Heartless (28 page)

Prince Lionheart indicated him with a sweep of his hand. “Obey this man as though he were your own prince,” he said. “Follow wherever he may lead you.”

Catspaw blinked and adjusted his hold on his horse’s bridle. “Your Highness,” he said, “where do you send us with this stranger?”

The prince glared at him. “Your only concern is to obey, captain,” he growled. “But know this: You follow this man for the honor of Southlands, for the honor of your king. Do as he says; go where he asks. He will lead you to . . . to a great treasure.”

Captain Catspaw nodded. “And we are to bring back this treasure? For Southlands, Your Highness?”

Prince Lionheart did not answer. Instead he turned to the stranger.

His voice was tight but loud enough for each man to hear. “Is this all I can do for you?”

The stranger was silent.

Prince Lionheart set his jaw. “In that case, I wish you well in your endeavor.”

The stranger reached out and placed a hand on Prince Lionheart’s shoulder. “Come with us,” he said.

The prince shook himself free. “You know I cannot.”

The stranger bowed. “Then farewell, Prince Lionheart. We will meet again in coming years. But for now, farewell.”

Prince Lionheart made no answer but walked away, leaving Catspaw and the men with the stranger.

The stranger approached them and spoke in a quiet voice. “I am Aethelbald of Farthestshore,” he said. “Will you follow me?”

Catspaw and his men looked at each other, eyebrows raised, but Catspaw answered, “We will follow you, sir.”

“You will wish to turn back.”

Catspaw frowned and swallowed hard, but he replied, “We will follow you. For the honor of Southlands.”

Aethelbald shook his head. “That is not enough.”

Without another word he turned and walked from the courtyard, out through the front gate. The men, trading more puzzled looks, mounted up and started after him.

“Excuse me, sir,” Catspaw said, bringing his horse up beside the stranger. “Will you not be wanting a horse?”

“No, thank you, Captain Catspaw,” Aethelbald said.

Catspaw blinked. He couldn’t remember giving the stranger his name.

The twelve men on horseback followed the one man on foot. “Far-thestshore,” Catspaw muttered to himself as he went. “I’ve heard stories about that place since I was hardly up to my father’s knee.”

The other men murmured under their breath as well. None of them liked the idea that stories such as those might prove real. Yet the strange man who led them did not seem fantastic in his person. He walked quietly out of Southlands’s capital and across the country, heading north. When he did speak to them, his voice was pleasant and calm. But as he led the way, the men began to notice how strangely he kept in front of them, always walking at the same pace. No matter whether the men trotted, cantered, or walked their horses, the stranger remained ahead of them without seeming to quicken or slacken his pace.

All day, Aethelbald led them away from the city. They crossed over the shining King’s Bridge to a farther plateau and on through villages and farmlands. But when they neared the edge of that stretch of tableland, Aethelbald did not lead them toward the next bridge. Instead he walked to the edge of the cliff and then disappeared over the edge.

The company gave Catspaw bewildered looks. But Catspaw was under orders, and he barked a sharp command to his men. “Follow him!”

So they spurred their horses on and found that the Prince of Farthest-shore walked a path that led down into the gorge, a path wide and easy enough that the horses made no complaint about following him. The men, however, were much more nervous, and they were more nervous still when they reached the edge of the dark forest below.

No one entered the Wilderlands. It was an unspoken rule throughout Southlands. The bridges were life and the Wilderlands forbidden since the ancient days before words were written down or the Eldest’s House was built. No one climbed down to the Wilderlands below unless banished in cruelest punishment for the most vile of deeds.

Yet the Prince of Farthestshore did not slacken his pace as he passed into the shadows of the forest. The men shivered as they followed him, and icy tremors, not entirely unpleasant but strange, passed through each of them. None of them spoke as they moved single file through the trees. Each one’s vision on either side was blurred and distorted, almost as though he wore blinders. The passage of time was uncertain, for the sun hardly seemed to move overhead as it gleamed through the trees. They walked in a straight line, never turning or inclining either to the left or to the right. Suddenly they were out of the woods again, and their vision cleared.

Catspaw swore under his breath as he recognized where they were. Somehow, without crossing the isthmus, he and his men stood on the Continent, many days’ journey from the Eldest’s City, in the hinterlands of Shippening. He looked over his shoulder and saw a dark wood very like those of Southlands, but he knew it could not possibly be the same.

“Sister o’ Death!” one man at his elbow hissed. “What miracle or magic is this? How’d we cross the Chiara Bay without so much as wetting our feet?”

Captain Catspaw did not answer but stared at the solitary figure standing before him and at the landscape beyond. The Red Desert stretched before them, great and hot, a nightmare come to life.

“Captain?” One of his men urged his horse up beside him and whispered urgently, “Are we going in there?”

The captain spurred his horse so viciously that the poor creature startled, and rode up beside the Farthestshore man. “Sir,” he said, his voice only just respectful.

Aethelbald looked up at him. “Yes, captain.”

“Where are you taking us?”

The stranger indicated with his chin. “That way.”

“Into the Red Desert?”

“Yes, captain.”

Catspaw quietly swore again but bit back the first few remarks that sprang to his lips. At last, sucking in a deep breath, he said, “My men have seen enough of dragons, sir.”

Aethelbald did not answer.

The captain spoke through clenched teeth. “If you have a death wish, I beg you would not drag us along with you.”

“I have no death wish, Captain Catspaw,” Aethelbald replied.

“Look, sir,” the captain said, glancing uneasily at the vast expanse of sand, dry as bone, stretched before him, “we do not know you, do not know your kind. Perhaps you are aware of something we are not – ”

“I am,” the stranger interrupted. “And if you will follow me, I will see that you come to no harm.”

“That’s a pretty promise,” the captain snorted. “But it won’t hold up against dragon fire. I’ve seen what one dragon can do! We all have. Maybe you think all those stories and legends we’ve heard were exaggerated, but I assure you they are not. Far from it! We have all of us breathed in dragon fumes and lived under the shadow of dragon smoke for five long years, and it’s a miracle any of us is alive. That being said, sir, you cannot expect me to lead my men into the heart of dragon country.”

“I do not expect you to lead them,” Aethelbald replied. “I ask all of you to follow me.”

“To what purpose?” the captain cried, and he heard his men murmuring their agreement behind him. “At least give us a reason for this suicide!”

“Is not the command of your prince enough?” Aethelbald asked.

“No, sir, I must say it is not. Prince Lionheart is young. And he escaped those five years living under that demon’s eye.”

“Very well,” Aethelbald said. “I will not ask you to follow me by his command, captain. But I ask you to follow me even so.”

“Why?”

“As your prince told you, we seek a treasure from the heart of the desert, from the very center of the Dragon’s kingdom. It is more dangerous than you can imagine, and one false step will mean death for you or much worse. But if you walk behind me and do not stray from my path, you will remain unharmed. You have my word.”

Catspaw looked into the stranger’s eyes. Something inside him stirred, and he felt as though, yes, perhaps he could follow this man. Had he not led them already down a way so strange that they would never have believed it existed? Had he not brought them farther in one day than they could have traveled in ten?

His horse quivered beneath him, and the captain looked up and gazed once more at the Red Desert stretching on to the farthest horizon. His heart quailed at the sight. He closed his eyes and would not look again at the stranger. “You ask too much,” he growled and turned his horse sharply away. “Come, men,” he ordered and started back at a canter the way they had come.

The wood was gone. The bleak countryside of the Hinterlands stretched out before them, and beyond that the Chiara Bay, dividing them from Southlands and home. The captain looked back once over his shoulder, saw the stranger watching them. Then Aethelbald turned and strode into the desert, where he vanished.

The captain faced forward again, cursing viciously under his breath. “Let the fool kill himself. Why should we die for him and his confounded treasure? Dragons and dragon fire, a man can only stand so much!”

30

The sound of running water sang sweet music in her ears. She opened her eyes. Leaves, golden against blue sky, arched high above her. Wooden slats pressed into her back and her head. Her hand felt around and found the edge of the boards. Turning her head, she looked around. Trees, their graceful branches swaying in a gentle breeze, filled her gaze. She lay on the Old Bridge in her dear Goldstone Wood.

I’m dreaming.

She did not care.

Carefully, so as not to wake herself, she sat up. Her chest expanded to take in a great gulp of light, clean air. She was Una, Princess of Parumvir. This was her home.

With a laugh that filled her whole body with feathery lightness, she jumped from the bridge and splashed into the water, soaking her skirt up to the knees. It was cold, bitingly cold, and delicious to feel. She spun around, searching the trees. Sunlight gleamed through branches, spattering the ground with touches of gold. Beyond the light, shadows thickened. “Where are you?” she whispered.

He would come any moment. It was her dream, after all. He would come to her here.

The brook trickled between her wet feet, and the tree branches crackled together in a breeze.

No one came.

“Where are you?” she said, louder this time. She climbed back onto the Old Bridge, water dripping from her, and shivered a little in the cool air.

No one answered.

The sun began to sink behind the trees, and still she waited. Golden light disappeared, and the gray of dusk settled around her, yet no one came. She sat on the bridge, holding her knees, and whispered to herself:

“Twilit dimness surrounds me.

The veil slips over my eyes.

The riddle of us two together long ago,

How fragile in my memory lies!”

A silvery voice sang above her head. Raising her chin, she searched the branches for the wood thrush. The notes spilled into the evening.

“Beyond the final water falling,

The Songs of Spheres recalling.

We who were never bound are swiftly torn apart.

Won’t you return to me?”

She bowed her head, pressing it into her knees. “Where are you?” she whispered.

Where are you?

“I’m here. I’m waiting for you still. I promised I would. Won’t you come find me?”

I am coming. Wait for me.

“Oh, Leonard!” Were tears actually in her eyes, or did she dream those too? “Leonard, I am waiting. I’m still waiting!”

No. Wait for
me
. I will find you.

Something rustled in the brush behind her.

I will find you
.

She turned sharply.

“Leonard!”

The trees vanished, as did the stream.

A pale, sunken face with yellow eyes peered down at her from over her sheltering boulder.

“There you are, sister. I found you.”

–––––––

A fortress hidden within the rugged crags of the Northern Mountains stood dark in the night, only a few windows lit by candles. One path led through the treacherous reaches of the mountains to the fortress’s gate, which remained tightly shut. Standing guard upon the wall above the gate were two knights, one with skin like midnight, whose eyes gleamed brighter than candles in that darkness; the other with hair like fire and green jewel eyes, who could not seem to help smiling even as the night wore on in undisturbed silence.

At last his black-skinned companion asked, “Why do you grin so, Rogan? What can you find so amusing on such a windless, cold night?”

The green-eyed one smiled all the more. “We shall have action before dawn, Imoo! After all these weeks standing watch in this remote piece of nowhere, we shall see battle once more!”

“What makes you think that?”

“I smell it, my friend!” Rogan touched the weapon at his side. “Can you not?”

The other man shook his head, but inside he found his heart beginning to hope. He did not like this world beyond the Borders. It was far colder than his own country, and after several weeks of guarding King Fidel of Parumvir in this isolated place, he had begun to think the cold had seeped into his bones and would stay there permanently. Not a pleasant thought.

“If only Oeric would return,” Sir Imoo said. “It has been two days since he left – I would have thought he’d be back here by now. If only he would bring us word of the outside world! I feel I shall become like one of those before long.” He indicated the stone watchmen carved and set within alcoves of the fortress wall. There were two of them, solemn figures from legends of Parumvir’s past. It was the custom for statues of these men to stand guard over the king’s fortresses, but Imoo found them uncomfortable company in the long watches of the night.

Sir Rogan remained merry. “He will return tonight, Imoo. And he will herald attack, and we shall test the sharpness of our blades upon our enemies!”

Imoo shivered and stared hard into the gloom of the mountain trail winding down beneath them, searching for any sign of truth to Rogan’s words. The green-eyed knight started to hum to himself and soon began to sing a bloodthirsty song. His jewel eyes shone like those of a cat ready to pounce but ever so patient for the right moment.

At last Imoo said, “He comes.”

Rogan drew his sword.

–––––––

The yellow-eyed boy grinned down at her, his eyes gleaming like struck matches. Angry at losing her dream, the dragon girl snarled, “What do you want?”

“There’s been a disturbance in the tunnel,” he said. His teeth glinted in the light of his own eyes. “Someone’s been discovered in our lands, not a brother or sister. He wandered in here on his own and was taken without a fight. How foolish is that? They are bringing him to the Village. Come, let’s go see!”

Reluctant yet also interested, she climbed out from behind her boulder and followed the yellow-eyed boy. A great crowd, hundreds of shadow figures, gathered thickly near the mouth of the tunnel. They jostled and fought each other, and spurts of flame flared up at intervals. But everyone’s eyes were fixed on the tunnel mouth, curious about what was coming. The yellow-eyed boy led her off to one side and showed her where to climb to a ledge from which they had a clear view. She settled onto the narrow outcropping and waited.

Suddenly, there he was.

Her eyes widened and her breath stilled. She did not hear the shouts from a hundred dragonish throats, did not take in the swift surge of heat and anger. Her gaze was filled with Prince Aethelbald standing in the mouth of the tunnel over the dark cavern, held by two enormous men with black talons. He was unarmed, yet his face was, she thought, serene even in the harsh red firelight.

“Who are you and how dare you cross our borders?” the Bane of Corrilond, who stood forefront in the mob, demanded.

“I seek a princess,” he replied. His voice rang clear among the harsh snarls that rose in response.

“A princess?” The Bane of Corrilond spat. “We have no princess here. We are all brothers and sisters, not princes and princesses. And you have not answered my question. Who are you?”

“I know who he is.”

The dragon girl started in surprise to hear the rasping voice of the yellow-eyed boy beside her.

“Who is he, then?” the Bane of Corrilond asked, turning red eyes toward the ledge where the two sat.

Instead of answering, the yellow-eyed boy slid from the ledge and elbowed his way through the crowd and up the path until he stood face-to-face with the captive.

“Hello, Prince of Farthestshore,” he said.

“Hello, Diarmid,” Aethelbald replied.

“What do you call me?” The yellow-eyed boy snorted. “Is that a name?”

“It is your name.”

“Funny thing, that. No wonder I forgot it. I have no name now, Prince. How long has it been since last we met?”

“Five hundred years by the Near World’s count.”

“Only five hundred? I thought perhaps more. Seems like an eternity since last I really burned!”

“What is this?” the Bane of Corrilond cried, coming up beside the yellow-eyed boy. “Is this one of your former kin?”

The yellow-eyed boy laughed and flung an arm around Aethelbald’s shoulders. “This is the Prince of Farthestshore, my one-time master of yore!” He spat the word with a spark of fire. “The selfsame master who, five hundred years ago, tried to undo the gift our father bestowed upon me. He tried to quench my fire!”

The people of the cavern roared as in one rage-filled voice. “Burn him!” some cried. “Tear him! Bleed him! Enemy of our father!”

The dragon girl gripped the stones of the ledge so hard that blood trickled from her fingers. Her dragon kin writhed in fury below the tunnel mouth, and more flames rose in the darkness until the whole cavern glowed. The yellow-eyed boy laughed again and pushed the Prince to the ground, eliciting approving shouts from his comrades. The two big men who had dragged Aethelbald in grabbed him and pulled him to his feet. He shook one of them off, but three more reached in and seized him so that he could not move. The yellow-eyed boy stepped forward and took Aethelbald by the throat, grinning cruelly, fire dancing in the corners of his mouth.

“Wait.”

The Bane of Corrilond’s voice filled the cavern, and her kin quieted before her. She hauled the yellow-eyed boy back from the Prince. He bared his teeth at her, but she ignored him, gazing instead into Aethelbald’s stern face. “Wait,” she repeated. “We must save him. How often do we come across such fair and fresh meat? What more worthy gift could we offer our Father?”

The dragon folk murmured in agreement, but the yellow-eyed boy licked back flames. “He’s no good,” he spat. “He’ll not take the fire and would taste bitter to our Father.”

“We shall see,” the Bane of Corrilond said. “In the meantime no one harms him. Throw him in the cage.”

The dragon girl watched as the dragon folk pulled Prince Aethelbald down into the cavern, the crowd jeering and jabbing him, threatening him with fire. They dragged him underneath her ledge, and he raised his eyes and saw her.

“Una.”

She saw his mouth form the word. Her name.

Covering her face with her gnarled and scale-covered hands, she turned to the wall. The din of dragon voices filled her ears and did not let up for hours.