Veiled Rose (34 page)

“There is something you long for,” said the sylph. “Something you seek. Tell me. Perhaps I may help you.” Its voice, like gusting breezes, sounded impatient. Lionheart hated to keep it waiting. He thought of what he had seen just now across the Chiara Bay. The wall of smoke where his kingdom once lay.

“I need to know how to kill a dragon,” he said.

The sylph’s wafting face looked sad. “I must remain in your debt,” it said. “That knowledge I may not impart to you.”

Suddenly Lionheart found his arms full of brilliantly colored jester’s motley, and a bell-covered hat plopped on his head. “Iubdan’s beard!” he exclaimed. “What—”

“You said you longed for freedom,” said the sylph. Its voice was more distant now, its face less visible. “This wish I cannot grant either. But perhaps these will help. You closely observed my work as Fool; you have a bright eye and a loud spirit. Take these, the symbols of my enslavement, and may they become the symbols of your freedom.”

Gentle fingers brushed Lionheart’s cheeks, like a summer breeze. “Flee the duke. Do not allow him to see you again. He is a powerful man, more powerful than you think. It is not every mortal who can bind one such as I.”

Another breath of wind, this time like a kiss on Lionheart’s forehead. “Go to Lunthea Maly and seek out the Hidden Temple of Ay-Ibunda. The oracle there . . . she will tell you what you wish to know.”

The sylph was gone. Perhaps it had never existed.

Lionheart stood on the quayside of Capaneus, wondering how long he had been there. He looked down at the armload of bright fabrics and touched the hat on his head.

“Freedom,” he whispered. “Why must it be so elusive?”

He started off at a trot down the docks.

T
HE
N
ETHERWORLD

A
WHOLE YEAR HAD PASSED
since Rose Red vanished behind the gate.

Beana paced the circumference of the Eldest’s grounds every day, seeking some way in. The days and nights blended into one another, and for some while she lost track of time entirely; it scarcely mattered in that ever-present gloom of smoke. But she woke from an uneasy sleep one day and realized that a year had gone by. And still, not a sign of her girl. Nor of any weakness in the Dragon’s stronghold.

“Why don’t you come?” she whispered, reaching out to touch the barred gates, straining her eyes to see inside the Eldest’s courtyard. The Dragon’s courtyard. But the smoke was too thick. For all Beana could see, the House might have completely vanished. “Why don’t you come deliver these people?”

She listened for a reply but heard nothing. Beana bowed her head.

“Give her what she needs, my Lord. I beg you. Since I cannot help her, give her what she needs to walk your Path in safety.”

When Beana spoke again, she sent her voice through the bars, deep into the swirling smoke, desperate for it to carry across distances greater than she could guess.

“Remember the Name, Rosie.”

Beana had warned her of the Paths.

Warned
may not be the right word. But when Rose Red was a little girl, she had taken Beana’s words as a warning. The Paths were dangerous unless used with great care. They crisscrossed the entire world, and one could follow them across vast distances in a moment. But sometimes it wasn’t a moment . . . sometimes it was a thousand years. One must choose a Path carefully.

Some Paths were good. One could follow these and be certain to reach the right destination in a right time. Others, however, were malevolent or controlled by those with malicious intent. It was best to avoid a Faerie Path unless one knew for certain who controlled it. With good intentions and a trusting heart, a body could step onto a Path, expecting a clear road through the wood, and end up instead in the depths of a swamp at the mercy of a will-o’-the-wisp, or at the gates of some dark tower to which travelers are lured, imprisoned, and never seen again.

“Most mortal folk can’t see the Paths,”
Beana had explained,
“but they can stumble onto them just the same and end up in a terrible mess, dragged into the Halflight Realm or into the Far World beyond. They’ll lead you through any place and time, sometimes all at once. Most who follow a Faerie Path never return.

“This is why I’m showing you now, my Rosie. Learn to recognize which Paths are safe and which are not, which will lead you straight and true, and which are no better than snares. And my best advice to you: Don’t use
any
of them!”

This Path was a trap if ever there was one. Rose Red recalled Leo’s boyhood voice, speaking from across the years:
“In my book, there is an engraving of the Gateway to Death. It looks like that. Like a wolf’s head.”

But this was the Path down which Daylily had wandered.

Rose Red passed through the door into the tunnel. It was like stepping off a cliff, that crossing into the Netherworld. This was the Dragon’s Path, more dangerous than any she had encountered on the mountain . . . save the one she’d followed to the Monster’s Cave. At the time, that Path had seemed harmless. But the moment Rose Red’s feet crossed the threshold into the descending tunnel, she realized that this was, in fact, the very same Path she’d walked in the mountains. Only now she recognized it for what it was.

The Path to Death’s world.

“Remember the Name, Rosie.”

The voice touched Rose Red with more force than a mere memory just as she stepped through the doorway. She stopped as her hand let go of the supporting door frame and she stood fully in the darkness of that tunnel. She closed her eyes and pictured her goat, her comforter, her friend.

“But you’re alone now,” she whispered to herself, and her eyes flared open again. “Beana’s gone. You’re alone now, and you’ve got to be strong.”

Rose Red walked blindly down that dark incline. She had never before encountered darkness so absolute. Always her eyes behind their veil could find some light and make use of it to guide her steps. There was no light here, however, no help for her. She must walk forward through that sickening stench, feeling out each step with a tentative toe. At first she was afraid to seek the wall of the tunnel for support, but at length she put out her hand. She nearly screamed at what she felt.

The familiar plaster and woodwork of the stairway.

In a flash of faint half-light, she saw that her feet were climbing spiral steps, and the closeness of the foul tunnel was replaced with the closeness of a passageway. This sensation roiled through her mind, and she quickly withdrew her hand. The darkness returned. Once more she stood in the cave. Once more she heard the trickle of water somewhere to her left.

Her mind revolted. Rose Red could either go mad or pretend she did not understand what was happening. She chose the latter and continued on her way, careful not to touch the walls again.

Even so, as she progressed, sometimes she could have sworn she still climbed the servants’ stair. Only it was the longest in the world, like a stairway to the stars; either that or she climbed the same steps again and again, unable to progress. If anything, it was better in the depths of the tunnel. A nightmare seemed more bearable than a reality gone wrong.

The stench eventually either faded or she grew accustomed to it. The trickle of running water disappeared as well, and there was nothing but darkness around and uneven stones underfoot.

Then she saw a light ahead.

No more than a tiny pinprick, perhaps very far, perhaps very near; impossible to tell in that blackness. Like a star it shone in the depths of space, quite unlike dragon fire.

“Don’t go near the light, princess.”

The Dragon’s voice hissed in her ear. For an instant she thought she must have died; but then her heart started to beat again and she managed to draw a breath.

“Avoid the light,” he said. “Avoid it at all costs.”

She kept walking.

“It’s not worth it,” he said.

“I . . . I’ll go where I please.” Her voice emerged in a tiny gasp. But Rose Red meant what she said.

The Dragon snarled, circling behind her. Then he spoke in her other ear. “You’ll wish you hadn’t. You’ll only find sorrow. You’ll only find regret.”

“I’ll find what I find,” she replied and managed another step. And another. She knew he dogged her footsteps. She knew darkness fell into deeper darkness on either side of her. But she kept her eyes on that pinprick spark and moved toward it, sometimes down a rocky incline, sometimes up a spiral stair, always forward.

The Dragon’s voice surrounded her. She felt him stalking her like a lion, disembodied yet potent.

“He killed his brother, killed him in his anger and his jealousy. He wanted to meet me, wanted to know the beauty of my kiss. But his brother would not let him. So he killed his brother and buried him here. Then in regret, he left a light upon the grave. How pathetic! As though such a light may atone for his sin.”

Rose Red continued walking, her gaze fixed upon the glow. It was growing now, bolder and stronger. It cast shadows on the rocks around her, and occasionally on the rail of a stair.

“You know their names . . . the Brothers Ashiun.”

She did not answer.

“They came across the Final Water to teach mortal man the cursed Sphere Songs. They doomed mortals to lives of slavery and taught them to fear the gift I offered.”

“Good job on their part, I expect.” Rose Red held her skirts in her hands, climbing the stair now. Her breath came in short gasps, partly because of fear, partly because of irritation.

“The younger brother longed for my kiss. He saw the hopelessness of his state, chained to a duty he could never fulfill. There could be no other alternative. There can be release only in my gift! His brother was different. His brother was favored by the Prince of Farthestshore, commissioned to carry a certain lantern. A blaze of white fire, princess. It will hurt your eyes. You must avoid it at all costs.”

“I could try to care about what you’re sayin’.” Rose Red panted as she took another step and found the stairway gone and the rocks once more beneath her feet. Her head hurt with disorientation and she longed to close her eyes. But then she would have no light to guide her. “I could try to care, but I ain’t sure it’s worth the bother.”

“But the younger was entrusted with a gift less fine, for he was less favored. Nothing more than a silver sword, a useless weapon . . .”

The Dragon’s voice trailed off. Rose Red thought he might still be speaking, but she could no longer hear him as she neared that light.

She saw a grave.

The moment she recognized it for what it was, the cave gave way, and she stood on a vast, empty plain. No sky vaulted overhead, only emptiness. The light illuminated rolling gray hills, sparse with ugly growth. A lone wind drifted her way, tugging at her rags and her veil, billowing through the rough grasses that grew around the grave.

It was an old grave, she knew, though the turf looked newly turned. Something in the air told her that whoever dug this grave had come and gone long ages ago. But that one had done a neat job of it, even fixing a stone marker in place.

“
The stone is white,”
Beana had said, “
but you hardly see that for the brightness that shines upon it. A silver lantern of delicate work older than you can imagine. And within that lantern shines a wonder. Like a star, yet unlike as well
.
”

Rose Red gazed at the lantern that sat, as her goat had told her, atop the marker. It was like a small, brilliant star she could hold in her hands. But the light was warmer than starlight, like a home fire upon a hearth for comfort, though of purer quality. A white light but full of colors like the sunset, just like Leo had once told her in his story long ago.

She could feel the Dragon trying to draw her back. His impotency in his own realm infuriated him, and the heat of that fury reached her even here, where he could not come. She approached the light, her ears stopped to his voice, alone on that empty plain save for the lantern and the grave.

The wind blew again, and it was cold. This she did not mind. She knelt at the grave. The letters in the stone were elegantly carved and foreign, and she doubted that she would have been able to read the writing even had she been taught as a child. They looked nothing like Southlands writing, but like something much, much older.

Suddenly, to her surprise, the markings on the stone shifted. As though dancing, they lifted and moved across the stone. They became images, like paintings come to life, yet not paintings either. Moods and expressions springing right into her head.

She read and understood.

Beyond the Final Water falling,

The Songs of Spheres recalling.

While you walk the Path to Death’s own throne,

You will walk with me.

The wood thrush, her Imaginary Friend, sat on the handle of the lantern.
You know my song,
he sang, and she understood his words the same way she understood the strange writing. The music of his voice pierced her heart.