Slowly, Bebo nodded her head. Just once. Then she said, “When the moon has risen, my lord. Then we shall listen and hear what we may.”
Iubdan pursed his lips, shrugged at Lionheart, then addressed his poet. “There you go, Eanrin. Will you stay and dine with us until moonrise?”
“Many thanks, my king,” the cat-man said.
“And will you sing?”
“Indeed, I shall! A song to the choicest fruit among the harvest, a song to the star that gleams most bright in the jewels of the night, a song of the voice as pure as—”
“No,” said Bebo, turning suddenly to Eanrin. Lionheart took a great gasp of air as soon as her gaze left him. He had not realized he was holding his breath. “No,” said the queen, softly. “Tonight, you must sing Ordenel Hymlumé Nive.”
Though the assembly had been quiet, the hush that followed was as thick as the ice forming on the lake outside. For Queen Bebo had spoken in the old tongue from the ages before the Near World was formed, the language she had learned from the sun and the moon themselves, which even the Faerie folk were loath to speak. And just like the characters written on Imraldera’s manuscript in the library, the words, when spoken by Bebo, re-formed themselves in Lionheart’s mind, and he heard instead: “You must sing The Night of Moonblood.”
The candles wavered and dimmed, or perhaps it was simply all those golden faces darkening and shrinking away that made the room seem suddenly so shadow filled. Lionheart shivered, and the words echoed in his mind.
As much to his surprise as anybody’s, it was his voice that broke the silence, whispering, “What is Moonblood?”
5
Imraldera sat at her desk but did not write. Her mind was reviewing images she had not witnessed but which she could imagine with the clarity of one who had. Scenes of Lionheart presented before Iubdan and his lady; of Oeric looming so huge above the little folk of Rudiobus; of Eanrin singing his foolish love ditties to the snub-nosed maiden who wanted nothing to do with him.
But no.
She stood up and moved down the long line of bookshelves, searching for a certain volume. It did no good to wonder about that encounter, to speculate on what Queen Bebo might see when she gazed at Lionheart under the Sphere’s light. Imraldera had remained behind for her own purposes, and she must pursue them.
Her finger, tracing the spines of ancient texts, stopped suddenly as though of its own accord. She plucked the book from its place, knowing without reading the title that it was the one she sought. Evening was falling again outside, so she lit a candle on her desk before opening the leather cover to read what she had found.
The legend on the first page read: The Night of Moonblood.
“The Night of Moonblood.”
Eanrin stood in the center of Iubdan’s Hall, his head bowed, his voice low. Every eye in that assembly fixed on him, and every heart caught at his words.
“The night Death-in-Life ascended to the heavens and spoke his lies to the children of Hymlumé in a voice they thought more fair than their mother’s song.”
As the poet spoke, it was as though his words were a truth Lionheart had long known deep in his heart. His mind was filled not with the revelation of something new, but rather with the recollection of something his spirit had known since birth.
“She watched them fall,” said the Chief Poet, his voice no greater than a whisper, though it filled all of Rudiobus. “She watched them step out of their heavenly dance, the rhythm of the song she and Lumé had sung since the worlds were first created. Her children heard the voice of Death-in-Life and they thought it beautiful. And Hymlumé watched them as, one by one, they fell like meteors from the sky. Those who had never noticed the Sphere Songs singing in the night heard instead their silencing. And while the thunder of that silence yet rang in their ears, they heard the voice of Hymlumé crying out.”
And here Eanrin sang in a voice Lionheart had never heard before, a voice as old as Time or older. As he sang, the icy hand of winter grabbed the passages of Rudiobus, freezing the air, the heart, and all the little folk bowed their heads. At first the words were incomprehensible to Lionheart, though simultaneously familiar. He thought he must have heard them once before, though he could not recall where.
“Els jine aesda-o soran!” Eanrin sang. “Aaade-o Ilmaan.”
Then, just as Bebo’s words had restructured themselves in Lionheart’s mind, he found the lines sung by the bard becoming clear in his mind.
“If I but knew my fault!
“I blessed your name, oh you who sit
Enthroned beyond the Highlands.
I blessed your name and sang in answer
To the song you gave.
“Beside the Final Water flowing,
My brow in silver bound,
I raised my arms, I raised my voice
In answer to your gift.
“The words spilled forth in lyric delight,
In song, more than words.
Joy and fear and hope and trembling
Burst forth from all restraint.
“Who could help but sing?”
The song spoke of joy such as Lionheart had never known; but it was a joy made all the more vivid by the pain of its loss. He shuddered, and he felt himself bracing for what he knew must come, for though he had never before heard it, he had known this story all his life.
Eanrin sang:
“Now I cry to you again,
My arms raised once more.
My hands outspread to shield my face
From that which lies before.
“Is the fault in me?”
Imraldera in the Haven ran her finger beneath the lines of her old book and read them with silent lips moving:
The torrents roar, the waves are scarlet
As blood, reflecting flame.
Oh, ravaging flame, burn and burn!
Light my face in fury!
Only spare my children.
I see them running, running, stumbling
Running, as the heavens
Break and yawn, tear beneath their feet,
Devouring, hungry Death!
A beautiful princess sat hunched in the shadows of her ancestors in a place where the moon could not shine. And though she spoke not a word, her heart cried the song through the blackness of her father’s palace:
Where is my fault?
Did I misunderstand the song, the gift
You gave? Was I wrong?
I thought you spoke across the boundless.
You sang, and I replied.
I thought you spoke to me, but now
I hear voices below;
Terror, screaming from the pit.
I thought you sang to me!
In the dungeons of Var, a knight sat in utter darkness, bound with iron chains to a cold wall. Her head bowed to her chest, all her weight sagging against the biting shackles, she whispered:
“I sang back to you.
“Children running. Oh, children, hear
My voice, the song I learned
From o’er the water. Hear no more
The voices in the pit.
“Can you hear me?”
Eanrin sang, and no one saw the tear that fell from beneath a silken patch, for all eyes were fixed on a vision of the past. Iubdan and his queen clasped each other’s hands as the memory swept over them, and they mouthed the words of the song:
“I blessed your name with my first breath,
The song you gave to me.
I sang to you in praise of beauty,
I sang in praise of truth.
“Children running, beauty crumbling.
Oh, Truth, where are you?
My song is frozen in my heart.
I can no longer sing.”
Varvare, alone among the veils, whispered:
“Will you answer?”
The lone knight in the dungeons spoke suddenly, though nobody heard. But she raised her face and sent her voice ringing through those empty cells:
“Chi
ldren, children, you cannot escape
The screaming pit.
Only death to your great treasure
Will quell its awful greed.”
And Varvare whispered again:
“Will you answer?”
Eanrin raised his fists to his temples, and in his mind he stood once more before the Dark Water, alone and far from his path. Across his memory flashed the last thing he would ever see with his golden eyes. The dart of cruel knives. Then darkness. And pain.
He sang:
“I blessed your name with the gift
You gave. This voice of mine,
This burning heart, my children’s wealth
I used to bless your name.
“Will you answer?”
“Will you answer?” asked Varvare.
“Will you answer?” asked the shackled knight.
Lionheart, cringing against the darkness that overshadowed Iubdan’s Hall, whispered through clenched teeth: “Will you answer?”
Eanrin allowed that last question to hang in the air, the notes unresolved and tense.
Then, deep as the night but rich and full, Oeric’s voice filled the awful silence.
“I blessed your name in beauty.
In fear I still must sing.
I blessed your glorious name in truth,
I bless it now in doubt.”
Suddenly, all the folk of Rudiobus—the king, the queen, Lady Gleamdren, the stern guards, the dancers and revelers—raised their faces and sang with the Chief Poet. The sound rolled over Lionheart like rushing wind and water, stirring him deep inside so that he thought he must break to pieces. He shut his eyes as it swept across him.
“I need no answer. Do not answer.
You are true and you
Are right, and your name is mighty.
Your name is my life.
“By your name, I accept my doom.”
The song ended. Iubdan’s Bard lowered his hands and softly said:
“So Hymlumé was pierced by her children’s cruel horns as they turned away from her and fled willingly to their destruction. She heard Death-in-Life laughing over her as she bled across the sky. But behind his laughter, all the children of the Lower Worlds heard her sing the Sphere Songs even as the lifeblood flowed from her.
“So it was that He Who Gave the Song appeared and cast the Dragon from the sky. All the way to the Lower Worlds he fell, flaming, and was bound to the Gold Stone, there to sleep a thousand years for the evil he had caused.
“The Song Giver turned then to Hymlumé and tended her wounds. He set her once more upon her high seat, there to sing in a voice more beautiful than before. For he promised her that night that her children should not all be lost. Since that time, she has never ceased to sing her hope, her trust. Though the people of the Near World have long since become deaf to her voice, and even those of the Far find it too easy to forget.
“But every five hundred years, the moon remembers that dark night and shines red upon the Lower Worlds. And the fallen children of Hymlumé walk among us still.”
Lionheart opened his eyes just as Eanrin finished speaking and found Queen Bebo standing before him. Oeric and the Rudiobus guards were now a short way off, and he was alone with the queen.
“Come with me,” she said and beckoned him.
He fell into step behind her, and they left the Hall of Red and Green, which was bright once more with candles. She led him to a winding stair, and an icy draft blew howling down, freezing his face. But she began the ascent, and Lionheart followed with all haste behind her, even as the voices of Rudiobus echoed behind him.
“We bless the name of he who sits
Enthroned beyond the Highlands.
We bless his name and sing in answer
To the song he gave.”
Imraldera closed her book, and many thoughts spun in her head. The Night of Moonblood would be upon them soon. Why did she think that it somehow related to that poor, lost Prince of Southlands? That his story was in some way bound up in the loss of Hymlumé’s children?
“I do not understand,” she whispered. Night had fallen outside, and the moon, almost full, gleamed through the windows of her library so bright as to make her candle unnecessary. She pinched the candle out, then left her desk and made three paces to the window to gaze up at the star-filled sky. “I do not understand. Nothing fits together. What about poor Felix? And Oeric’s love, captured, perhaps slain by Vahe? Do they play into this sorry tale?”
She leaned against the window frame, weary from her many thoughts. “I cannot work this out on my own.”
Far off in the depths of Goldstone Wood, a wood thrush sang its silver notes.
Suddenly, a cloud passed over the face of the moon, snuffing out its light like her candle. Imraldera stood in the darkness of the library she knew so well. Yet in that moment, it felt foreign and unsafe. A shiver of warning from some unknown source ran through her, and she whirled around.
Two yellow eyes blazed like sparks behind her.
“Hello, Imraldera,” said the dragon. “I’m back.”
6
They met no one on the stair, and none of the candles set in crevices along the wall were lit. Moonlight poured down the long stairwell, making each step a contrast of highlight and shadow.
Lionheart followed the queen, the coldness of winter biting down. His breath trailed from him in visible tendrils, but the queen was barefoot, he noticed, and her robes were airy and soft. Cold was unable to touch her.
The music from Iubdan’s hall faded into silence, and the moonlight grew ever brighter. After what seemed like hours, Lionheart saw an open doorway ahead, and through this Bebo led him. He gasped as he stepped from the narrow confines of the long stair. He stood at the summit of Rudiobus Mountain. A silvery world lay below him, including the lake, which was now frozen like glass. The air was sharp in his lungs, and his face felt like it would burn away in that cold. The snow covering the slopes of the mountain, and the woodlands beyond, caught the moonlight and reflected it back until all the night blazed in an icy parody of daylight.
Then, even as he watched, the world fell away.
The night sky itself spread below him, an inky-black landscape unbroken but for a few straggling clouds. Stars bloomed as the brightest flowers around him, and the world, wherever it was, was far from sight. Lionheart stood on the top of Rudiobus Mountain in the Gardens of Hymlumé. And Hymlumé herself was so bright and so near, he thought she would blind him.
Lionheart’s stomach jolted, and though he prided himself on his good head for heights, this was much more than any mortal could stand. He backed away, pressing himself against the rock of the doorway, and had to force himself not to flee back down that long stairway.
Bebo stepped to the very edge of the mountain and tilted her face to the moon.
“Can you see her, mortal?” she asked.
Lionheart struggled to find breath. He realized in a distant sort of way that he was no longer cold, though his breath still steamed the air in small clouds. Perhaps he was dead. No, he couldn’t be dead if he still breathed. Maybe he was dying? He moved his lips but no words came, so he shook his head in answer to Bebo’s question even though she was not looking at him.
She beckoned him to join her, still without turning around. He did not want to. Everything in him told him to hide, to run, anything rather than to obey. But his feet moved, and he came to her side until he stood within an inch of that forever fall. There was a river flowing down below, perhaps just a little one, or perhaps the most enormous river imaginable but so far away as to seem no more than a stream. Lionheart trembled.
Bebo turned her childlike face to him. She was, he noticed, eye level with him. Queen Bebo might be small enough to stand in his hand, yet she could also look him in the eyes; and, he realized with a start, she could also loom far above him, towering like a giant with a majesty of age and wisdom he could never hope to match.
He would not meet her gaze.
“
Take my hand,” she said softly. He obeyed. Her fingers were small and delicate, and they could crush every bone in his hand without a thought. “Now can you see Hymlumé’s face?”
He looked again at the enormous moon, wincing away from her brightness. This time, though only for a moment, he saw her, the Lady Hymlumé. Beautiful and awful and vision filling, the sun’s wife sat crowned in silver light.
In that instant, he heard her song.
Lionheart fell to his knees and might have slipped right over the edge of that precipice had not Queen Bebo held so tightly to his hand. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he turned away from the moon and Iubdan’s queen and covered his face in shame.
Suddenly he realized he was speaking. “I’ll make it right!” he was crying. “I’ll find her, I swear it! I’ll find her and I will make it right! I wish I could explain myself; I wish you all could hear me, but I know you can’t, and that’s as well. But I’ll make it right when I find her, and then I’ll find him and tell him that I’ve done so, and I’ll try to make you see that I’m . . . that I’m . . .”
Listening to himself, he flushed and quickly clamped his teeth down. What a fool he was! He wanted to drag his hand from Bebo’s grasp, but she would not let him go. All was silent around them save for Lionheart’s own breathing.
He wiped his face free of any last traces of tears and stood up once more, his face set and determined. “I will find her,” he said, and only then could he turn again to Bebo.
She was looking at him with her old eyes, and he shivered under her gaze.
“You feel guilt, mortal man?” she asked.
Lionheart clenched his teeth, then gave one short nod. “I am guilty. I betrayed her. I betrayed them both, Una and Rose Red. I cannot help Una now. But I will find Rose Red and repair the damage I have done just as I purposed when I left Southlands. I will regain my honor.”
Bebo continued to look. Her golden hair looked white under Hymlumé’s gaze.
“Guilt is not enough,” she said at last.
“I will do whatever it takes,” Lionheart replied.
“Will you die?”
The cold rushed back over him, this time from the inside out. He knew when Queen Bebo asked that her question was not a matter of curiosity. Lionheart stood there on the edge of forever, the river rushing below him. The decision he made now would echo among the gardens of the sky.