“Rosie, child! Remember the Name!”
She shielded her face with her hands and saw a tall woman clad in brown and white, carrying the beautiful Asha Lantern. She walked through the flames as though they were not there and stood just beneath the Dragon’s nose.
He looked down upon her, and the expression on his face was pure hatred. “You!” he bellowed, flames building up in his mouth.
But the woman spared no glance for him. Her eyes pierced Rose Red’s. “The Name, child! Call upon the Name!”
With a voice that was hardly her own, Rose Red cried out:
“ESHKHAN! ESHKHAN, come to me!”
Protection surrounded her. It had always been there, but she had been unable to perceive it in the fire. Like silver water, like music rushing over her in a shield greater than stone, stronger than iron, the wood thrush sang:
Walk before me, child.
The Dragon shrieked. His wings beat the smoke and flames of the burning hall until they billowed to the sky.
But the birdsong surrounded her:
You are not abandoned.
“What have you done?” the Dragon roared. “What have you done?”
There was terror in his voice, more horrible than his fire. Rose Red crouched down with her arms over her head, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. He shrieked again, and the sound brought down the last standing pillars of the hall. Then he looked right at her, opened wide his mouth, and bellowed a great plume of fire.
But someone stood between her and the flame.
Her Prince. The Friend she’d once thought imaginary, now powerful and beautiful, unarmed before the Dragon’s fury. Neither human nor Faerie, he was something altogether unique. Something wonderful and dreadful and worshipful. Rose Red covered her eyes, but her ears still heard.
“It is not my time!” The Dragon raged in the face of the Prince. “Your Beloved will be mine!”
The voice that spoke was as the silver voice of the thrush.
“Not this child,” said the Prince. “You will not have her.”
“I won the game! I won, and I must have my due!”
Flames spewed, roaring over the throne, the pedestal, the Prince, and Rose Red, in consuming death. But the Prince did not move. He stood over her and took the blast. The fire could not touch him, and his face was calm in the inferno.
“Away from this place now, Dragon,” he said. “Release your hold and fly. What you seek is not here; you will never claim this child.”
The Dragon bellowed volcanic ash. There was a crack as though worlds split one from another, and Rose Red felt her gut lurch, as if plunging in a terrible dream. She screamed.
Her Prince held her.
Her Imaginary Friend whom she had always known, who was more real than all else in this life. She had known him from the time she slept in her cradle and the wood thrush sang over her.
Exhausted, she rested in his arms, and he rocked her like a baby, the way the man she called father once had done. And the Prince sang softly the song she knew so well:
“Beyond the Final Water falling,
The Songs of Spheres recalling.
When all around you is the vastness of night,
Won’t you return to me?”
She listened and felt the healing of his words upon her burned face and hands. When at last the song ended, Rose Red opened her eyes.
The Village of Dragons was gone. So was the Eldest’s Hall. Rose Red rested in a place beyond them all, and while her eyes were unable to perceive a definite picture of this place, her other senses told her that it was beautiful beyond knowledge. She breathed a sigh and rested her head against the Prince’s shoulder.
“Brave one,” he said, “that battle is over.”
“The . . . the Dragon?”
“He has released his hold on the Eldest’s House and fled Southlands for the northern countries. He’ll not return.”
“How do you know?”
“You are not the one he seeks.”
She studied his face. “Not your Beloved?” she whispered.
He smiled at her then. Her veil was still gone, she realized, and for a moment she shuddered and wanted to hide. But he smoothed a hand over her cheek and met her gaze. “You are beloved,” he said. “You are my child.”
She closed her eyes and felt two tears escaping. The relief of belonging, of being so loved, was too great in that moment to be borne. Then at last she managed to ask, “What of the one the Dragon seeks? The princess he mistook me for?”
The Prince shook his head, and sadness filled his face. “That one, I fear, has yet to suffer his work.”
“But you will save her too?”
He nodded. “I will not leave her to his work.”
Rose Red smiled, weary but peaceful. “All is well now, ain’t it?”
The Prince gently stroked her cheek again. She then knew that she was wearing her real face, the face with which she was born. The knowledge saddened her but relieved her as well.
“All is well for the present,” the Prince said. “But your story is not yet over. My child, you have much suffering ahead of you.”
She gulped and licked her dry lips. Her heart hurt at his words. “You’ll not protect me anymore?”
“I will always protect you,” he replied. “But that does not mean you will not know pain.” His eyes were tender and sad. “Will you let me kiss you?”
Without hesitation she nodded. He pressed his lips to her forehead, just as her father used to long ago. Only this was much softer and much stronger; the kiss itself was not only a gesture of affection but also a protection. Though she was tired and her limbs were weak as water, Rose Red felt a surge of courage at that kiss.
“I must return you now to the valley,” he said. “No matter what happens, child, do not forget what I have said. I will always protect you. Just as I have always done.”
She nodded. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes.
When Rose Red opened them again, the Prince was gone, and she lay amid the rubble of what had once been the Eldest’s Great Hall.
11
THE NEAR WORLD
FIVE WEEKS.
In the grand scheme of things, five weeks were nothing when compared to five years. But as far as Lionheart was concerned, they were the five longest weeks of his life.
Each day he spent at Oriana scrubbing its many floors, he resented. Even the nights spent entertaining the royal family, he grew to dread. For though they meant the pleasure of seeing Princess Una applauding his antics—and often a stolen conversation or two with the girl—they meant as well the sight of that dragon-eaten ring glittering on her hand.
The ring he needed.
But Lionheart couldn’t bear the idea of taking it from her. She liked him, he could tell. And he knew that he must be very much in love with her. Had he not fallen in love the moment he heard her laugh?
“And that’s not something to be shrugged off,” he muttered one day as he took a stroll down the garden path. He had finished his labors for the day and requested permission to practice his act for that night. He performed for King Fidel and his children at least three times a week and must have something new with which to entertain them each time. This required a certain amount of quiet and time to rehearse. Within the palace there were too many distractions, so he often took himself to the lower tiers of the garden, where it was unlikely he would bump into anyone.
On this day, his walk took him all the way to the bottom of the path, where the gardens ended suddenly at the edge of Goldstone Wood. Lionheart paused here, gazing into the long shadows cast by the trees. An enchanted wood, according to all the legends. Even Southlands had many a tale about Goldstone in the olden days.
With a glance to the right, to the left, and back up the path, Lionheart took the plunge into the Wood. It reminded him keenly of his boyhood days at Hill House. How long ago those seemed to him now! Bloodbiter’s Wrath and the Lake of Endless Blackness, and all the various games he’d played
with Rose Red. Monster hunters were they, brave and bold.
He shivered. Those monsters were never supposed to be real.
“I’ve got to get that ring,” he muttered as his feet pursued a winding trail down into the forest. The trail was poorly marked, but Lionheart followed it as easily as he had once pursued the deer trails with Rose Red. “I’ve got to.”
He came to a bridge. Just a few old wooden planks spanning a small mountain stream. Momentarily he considered crossing over. But something stopped him. He couldn’t say what, exactly. Some sixth sense told him that it would be better to remain on this side, closer to the palace. After all, if he went too far, he might get lost.
He’d come all this way to practice, but for the moment he felt no desire to juggle or jig. Instead, he sat down with his back against an oak, watching the Wood beyond. The trees shifted in a summer wind, sending patterns of light and shadow skittering across the forest floor. The sight gave him a pang of longing for Hill House. For Southlands, for his family, and even, he realized, for Rose Red.
He buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed suddenly with the pain of homesickness. Perhaps he should have gone with the Prince of Farthestshore after all. Perhaps he should go even now, forget this wild goose chase.
Your dream!
“I hate dreams,” he growled.
Crackling footsteps drew his attention. He looked up and saw that someone was coming down the trail from the palace. Someone muttering to herself and so completely focused on her own thoughts that she paid no attention to her surroundings. It was Princess Una.
His heart leapt, not unpleasantly. Then he saw the ring gleaming on her hand, and his heart lurched again.
Take it! said the Lady.
“Dragons eat you,” he muttered.
The princess continued on her way, quite unaware of his presence, though she drew very near to him. He debated whether or not to call out to her, but then she was upon him, still hurrying, and kicked him.
“Ouch,” he said. “That was my foot.”
Princess Una screamed and clapped her hands to her face. Then she took a deep breath and cried, “Oh, Leonard! It’s you!”
Lionheart rubbed his foot, which smarted from her kick, and offered her a small smile.
“Did I step on you?” she asked. Her pale face went bright red with embarrassment.
“No,” Lionheart said. Then, remembering himself and his lowly position, he scrambled to his feet, dusting himself off and bowing deeply. “You kicked me. Hard. Like unto broke the bone!” The princess looked so distressed at this, however, that he had to take pity on her. “No, m’lady, you scarcely touched me.” It was a bold-faced lie, but she looked relieved. “You appeared so set on your path, I feared if I didn’t speak up, you might walk right on into the stream and drown without noticing.”
“Without noticing you or without noticing drowning?”
“Both, probably.” He grinned. “Do you come here often?”
The princess nodded but did not return his smile. Instead she folded her arms. “What are you doing here?”
Her words were sharp. Like a princess would speak to her lowest servant, should she deign to speak to him at all. Of course, that’s what he was. Her lowliest floor-scrubber, of no consequence, who should not even look at, much less speak to, the Princess of Parumvir.
Lionheart replied with some bitterness. “You mean, of course, ‘Don’t you have a certain amount of mopping or sweeping, or some such menial task you could be attending to as we speak?’ ”
The princess’s face crumpled a little. She looked truly hurt, and Lionheart winced at his own insensitivity. “I didn’t—” she began, but he hastened on.
“But in fact, m’lady, this humble riffraff has already completed his quotient of demeaning labor for the morning and was given the afternoon off to practice his foolishness. And he needs the practice badly enough, for he is beginning to fear that he shall have to give up this brilliant career.”
“What? Why?”
“Why? She asks me why?” Lionheart reached down, scooped up a handful of acorns, and started juggling. He disliked seeing that sad expression on her face. He would make her laugh again if it killed him. “Three times,” he said, “three times I witnessed the princess yawn last night as I sang. Not once, not twice, but thrice! And yet m’lady asks me why.”
“Don’t be silly,” Una said.
“Can’t be helped. It’s my job.”
“But I didn’t yawn when you sang, Leonard!”
“Then why did you cover your mouth with your handkerchief? I saw it with my own eyes!”
“I was trying to keep from laughing too hard!” Princess Una said. “I was. So you see, you must continue your brilliant career, jester. Where would my amusement come from if you abandoned it?”
Lionheart smiled at the way her eyes were circling, trying to follow the flying acorns. “Do I indeed amuse you, m’lady?”
“You amuse me vastly,” she said. “Silly, how could I not be amused? Why, you’ve gone and tied bells to your elbows and knees. Just when I thought you couldn’t look more ridiculous!”
“I am droll, though, am I not?” With that he tossed the acorns up in the air. They seemed to fly wildly, but with a few quick steps, Lionheart made certain that each one hit him smartly on the head, making a different pained face every time one struck.
Princess Una burst into that delightful laugh of hers. How bright and sweet she was, so free of all the heavy cares under which Lionheart labored. He loved her for her innocence and loved her for her laughter. Part of him wanted to throw off all pretense and tell her everything then and there . . . to reveal himself, his name, his quest.
Instead, he shook a fist at her. “You snicker at me, but I know that you are secretly jealous. ‘Ah!’ the lady sighs, ‘if only I could wear bells upon my elbows, then my life should be complete!’ ”
“Heaven forbid,” said the princess. “Oriana has room for only one Fool, I believe.”
Lionheart’s smile faded. “Especially so great a fool as I.” He shook his head, as though he could somehow shake the gloom that held him. “And what brings you down here, Princess Una?” he asked.
She sighed. “Suitors.”
He laughed. “You make it sound like the descending hordes. How many this time?”
“The Duke of Shippening.”
A cold weight sank in his gut.
“Ah,” he managed, his voice still light. But all the brightness of the world fled in that one instant. The duke? That cruel slave master dared haul his offensive carcass all the way up from Shippening to pay court to Una? True, he was rich. True, he was powerful. But . . .
Lionheart thought he would be sick. He remembered too vividly the last time he had seen the duke, more than four years ago. That old barbarian stuffing his face in front of his guests without a thought for common courtesy. And calling on his guards to beat the poor, enslaved Faerie. Lionheart’s fists clenched. He would see himself hanged before he saw Princess Una in that dragon-kissed creature’s hands.
But he said with the frivolity of a jester, “Comparable to a half dozen at least.”
He turned from Una to hide the fury that gathered in his face and strode down to the plank bridge. He did not step onto it but climbed down the bank to the rocks alongside the stream instead, collecting pebbles.
Princess Una walked out onto the bridge and took a seat halfway across, dangling her dainty feet over the edge. Lionheart, always a gentleman, made a point not to look at her slim ankles peeking out beneath her skirt. “Have you ever,” the princess asked, far more melancholy than he remembered hearing her before, “dreamed of one thing for so long, wanted nothing more than to have that dream fulfilled, only to find out that maybe it wasn’t what you actually wanted all along?”
Lionheart found a few pebbles he liked and started juggling them. “I believe that’s called growing up.”
“But then,” the princess continued, “you find yourself lost without yo
ur dream. Like half your heart is gone right along with it.”
She twisted the opal ring on her finger. It caught Lionheart’s eyes, though he tried not to look at it.
Your dream, said the Lady. Take the ring!
Lionheart tossed his juggling stones into the stream, perhaps with more vehemence than necessary. Then he spoke loudly, drowning out the Lady’s voice. “Dreams are tricky business, m’lady. It’s best to hold on to what you know, not what you want. Know your duty, know your path, and do everything you can to achieve what you have set out to do. Don’t let dreams get in your way. Dreams will never accomplish the work of firm resolve.”
Fine words, my sweet prince, said the Lady. Now take what you need!
Princess Una’s eyes were very wide as she gazed at him, wisps of loose hair falling about her face. She was so delicate, so young. He could overpower her in a moment. “What have you resolved, Leonard, that you won’t stop for dreams?”
He turned to stare out at the water flowing on down Goldstone Hill.
You could have it and be off in a moment. She cannot stop you.
“I am resolved,” he said hoarsely, “to return home as soon as I may.”
“Home? You mean Southlands?”
Kneeling to pick up another stone to check its weight, he nodded.
“Is it far away?” asked the princess.
“Very far, m’lady.”
A long journey indeed, my sweet, and pointless without what you need. You asked, and I told you how you may deliver Southlands from the Dragon’s hold. What good will that knowledge do you if you don’t act upon it?
“Is it true, Leonard?” the princess asked softly. “Is it true what they say about . . . about your homeland?”
Lionheart swallowed. He tossed the new stone into the middle of the stream, still afraid to look at her, to look at that ring. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know what they say.”
“Did you escape before the rest of Southlands was imprisoned?”
Lionheart closed his eyes and took a deep breath before casting her a quick sidelong glance. “Does it really matter how or when I escaped, if escaped we must call it? I am here; my people are there. My friends. My family. So I will return.”