Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3)

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Tell me,” he said, “what is a mortal such as yourself doing pathless in Goldstone Wood?”

  Not knowing how to answer, Lionheart maintained his silence.

  Torkom smiled and revealed two rows of sharp fangs when he did so. But the lanterns flickered, and those fangs became white and even teeth behind well-formed lips. “Perhaps you would take more interest in glimpsing your future? Torkom deals in many things, and he knows the secrets. It is dangerous for a man to walk these lands without a Path . . . you could meet any number of folk who mean you harm! But a little knowledge of what the future holds . . . Ah! That will give you a direction, won’t it?” His voice was honey-sweet. “What do you say? Shall I—”

  “I need nothing from you, sir, though I thank you for your kind offers,” Lionheart spoke hastily.

  “It’s not polite to interrupt.”

  “Forgive me,” said Lionheart. “But as you have already seen, I haven’t any time and must speed on my way.”

  “There is no speeding through the Wood Between without a Path,” Torkom said. “You’ll wander lost for generations and be drawn at last to the center, where the Dark Water once lay and where now is only the empty Gold Stone. There, you’ll die.” His smile broadened at those words.

  “I am not without a path,” Lionheart said with more conviction than he felt. “I’m on a quest.”

  “Are you?” The dealer snorted a laugh. “Do tell, brave hero! What is your quest?”

  “I seek a maiden named Rose Red.” Lionheart paused a moment, considering his words, then plunged on. “She looks something like you, sir, in certain lights. But she’s small, hardly would come up as high as your heart. She entered this Wood months ago now . . . or perhaps longer. I don’t understand time in this place, but it was some months in my world. She has not been seen since, and I must find her.”

  “She entered the Wood, eh?” said Torkom. “All of her own accord?”

  Lionheart opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shifted his gaze away from the dealer.

  “You sent her here, did you?”

  Again Lionheart did not answer.

  “And now you regret—”

  “I regret nothing!” Lionheart’s voice cracked like thunder in the darkness, and Torkom’s eyes blazed with merriment. “I regret nothing I have done, for I did all for the greater good! But I would . . . I would find the girl even so.”

  “Of course, of course,” Torkom crooned. “Naturally you could not have made a mistake, little human! Your kind never does, does it? No, you are but sadly misunderstood. Torkom understands, though. He understands better than you think!”

  Lionheart closed his eyes and ground his teeth, and the dealer’s laugh was like claws down his spine.

  “Rose Red was her name, you say?”

  “Yes.” He spoke between his teeth.

  Torkom clucked to himself, shaking his head. “There are no roses in the Far World or the Near anymore. Not in many years. Except in Arpiar, of course. That’s to where Vahe stole them. They say his garden grows nothing else, and the air is thick with perfume. That’s what they say, but I wouldn’t know. I haven’t visited Arpiar in many a long century now.”

  Lionheart took in these words slowly, frowning. “I’m not looking for a rose,” he said at length. “I am searching for Rose Red. A girl, not a flower.”

  “It’s all one and the same in Faerie, mortal!” Torkom said with another snorting laugh. “Take my word for it, if it’s a Rose Red you seek and she resembles me in any way—poor dear—Arpiar is the place for you.”

  Arpiar. The name was familiar to Lionheart, as was the name Vahe. Arpiar was also called the Land of the Veiled People, and it was the home of goblins. According to stories, Vahe had been a goblin king, hundreds of years ago. But in those stories Lionheart remembered, Vahe had been killed.

  Stories were stories, however. In the Wood Between or the Far World, who could say what was true?

  “Where can I find Arpiar?” Lionheart asked.

  Here Torkom burst into full-fledged laughter. The trees themselves recoiled at the sound, hissing through their leaves. But the dealer went on laughing until his side hurt, then wiped his eyes. “I’ll tell you how to find Arpiar, no worries! Torkom will speed you on your way to your ladylove!”

  “She’s not my—”

  “But only for a price. I am a businessman, and I give nothing for free, not even directions.”

  Lionheart said nothing, but his face clearly showed his indecision. Torkom laughed again, and suddenly the handsome features dropped away completely, and Lionheart stood face-to-face with the most hideous person he had ever seen, more hideous by far even than Rose Red had been, for her expression was never, never so cruel.

  “A strand of hair,” the dealer said. “That is my price, mortal, or you can stand here in this patch of Midnight until the Final Water sweeps all away. But give me a strand of hair, and I’ll show you how to step from the Between into the Far World.”

  Lionheart knew from the look on the goblin’s face that this bargain was unsafe. But how could he hope to escape the Wood otherwise? The face of the savage young man came back to him with alarming clarity, and the thin voice begging, “Bear word of me to the Starflower! Tell her I will yet slay a beast!” That poor, pathetic vapor of memory.

  “Make a decision,” Torkom growled. “Make a decision or rot in this place.”

  “Very well,” Lionheart said quietly. He plucked a hair from his head and dropped it into the goblin’s waiting hand. Claw-like fingers closed over it, and Torkom smiled once more.

  “See you there yonder birch trees?” he purred, putting an arm around Lionheart’s shoulders and turning him to face the direction he wanted. Lionheart tensed but felt the muscle in the goblin’s arm and knew he could not hope to fight. “That is your Path, between those trees,” Torkom said. “They are one of the Crossings into the Far World. You’d never think it to look at them, would you?”

  Lionheart blinked. He could not remember seeing the two white birches before now. They gleamed strangely in that dark Midnight, ghostly and skeletal, and he wondered if the Wood had rearranged itself as it wished.

  Torkom dropped his arm and gave Lionheart a nudge. “Go on! Our deal is done. Speed on your way to your ladylove, and may Lumé’s light shine on you.”

  “She’s not my ladylove,” Lionheart muttered. But he adjusted the pack on his back and strode forward, glad to be rid of Torkom’s presence. The two birch trees beckoned him, more lovely than any other trees he had yet seen in the Wood. He approached them with firm steps, though his heart beat with suspicion and fear.

  He passed between the trees and stepped into the Far World.

  Torkom chuckled quietly, looked down at the hair in his hand, then burst out laughing. He tucked the hair into a deep pocket, packed up his wares, and set off through the Wood. Daylight seeped softly out of his lanterns and colored the world around him so that the Midnight of the Black Dogs finally relinquished that part of the Wood. Still laughing, he tramped on his way, singing:

  “The king says he,

  ‘I’ll find the poet

  And kick him into lunar orbit.’

  O jolly way have—”

  He halted.

  An orange tomcat sat in his path, delicate pink nose upraised and tail curled neatly about his paws.

  “Greetings, good Torkom,” he said, raising a forepaw to give it a single lick. “Pray tell me, what was that delightful little ditty you were just chanting?”

  Torkom’s mouth opened and closed a few times before sound came. “Sir knight!” he stuttered. “What a surprise. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Fancy, indeed.” The cat gave his paw one final lick, then turned his eyeless face to the goblin. “Give it to me.”

  “I cry you mercy, good sir knight! Give you what?”

  “You know what.”

  Torkom licked his lips with a thin gray tongue. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew the strand of h
air. He gave it to the cat, who pinned it beneath his paw and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I . . . I’ll just be going on my way, then, sir, if it’s all the same to you,” Torkom said, taking another few steps. But the cat stopped him with a flick of his tail.

  “Where did you send him?”

  “The mortal? He asked the way to Arpiar.”

  “I’m sure he did. But where did you send him?”

  “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Let us say only that I am invested in his interests.” The cat’s voice hardened. “Where, Torkom?”

  “Now, please, sir knight, I didn’t mean him any real harm—”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “He was just so full of himself, he was, as arrogant a—”

  “Torkom,” said the cat, his whiskers quivering, “the words of that song are coming back to me. ‘The king says he . . .’ What was it he says, Torkom? Do you want to sing it for me?”

  Torkom gulped. “I sent the lad to Ragniprava’s demesne.”

  “Ragniprava?” The cat squawked something that might have been a laugh and might have been a curse. “Torkom, you dragon-kissed fiend! You’ve done a number on the lad I could never have dreamed. My best to you in all your dishonest ways.”

  With that, the cat picked up the hair delicately with his teeth and whisked away into the Wood. Torkom let out a long breath that he had not realized he’d been holding, then grabbed his cart and fled through the underbrush as fast as his legs could carry him.

  6

  Vahe took pride in many things.

  He was proud of Palace Var, his most elaborate creation, which had, over time, become a byword among worlds for grandeur and opulence. “As grand as Var,” the saying went, though no one ever believed it. Nothing could be as grand as Var.

  Vahe was proud of his roses. It was no mean feat to host a garden so sumptuous, so aromatic. Faerie lords across the Far World would offer strands of hair to possess just one of Vahe’s buds. But Vahe never gave them up. Their beauty radiated across all of Arpiar, and such beauty could not be bought, no matter how generous the offer.

  But of all the wonders of Arpiar and the glories of his reign, King Vahe took the most pride in his queen.

  Anahid stood silently beside her husband in the secretmost chamber of Var. She was the most beautiful woman in Arpiar, but that was no reason for vanity. Vahe himself dictated beauty in his realm, and he could just as easily have transformed the most humble scullery maid into a queen of rare comeliness. And it wasn’t her great love for him that pleased Vahe, for Anahid hated the King of Arpiar more than any living person.

  That in and of itself gave Vahe reason for pride. For Anahid, despite her loathing, despite her hate, was still his queen. Of her own choice, she had given herself to him hundreds of years ago. Of her own choice, she remained in Arpiar and ruled by his side. There had been times when the rebel flashed out of her, to be sure, and Vahe had been obliged to punish her severely. When the princess was born, for instance. All his plans might have come to nothing had Anahid succeeded in that night’s venture.

  But that was past. His daughter was safely returned to him, Anahid stood silent by his side, and the unicorn led the Boy to him in the secret chamber. Everything would come to completion now.

  Vahe took his wife’s hand as he smiled down upon the Boy. “Anahid, you will accompany me, won’t you?” It was a command. Anahid made no reply. Vahe patted her arm in a semblance of affection, then released his hold on her and approached the Boy. The unicorn concealed itself, though it remained standing by his shoulder. The moment it vanished from his sight, the Boy relaxed, then forgot about it. He saw the king approaching, and his hand smarted as it remembered what his mind could not—the stab of a rose thorn and spilled blood.

  “Are you enjoying your stay in my home?” Vahe asked, placing a friendly hand on the Boy’s shoulder.

  “Indeed I am,” said the Boy, trying to remember why his knees trembled. But the king was smiling, so he smiled back.

  “Have you ever,” said Vahe, “seen anywhere so beautiful as Arpiar?”

  “Um.”

  “This is Arpiar. This place you’re standing.”

  “Oh! Well, no. But . . . who are you again?”

  Vahe clucked, shaking his head, and patted the Boy’s shoulder once more before stepping back. “The outside world is a harsh, ugly place, son of mortals. Beyond my kingdom, they allowed you to suffer the poison that now destroys your mind. Here you find healing. Here you find a place of refuge and beauty. Would that all worlds could be as Arpiar!”

  “What’s Arpiar?”

  Tears gleamed in the king’s eyes as emotion threatened to overcome him. “Do you see, Anahid,” he said, turning to his queen, “how he suffers? Do you see now the good of my plan?”

  Anahid said nothing. She regarded the empty-eyed mortal as one regards mouse droppings in the sugar bowl.

  “Mortal son,” said Vahe, turning to the Boy again, “would you see beauty and light and the scent of roses cover the sins and cruelties of worlds that rejected the likes of you? That rejected me and my people?” He leaned down, taking the Boy’s face between his hands and staring into his eyes. The King of Arpiar’s face was so kind, so full of understanding—though the Boy didn’t quite know what it was he understood. Whatever it was, he knew it must be good, because a face like that could only be good.

  “Just say yes,” said the king, still in that smooth voice, tears glistening, though he spoke between his teeth.

  “Yes?”

  Vahe stepped back. “Did you hear, Anahid? He has agreed.”

  She raised an eyebrow and smiled her murderous smile. Vahe ignored it. He reached beneath his robe, withdrawing a vial of crystal that hung from a cord about his neck. Its contents were red and thick when the king poured them into the palm of his hand. The Boy smelled his own blood without realizing what he smelled, but for a moment it overwhelmed the scent of roses.

  Vahe smeared the blood across his own forehead. Then he gripped the Boy’s head again, whispering something in a language the Boy did not know—or did not remember knowing—and pressed his bloody forehead to the Boy’s.

  The next moment, the king drew back, and his face was gone as slack and empty as the Boy’s had been.

  Anahid stepped forward, took her husband’s hand, and led him to a nearby throne. Gently, she assisted him to sit, and he was lifeless as a doll under her hands.

  But the Boy smiled suddenly with a quickness in his eye that had not been present since his arrival at Var. Then he spoke.

  “What a fine form! Who could have guessed how it feels to be young again?”

  His voice was Vahe’s.

  The queen turned to him and bowed, still without a word.

  “But I don’t quite feel myself,” the Boy who spoke like Vahe continued. “Let me see . . .” Though the expression did not change, the Boy’s face and features melted away, replaced with those of the King of Arpiar. He stood across from himself, his new body bright with life and strength, his other still and silent but otherwise an exact reflection.

  “You,” said the Boy who was now Vahe, pointing at himself in the chair, “you cannot leave the prison of your kingdom. I, however, may go where I please!”

  He darted out a hand and took hold of Anahid. “Come, my sweet. I must test these new trappings of mine and see how they fare across the boundaries.” He motioned to the unicorn as he dragged the queen from the chamber. “Guard me well in my absence, good slave. We go to the Village!”

  The unicorn bowed its horn, and the king and queen departed. Then it turned and gazed upon the still form of the king. In its eyes there shone a light like distant stars that would have broken a mortal heart. But it was a unicorn, and it could not sorrow. So it stood watch as it was commanded, deep in the heart of the Palace of Roses.

  Faerie lords and ladies rule demesnes across the Far World. Some call themselves kings and queens and collect courts about them. Some build
grand halls and host magnificent banquets. Some send dignitaries to other lords, sign treaties, and play at politics. Some dance together upon lawns under the moon’s slow smile and sing ancient songs that they composed only that morning.

  But there are others more solitary.

  Lionheart knew none of this as he stepped between the white birch trees and into Faerie. He felt no change around him, no strange sensation of distance, nothing he might have expected (though, in truth, he didn’t know what to expect) from traveling across worlds. One moment, he was in the Wood Between. The next moment . . .

  He stood in a forest of absolute emerald, so vivid, so vibrant, that it hummed the tune of its own color. His feet were planted on the edge of a precipice that swept down before him to an emerald-green valley through which rushed a river. Opposite him, cascading in wild abandon into the valley, were three waterfalls. If he looked without his eyes, he saw that they were three sisters with laughing faces, and the water was their long hair. With his eyes, they were but waterfalls, higher, wilder than any he had hitherto seen, and their churning foam was like a million gleaming crystals.

  “Iubdan’s beard!” Lionheart let out a long breath and felt his body weaken. He had just presence of mind enough to stagger backward, away from the precipice, before his knees gave out and he collapsed. The air was steamy hot, and the constant hum of color droned in his ears. After a moment, he thought to glance behind him.

  The white birches were gone. Gorgeous flowers bloomed before his eyes, dripping like a lady’s jewels from vine-covered branches. But no portal back to the Wood Between.

  “You can’t go back anyway,” Lionheart told himself. He spoke aloud, desperate to interrupt the humming. “You can’t go back. You must find Rose Red.”

  There were no roses anywhere that he looked, which surprised him. From what Torkom had said, he’d expected Arpiar to be resplendent in them. But what would he know about such things? The Far World was nothing but stories to him, even now. How could any of this be real? Laughing waterfalls, humming forests . . . It was nonsense!