Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3)

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  The flame stopped. The Bane of Corrilond swallowed the remaining flickers and sparks, and stared down at that place where once the unicorn had stood.

  All that remained was a gleaming white horn.

  Vahe screamed and tore his hair, cutting the Boy’s stolen face with his fingernails. Then he whirled about and retrieved one of the two knives he had thrown at the cat, brandished it, and took a single stride toward his bound daughter.

  A voice he knew all too well rang in his head.

  Vahe. Brother. Come to me.

  His face went ashen. “Gargron!” he spat.

  The next moment, he had flown the cavern, fled the Village, his spirit racing back across the spaces of the worlds.

  The nameless Boy, blood streaming down his cheeks, stood with a knife in hand, staring a moment into the wide eyes of the princess. Then he moaned and collapsed, and the knife clattered where it fell.

  6

  The mist is thick and white, like ghostly hair coiling around him.

  Lionheart walks on the shores of a river, and it is wide and black, more like an ocean, he thinks. But it flows swiftly with rushing white water, and he is afraid to try to cross it.

  So this is the Realm Unseen.

  Looking up, he can see the Gardens of Hymlumé, and believes he sees the faces of her shining children among the fiery blossoms. But it is all far off, and the roar of the river is much more present. He wonders if he will meet anyone else along these shores.

  “So it wasn’t enough, was it?”

  The voice is one he knows too well.

  He turns and sees a tall, spectral figure approaching through the mist that flows so thickly up from the river’s edge. His cloak is black, as black as his hair, as black as his eyes. But his face is the white of Death.

  “You!” Lionheart gasps and backs away. River water rushes over his ankles and threatens to drag him down. He plants his feet. There can be no more retreating that way. “You are dead!”

  “I am, yes,” says the Dragon. His smile is terrible, revealing long black fangs behind his white lips. “As are you.”

  The tug of the river is powerful, and Lionheart almost falls. “I don’t belong to you!”

  “Oh, don’t you?” The Dragon’s smile grows. “It wasn’t enough, was it, little Lionheart? All your guilt. All your noble resolve. You gave your life for the girl you betrayed, but you did not succeed in rescuing her.”

  “I . . . I stopped the beast.”

  “Only for the moment.” He comes nearer, the shadow of his cloak drawing a blackness around them that is deeper than nightfall. “Did you really think, pathetic mortal, that you could earn atonement? Did you really think that your own sacrificed life could begin to repay the evil you have worked?” Fire flickers in the recesses of his eyes.

  Lionheart turns and runs into the river.

  The current catches him like hands on his legs and drags him under, and the water is cold as it closes over his head. He wants to scream but cannot, for the air is knocked out of him as he is pulled, struggling, down and down. But the Dragon’s laugh penetrates even there, filling his head as water fills Lionheart’s eyes, his nose, his lungs.

  Then, though darkness overwhelms him and water blinds him, he sees a hand. Desperate, he reaches out and takes hold.

  The next moment he is on the shore again, gagging and spitting black water. Someone holds him and thumps his back until he has coughed everything from his lungs. He sits for what seems a long while, shivering, gasping. Then he turns.

  And meets the Prince’s gaze.

  “No,” Lionheart whispers, crumpling into a heap, his hands clutching the back of his head. The mist is cold. He’d not thought he would feel anything in the Realm Unseen, but he is frozen straight through to his bones. “No, don’t look at me.”

  “Lionheart,” says the Prince, “will you come with me now?”

  “I’m worthless,” Lionheart says. “I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t redeem my honor.”

  “You never can,” the Prince replies. He takes Lionheart by the shoulders and forces him to sit up, to face him. “But do you think my grace insufficient to forgive you?”

  Lionheart cannot bear to meet those eyes, but neither can he look away. Water drips down the stubble on his face and meets in a stream from his chin. The Prince gazes at him with eyes that see to the very truth of his soul, every unacknowledged cowardice, every sin glossed over with excuses. But in the Prince’s eyes is no condemnation but rather an offer.

  “Come with me now, Lionheart.” His voice is firm, but it is a gentle request, not a command. He remains kneeling in the mud of the riverbed, not caring that he dirties his fine clothes, and his hands hold Lionheart by the shoulders.

  Still shivering, hunched over with shame, Lionheart nods. “I will come with you,” he whispers.

  The Prince rises and pulls Lionheart to his feet. He presses something into Lionheart’s hand. When he looks, the dead man finds he that he holds once more the bent and burned sword. He frowns and turns again to the Prince, a question in his eyes.

  “Follow me,” says the Prince. He starts walking back up the river.

  “Wait!” Lionheart cries, desperate. “You know what happened last time! You know what I did! I am a worm before that monster. I cannot face him, not again! I cannot fight the Dragon!”

  The memory of his failure engulfs him, and it is more horrible to face now than ever before. He thinks he will collapse; the weight of the broken sword is too much to bear.

  But the Prince stands beside him and puts an arm across his shoulders. “We’ll face him together this time,” he says, slowly turning Lionheart to one side.

  To look into the Dragon’s burning face.

  7

  Vahe blinked his own eyes and saw his own hands in his lap. He raised his face with a snarl, knowing what he would find.

  Oeric stood before him, a knife in his hand.

  “Hello, Vahe.”

  The King of Arpiar was out of the throne of roses and flying at his brother’s throat. But Oeric raised an arm and blocked him, grabbing his wrist and twisting it painfully. Vahe flung out his other hand, took hold of the back of Oeric’s neck, and rammed his own rock-hard skull into his enemy’s nose. This startled the knight more than anything, and he let the king go. Vahe backed away, panting like a wolf on the hunt, his teeth bared.

  “Murderer!” he hissed. His face was like an angel’s to the stone eyes of his ancestors looking on. “You come at me when I am defenseless!”

  Oeric shook his head. “I could have killed you while you sat unknowing and rid the worlds of your evil.” Then from his belt he took a knife, a replica of the one in his hand, and tossed it across the room. The King of Arpiar caught it by the blade and grimaced when it cut his skin. Normal blades could not pierce the hide of a goblin.

  “What malice have you worked into this weapon, Gargron?” he demanded. “Will it turn on me if I use it? Will I slit my own throat?”

  “I don’t play your games, Vahe,” Sir Oeric said, bracing himself, his own knife at the ready.

  “Oh, don’t you? I remember differently.”

  He leapt forward, his blade slashing at Oeric’s eyes.

  The Bane of Corrilond licked sparks from her face and stared with hate-filled eyes at the blackened hole where the unicorn had stood. The horn lay shining there, brighter than ever in the heat of her fire. But she turned away from this. Her anger was still hot inside.

  Her kinfolk lay all about her on the floor, asleep, their faces twisted with pain that she knew all too well. She tore into the nearest one with her sharp teeth, burning the scales even as she ripped at them. Mindless fury drove her beyond reason. She saw a movement, some ugly gray face filmed over with a veil of beauty, and she hated the very sight of it. Without a second glance, she shot her flames its way and smiled at the screams that filled the air.

  There were more, everywhere, the whole cavern crawling with little gnat-like beings. Like the mortals that
had swarmed the streets of her beautiful city long ago, those wretched creatures defiling the purity of stones set in place by her father’s grandfather. She had purged Nadire Tansu of those parasites who had betrayed her and sucked the life from her veins. She had destroyed the city beyond recall, but it was cleansed.

  The flames rose again in her mind even as they rose in her throat. Nadire Tansu, Destan, Aysel, the cities of her forefathers. She had burned them all, just as she would burn the Village of her kinfolk to rid it of these screaming insects.

  “To me, to me!” Iubdan cried to his soldiers as they fled the fury of the red dragon. They hastened to their king, and he spread what protection he could around them with the powers of ancient days. But the goblins were not so lucky. Their beautiful faces melted into terror as they fell beneath her flames.

  Imraldera and Eanrin stood behind a rock, and the dame shivered with cold fear even as the heat filled the cavern like a great oven. “Tell me what you see,” Eanrin demanded. “Tell me!”

  “Iubdan shields his folk, but the people of Arpiar are dying!”

  “What of Varvare?”

  Imraldera searched through the red glare of the bloody moon and the fires of the dragon. Vahe’s daughter remained bound to the throne, as yet unnoticed by the Bane of Corrilond, but unable to move.

  Felix and the body of Lionheart lay in a heap at her feet.

  “We must help her. She’s trapped.”

  “Right.” Eanrin straightened his cloak and adjusted the hat on his head, like a cat giving his whiskers a quick licking. “I’ll take care of the dragon. You gather our folk.”

  “Eanrin, no!” She made a grab too late.

  The blind poet, once more a cat, crept from hiding and darted across the cavern, using the bodies of still-sleeping dragons to shield himself from the Bane of Corrilond’s fire. The goblins fled, screaming, and some were burning as they ran, but the cat snaked between their feet as he made his way closer. Imraldera watched in horror until he was just under the dragon’s nose, still without being seen.

  Suddenly, he was a man again, shouting up at the monster’s face: “Demarress!”

  The Bane of Corrilond turned her fire on him, and Imraldera’s heart stopped in that instant when she thought the poet had been incinerated. But then she saw him emerge from behind another sleeping dragon a little ways off.

  “Demarress!” he cried. “I have a riddle for you! Will you hear it?”

  The dragon raised her head and roared as though she would like to snap up the moon’s watching red eye itself. Then there were words in the roar, and the dragon’s voice boomed in all listening ears.

  “That is not my name!”

  “Isn’t it?” said the poet, scratching his head, his eyebrows rising. “How unfortunate. This riddle is for Demarress, Queen of Corrilond. She was a keen one for riddles.”

  Small flames shot between her teeth like darts. “That mortal woman died in my fire long ago.”

  “Unfortunate,” the poet repeated, and he shrugged. “I suppose I’ll excuse myself, then.”

  “Wait!” The dragon shifted her bulk, and the ground shook beneath her. But her flames were swallowed for the moment and her gaze focused on Eanrin.

  Imraldera set her teeth and darted from her hiding place while the Bane of Corrilond’s head was turned. Fallen goblins reached out to her, their awful faces pitiful with pain. But she must reach the princess. She must reach Felix and poor, broken Lionheart.

  “Speak your riddle,” said the dragon, sparks dripping from her lips.

  “If you insist, O Majestic One!” Eanrin bowed and gave a dramatic twirl, then sang in his golden voice:

  “I am the remnants of hammers,

  Of fire and file, firmly confined,

  Beloved of kings and princes.

  Those who feel my kiss may weep.”

  He stopped there, tilting his blind face up to her, a picture of innocence. “Have you a guess?”

  The dragon’s eyes narrowed into searing slits of heat.

  “Lumé’s crown!” Iubdan hissed.

  His captain, Glomar, growled, “What is the fool thinking? Does he want to get us all killed?”

  Imraldera, still half a world away from the dais, came to a frozen halt and stared up at the dragon, for she too guessed the answer.

  “Is that all?” the Bane of Corrilond growled.

  “There is more if you would hear it,” Eanrin replied.

  “Tell me.”

  The poet sang:

  “Those who feel my kiss may weep.

  And she who never touched me

  Will gnash her teeth in vain.”

  The Bane of Corrilond roared. Memories long suppressed came flooding back—memories of a proud and noble king, her father, who wore at his side a sword with a golden hilt carved like two wildcats, set with rubies. He smiled down at his daughter.

  “Shall I wear your sword someday?” the girl asked.

  A shadow passed over the king’s face, destroying the smile. “You’ll never be strong enough. Ah! Would that I had fathered a son!”

  The rest vanished in fire and smoke belching from the dragon’s gut at the place where the poet had stood.

  But he was no longer there.

  The dragon saw him, bright as a flying spark, dancing across the cavern, diving behind one sleeping dragon only to emerge from behind another. Everything else vanished in her desperate need to destroy him, to devour, to burn the one who reawakened those dormant memories, who recalled the old king’s face so vividly to her mind, who recalled the sword of her forefathers, which she was never permitted to carry.

  She did not see the fleeing goblins, had no eyes for the soldiers of Rudiobus. Not even the woman in green who ran across the fire-scorched ground to the dais and the throne could catch her gaze. Her eyes were focused on that one scarlet-clad figure, who laughed at her as he ran, and she would kill him.

  Imraldera felt tears on her face as she climbed the dais steps, but she did not check them. She mounted the stairs, and Varvare screamed at the sight of her.

  “Hush, child!” Imraldera spoke more sharply than she intended. “Do not draw her gaze!” Then she fell to her knees beside the fallen figures, her expert hands running quickly over them. Lionheart was cold with death, but in Felix she felt the warmth of life. She lifted him up, but his head lolled back on her arm. “Felix!” she hissed through her teeth. “Felix, wake up, boy!”

  He groaned, and his eyes blinked open blearily. But they were empty.

  “He has no mind,” the princess said. Imraldera looked up and saw her sitting limp and broken in Death’s throne, no longer struggling. Her face was full of pain—a pain beyond the unicorn’s wound in her chest or the burn of the throne itself.

  “We’ve got to get you out of there,” Imraldera said, laying Felix down and reaching for the princess’s bindings. But the arms of the throne were twisted about Varvare’s slender limbs and the carved dragon skulls hissed and rattled their teeth at Imraldera, ready to take her fingers off. She struck them with her knife, but her blade could not dent the stone.

  Then came a burst of fire so powerful that the very sound of it knocked Imraldera over on top of Lionheart’s body. She pushed herself back up and stared across the cavern.

  “Eanrin!” she cried.

  Her voice carried. The echoes caught it and dragged it across the walls and ceiling, above the roar of flames.

  The Bane of Corrilond turned her heavy head, her eyes fixing upon Death’s throne, the seat of her Father, and the blasphemous gnats that crawled all over it. Her snarl knifed through the hot air, and she spread her enormous wings about her as she crawled across the fire-strewn floor.

  Oeric raised his knife and blocked the blade that Vahe darted at him. The King of Arpiar caught him about the throat, his elegant fingers squeezing. He was strong, stronger than Oeric, the old Queen of Arpiar knew as she watched them from her stone-carved eyes. For had she not given him his strength when she chose him above his tw
in?

  But Oeric grabbed Vahe’s arm and pried away his grasp. Then he pounded his fist into that perfectly beautiful face, shattering the last of Vahe’s veils. The enchantment broke away, revealing the truth behind it.

  They were mirror images of each other, Oeric and the king, though one was dirty in travel-worn clothes and the other clad in red velvet. Their faces reflected each other’s foulness.

  “You’re an ugly one, aren’t you, Gargron?” Vahe spat as he picked himself back up. “I can’t say I like the feel of your features on my face. It’s no wonder your lady rejected you in the end, is it?”

  Oeric did not flinch as he strode forward and lunged with his knife. Vahe blocked and immediately slid his own blade down to strike Oeric’s arm. He smiled when the blade pierced the stony hide, drawing a long ribbon of blood.

  “My lovely wife, she came to me freely. Of her own choice, she returned to my power and gave herself to me, though she hated me the while.” He backed away from Oeric, observing how the knight switched the blade from his right to his left hand. “But you . . . you were not so lucky as I, were you? You watched your lady turn her back on you. She could not bear the sight of your face any longer, could she, Gargron?”

  They circled each other like posturing cats watching for a weak moment in the other.

  “You say you do not play my games,” Vahe spoke, his voice smoother than silk. “But you took my own weapon from me. Life-in-Death can drive a hard bargain, and you could not resist her voice any more than I could. We are so much alike, you and I. Images of each other. Except for one thing.”

  He lunged once more, and this time his blade plunged into Oeric’s right shoulder, and he stood face-to-face with his twin, warm blood seeping down over his hand.

  “Except for one thing,” he hissed again. “I am the King of Arpiar. And you are the Outcast.”

  Oeric grimaced, his wide eyes shot with pain. His arm came up to grab Vahe’s hand, preventing him from pulling back his blade.