Vahe waited for her in the Boy’s body. Though to the rest of Arpiar he covered the Boy’s face with his own, Varvare still saw the soft, boyish features as yet unhardened into a man’s, the hazel eyes, the messy shock of honey-colored hair. But the expression was all Vahe’s. His real body must be hidden deep within the ever-shifting labyrinth of Palace Var’s corridors.
He licked his lips at the sight of her. “You are indeed most fair, my daughter. Hymlumé herself was never so radiant.”
But it’s all a lie, Varvare thought, bowing her head. Secretly, I’m as foul as you.
And she wondered how Lionheart had seen her in the assembly hall. Had he seen the illusion? Or as the horror on his face suggested, had he seen her for what she truly was?
Those thoughts were too painful, so she shook them away as her father escorted her to a curtained litter on the shoulders of two powerful goblins. To her eyes, even the curtains were gray rags. The goblins knelt, and she climbed inside. When they stood, it rocked, and she clutched at the curtain poles to steady herself. She felt like one in a poisoned sleep, carried through a nightmare against her will, unable to wake.
The unicorn stood just beyond the doors of Palace Var. It looked at her as the goblin slaves carried her litter out behind Vahe. It alone of everything around her was beautiful, white and delicate. She allowed her eyes to linger on its face, pure as a star, its long horn gleaming with its own light. It was so beautiful that it could not be anything but good, she thought. Yet it was King Vahe’s slave.
It spoke to her again in that voice no one but the person to whom it spoke could hear. Will you kill me, maiden?
The princess shook her head and broke its gaze, staring down at her hands instead.
“Lead us onward, beast!” Vahe cried from the Boy’s mouth. “To the Dragon Village, and quickly. We have only until moonrise.”
The unicorn bowed and turned to take the head of the procession. A roar rose up all around, and Varvare, peering out between the wafting rags, saw that all the courtiers of Var were gathered to follow, leering, monstrous creatures, as monstrous as she. She did not see the queen, her mother. But she assumed she stood among the throng somewhere, lost amid all those awful faces. The goblins sang as they went, a terrible sound to which they marched, and they waved sparse twigs and thistles and more moth-eaten rags with all the enthusiasm of people bearing silken banners.
Varvare could not watch them but buried her face in her hands as the goblin slaves lurched forward behind Vahe and the unicorn. The bindings the king had placed upon her were so heavy, she thought she would break.
The wood thrush sang:
Trust me, child.
But she stopped up her ears against him. She’d obeyed, hadn’t she? She’d called Lionheart into Arpiar, and lo and behold, he’d come! He’d come and been locked away, useless and pathetic, waving that twisted sword of his. Just the sort of heroics she could expect, especially from him. Dragons eat him! Dragons eat him and choke on his bones!
A tear slid down her craggy cheek, and Varvare hardly cared in that moment that she journeyed across the bleak lands of Arpiar to her death.
Oeric watched them pass over the Old Bridge.
First came the unicorn, terrible to see, all over fire and destruction.
After it came Vahe, but wearing the body of a boy whose face Oeric recognized. He’d seen this boy at Oriana Palace when he traveled there with his Prince a year ago. What a sad end for the lad to meet, his body taken from him and worn like a set of clothes by the King of Arpiar. Oeric shuddered at the sight.
Following the king came a litter carried by two goblin men, and Oeric saw the Princess Varvare for the first time. Ugly and huddled into herself, she did not raise her gaze from her lap as she was carried into the Wood Between. His heart went out to her, but he dared not move from where he hid.
For behind the litter came all the vast host of Arpiar, tramping single file over the plank bridge. Some he recognized from long ago; most he did not. But they were his people, hideous in aspect, pitiable in spirit. He shared their faces, he shared their sorrows. And he would deliver them from their slavery.
So when at last they had passed over the bridge and on up the hill, on to the ruins of Carrun Corgar, Oeric remained where he lay. He trembled a little, for fear of the unicorn was still upon him. Then he got up and approached the Old Bridge, clutching his long knife in his hand.
There was still no Crossing.
But there would be. The Prince had promised, and today was the day of fulfillment. He knew it despite all the tired longing of his soul. After five hundred years, today he would see the end.
He stood before the bridge and remembered the centuries of his search, from the first night when he bade farewell to his love and turned away from her, on through those interminable moments stretching one after the other. Many had laughed and called him irrational. They had warned him that his errand was a fool’s. But the Prince had promised, and here Oeric stood, weapon in hand.
And suddenly he saw, across the bridge, standing in a place outside of worlds, the face of his Master.
“Come now, my brother,” the Prince said.
In the same moment, Oeric heard young Lionheart’s voice calling across time and space:
“Oeric! Oeric, come quick! Dragon’s teeth, I need you now!”
The ugly knight crossed the bridge and returned at last to the land of his birth.
No one walks safely in Goldstone Wood without a Path, so Vahe led his folk in the wake of the unicorn, out of Arpiar, through the Between, and on to the ruined tower. There they passed, one by one, through the gateway and onto Death’s Path. Many trembled and would have turned back, but they dared not disobey their lord. So they marched through the darkness, and if some glimpsed a silver lantern gleaming on a lone grave, they turned their faces away from it.
As if with one voice, they sang their awful marching song.
“The king says he,
‘I’ll catch the Fool
And wear his teeth like gleaming jewels.’
O jolly way have we!
“The king says he,
‘When falls the night
I’ll claim the fire as my right.’
O jolly way have we!”
Death’s Path wears different aspects for those who walk it. But no matter what they saw around them, all kept time and followed in the unicorn’s footsteps.
Princess Varvare sat with her eyes squeezed shut, desperately wishing she could stop her ears. She had walked this Path once before, when she’d ventured this way in search of Lady Daylily, but to follow it again in this company was altogether unbearable. She heard the Dark Water lapping somewhere in the blackness, but the way the unicorn led did not draw near it.
And suddenly, she smelled the dragon poison. Only then did Varvare open her eyes and gaze in horror at what she knew she would see: the Village of Dragons.
There lay the Dragon’s children. When last she’d seen them, they had been gorgeous in brilliant clothes and jewels, dancing beneath chandeliers set with black candles. Now they lay in heaps on the cavern floor, fast asleep, their faces filled with pain.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” said Vahe, and she looked to find him standing beside her, marveling through the Boy’s hazel eyes. “Have you ever seen such an awesome sight?”
She did not answer.
Vahe spoke to the unicorn next. “Onward, slave. You know the way.”
The one-horned beast trotted down the steep way that led to the cavern floor, and Vahe and his host followed. They threaded through the sleepers, and down among them the stench was greater. The people of Arpiar had stopped singing, and Varvare could feel their fear. They were, Varvare thought, even more frightened than she was. After all, they had never before experienced the darkness of the Village.
Then she saw the throne and forgot everything else as panic swept over her.
It was a thing of ultimate evil and ugliness, and she had loathed the sight of it w
hen she had seen it before. But this time, when her gaze fell upon its bloodstained proportions, she knew she looked upon her own death.
She screamed and leapt from the litter, landing sprawling on the dirt. She was up in a flash and running before any of the litter bearers could catch her. But there was nowhere to run. Everywhere her father’s people surrounded her, reaching out with their awful hands to bar her way. She whirled about and darted in fear, only to find herself at last falling on her knees before Vahe, who smiled grimly down at her.
“It’s too late for that, sweet child,” he said. “Hymlumé will rise soon.”
Goblins grabbed her arms and dragged her toward the throne. She could feel in their hands that they wanted to go no nearer to it than they must. But their fear of Vahe was great, and their fear of the unicorn greater still. They approached the dais steps, and Varvare’s heart pounded in her throat.
A huge bellow filled the room.
It was wordless as far as she could understand, but it bounced and echoed and enlarged as it went, filling the cavern, deafening her ears. The next instant, from every possible crevice, and even from beneath the sleeping dragons themselves, warriors leapt forth. Her mind was hazy, but she saw the flash of golden hair, the gleam of fierce eyes, and heard the ring of several hundred swords in the air.
From behind the dais a black-bearded king emerged, and his sword pierced the rock hide of the goblin that held her right arm. That goblin fell with a crash, but the other dragged her back. The king gave a shout and sprang forward, flanked by a golden-haired warrior on one side, an enormous badger on the other. The second goblin fell, and for a moment Varvare lay free.
But Vahe stood over her. He spoke a harsh command in a language she did not know, and the next instant the unicorn sprang between them and the black-bearded king. She heard horrified shouts, and when she dared look over her shoulder, she saw that the king and his companions fled the unicorn’s pursuit.
Battle raged all around her. Yellow-haired soldiers, all in green and red, locked weapons with the goblins of Arpiar. The goblins towered over the golden ones, but that did not seem to bother Iubdan’s host. They shouted and raged and refused to back down even when their weapons bounced dented off the rock skins of their enemies.
But when the unicorn turned its eyes upon them, they fled.
Vahe swore and grabbed Varvare, dragging her to her feet. “I should have known,” he snarled. “My dear-hearted brother will be behind this, I have no doubt. Come! I have a promise to claim.”
He hauled her across the floor and up the dais steps to the seat of the throne itself. There he paused and gazed up to the cavern ceiling, spitting the most vile curses. “Where is she? Shine, dragons devour you!”
Varvare struggled against his hold, but his fingers dug into her head with unnatural strength.
Suddenly, a cat sprang onto the dais. Every hair of his body bristled, and his teeth showed in a snarl. He had no eyes.
“Vahe!” the cat cried. “Let her go!”
The King of Arpiar turned to the cat and laughed out loud. It was a terrible sound. “Well met, Chief Poet.” His voice was smooth as velvet. He released Varvare, and she fell back against the throne. It burned her, and she screamed, pulling away. Vahe strode toward the cat, taking two daggers from his belt as he did so. “Have you come to claim these? I’ve kept them for you so long now. Do you smell the blood on their blades? I’ve never washed them clean, not when they served me so well all those years ago!”
The cat arched his back and spat. The creature seemed bigger than a house cat, something more ferocious and terrible. Vahe threw a dagger, and the cat leapt aside. The second dagger flew, and it took a tuft of hair, but the cat remained unhurt. Vahe bared his teeth.
“Come on, then!” he cried, opening his arms wide. “Attack me! Shred to pieces this face of mine! Or wait. Is it my face after all?”
A flicker of light passed over him, and Vahe dropped the veils that covered him.
The blind cat froze. His nose twitched, and his ears pricked forward. “Felix?” he said quietly. “Felix, are you here?”
Vahe laughed. “He’s here, little beast. Or at least his body is. A convenient husk for me to wear since his mind broke.”
The cat backed away, still uncertain about what he could not see. His nose was overwhelmed by two scents coming at once from the same person. He made a pitiable mewling in his throat. “What have you done to the lad?”
“Made use of what was left of him,” the King of Arpiar said. “Since you and your fellow knights did not see fit to give him a complete healing, he was as good as dead. Might as well salvage the remains.”
“No!” The cat hissed and jumped forward, and for a moment Varvare thought he would send his claws straight into the Boy’s wide eyes. But he changed direction at the last instant and landed instead at Vahe’s feet, still growling.
The unicorn sprang onto the dais. Its horn was like white fire in Varvare’s eyes, and it trained its gaze on the cat. The cat howled, a human sound in his throat, and fled into the fray below, and the unicorn gathered itself in preparation to leap after in pursuit.
“Wait!” Vahe barked. He hauled Varvare up and forced her into the throne. Her hands gripped the arms, which were carved into the likeness of skeletal dragons’ heads. Those carved heads turned suddenly and looked at her with empty eye sockets. She screamed as they writhed and twisted around her wrists, securing her in place. They burned right through her rocky hide.
Vahe stood before her, gazing upward. The battle waged on around him, but the unicorn paced back and forth along the dais, and no one dared approach. Screams and death filled the cavern, and still the King of Arpiar stood gazing up at the black ceiling.
A light gleamed. Panting in terror, Varvare looked up as well and saw a break in the cavern above, a round skylight open to the night. It had been impossible to see before, but now the silver glow of moonlight touched its edge. “She rises,” Vahe breathed. Then he raised his arms and shouted above the din of battle. “Look, Hymlumé! You are my witness!”
The unicorn approached Varvare then. The moon shone through the skylight and lit upon its white body, blinding the princess with the beauty of the creature before her. It bowed its horn and gazed at her with its deep black eyes.
Forgive me, maiden.
Somewhere in the depths of the cavern, the Bane of Corrilond stirred.
4
Lionheart was blind all the way up the dark dungeon stairs, and when he at last gained the top, he was blinded all over again by the light shining through the bars of the dungeon door. It took some moments for his eyes to recover, and only then did he dare step into the passage beyond.
The smell of roses threatened to overpower him.
They were dreamy sweet, a sweetness that calms and soothes. Lionheart found himself wanting to sit with his back against the wall and doze off right there. Let the world go on around him; let it crash and burn even! Who cared while the roses were in bloom? Nothing could really be wrong.
He ground his teeth and pinched his nose to keep from breathing the smell. “Oeric,” he muttered, “dragons eat you, get in here!” On impulse, he stooped, pulled off his boot, removed one of his dirty stockings and, grimacing, held it to his nose.
The scent of roses vanished, and Lionheart saw Palace Var as it truly was. It was a sight that well matched the smell of his sock.
He continued down the corridor, feeling a terrible fool, holding his flimsy, broken sword out before him. Just the sort of scene Leonard the Lightning Tongue would have written for one of his limericks, he thought. “Find Rose Red,” he told himself over and over as he went. But where could he even begin to search? He knew Vahe had taken her from the palace; they must have set out for the Village of Dragons by now. But where, by Lumé’s blazing crown, was that?
He turned a corner and found himself facing the passage from which he had come. Frowning, he turned around and retraced his steps only to find himself once more in th
e same place. Var was not one to let its prisoners escape easily.
“Oeric!” he bellowed one last time. His voice echoed through the empty stone halls and seemed to laugh as it vanished. The palace itself mocked him.
Then suddenly, he felt the walls tremble.
Palace Var sensed a presence it had not felt in many centuries; a presence that saw through its disguises without a thought; a presence that walked its corridors with the commanding stride of a master. Like a misbehaving child caught by its parent, Var quivered, tensed, then relaxed all around Lionheart, as though taking a deep, shuddering breath.
The next moment, Sir Oeric appeared at the end of the hall.
“You’re here!” Lionheart cried and hurried to him, still holding his smelly sock up to his nose. The knight gave him a look, but Lionheart ignored it. “You made it!”
“You called me.”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d actually come! How did you cross that plain so fast?”
“The Prince’s Paths will carry you far when need arises, young Lionheart,” the knight said. “And besides, Arpiar recognizes one of its own.” He raised the long knife in his hand. It seemed a pitiably small weapon in proportion to his bulk. “We must find Vahe.”
“He’s gone,” Lionheart said. “He and all his court. I heard them leaving, and I know they took Rose Red with them.”
“Yes,” said Oeric, “I saw the company pass. But we must find Vahe anyway.”
“No, I told you, he led the others. We must follow them quickly before the moon rises!”
Oeric shook his head, and his eyes were no longer on Lionheart but looking up and down the hall, studying the formation of the stones, the lay of the bricks. “Vahe is near,” he said. “It is here, in the house of our birth, that I must face him.”
Lionheart shrugged him off, exasperated and desperate. “Fine. You go ahead and wander around awhile, but I’m going after them! Except . . .” He bit off a curse. “How do I catch them? Can you show me a Path?”