Moonblood

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Eanrin grimaced but quickly changed it into a bright smile. “The mighty lord is most generous—”

  “Bard Eanrin?”

  “—how can I do aught but oblige?” With those words, the poet stood up on his branch, supporting himself with only one hand on the trunk, and gave a twirl of his red cape. “For your listening pleasure, Lord Bright as Fire, I give you a sonnet composed in ancient days, before the moon’s children fell. ‘In Splendor’s Vault Thou Art!’”

  As Lionheart looked on with sagging jaw and the Tiger gazed through half-lidded eyes, Iubdan’s Chief Poet sang:

  “Fair Gleamdrené, in splendor’s vault thou art

  Shining lone and sweet among the flow’rs of night.

  From all thy sisters thou must stand apart

  As Hymlumé outshines the imrals bright.

  Like priests of old, in sacred reverence I

  Will spread thy fame across the distant shores.

  Thy praises ring from depths of sea and sky,

  From mountaintops to sweeps of lonely moors.

  Ever I, with heart unchangeable,

  Deep adoration swelling in my breast,

  Will walk far pathways for thy praise to tell,

  Wand’ring always in divine unrest.

  My one desire to sing till my last breath

  Devotion’s fire and then to pass in death.”

  The song ended, and the poet bowed his head and pressed his free hand to his heart. A poignant silence followed.

  Ragniprava yawned.

  Lionheart had seen one or two bored audiences in his days as a performer, had lost many a crowd to a series of yawns. But not once had a yawn been so full of huge, pink tongue and the light of orange sunset glaring off long, sharp fangs.

  In a surge of panic, he pulled himself upright and, deftly swiping the Chief Poet’s tune, burst out with:

  “O brother mine, it’s not my fault thou art

  Whining lowly underneath thy bed tonight!

  Did I not tell thee if thou threw that dart

  The hound would turn and give thy rear a bite?

  Sniff and snort, no sympathy have I

  For one who interrupts Old Masher’s snores.

  Thou got’st what’s coming, so blubber on and sigh,

  Then up and at ’em! Thou canst do my chores.

  Thou sayest nay? Don’t think thou’lt weasel out!

  That is unless thou cares not if I tell

  The pretty girlie next door all about

  How thou and Masher get along so well.

  I thought thou’d see my point. Here is my broom.

  I’ll leave thee now to dust and sweep the room.”

  Eanrin turned with open mouth gawping toward Lionheart, his golden hair bristling like a cat’s tail. “Of all the—” he began but was interrupted by the Tiger’s laugh.

  A tiger’s laugh is a horrible thing, in many ways more horrible than a tiger’s roar, and the emerald forest of Ragniprava trembled and huddled into itself at the sound. But as the Tiger laughed, he stood upright on his hind legs and melted into a tall man with dark skin and wildcat’s eyes, clad all in orange and white and black. He wore a turban set with tiger-eye stones, and a huge sword hung from his belt. His fingernails were long and curved, and they glinted when he clapped his hands, exclaiming:

  “Magnificent! Magnificent, my boy! The look upon that poet’s face when you began to sing is worth more than both your lives! I don’t remember the last time I was so well amused. Indeed, good poets both, you must do me the honor of visiting my house. Come, come, Eanrin of Rudiobus, and tell me the name of your mortal friend!”

  But the poet, for once in his life, was rendered speechless. Lionheart took a trembling bow. “I’m Leonard the Lightning Tongue,” he said.

  9

  King Vahe swept back into Var, trailing Anahid and a dragon in his wake, and all the folk of Arpiar trembled to see his face. Their master was mighty indeed, for who but the most powerful of kings could wake one of the sleeping dragons? So they drew back from him and said not a word as he passed through the perfumed halls, through the labyrinthine corridors, to the center and his secret chamber.

  The unicorn met him at the door.

  “I know, I know!” Vahe cried. “I felt it too! But was there any breach?”

  The unicorn shook its head slowly, though its eyes spoke warnings. Vahe chose not to see those, however, and continued past his slave to where his own body sat waiting silently on the throne. With a harsh word and an upswept hand, he lunged forward as a fencer attacks. The next moment, the unnamed Boy fell headlong across the floor, his eyes closed in unconsciousness.

  Vahe’s body on the throne blinked once, twice. Then he raised his head. “Get this creature from my presence and keep him out of sight,” he said. “I don’t want to see him until I call for him again. Now!”

  The queen knelt beside the Boy, who groaned softly where he lay, and helped him to his feet. He staggered and sagged against her, and might have pulled her back to the ground. But the yellow-eyed dragon stepped forward and took him under the arms, lifting his weight from Anahid. When he did so, he saw the Boy’s face and gasped suddenly with recognition.

  The memory of a dark night, of horsemen pursuing and a chase through the Wood came to him. He’d poisoned the Boy that night. And now his veins ran thick with dragon venom.

  The yellow-eyed dragon held the Boy gently and helped Anahid guide him from the chamber. The Boy walked as one heavily drunk and grimaced with pain, though he did not come fully awake.

  “Wait,” said Vahe before they reached the door. They stopped and looked back. He pointed at the dragon. “Come here.”

  Anahid turned wide eyes to meet the dragon’s gaze. Only an instant passed before he lowered his face and helped her adjust her grip on the Boy. Then he was gone and she passed from the chamber, the door shutting behind her.

  The yellow-eyed dragon paced slowly back across the room to Vahe’s throne. It was a seat of roses, bloodred and fragrant. The smell was noxious to the dragon, and he grimaced as he neared. Vahe smiled.

  “I know you,” he said.

  The dragon said nothing.

  “I never thought I’d see a Knight of Farthestshore within these walls again. Not since my dear brother’s last visit.”

  “I am no knight,” the dragon hissed, and a forked tongue flickered between his lips.

  Vahe’s smile grew. “Look to your left. Tell me what you see.”

  The dragon turned to where the unicorn stood, its horn lowered. “I see nothing,” he said, though in truth his eyes did perceive a faint glimmer, like the glare of sunlight darting briefly off black ice. “Nothing,” he repeated as though to convince himself.

  “Look again,” said the King of Arpiar.

  This time, the unicorn revealed itself.

  “Father’s fire!” the dragon screamed and crumpled onto the floor in shivering terror. Flames licked about his teeth in his panic. “The beast! The one-horned beast!” He covered his eyes, desperate not to see, but the image of the unicorn burned inside his mind.

  Vahe rose and stood over the dragon, laughing quietly. “Hymlumé’s fallen children are no welcome sight for eyes such as yours or mine. But I tell you truly, son of fire, the unicorn is my slave, given me by the Lady of Dreams herself, and he will do as I command. You, however . . .”

  He knelt and took the dragon’s head between his hands. His fingers were long and tapering but strong as steel, and he clenched the dragon tightly and forced him to look into his eyes. The dragon’s face was lengthening, becoming more reptilian, and fire glowed in the back of his throat, yet Vahe did not flinch.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “You were not awakened at my bidding, and you are bound not to me but to my wife. But that was true long ere now, was it not? Since before you were filled with fire, and you gave her your heart. Since before I took her from you.

  “Listen to me now, erstwhile Knight of Farthestshore. Without the rites of Moonbl
ood, my bindings do not hold you. But you are still in my world. You will obey me. You’ll not cross my will, not though Anahid herself compels you. For if you do, I vow to you here and now under the unicorn’s eyes that its horn shall be your fate. I’ll set the one-horned beast upon your trail, and the Black Dogs themselves could not be more fell hunters. Do you hear me, Dragon’s brood?”

  The dragon nodded, his eyes rolling both to seek out the unicorn and to look anywhere else. Vahe let him go, and he collapsed into a huddled ball, his arms over his head. The King of Arpiar turned then to the unicorn.

  “Go inspect my borders. I do not know where the weakness might be, but someone is searching for my realm and coming much closer than I like. It may be that my brother has not given up even now. Go and see what you can find, then report back to me. Moonblood draws near, and I’ll not risk interference with my plans.”

  The unicorn left on silent feet. Even then, the yellow-eyed dragon could not raise his face for many hours. Vahe, a hard smile on his face, watched him writhe and tremble. But his thoughts were far away with a black, bloodstained throne and a cavern full of sleeping dragons.

  Lionheart walked with a tiger and a cat, which, though they now wore the forms of men, were still as much a tiger and a cat as ever. The Faerie lord Ragniprava moved with heavy grace as he escorted Lionheart and Eanrin down a narrow path from the top of the precipice into the valley below. Though Ragniprava was all congeniality, Lionheart found his gaze drawn more often than not to his host’s hooked fingernails and noticed the gleam of the remaining sunlight on his teeth when he smiled. He spoke to them as to guests, yet Lionheart felt as captive as he had in the branches of the tree. There was power in this Faerie lord, and though it may be power in check, it could burst forth at any moment.

  The cat-man, Eanrin, was aloof, answering any questions put him by Ragniprava with curt words. He refused to acknowledge Lionheart. This didn’t surprise Lionheart overmuch. He’d never gotten along well with cats.

  Lionheart tumbled through the thick-growing greenery behind the Tiger lord and the Chief Poet of Rudiobus, using Bloodbiter’s Wrath for support. What a bit of rotten luck! Of all poets and performers, he was blessed with the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet, to converse with, the most famous bard in all history, the poet who had single-handedly shaped the fortunes of writers and verse-scribblers in all corners of the world; an artist who had witnessed and recorded in lyric stanzas events of history that were so far past as to be rendered myths. A poet so renowned that many doubted the very possibility of his existence!

  And Lionheart had to open his big mouth and stick in his big foot.

  Nevertheless, another side of him whispered, Ragniprava had preferred his sonnet.

  “Behold!” said the Tiger. They had come to the end of the path, deep in the jewel-toned valley. The sun was gone and dusk had settled pink and purple overhead, but the forest still glowed, as though the leaves had gathered and stored the light to last them through the night. “Behold the Palace of Ragniprava!”

  There wasn’t a great deal to behold.

  The remains of what once might have been a temple lay in magnificent ruins, bone-white stone reflecting the forest’s green. Toppled pillars lay before the sagging gate, and beyond that the central building seemed to stand only by magic. But Ragniprava swelled with pride as he led them farther into what probably once had been fantastic courtyards and outer chambers. Now the forest was creeping in with slow but indomitable vines and shoots.

  “Once,” said the Faerie lord, “all this was blocked up. These walls you see lying here were high and closing in on all sides, stifling the sight, the scents, the sounds of my beautiful forest. Unbearable! I tore them down. It is better now, you see? But come, come deeper still.”

  They passed fountains full of green water, thick with lotus flowers. They crossed pathways grown over with moss, the richest and softest of carpets under their feet. At length Ragniprava brought them to a door carved delicately in panels depicting a story. Lionheart paused a moment, wanting to work out the tale it told. He glimpsed a woman with a crescent moon on her head who raised her arms joyfully in the first panel and later in terror as though warding off some evil. He glimpsed children surrounding her, and in one panel they clutched at her robes as though they were falling, and their faces too were full of terror. And on another panel, he thought he saw a face, a figure he recognized from his darkest, most nightmarish memories.

  The Dragon.

  All this he had but an instant to take in before Ragniprava opened the doors and, beckoning with his long nails, bade them enter. Lionheart tore his gaze from the carvings, ready to follow, and found the blind poet standing just before him, studying him without eyes.

  “What are you gawking at?” Eanrin demanded.

  “The woman and children on the door,” Lionheart said quietly. “They were . . .”

  The poet put out a hand and touched the door, running his fingers lightly over two of the panels. Then he took his hand away sharply, as though burned, and drew a sharp breath. “Orden Hymlumé,” he said. “Or informally, Moonblood.”

  With that, the poet turned to follow the Tiger lord without further explanation. The word meant nothing to Lionheart, and he trailed after the other two, frowning.

  The Faerie man had proceeded far ahead of them now, and they could hear him making impatient grunts at their slowness, so they picked up their pace. He led them into the first passage that was still intact, the walls and ceiling where they were meant to be. But even here there was a sense of wildness and exposure, for vines crept along the floor and climbed up the alabaster pillars, blooming with orange flowers. It turned only twice, but after making those turns, Lionheart had the uneasy feeling that he would not be able to find his way back out again. He wanted to look over his shoulder but refused to give in to that desire.

  Ragniprava stood at the end of the passage, which opened to an enormous chamber behind him. “Welcome to my banquet,” he said with a sweep of a bejeweled hand.

  Here was another hall fallen into terrible disrepair. The roof was long since gone, though the walls were yet standing. But vines flowed over these like green waterfalls and poured across the floor so thickly that golden tiles could be glimpsed only at rare intervals. A long banqueting table stretched across the whole of the room, and it was piled high with silver platters on which sat perfectly formed fruit. Golden goblets, shining and set with jewels, held wine like liquid garnet. All gave the impression of having stood there untouched for hundreds of years, and yet not a sign of rot or spoil could be seen.

  Seated at the table were a hundred stone princes.

  They must be princes, Lionheart knew from the moment he set eyes on them, though they wore no mark of their station. Something about their faces, worked in rough rock though they were, bespoke their heritage. They were as strange as they were noble. One of them had great antlers sprouting from his forehead. Another one’s arms were like the wings of a swan. Twins with jewels for eyes sat across from each other, and another had hair that flowed down to his feet.

  Every one of them wore an expression of surprise.

  “Do you like them?” Ragniprava asked, moving fluidly across the room and smiling at the statues. “I collect princes from all across the worlds. They come here, they and other heroes as well, seeking the Palace of Ragniprava. I do not keep the heroes. But the princes, now, they are fine, do you not think?”

  Lionheart stared from them to Eanrin beside him. The poet smiled brightly. Rather too brightly, Lionheart thought. “I have heard of the Lord Bright as Fire’s collection ere now but never thought I should stand in its presence. Would that I had eyes to see them! Tell me, mighty one, does Prince Nabhanyu sit in this company?”

  “Indeed,” purred Ragniprava, moving to touch the head of a prince with a great hooked nose. “He was one of my first.”

  “And the brothers, Yesterday and Tomorrow?” asked the poet.

  Ragniprava nodded to the jewel-eyed
twins. “Naturally, Chief Poet of Iubdan.”

  “Marvelous!” said the poet, flashing another huge smile at Lionheart, who had gone ashy pale. “And Godlumthakathi? Ah, how many sweet ladies did sigh his lack when he vanished long ago! Is he to be found in this great company?”

  “Where else?” said the Tiger, nodding to the prince with the antlers. “My collection is the most extensive to be found in all the Far World. Not even the serpent ChuMana can boast so many!”

  “Indeed?” said Eanrin. “I have seen ChuMana’s collection.”

  “Seen it?” The Tiger gave a mocking laugh.

  But the poet nodded, and this time his smile, though smaller than before, had a trace of devilish remembrance behind it. “Yes, Lord Bright as Fire. I saw it with my own two eyes back when I had two eyes with which to see.”

  A deep growl threatened in Ragniprava’s throat, behind his lace-edged cravat. “Then tell me, bard, though you have not seen my princes as such, what make you of the comparison?”

  For a long moment, Eanrin stood silent. Lionheart felt his heart pulsing. Lie, dragons eat you! He wanted to shout it. Who cares whose collection was superior? The Tiger, that’s who, so tell him what he wants to hear!

  Then the poet laughed. “Oh, most noble lord! I cry you mercy. Though I shall never behold these fair statues of yours, I may say with absolute certainty—as one of the few who has been invited to the demesne of both ChuMana and Bright as Fire—that your collection is by far the more beautiful.” He added with a shrug, “The serpent’s is rather ugly.”

  Lionheart let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he held. But the Tiger’s eyes narrowed as he peered from Eanrin to Lionheart and back again.

  “Neither of you happens to be princes, eh?”

  “Alas,” said Eanrin with a graceful bow, “though hailed as the Prince of Poetry, I am sprung of humble origins and do but serve those of greater blood.”

  “To be sure,” said Ragniprava. In two strides he stood suddenly before Lionheart, nose to nose. “And you, mortal?”