He would never fight the Dragon.
The cat seemed to be awaiting a reply. “I . . . I am happy for her,” Lionheart said.
The cat’s tail lashed back and forth. “Your happiness concerns me not a whit. Una is happy, and that is all I care for at present. You, however, have yet to earn my regard, and I am only here now because I was sent. The Lights Above only know why!”
“Sent? By whom?” He hated to ask but needed to know. “By Una?”
“Iubdan’s beard, no. By my Master, the Prince of Farthestshore. Though you may be assured, it was not an assignment for which I asked. I would have preferred that he allowed me to search for lost Prince Felix.”
Lionheart frowned. “Something has happened to Felix?” He thought of Una and the dreadful change worked upon her by the Dragon. Had a similar fate befallen her younger brother? For a moment, sorrow filled Lionheart’s heart. But it was swiftly replaced by something more sinister—a dreadful hope.
So the Prince had rescued lovely Una but left the brother to suffer? So much for his nobility! Even the Prince of Farthestshore had his limits. Generosity and goodness only ever reach so far.
The cat growled. Then, as though he had read Lionheart’s mind, he said, “Think no evil of my Master, jester. Your thoughts discredit no one but yourself.”
“Since when do cats acknowledge masters?” Lionheart snapped.
The cat’s ears went back and his tail lashed again several times. But when he spoke again, he said only: “He has sent me to you, Lionheart of Southlands, though for what purpose I cannot fathom. I would be much better employed searching after young Felix. But I fear he has been taken beyond my reach.”
“What happened to Felix?”
“Why should you care?”
Lionheart had no ready response. He couldn’t even say that he did care beyond pure curiosity. But something in the cat’s manner prompted him to urge an answer. “I saw what became of . . . of his sister.”
“Such was not Felix’s fate, if that’s what bothers you,” said the cat. His whiskers drooped and his eyeless face became sad. “No, something far more mysterious has taken Felix. He has heard the unicorn.” Like a performer, the cat gave a dramatic pause.
“Um,” said Lionheart.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, have you?”
“No, sorry.”
“Mortals,” growled the cat. Then he plunged into his story, told with far more embellishments than Lionheart needed. But there were few born who could stop this cat once he began a tale. And Lionheart, leaning against Bloodbiter’s Wrath, found himself moved despite every effort to maintain disinterest as the cat’s narrative unfolded. He had not known Felix well during his time at Oriana, but he remembered the bright-eyed, fair-haired boy with the teasing laugh and good humor. The idea of something so dreadful and so strange happening to him was hard to take in.
“That moment at the bridge was the last I saw of Felix,” said the cat as he reached the conclusion of his tale.
“So you say this creature—this unicorn—stole him?”
The cat sniffed. “That’s not what I said at all. I said the unicorn called him. Whether or not it stole him is a different story altogether.”
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would it want anything to do with Felix?”
The cat gave an impatient twitch of his ears. “Who can say? But the unicorn did not want the boy for its own purposes; that is certain. It and its brethren desire little to do with mortals. It must have been sent, and I have a fair idea by whom.”
“Yes?”
But the cat was disinclined to communicate further. He started grooming his paw. When he had finished the first, he moved to the second, and when he finished that, he began chewing a back paw as well, spreading the toes so that sharp claws extended.
Lionheart gave up. “What do you want with me, then? Do you suspect I am involved in the boy’s capture?”
“Did I say capture?” said the cat, still chewing.
“Disappearance, then.”
“I really couldn’t say that I had any ideas concerning you whatsoever,” said the cat, finally finishing his primping and sitting upright again. “I am only here because my Master sent me. Rather than pursuing any traces of the unicorn or Felix, I am compelled to your little kingdom, all the way up to your little house on your little hill to help you with your little problems.” His ears went back. “So tell me, mortal, what are your little problems?”
“I don’t have any problems.”
The cat snorted. “Funny, that.”
“None that need your help, anyway,” Lionheart insisted. He looked at Bloodbiter’s Wrath, which he twirled idly in his hands. He knew why he had desired more than anything to escape to Hill House. It was as remote a location as could be found in all Southlands, as far as one could get from the Eldest’s Court without leaving the kingdom. It was also the location of his dearest memories—of games on the hillside with his best friend, building stick ships and sailing them on a muddy pond, of stories and imaginary battles, of foes that could always be overcome.
Memories of true companionship.
But even those memories were soiled. He knew this, now that he stood once more with the beanpole in his hands. More dirty in his mind even than memories of Oriana and Princess Una were all those thoughts of childhood camaraderie with Rose Red. Rose Red, who had trusted him. Rose Red, who had risked her life for his sake on more than one occasion. Rose Red, who had given up everything to serve him.
Rose Red, whom he had banished to an unknown fate.
“Why don’t you go after her?”
Lionheart glared at the cat, who smiled back. “Can you read my mind?”
“No.” The cat sniffed and seemed to smile. “I can smell it. Which is made the easier for the stink your thoughts give off. All this self-pity and moping! I did what I had to do. Lick my whiskers, you did. Be a man, and face your actions for what they were!”
“You don’t understand,” Lionheart said, turning his back on the cat. “No one does.”
“While I am a firm believer in the uniqueness of each person,” said the cat, “the motivations of the spirit are as predictable as the seasons.” He paced around to stand once more before Lionheart.
“Why don’t you go?” he said to the cat. “You don’t wish to be here, and I’ve told you I need nothing from you. Go search for Felix as you wish and leave me in peace. If your Master complains, tell him I sent you away myself. He can’t argue with that.”
The cat’s voice was a low growl. “That is out of the question.”
“Why?”
“The ways of my Master are mysterious, to say the least. He would not leave my young charge to the unpredictable whims of Faerie. I suspect that my search for Felix is somehow wrapped up with your own search. That by helping you I will, in fact, be helping the boy.”
“You’re wasting your time. I have no search.”
“What of Rose Red?”
Lionheart frowned. “How do you know her name?”
“I have my ways. So what about her, mortal?”
Taking care to consider his words, Lionheart began, “I cannot . . .”
“Cannot what? Cannot attempt to repair the damage you’ve done? And why is that? Because you cannot bear to admit your mistakes in the first place?” The cat shook his head and once more laid his ears back. “Coward.”
For a beautiful moment, Lionheart envisioned bringing the beanpole down with a crack on the cat’s skull. But there was something dangerous about this cat; a wildness in his every movement, blind though he was. Lionheart suspected that there was more power contained in that small orange body than he could begin to guess.
With a shudder, he stepped around the cat and began striding across the grounds. The cat trilled and kept pace at his heels. He followed Lionheart all the way to the gate that opened onto the road leading up the mountain. The forests were thick beyond Hill House’s groun
ds. Thick and full of secrets.
“You should find her, Leo,” Daylily had said.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he whispered.
“This forest is as good a place as any,” said the cat.
Lionheart lifted the gate latch and stepped through to the road. The cat slipped out of the yard behind him. Tail high, he trotted ahead of him up the way, then turned around to say, “Follow me, mortal. I’ll show you the Path.”
“What path?” Lionheart asked. “Where do we go?”
The cat replied, “To the Wilderlands.”
The creature dashed up the road, then turned suddenly and plunged into the dense growth of the forest, his orange tail flicking out of sight. Adjusting his grip on Bloodbiter’s Wrath, Lionheart hastened after him.
He would find Rose Red. He would find her and apologize. Somehow, he would make amends for his betrayal. And if it was already too late, he would find her remains and bury them and raise a marker in her honor. After that . . .
But he could not think so far ahead.
The forest swallowed him up.
2
Behold the Palace Var. It is built of mirrors and reflections. It smells of roses. It is swathed in veils.
King Vahe of Arpiar conceived and constructed this edifice in ages long past. It is a wonder of which heaven might boast. Architects of the Near World could but dream of its design, the sacred geometry of its proportions, and upon waking they built marvels of stone and wood—Barareaksmey Temple in the Far East, the Eldest’s House in Southlands, Amaury of Beauclair, and fair Oriana by the sea. But these were pale imitations of Var, and their architects must either forget their dreams or despair.
For centuries, Vahe walked the corridors of Var, breathing the perfume of roses, drinking in the varieties that he himself, by his own power and no other’s, fabricated. It was a work of great pride. It was a wonder beyond compare.
For centuries, it had been his prison.
Graceful statues of his forebears filled Vahe’s assembly hall. These statues raised their white arms to support the vaulted roof, but their faces were downturned. Stone eyes watched the king seated upon a throne of roses. Just as Var was without peer in the worlds, so was its master. Vahe of Arpiar was more beautiful than all the angels ever worked in paint or marble relief. His face was of such perfect proportion that those of lesser beauty found it difficult to look upon him, and his skin was gold-kissed and smooth. Eyes of purest silver pierced the faces of his subjects, reading their deepest thoughts. All knew there could never be a more dreadful beauty than that of the King of Arpiar.
At his right hand sat the queen, who, though not so gorgeous as her husband, was a worthy consort for any Faerie king. Her face was still, her eyes downcast, and bloodred roses crowned her black hair.
On a low stool before the king and his queen sat their daughter. She wore a veil of fine black lace, but through that lace, one could just discern features so delicate that many wondered if she might rival her father’s beauty. All her subjects adored her, though none had seen her face or heard her speak. She was their princess. That was all they need know.
The king waited with the queen and the princess, and all his court waited with him, though for what they did not know. A warm sun gleamed through tall windows, and roses unfurled their sumptuous petals both outside and within. Then the doors of Var opened, and the roses closed up, hiding their faces.
For the unicorn appeared.
At the sight of it, even the statues trembled on their pedestals and tried to draw back. Only their limbs would not move. They wished to close their eyes, but their stone lids would not drop. So they watched as the unicorn stepped through the door, passing through space and time without touching either. And all the courtiers of Var fell to their knees and covered their faces, unable to move for fear of drawing the unicorn’s eye. Slowly, they slinked into shadows, escaping the hall like silent specters.
The unicorn paid them no heed. It drove before it a mortal boy whose face was empty. Fear had so overwhelmed his senses that his mind had fled him completely. The unicorn prodded him from behind with its cruel horn until the Boy at last stood before the two thrones and the low stool.
If King Vahe himself shivered in the presence of the unicorn, he did not show it. His voice was steady when he spoke.
“Have you done what I asked?”
It had.
“And this mortal standing with his mouth agape, this is a fit instrument for the work I require?”
It was.
The king nodded. “Step forward, Boy.”
The unicorn’s gift, his jaw slack, did as he was told. Hollow eyed, he gazed up at the beautiful king, the lovely queen, and thought nothing.
Vahe stood. His robes were made of rose petals cleverly woven together, and they smelled of heaven. He plucked a bloom of delicate pink from his rose-woven throne and approached the Boy. The scent from that single rose was enough to overwhelm the senses, both pleasant and a little sickening in its potency. Vahe fingered the flower as he studied the Boy’s face. The king was very tall, and his eyes were like diamonds in his stern face. The Boy trembled.
Then suddenly, King Vahe’s face melted into a tender expression of pity. “Dragon poison!” he cried, putting out a hand and gently taking the Boy’s chin, turning it this way and that as he studied his face. “It’s worked through your veins. You poor lad! No wonder the unicorn brought you to me.”
The Boy wondered if he should be concerned. He wasn’t entirely certain how to be.
“Tell me,” said Vahe, “did no one attempt to heal you of this terrible hurt?”
The Boy’s mouth moved several times before words came. “I don’t . . . know.”
“Have you no friends? No family to whom you could turn for help?”
“I don’t know.”
The king closed his eyes a moment, and when he opened them again, the Boy saw glistening tears. “Friendless. And so young! Boy, you have my sympathies.” Vahe released the boy’s chin. “Have no fear,” he said, taking a step back. “You are come to Arpiar now. To a realm that opens its arms to the outcasts of this world. The rejected. The wounded. You may make your home here, and the power of my roses will prevent the poison in your blood from conquering you. What do you say to that?”
The Boy tried to think, but nothing happened. He glanced at the unicorn, fairly certain he remembered something frightening standing over there. But the unicorn had hidden itself from his sight, though it stood so near that the Boy could feel the heat of its body. He decided that what he could not see could not hurt him, so he twisted his gaping mouth into something like a smile.
“I’d like to stay,” he said.
“If you would,” the king said, smiling, “you must accept me as your king and be ever loyal to me. Will you agree?”
“Um. Yes?”
Vahe’s smile was something rather terrible. It was a smile that inspired devotion, and the Boy felt weak before it. “Here,” said the king, holding out the pink rose. “To seal our agreement. Take it.”
The Boy reached for the rose. When his fingers closed around the stem, he gasped as a thorn sank deep into the fleshy part of his hand. He dropped the flower, but Vahe caught it. Three pink petals fluttered to the floor, vanishing before touching.
The Boy started to put his hand to his mouth, but the king said, “Stop! Let me see.”
Obediently, the Boy held out his hand, and Vahe turned it to better inspect the wound. “The thorn is still imbedded. Here. Allow me to pluck it out.”
The king’s fingers were swift. The Boy scarcely had time to yelp before the thorn was extracted. A great drop of blood swelled and spilled from his hand, landing in Vahe’s outstretched palm.
The king’s fingers closed over it.
Vahe offered the rose once more, and the Boy accepted it more carefully this time. As he sniffed it disinterestedly, the king turned to his queen, who had sat watching the proceedings.
“You see, Anahid,”
Vahe said, raising his closed fist. “My Lady will see my dreams through, no matter what you try.”
The queen said nothing. She lifted her silent gaze to meet that of her husband, and met his smile with a smile of her own. Anyone who looked at her could see in a glance that she would slit Vahe’s throat if given the chance.
Vahe offered her his arm, and the queen took it, rising from her throne and moving with him across the assembly hall. The king motioned for the unicorn to follow, and it, on feet so delicate that they would not turn a blade of grass, fell into step behind them.
At the door of the hall, Vahe paused and looked back to where his daughter continued to sit on her stool. “Watch over the Boy, will you, sweet child? See to it that he doesn’t become lost.”
Then they were gone, king, queen, and beast. The Boy stood gazing up at the stone faces of the statues looking down on him. They were lovely, almost as lovely as the king who had so kindly offered him refuge. He found his heart swelling with love for them, love for King Vahe, love for this wonderful, strange place. The taste of that love was as sweet as the rose he held.
He turned to the princess.
“Hullo,” said the Boy.
She nodded without looking up.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me Varvare,” said she.
The Boy tried the name out, thought it odd, and shrugged. Then he asked, “What is my name?”
“I don’t know,” said Princess Varvare.
3
Lionheart had learned of the Wilderlands in two ways. The first when he was a small child, scarcely old enough to speak but old enough to hear and to comprehend more than his caretakers ever guessed. His nursemaid, a quiet little woman who, in retrospect, he thought must have been quite young, would hold him gently in her lap and speak in a low voice. Some of her talk was nonsense—nursery stories and rhymes that children grow up knowing without recalling where they first heard them. Like the limerick:
There once was a cat with no eyes