Moonblood

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  And now Lionheart stood, with the moonlight pouring through the topmost branches overhead, gazing in open-mouthed wonder at what he knew must be the library of those nursery tales. It could hardly have surprised him more to discover that the moon truly was made of cheese or that rats really did have an ear for pipe music. His sword hand dropped until the point dragged on the floor as he moved deeper into that moonlit chamber.

  The floors were decorated with intricate mosaics swirling in patterns around the tall trees, which were also marble pillars. Lionheart could not see the colors, but he was able to pick out the designs and realized they told stories as detailed as any that could be contained within those thousands of volumes. Most of them he did not recognize. But not five paces into the room he discovered a story he knew quite well: Starflower and the Wolf Lord. He would recognize the face of his homeland’s heroine anywhere for, though every artist portrayed her differently, somehow they always caught that same expression on her face, that mixture of fear and trust.

  Odd, though. He stopped and looked more closely at the picture. In every depiction of the legend he had ever seen, whether painting or pottery or the enormous Starflower Fountain, the maid was accompanied by a songbird on her shoulder. Here, however, the bird was not present. In its place was a hound, a golden beast with a long, slender face and ancient eyes. It stood by the maid’s side, as though to protect her from the monstrous wolf pursuing at her heels.

  Despite this difference, the story was unmistakably Starflower’s. Lionheart’s stomach twisted in a mixture of joy and sorrow. A wave of homesickness swept over him. He continued following the story on the floor farther into the library, curious what else he might find.

  Other tales, equally fantastic, that made up the rich embroidery of Southlands’ history led him deeper and deeper. He saw the story of the Dragonwitch falling to Bald Mountain, and a depiction of King Shadow Hand, who bargained with a Faerie queen. But all the stories were portrayed with slight variations on the legends he knew so well. These so intrigued him that it was some time before he realized he had not yet looked at the books. This thought brought his head up, and he found himself standing before a great cherrywood desk nearly buried beneath a partially written manuscript, a single burning candle, and a large white quill feather.

  Lionheart approached the desk. The enormity of the library shrank into that little glowing world created by the candle as Lionheart’s eyes, adjusting to its light, lost the night vision they had gained while walking in the shadows. He propped Bloodbiter’s Wrath against the side of the desk and bent to peer at the manuscript lying in the candlelight.

  It was written in characters he had never seen before. He frowned, disappointed, and started to step back. But then, the strangest sight of all the strange sights he had seen that night played out under his nose. As he watched, the characters on the page suddenly leapt up and rearranged themselves, not into words he could read, but into images streaming directly into his mind. He saw, rather than read, the story.

  What he saw froze his heart.

  “It is universally thought impolite to read someone else’s private documents.”

  Lionheart whirled away from the strange writing and found himself face-to-face with a woman whom he had never met. Except . . .

  Except that he knew her face.

  The Lady of the Haven stood among the trees of her library and gave the impression of being as straight and tall as any of them. In reality, however, she was quite short. She held another candle in one hand, a long white taper, and rather than casting her face into deep crevices of light and shadow, it caused a soft glow on her skin and around her eyes. At one and the same time, she was very young and very old.

  “Your attendants told me you were awake and wandering about my home,” she said.

  “Silent Lady!” Lionheart gasped.

  She gave him a funny look, tilting her head a little to one side. “Why do you call me that?”

  He could find nothing to say. On impulse, he shoved his hand deep into his trouser pocket and withdrew a leather cord from which dangled two beads, one painted with a panther, the other with a white starflower. He removed the starflower bead and handed it to her. “This belongs to you.”

  She accepted it in her palm and held it up to her taper light, turning it delicately. Her face was solemn, her expression unreadable.

  Lionheart gulped. “We . . . I . . . Eanrin and I met someone in the Wood. A phantom. He said to tell Starflower that he would yet slay a beast.”

  “Is that so?” Her face was quiet. She whispered, more to herself than to Lionheart, “Is that, I wonder, what he did not wish to tell me?” Then she shook her head, blinking, and turned her gaze to Lionheart once more. “There are many from Southlands,” she said, “who bear the name Starflower.”

  He nodded. “It was my mother’s name.”

  “Then why do you think this bead belongs to me?”

  “It does, though, doesn’t it?” He couldn’t say how he knew. There wasn’t even a songbird on her shoulder to give her away. But her face, while the features were unlike any he had ever seen portrayed, was unmistakable. “You are the Panther Master’s daughter, aren’t you? Maid Starflower, the Silent Lady?”

  She smiled a little then. “I am called Imraldera,” she said, “and I am not silent.”

  But she did not return the bead to Lionheart. It vanished into a pocket of her long green robe.

  “You know the saying about eavesdroppers and spies, don’t you?” said Imraldera. She indicated the manuscript on the cherrywood desk. “What have you learned about yourself that you wish you could unlearn?”

  Lionheart bowed his head. “I already know how that story goes,” he said. “I don’t need to read any more.”

  “Have I recorded your part in the tale unjustly?”

  “You did but state the facts, my lady.”

  A soft rustle of fabric, and she stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder. “Call me Imraldera. And I shall call you Lionheart. We two must be friends.”

  He shook his head and sidestepped away from her and the desk, away from the glow of the two candles. “I know that you despise me.”

  “How can you know anything I think or feel?”

  Lionheart waved a hand indistinctly. “I read what you have written. What you have recorded for all history to know. Someday my name will be part of nursery tales too, won’t it? Just like this library. Just like you.” His words were bitter, and he shuddered as he spoke.

  Imraldera placed her taper in a candleholder beside the other candle. Then she picked up several pages of her work, skimming them briefly. “Yet you said yourself that I recorded only the facts, Lionheart.” She glanced at him over the pages, and though he stood beyond the candlelight, he felt her gaze piercing through the shadows to meet his. “Did I pass any judgment?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  She set aside the manuscript and continued to gaze at him. Though he saw no condemnation in her face, it was an unbearable gaze.

  “No one here despises you,” she said. Then she paused a moment. “Well, Eanrin does. But that’s just Eanrin for you. I do not. Oeric does not. Neither does our Master.”

  Lionheart turned away, cursing between his teeth. “I despise myself.”

  “The story is not so bad as all that,” Imraldera continued softly. “The princess’s heart was restored and is even now in safekeeping. The Dragon has been slain.”

  “But not by me.”

  “You could not slay the Dragon, Lionheart.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not anymore. It’s too late for that.” Once more he cursed and stepped back even farther from the lights. “I meant it all for the best! I only wanted—” But he could not force the words across his tongue. Oeric’s voice whispered in his memory, “Don’t try to explain what you have done.” He saw how hollow were his excuses, how pale and sickening when looked at with a cold eye.

  “I will find Rose Red,” he whispered. “I can do no mo
re. I cannot change the past. But I will find her, this I swear upon the Silent—” He stopped. In Southlands, the most solemn oaths were sworn on Maid Starflower, but somehow this seemed wrong while standing in Imraldera’s presence. Licking his lips, he said, “I swear upon my hand.”

  Imraldera approached him, leaving the circle of candlelight. Her voice was very gentle when she spoke. “Don’t think that you can earn absolution.”

  Her words were like a knife in his gut. For just a moment, Lionheart thought he would sink into despair right there, vanishing into the shadows of that massive library, becoming no more than memory among those tomes of history and legend. But then her hand touched him on the cheek. “Don’t think that you can earn absolution, Lionheart,” she said. “But forgiveness may yet be found.”

  He gazed into eyes that shone with the fullness of centuries, and felt her tender hand. The stranglehold of guilt loosened its grip for a moment, allowing the tiniest sliver of hope to slip into place.

  “My, my. Isn’t this touching?”

  Lionheart backed away from Imraldera’s hand with all the haste of a boy caught sampling from the honey jar, though he knew blind Eanrin could not have seen the lady’s gracious gesture. The Chief Bard stood leaning against a bookshelf, his face full of smiles, but his voice the last word in scorn. “Has she converted you and changed all your wicked ways yet, jester? Our good Dame Imraldera has a talent for such things.”

  Imraldera gave him a cool gaze. “Scat, cat. We’re busy here.”

  “So I gathered. But I’m afraid the conclusion to this soul-searching moment will have to be postponed. I’m off to Rudiobus with Oeric to seek a word or two from Queen Bebo. I require the mortal.”

  “Rudiobus?” Lionheart gasped. “Iubdan’s beard!”

  “Yes, you should get a good look at that while we’re there,” said the cat-man. “The Flowing Gold too, for that matter, though probably not flowing. And above all, your eyes shall be graced with the blessed sight of that one pure light that shines brighter than all Hymlumé’s children, that dream of all dreams, that choicest jewel of all crowns, that bright and spotless—”

  “Eanrin,” Imraldera snapped, “do have done!”

  “—girl I fancy.” The poet’s smile broadened. “Will you be joining us, Imraldera, old thing? I’ve written up a new song just for the occasion, and you might want to record it, don’t you think?”

  Imraldera raised an eyebrow. “The theme of this song?”

  “What else? That most glorious of creatures, that paragon of all virtues, that unblemished beacon shining in the—”

  “Gleamdren.” Imraldera growled and returned to her desk, shuffling papers pointedly. “I’ve recorded enough poetry dedicated to her to repaper the Giant King’s feasting hall. Twice!”

  “Then you’ll not come?”

  “No.”

  “You might enjoy it.”

  “No.”

  “What if I said please?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. I shall give you a personal recitation when I return, then, shall I?”

  With that, Eanrin, still smiling, turned his sightless face to Lionheart. “Come, jester. We are off at once. If you’re well enough to snoop into private chambers in the middle of the night, you’re well enough for a journey. Don’t worry. Oeric will be with us to make certain I don’t accidentally lose you in the Wood between here and there.”

  Strange how after all the centuries everything felt as familiar as though he’d walked this way but yesterday.

  The yellow-eyed dragon had thought never to follow this Path again, had hoped he would never need to. Every step caused him pain in his spirit, pain that he did not like to face. He was grateful, the nearer he came to the Haven, that he no longer had a heart, for it might break and bleed inside him.

  Fire lashed from his mouth as he grimaced. What could he say to them? Would they even hear him? How could he keep himself from tearing the flesh from their bones and burning what remained out of pure terror or anger? How he hated them, and every step that took him nearer fanned the flame of his hatred.

  But Anahid he could not hate. Though everything in him urged him to burn her to ashes for the hurt she had caused him, the yellow-eyed dragon could not hate her.

  So he pursued the Path to the Haven, unaware that the unicorn shadowed his footsteps.

  4

  Sit still and take your fingers out of your ears!” Lionheart’s nursemaid had said long ago, when he was still young enough to enjoy her stories but just old enough to start pretending he didn’t. “I’m going to tell you a story of Iubdan.”

  “Is there a dragon in the story?” asked young Lionheart.

  “A dragon? Lumé’s light, no! You’re much too little a boy to hear stories like that!”

  “Foxbrush’s nursemaid tells him stories about dragons.”

  “Well, I’m not one to pass judgment on young Master Foxbrush’s nursemaid”—spoken in a tone that was a judgment in itself—“but in this nursery, we shall hear only good and wholesome tales with a moral.”

  Lionheart made a face that indicated just what he thought of such a plan. His nursemaid continued. “Now, look at that picture there.” She indicated the nursery wall. The stones and plaster were painted in garish colors depicting a fantastic scene. In the center, on golden thrones, sat a burly king with a black beard and cherry-red cheeks beside an angular queen with long, long, long yellow hair. Before them danced a dozen merry folk, yellow-haired like the queen. Others danced as well: a rabbit and a fox, a squirrel and a ferret, clasping hands and smiling as cheerfully as all the yellow-headed little people, with whom they were equal in size.

  It was a silly picture, young Lionheart thought. The fox would eat the rabbit as soon as look at it, and he couldn’t remember seeing any dancing squirrels before. What kind of a baby did these mural artists take him for?

  To one side stood a singer dressed all in scarlet, with a jaunty cap on his head and a huge smile on his face. Lionheart considered him a right smug-looking person. The artist had painted him gazing with enormous golden eyes at a woman in green, who danced with a badger. Lionheart was no great judge of beauty at that age, but he assumed that the dancing woman was beautiful because of her inordinately large and red lips. She was turned away from the singer; and something about the set of her head implied, even in the childish painting, that she wasn’t merely neglecting to see him, but was pointedly Not Looking at him.

  The mural was a new addition to the nursery, one of his mother’s many “improving projects.” Lionheart did not hold it in high favor, but his nursemaid thought it enchanting. “Do you know who those people are?” she asked her young charge.

  He squirmed, wrapping his arms and legs into a knot where he sat. “No.”

  “Sit up straight. That is King Iubdan and his court.”

  “I know Iubdan,” said Lionheart.

  “Do you, now?”

  “Yes. Master Leanbear says, ‘Iubdan’s beard!’ every time he’s angry.”

  His nursemaid’s mouth compressed. “Well,” she said through tight lips, “he’s a very naughty man for doing so. It’s disrespectful, swearing by ancient kings, even if they’re only make-believe. If I catch you using a phrase like that, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “Did King Iubdan fight a dragon?”

  “I told you, no dragons today.” His nursemaid leaned back in her rocking chair, relaxing into her story. “Iubdan lives in Rudiobus Mountain,” she said, “and it is the loveliest mountain you ever saw, grown over with aspens, and with a snowy peak, not at all like our Bald Mountain. The Merry Folk have carved out the prettiest caverns and hung them with pine and holly, which is why they call Iubdan’s assembly room the Hall of Red and Green.”

  Lionheart crossed and uncrossed his feet, huffing loudly.

  “You’d think they might get cramped in there,” his nursemaid went on without taking notice, “all the folk of the kingdom living inside one mountain. But the people o
f Rudiobus are so small, you see, that the mountain seems as big as the biggest country to them! And it is the dearest sight to watch the tiny folk dancing while the Chief Poet sings and Iubdan and Bebo look on and laugh! See how cheerful Iubdan and his lady are?”

  They were altogether too cheerful, Lionheart thought, huffing again.

  “There is only one gateway into Rudiobus,” said the nursemaid. She was gazing at the mural now with half-closed eyes, recalling the stories she had been told as a little girl. “The Fionnghuala Lynn. And the only way to pass through that gate is on the back of Iubdan’s mare. Such a pretty little steed she is! Her mane is scarlet, and her legs are emerald green, and her tail trails behind her in a long crimson plume. But her flanks gleam as gold as your father’s crown, and her bridle is covered in gems. She is so small, my prince, that she could stand in the palm of my hand!”

  Did anyone actually think multicolored ponies interesting?

  “I’m going to fight a dragon someday,” Lionheart said, rocking back and forth.

  His nursemaid ignored him. “Once Iubdan’s mare carries you through the gate, you pass down the long corridors of Rudiobus to the Hall of Red and Green where Iubdan and Bebo sit.”

  Inspiration struck—an idea for a new face, one Lionheart had never tried before. He slowly crossed his eyes and started to protrude his upper lip.

  “Queen Bebo is crowned by her flowing golden hair, more bright and beautiful than any crown Faerie craftsman could make for her. And you’ll see the little people dancing, dancing . . .”

  Lionheart used his fingers to pull down his eyelids, his thumbs to stick out his ears.

  “ . . . and the Chief Bard, Eanrin, plays and sings songs he’s written for love of the beautiful Lady Gleamdren. Ah! ’Tis such a merry sight— Iubdan’s beard! What are you doing, child?”