Moonblood

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  His white eyes bored into Lionheart’s, and Lionheart found he could not break his gaze no matter how he might wish to. “I did not trust my Prince, so I used Vahe’s power for my own ends. I was wrong. I was so wrong, and oh! What evil did I cause!

  “You see, Lionheart, I am no better than my brother. I am he and he is I except . . . except for one thing. I, though I am filthy at heart, vile and undeserving, was offered my Prince’s forgiveness. Broken before him, I became the recipient of his grace.”

  Here at last, the knight turned away, resting his fist against the wall and drawing a deep breath. “Therefore, I and I alone must put an end to Vahe’s evil. It is the way of Faerie, strange though it may seem to you. If I cannot save Arpiar, no one can. If I do not cut through the veils, they shall remain in place. For it is I who share Vahe’s blood. Did not Queen Bebo say as much long centuries ago? Thus I have served my Prince these five hundred years, thus I have hunted for a way into my brother’s realm. And in that time, I have not seen my beloved’s face, for I vowed to her that I should not see her again until my people were free.”

  He turned suddenly on Lionheart and for a moment was even bigger and far more terrifying; Lionheart had never before seen that expression on the knight’s face, that combination of despair and anger. “And now you, who may have caused my beloved’s death . . . who may have stolen my last chance to speak to her what my heart has kept silent these many centuries . . . who without a thought, without a care, sent her to the one-horned beast, into Vahe’s hands . . . You will go where I cannot? You will face my enemy and not I? No! It cannot—”

  The enormous eyes closed. As quickly as it had come, the flash of fury was replaced with remorse. Lionheart, frozen in fear, watched the ugly knight pass a hand over his face and draw a great breath.

  “No,” he whispered. “No, I will not walk that path again. I will wait. Forgive me, Lionheart. I am wrong to forget so quickly.”

  Once more they stood in silence. Even the singing from the feasting hall was stilled. Lionheart, not entirely certain what had just happened, could think of nothing to say in the face of Oeric’s distress. As the silence continued, his own thoughts came creeping back.

  “Your life for hers.”

  The winter air was cold around him, but not so cold as the icy hand that gripped his heart. Had he not been given that choice before?

  “Your life for her heart,” the Dragon had said. “An easy enough exchange.”

  Now, by some fate or fortune Lionheart did not understand, he was brought around to this moment again, as though the Dragon still lived and breathed his poison into the world. Once more he must look Death in the eyes and . . . what?

  He must prove himself a man; that’s what. He must make things right. The memory of Hymlumé’s face, her voice in that ageless song, returned to him with pain. He must do what was right and see this quest through. He must regain his honor and rescue Rose Red at whatever cost.

  And yet.

  And yet when the time came, how could he hope to fulfill all the vows he made to himself now? He’d failed once already. He was still the same man. Could his own resolve possibly make a difference where it had not before? His love for Una had not sufficed. Could the guilt he felt for betraying his best friend serve where love could not?

  “Dragons eat it all,” Lionheart swore under his breath, and the murmur of the falls covered his voice. “Dragons eat it all and be sick upon the lot!”

  Why not let Oeric have his day? Let him find the Crossing into Arpiar! It was his dragon-eaten quest, after all. Let Oeric take the glory, save the princess, do what he as a Knight of Farthestshore was much better suited to do. Lionheart did not belong in this world of ancient kings and still more ancient prophecies. He was a mortal man, a ruined prince, a failure and a . . . and a coward.

  His stomach churned along with his churning thoughts, and Lionheart leaned his head back against the wall, which was damp with spray from the waterfall. Droplets fell on his face, like stinging kisses they were so cold. Even the waterfall was freezing now.

  A voice spoke behind him.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Lionheart startled and whirled about to find Eanrin standing very close. Oeric also turned and growled, “Lumé’s crown, Eanrin, must you creep about so? Why aren’t you in the hall singing to your—”

  “Shhh!” The poet made a sharp motion with his hand. “Listen!”

  Lionheart strained his ears. He heard nothing but the breathing of his companions and the swiftly freezing waterfall.

  But Eanrin swore, “Great hopping giants, it is her!” and leapt forward, breaking through the long icicles formed by the falls. They shattered in crystalline clatter, and Lionheart watched the poet run across the glassy top of the lake.

  Then he heard a voice calling, “Rudiobus! Hallo, Rudiobus!”

  It wasn’t very clear, but he could hear the distress.

  Oeric straightened from his slouch against the wall. “That sounds like Imraldera,” he said in his deep rumble. Then he too was hastening across the frozen lake, though with much less grace than the blind poet. Hardly stopping to think, Lionheart set off after him, slipping and sliding all the way. It was a strange sensation to him, running across solid water, for it was never cold enough in Southlands to freeze. The moon overhead reflected glaringly from snow and ice, and the forest beyond was all black. He could see no one, but he heard the voice again, this time calling, “Eanrin! Oeric!”

  Lionheart was several paces behind Sir Oeric and many yards behind the poet when at last he neared the far shore. Ahead he saw Dame Imraldera collapsed on the edge of the frozen lake. Her green robes were stained dark down the front.

  Eanrin leapt to the shore and skidded to his knees beside her, reaching out to feel for her in his blindness. She lay exhausted in the snow but conscious, and she put out a hand to him. He clutched it tight and drew her closer to him. “Imraldera!” Lionheart heard him exclaim. “Is that blood I smell on you?”

  “Yes,” she said. Her voice trembled. She must be freezing, Lionheart thought. Even as he thought it, he saw Eanrin remove his bright red cloak and wrap it around her shoulders. “Yes, but not mine,” she continued.

  “Oh, well,” said Eanrin, drawing back a little as Oeric and Lionheart both gained the shore. “You gave me quite a start then for nothing, my girl. What’s with these dramatics?”

  Imraldera’s voice caught in a sob. “Diarmid,” she said. “Diarmid came to the Haven.”

  “Diarmid?” Oeric knelt in the snow beside her as well. Lionheart felt awkward and kept his distance. But he heard every word Imraldera said as she related what had happened: Vahe’s plan, Princess Varvare’s fate, and the death of the yellow-eyed dragon. The two knights listened in solemn silence until she spoke of the one-horned beast. Then Oeric drew in a hissing breath and Eanrin smiled around a curse of, “Dragon’s teeth! You don’t say?”

  “He’s dead, Eanrin,” Imraldera said, shivering so hard that her voice was unsteady. “Diarmid died there. A dragon.”

  “It’s not your fault,” the poet said, patting her hand. “You couldn’t stop the beast.”

  “But your nephew—”

  “Hush, now!” To Lionheart’s surprise, Eanrin took Imraldera’s head between his hands and pressed his forehead against hers. Lionheart would not have guessed the poet capable of so tender a gesture. The lady closed her eyes and let out a shuddering sigh. “Hush, my dear,” whispered the poet. “We both mourned his loss long ago.”

  A clatter of hooves, and Lionheart turned from that strange sight to see King Iubdan himself approaching on the back of his golden mare. Behind him marched a company of guards. As they drew nearer to the shore, he saw that these were not tiny but stood as tall as any man.

  “I felt a trembling on the edge of my kingdom. What is the news, my poet?” Iubdan demanded.

  Eanrin leapt to his feet and swept a bow after his usual flashy manner, all tenderness forgotten. “Good king,” he cried. �
��My fellow knight has just brought us word of Vahe and the doings within Arpiar!”

  He continued to smile and speak in a bright and golden voice even as he relayed the dark story Imraldera had carried to them. Perhaps his voice halted a moment when he spoke of the yellow-eyed dragon’s death. Perhaps he trembled when he told of the one-horned beast. But for all his hearers could tell, he might have been passing on gossip at a country picnic. Imraldera, still clutching his cloak about her shoulders, rose to her feet with Oeric’s aid and stood silently throughout.

  Lionheart, who kept himself a little to one side, listened with growing horror as he heard the story a second time. So the choice would have to be made, he realized. Vahe intended to kill his daughter. Her doom was sure and coming soon. Then all the worlds would tremble under the fire of Vahe’s newly awakened army. Tomorrow night! Tomorrow, at Moonblood. Unless . . .

  How could there be any decision in the matter? He had failed once before. He could not fail again. What was his life worth otherwise?

  “Well,” said Iubdan when Eanrin had done, “there’s no good in trying to breach Arpiar, we all know that.” He said this with a slight nod toward Oeric, who stood beside Imraldera with his eyes downcast. “We must descend to the Village of Dragons, though not by Death’s Path. There is a way across the Near World, through the Red Desert. We will go to the Village and stop this nonsense of Vahe’s at its catalyst. We know he must take his daughter there if he intends to spill her blood on Death’s throne. What say you, my poet?”

  Eanrin smiled still, as beaming as sunshine. But he said, “What of the one-horned beast?”

  No one spoke. Even the proud guards trembled where they stood, and Iubdan sat with his mouth open, his breath steaming the air. They’re not afraid of dragons, Lionheart thought, nor of goblins. But the very mention of this one-horned beast and they cower like puppies on a stormy night.

  “What else can you suggest, Knights of Farthestshore?” the black-bearded king asked at last.

  Somewhat to his horror, Lionheart heard his own voice speak next.

  “I will go to Arpiar.”

  All eyes turned to him, and that was a terrible thing, feeling the weight of all those ageless gazes. He gulped but continued. “Queen Bebo said that I shall enter Vahe’s realm before the Night of Moonblood. So if someone would just point me in the general direction, I’d be much obliged.”

  “Well, there’s one small problem,” said Eanrin with scorn in his voice. “No one knows where Arpiar is.”

  “Wait,” said Oeric. Given his outburst from earlier, Lionheart fully expected him to jump in on Eanrin’s side. But to his surprise, the ugly knight said, “We do have one idea.”

  “And what might that be, pray?” demanded the poet.

  “I know,” Imraldera said suddenly, the first she’d spoken since Iubdan’s approach. “Eanrin, you told me yourself that you lost Prince Felix to the unicorn when he crossed the Old Bridge on Goldstone Hill. We all know that bridge was once a Crossing from Arpiar built by Vahe long ago. If Felix, as we suspect, ended up in Arpiar, is it not possible that the bridge is a Crossing still?”

  “It is possible that the world is round and spins through space like a giant top,” Eanrin said, still smiling. “Possible, but no less nonsensical. You know as well as I, old girl, no one can enter Arpiar unless called from within. It doesn’t matter what the bridge used to be. If Vahe does not want uninvited guests, he won’t have them. You can cross and recross that bridge all you like and end up in plenty of unpleasant locales of our beautiful Faerie. But you’ll not see Arpiar.”

  “Do you doubt, then, what Queen Bebo has prophesied?” Imraldera snapped.

  “I don’t know what my queen had to say to our dear jester,” the blind knight replied implacably. “I only know what we have all known since Vahe holed himself away. Arpiar cannot be found.”

  Oeric cleared his throat. When a person of Oeric’s proportions clears his throat, those nearby stand up and pay attention. Even Eanrin’s smile faltered.

  “I will take Lionheart to the bridge,” he said. That was all.

  Eanrin turned at the sound of Oeric’s voice, facing his fellow knight. Though he had no eyes, they studied each other, back and forth, and what the poet perceived with senses deeper than sight was anyone’s guess. Then he nodded once.

  “Well,” said King Iubdan, raising his thick brows, “I’m glad we’re decided. The mortal goes on a goose chase with the goblin, and the rest of us will off to the Village.”

  Eanrin turned to Lionheart and said in a low voice, “Very well, boy. You’ll have your second chance. The Prince must see something in you that I in my blindness cannot, if he is sending you in place of Oeric. But remember, second chances come to few, and you cannot hope for a third. Perhaps your mother did not select your name from pure happenstance. If you truly have the heart of a lion, find it soon. Or we’re all lost.”

  As Eanrin spoke, the wind picked up and pulled the snow in soft curtains up and around him, Imraldera, and the people of Rudiobus. Lionheart blinked and struggled to hear the final words, and when the wind died away and the snow settled again, the others were gone. Lionheart stood alone with Oeric on the edge of the frozen lake.

  “Come,” said the ugly knight. He turned and vanished into the Wood, and Lionheart hastened to catch up.

  8

  Everywhere around the Boy was manic bustle, and nobody paid attention to him. He watched beautiful people, men and women, clad in armor of such elegant work that one would sooner expect to see it in a parade than in battle; though an expert eye would soon discover that it was stronger and more carefully wrought than it first appeared. Sometimes the Boy caught hints of conversations, snatches here and there.

  “Tomorrow night,” someone said.

  “But what if he no longer needs us when they are awake?” another whispered, trembling.

  “We are his servants. He will care for us as he has always done.”

  “How can we compare to their fire? We’re next to useless! If he does not shield us, we’ll be unprotected.”

  “So would you rather turn away?”

  “No—”

  “Would you rather lose the face he’s given you and walk unveiled?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “Then shut your mouth and do as you’re told. We’ve been preparing for this night for too many centuries to back out now.”

  This conversation and others like it bubbled throughout Palace Var. And since the Boy had no mind, nobody noticed him, even if he stood directly in front of them while they spoke, his mouth agape and his eyes wide. Eventually they would become irritated and shoo him on his way. He would not have walked five paces before it all slipped from his memory, leaving behind an empty hole of unease. All the beautiful faces around him were afraid, he knew that, but what had they to be afraid of in this sweet-smelling place?

  His wanderings took him to the front hall of Var, where the great doors were open and russet sunlight poured through, staining the marble floors with the glow of sunset. King Vahe stood there, though the Boy did not know who he was. He simply thought him the most beautiful person he had ever before seen, so lordly in his rose-red robes, his brow crowned in golden rose leaves. Beside him stood a queen, also beautiful, but whose beauty tended to fade in the presence of her king. She wore black, and her long hair was braided with bloodred roses, and her face was pale without the faintest blush of life.

  King and queen stood in the sunset’s glow, the queen standing a little in her husband’s shadow, and they waited, oblivious to the Boy or any of their servants around them. They were so still that the Boy began to wonder if they were statues. The queen’s face was certainly cold enough.

  “Ah!” said Vahe, and the Boy startled. “Look, Anahid!” He pointed, and the Boy looked where he indicated even if the queen did not.

  The unicorn approached.

  The Boy screamed at the sight and flung himself facedown on the marble floor, unable to move.
Anahid dared not raise her gaze, and even the King of Arpiar trembled, grimacing. But the unicorn bowed its horn at Vahe’s feet.

  Blood dripped from its end and pooled bright against the white stone.

  “My good slave,” said Vahe, who did not step back, though he might have wished to. After all, he was king and master here. “You have done well. No one disobeys Vahe of Arpiar or flees his protections without consequences. Eh, Anahid? What do you say to this?” He motioned to his silent queen.

  Slowly, as though fighting against the very pull of the tides, Anahid looked at the bloodstained horn. No tears filled her eyes; after all, her young love had given himself over to Death long ago. But though fear nearly stole her voice, she whispered, “Did he give his message before he died?”

  The unicorn turned to her, and what it said was for her ears only. The King of Arpiar barked, “Don’t talk to her! You are my slave! Answer me. Did the dragon speak to anyone before you skewered him?”

  The unicorn turned its horrible eyes upon Vahe, who flinched but did not break its gaze. The king snarled at whatever answer it gave. “Did you kill her, then?”

  The unicorn replied.

  Vahe roared. “Why not? Don’t give me that pure maiden rot! She is my enemy, and you are my slave; therefore she is your enemy as well! Your laws are but antiquated traditions, beast, and they count for nothing here. You’d better get over them before Moonblood, or you’ll have Life-in-Death to answer to!”

  The unicorn closed its eyes and bowed again.

  Vahe cursed viciously and turned to his queen. Anahid was smiling. For a moment, his beautiful face melted away into fangs and flashing eyes, and he struck her across the face. Black claws trailed ribbons of blood across her cheek, and she fell to the floor.