’s voice, “I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me.”
She stared up at that face she knew so well. Those same dark eyes, those same boyish features. Only now he was grown into himself, manly in bearing, his face more handsome because of the trials he had endured. Rose Red could not breathe. “I-Is it really you?”
“Of course it is, Rosie,” said he. “I’ve come back at last. Come back to face the Dragon only to find that you’ve done it already! You’ve saved my family, saved the kingdom. What a wonder you are, Rosie. Truly the best of friends. In fact . . .” His gaze pierced her veil, compelling and tender. “In fact, you are so much more than a friend to me. Won’t you raise your veil?”
His hand reached up and touched the edge of it, lifting gently. “Raise your veil and let me kiss you,” he said.
Rose Red felt the soft fabric moving, falling back from her face. She squeezed her eyes shut and wailed.
“NO!”
When she opened her eyes, the Dragon stood before her again. His mouth was set in a flat line, but after a long moment, he smiled a mirthless smile.
“Your secret is out, princess,” he said. “You are in love with Prince Lionheart.”
She stared at her feet, or at least at the edge of the long ball gown she still wore. A tear spotted its velvet bodice. “No I ain’t,” she said.
“Don’t try to lie to me,” said the Dragon. “I’ve known you for as long as you can remember. And I wanted you to love me.”
“You’re horrid,” she said. “Where . . . where is Lady Daylily?”
“Prince Lionheart’s lovely lady?”
“Where is she?”
“Your rival?”
“Hen’s teeth, you demon, tell me where she is!” Rose Red raised her fist as though to pound the Dragon’s chest. But she saw that cold smile on his face and turned away at the last moment. She pressed her knuckles to the side of her face and drew a long breath, like a sob.
The Dragon’s hand took her own. “Come with me, little princess.”
She was too weak, too exhausted by now to resist. She dropped the Asha Lantern, and it fell with a cold clatter on the stones and lay there, its light extinguished. As the Dragon led the girl away, the other dragons swarmed over the little lantern, fire dripping from their mouths, and when at last they parted, Asha was no more.
The Dragon led Rose Red across the Village, toward the edge of the chandelier light. Ahead, Rose Red saw a woman approaching, dressed in rich clothes. It took her a moment to realize that the woman was not Daylily; it was herself, reflected in a tall, black-framed mirror. The gown bared her shoulders after the fashion of Southlands; its midnight skirts billowed behind her like clouds. But her veil covered all her skin save for her ungloved hands.
Beautiful, golden hands.
She stopped before the mirror, gazing through the slit of her veil at that other veiled face.
“Lady Daylily can never rival you, princess,” said the Dragon. “Not as you really are.”
“You . . . you lie,” she whispered.
“Remove the veil and see if I do. Remove the veil and see yourself for the first time.”
“I don’t want to see. I know what I am underneath.”
“You know what they’ve told you. You don’t know the truth. Look and see!”
Rose Red took the veil in both hands and pulled it from her head.
9
THE NEAR WORLD
He sees her in a dream, dressed in silks and lace. The light veil that covers her face only just conceals the contours beneath. She is in his arms, and they dance to strange, dark music beneath a hundred brilliant chandeliers.
They dance in the Hall of the Eldest, though nothing is recognizable in the vast, dimly lit room. Lionheart does not need familiar markers. He knows with the certainty that comes only in dreams exactly where he is.
“Rose Red,” he hears his own voice say, “I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me.”
The veil gently wafts about her shoulders as she tilts her head to look up at him. He longs to see what is underneath. The world is hot around them, but in this place he is cool, and she is soft in his arms.
“I-Is it really you?” she whispers. Her voice is unmistakably Rose Red’s, and yet nothing like the rough little country voice he knows so well. It is the voice of a princess. He smiles down at that soft veil.
“Of course it is, Rosie,” he says. “I’ve come back at last. Come back to face the Dragon.” The words thrill in his heart. Is the time really come? His hand tightens about her waist, seeking her comfort and support. Lionheart never before realized how delicate she was beneath all those rags of hers. And what might lie behind that veil? “What a wonder you are, Rosie. Truly the best of friends. In fact . . .” He licks his lips, afraid of what her answer might be. “In fact, you are so much more than a friend to me. Won’t you lift your veil?”
She says nothing. The heat from the chandeliers is almost unbearable.
His hand reaches out of its own accord, fingering the edge of her veil. “Lift your veil and let me kiss you,” he whispers.
The world erupts in fire.
Lionheart woke with a start and wondered where he was. His face was covered in sweat, and the blankets were much too hot. He sat up in darkness, pushing the covers back and wiping his forehead, his breathing loud in that stillness. One small window above his bed was cracked open, and a soft breeze blew through.
Dreamlike voices rang in his head.
Leave him alone! He is mine!
He is the key to the princess’s undoing. I will have my rights.
Touch him and you’ll regret it, brother. He belongs to me!
Through the open window, a sudden burst of moonlight shone through. As it fell in a patch on Lionheart’s blankets, the voices ended abruptly, as though severed. When they were gone, Lionheart doubted he had truly heard them.
He remembered where he was. Parumvir. Palace Oriana on the hill above the city of Sondhold. He had been hired to serve as jester and floor-scrubber and had, only a few hours before, given his first performance.
He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, exhausted but too disturbed by the dream to go back to sleep. How awful the Great Hall of the House had looked! Beautiful but otherworldly.
And how strange that he should dream of Rose Red. Years had passed since he’d spared a thought for his childhood friend. Was she keeping her promise, watching over his family, those imprisoned in his father’s house? He could only hope.
Hope, and return as soon as possible.
But first he had to get that ring. The oracle had spoken.
“Preeeowl?”
Lionheart startled at the unexpected sound, but the next moment, something large and fluffy hopped up onto the bed beside him and set up a thunderous purr. A big tomcat rubbed its head against his shoulder and flicked a tail in his nose.
“Dragons eat you,” Lionheart growled. “How did you get in here?”
The cat’s purring stopped. It put its nose right up to Lionheart’s and hissed in no uncertain terms. Even by moonlight, Lionheart could see that the cat had no eyes. This handicap earned it no sympathy, however. Lionheart was a consummate cat hater. He tossed the creature from the bed, only just avoiding a severe scratch down his cheek.
“Rrrrrrrrowl!” said the cat, and began pointedly grooming a paw. Then, with a suddenness that took Lionheart by surprise, it leapt across the room to the chair by the fireplace, where Lionheart had carefully folded and set his jester’s garb for the night. Before he could make a move, the blind cat took his jester’s hat between his teeth. Then it was out of the room like a shot, the way it must have entered, through the cracked window. Lionheart had just time to swear, but not enough to snatch the hat back before it disappeared with a forlorn jingle.
He leapt up and peered through the glass. His window looked out upon the kitchen gardens in the upper tier of Oriana’s grounds. The cat sat in a patch of moonlight, grooming its tail. The hat lay beside it.
“Iubdan’s beard!” Lionheart grabbed a pair of trousers, hauled them on with his nightshirt flapping down to his knees, and was out of the room in a moment. A few disoriented turns, and he managed to find his way out to the kitchen gardens. There the cat waited, still grooming its tail as though it hadn’t another concern in the world. But when Lionheart approached, it perked its ears at him, hissed, and grabbed the hat. Lionheart darted forward but missed and landed hard on his knees, watching that plume of a tail dart off down the garden path. His hat jingled from the cat’s mouth.
“You monster!” Lionheart cursed the beast and gave chase. The cat stopped and waited until he had almost caught him before dashing on again. The creature was a devil with a fluffy tail.
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