Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) (20 page)

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 hair. 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

V
AHE 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!

Lionheart latched on to the one thing he knew for certain. “You must find Rose Red.” If nothing else, here was an absolute. And he would never find her sitting under the trees on the edge of a precipice.

Taking in deep breaths of steamy air, Lionheart pulled himself to his feet and began a search for a way down into the valley. He had a good head for heights; during his five-year exile he had taken long sea voyages and learned to enjoy climbing in the rigging, that dizzying world above the decks. But this unearthly plunge to the river below gave new meaning to heights and depths. Every time he peered down, his head swam with the perspective and he was obliged to back away quickly. Sometimes an unreasonable sensation came over him, a compulsion to cast himself over the side, to cease struggling against so great a fall and succumb to it. But those were the thoughts of a lunatic, and he shook them away as best he could. Once, to steady himself, he reached out and grabbed one of the flowering vines looping down from the trees around him. The vine let out a sudden purring sound, sweet as a kitten, and started to wrap around his wrist in a most endearing manner. But Lionheart, not appreciating the gesture, screamed and dropped his hold. He ignored the sad mewling the vine made as he left it behind, and took care to touch no more of its kind.

He could find no descending pathway into the valley. Everywhere the cliff face was equally sheer. There could be no climbing down; he knew that beyond doubt. But what other option did he have? He paused. The sun moved overhead from midday toward late afternoon. This in itself brought Lionheart surprising comfort, for it was more like his world than was the Wood Between. The sun traced hours in shadows, and evening would follow afternoon just as it did in the Near World.