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  “But, my son,” said the Eldest quietly, “does your word count for anything now?”

  Lionheart stared. Of all the blows in his life, that one struck the deepest.

  The Eldest shook his head and continued to speak in a low voice that only Lionheart and Rose Red could hear. “You have lost their trust. Don’t think I have not seen. And where does that leave me, Lionheart? I am not long for this world, and when I die, I must pass on rule of my kingdom to one who will not be able to lead. For who will follow you now? Does any man in all of Southlands trust you, who abandoned them in their suffering, who did not return until the danger was past?”

  Tears of rage filled Lionheart’s eyes, burning more than dragon fire. “It wasn’t like that, Father! You know it wasn’t!”

  “What I know or don’t know matters little,” said Hawkeye. “What the people, your subjects, believe is what matters now.” He shook his head and stood once more, stepping around Rose Red and pacing to the end of the dais. He raised his hands, commanding the attention of all assembled in that yard. “I hereby give to my son, your prince, the duty of passing sentence upon the accused.”

  Angry mutters filled the yard, and Lionheart, as he looked out upon the crowd, saw the fury on each face. They did not think he would do as they wished. They did not believe he could pass the sentence they required. And what would be his fate if he did not give them their will? The Council of Barons and their cold vote. The loss of his inheritance.

  The Lady Life-in-Death stood beside him, an unearthly presence. She whispered in Lionheart’s ear. Your dream, sweet prince. Don’t give it up now!

  He turned his gaze from the crowds down to Rose Red. She looked up at him, wretched, pleading, and hopeless. He shivered at the sight of her, and she saw and ducked her face, wrapping her arms over her head.

  Do what you must, my darling.

  “What is your decision, Lionheart?” Hawkeye asked.

  Lionheart’s whole body sagged with weariness. Suddenly he whirled upon the crowd and said in a loud voice, “I sentence the accused to banishment. She shall be sent into the Wilderlands, and should she venture to the high country again, she shall be subject to immediate execution. That is my sentence!”

  Rose Red gave an inarticulate moan, and the people raised a great cry. Lionheart firmly took hold of the girl’s arm and dragged her to her feet, refusing to look at her. A cart was sent for, and he himself stepped into it and pulled her in after him. Holding his sword at his side and ordering the guards to surround them, they set out through the streets of the Eldest’s City to North Gate, which overlooked the deep gorge that created the boundaries of the Eldest’s grounds. Garbage and filth flew through the air as they went, most of it striking Rose Red, some smattering across Lionheart’s burned garments. He steeled himself against the blows and put an arm around Rose Red as protectively as he could. She trembled in his hold as though she would fall to pieces in a moment.

  The cart rolled through the gate, and they came to King’s Bridge, vast and incredible and older than the city. Already people lined the edge of its span, as near to the gorge as they dared venture. The driver drove the cart through the crowds and to a halt. Lionheart pulled Rose Red down and escorted her to the gorge.

  They gazed down the cliff to the Wilderlands below. The thick-growing trees were like an enormous green serpent snaking its way through the chasm. A small footpath, from centuries gone when the people of Southlands had once dared climb down, was still faintly discernible.

  Rose Red continued to tremble, and she clutched suddenly at the prince’s arm. “I’ll die!” she gasped. “Leo, I’ll die!” She wanted to say more, but nothing else would come.

  Lionheart rested his hand for a moment on top of hers. “Rosie,” he whispered, “what else can I do?”

  Then he pushed her from him so that she fell to her knees. “Go!” he cried. “Never return to Southlands.” He brandished his sword above his head. The watching crowds fell into a horrible quiet, craning to see what happened.

  Rose Red gazed at the prince and his sword, her eyes taking in all of him, that face she had loved, that man she had vowed in her heart to serve unto death. And now she had done so, for in that moment, her heart died. The heart that had loved Prince Lionheart.

  She said nothing. She got to her feet, shaking so that she felt she would not be able to make the downward climb. Then she stepped to the edge of the cliff and started down the narrow path. As she disappeared from view, Lionheart and his soldiers, followed by the crush of people behind, stepped closer to the edge to watch her descent. The drop was not so deep here, and though she stumbled, she went quickly, as though fleeing the hounds of hell. The forest below seemed to swell, to creep, grasping, up the rock wall.

  “NO!”

  A shout like a giant’s voice, furious and terrible, rolled across the crowd. Lionheart turned, clutching his sword, and saw the crowds parting as though some monstrous bull tossed them aside in its onslaught. His eyes widened, and he braced himself, sword upraised.

  A goat burst through, eyes rolling. She barreled past him and skidded to a stop on the edge of the cliff. Then she bellowed like some enormous beast, her voice echoing through the gorge. And there were words in the animal cry.

  “No! Rose Red!”

  The girl disappeared into the forest.

  The next moment, a sound like the rending of the air itself struck the sky. A sound that could shatter hearts and courage, knocking the people of Southlands from their feet. They sprawled on the ground, pressing their hands to their ears as the sound, which wasn’t song but its opposite, seared deep into their brains. And there were words that no one understood. No one, save the goat.

  At last!

  It was stunning. It was dreadful. It was doom.

  Then it was gone.

  The goat turned to Lionheart. She lowered her head as though to ram him. Then she stood on her hind legs, and she wasn’t a goat at all. A woman wearing a silver breastplate and golden belt from which hung a long knife stood in her place. Her hair was piled in a coiled crown on the top of her head, and her face was fierce. Lionheart gasped in horror.

  She took a step toward him, drawing her knife. With a swift motion, she knocked the sword from his hand, and it clattered down into the gorge. She took hold of his throat, and her nails dug into his skin. He could only stare into her eyes.

  “Tell me, Leo, are you satisfied now?” Her voice drove into his gut. “Have you any idea what evil you have worked? Coward!”

  She flung him to the ground and turned to the cliff. Without a care for herself, she hurtled over the edge. Lionheart cried out and crawled forward, looking down. He saw a shaggy goat leaping from rock to rock, until at last she as well vanished into the shadows of the Wood.

  The sun set. Darkness descended upon Southlands.

  Shivering so hard that he could scarcely draw breath, Lionheart whispered, “What have I done?”

  6

  Daylily sat alone. She was often alone these days, which was a relief. Not a week ago, an expressed desire for solitude would have initiated a rain of protests sometimes too exhausting to ignore. But ever since the wedding week, she had only to whisper a command, and her attendants and ladies-in-waiting scurried from the room with hardly a word. Possibly they felt sorry for her. Possibly they could see from the expression in her eyes that any resistance would cost them dearly. Either way, solitude was no longer so difficult an attainment.

  She sat in a parlor on the north side of the Eldest’s House. A small fire behind a painted screen cast a glow upon her, yet her skin seemed unable to accept its warmth. She might have been a statue rather than a living person.

  Her hands were idle in her lap. There was a time she would have kept them busy with some sort of dainty work appropriate for her status. But these days, she failed to see a point in such things. So her hands remained still, but her mind flew in a stormy rush.

  The wedding had been postponed. How could she possibly allow it to
continue in the wake of what had happened? How could she stand before all the nobility of Southlands beside a groom who looked as though he’d died though his body kept on living? So she had postponed the service, declaring that they should wait until spring, when new growth and warm air would lift the nation’s spirits.

  Lionheart had expressed no opinion one way or the other. Since that conversation, they had not seen each other. Five days had passed without any indication of that changing.

  Daylily rose and paced away from the fire to the window that overlooked the front courtyard. From this very window she had been the first in the House to see Lionheart return from his five-year exile. Later that same day, he had proposed they wed, and her dream had come true.

  Only now, she felt it crumbling once more. Which was more dreadful, she wondered, the life or the death of dreams?

  A lone figure stood at the gates. Daylily came out of her dark reverie for a moment, surprised at the interest this unknown person drew from her. There was nothing about him to catch the eye, other than perhaps the unusual manner in which he suddenly appeared in the gate archway. His clothing was fine but unadorned. His face, what she could discern of it from this distance, was neither handsome nor plain. The guards at the gate made no fuss about letting him through. And the way he strode across the courtyard to the doors of the Eldest’s House, his shoulders back and his head high, implied lordship. Kingship, even. This man, this simple stranger, was a master of men.

  Daylily’s heart lurched at that one glimpse. At first, she thought she loved the stranger. Then she believed that, no, she hated him rather. Both emotions were silly. She did not know him. She had never seen him before, would never see him again, most likely.

  She saw the doors opened to him and watched as he disappeared inside. The unreasonable hatred she felt for the stranger was much too akin to love to be bearable. Dizziness took her, and Daylily returned to sit by the fire, her head in her hand.

  Lionheart stood beside his father’s throne in the small assembly room where court was held these days. Construction on the new hall was progressing well, but it would be long before it would be open for regular use. Perhaps by spring . . . in time for the rescheduled wedding.

  A shiver ran up Lionheart’s spine, and he forced himself to focus on the Baron of Idlewild’s man, who had brought a report of Idlewild barony. The Dragon’s work had been thorough indeed, and the baron’s man begged aid, money to supplement the extra costs of rebuilding—an all too familiar plea.

  King Hawkeye deferred to Lionheart on most decisions these days. Popular rumor had it that the Eldest planned to step down from his throne and pass the crown on to his son. Lionheart knew better. He knew his father was simply trying to demonstrate trust in his son, to show by example that Southlands could follow the leadership of its crown prince.

  But as Lionheart listened to yet another detailed account of barren fields and poisoned crops, he doubted very much that he could satisfy the needs of his people. No man could. But failure on his part would earn him the name traitor.

  After all, he had neither fought the Dragon nor killed the demon.

  “Prince Aethelbald of Farthestshore!” the herald at the door announced.

  Lionheart looked up from the baron’s man, surprised. Sure enough, he saw the tall man in the doorway and knew him at once. The Prince. The man he had met at Oriana Palace, the man who had come courting Princess Una, though she rejected him.

  The man who had asked Lionheart to come with him to face the Dragon in Southlands.

  The Dark Lady had lain quiet in his mind since that day by the gorge. He always felt her presence lurking behind both conscious and unconscious thought, although her voice was still. But the moment Lionheart clapped eyes on the Prince, it was as though she woke from a deep sleep, raging.

  Him! Him!

  Her voice was like darts of ice. He winced at the pain.

  Hate him! Send him away!

  Lionheart’s head throbbed as the Prince approached. As though at a distance, he heard his father speaking.

  “Greetings, Prince. You have journeyed far, have you not? Farthestshore! I cannot remember the last time I beheld a man from Farthestshore.”

  The Prince approached the throne and bowed low. “Long life to Your Majesty,” he said. “Yes, I have journeyed far.”

  Hate him! screamed the Lady.

  The Prince turned to Lionheart. His face was kind, unbearably so, and the eyes were ancient. The eyes of an immortal, Lionheart realized as they settled on his face. But something more than an immortal. Something altogether without age.

  And they saw not only him. Lionheart knew, with a part of his mind that he did not like to acknowledge, that the Prince saw the Lady as well.

  “Greetings, Prince Lionheart,” said the Prince of Farthestshore.

  But no, it could not be! Lionheart shuddered at the shame of anyone knowing how the Lady lurked within him, her voice at once seductive and cold. He shook off the idea and forced his voice to remain calm when he replied. “Strange we had no word of your coming, Prince Aethelbald.”

  “Not so strange. Few would know the paths I take.”

  “Do you travel with a large company?”

  “I travel alone.”

  Drive him from your father’s house! The Lady’s voice filled Lionheart’s consciousness. He had never heard her so frantic before. No, that wasn’t true. Once before he had heard her speak in this same manic tone, when he first met the Prince in Oriana. When the Prince had asked Lionheart to follow him.

  Drive him out! He will destroy you otherwise!

  Lionheart stood rock still, determined not to shift under the Prince’s steady gaze. He felt exposed, but he held himself together. “Do you seek lodging? Allow us to treat you to the hospitality of Southlands.”

  “No. I seek a word with you, Prince Lionheart. In private, if I may.”

  Do not listen to him! Send him away! Kill him!

  But, despite the roaring in his head, Lionheart could think of no excuses. He knew of what the Prince wished to speak, and though he dreaded the conversation, he also knew that there would be no escaping it. “Very well,” he said. He bowed to the Eldest. “If you will excuse me, Father?”

  Lionheart led the Prince from the assembly room, two attendants trailing behind them. When they reached the door of a smaller audience room, Lionheart bade the attendants wait outside as he and his guest entered. All the while the Lady ranted. But somehow, standing so near the Prince, Lionheart found that her voice receded somewhat. He still heard every word, but they were stifled, distant.

  The chamber in which they stood was impressive, with maps on the walls and heavy curtains. Lionheart took a seat in a large chair on the far side of the room but offered no seat to the Prince. “At your pleasure,” he said.

  The Prince stood in the middle of the floor, his arms crossed, though not in hostility. His steady gaze never shifted from Lionheart. “Have you seen Princess Una?”

  Lionheart gulped. This was much more direct than he would have expected. He did not like to answer. He remembered a conversation he had overheard between the Prince and Una in the gardens of Oriana, and knew that the Prince had more than a passing interest in the girl. Did he know, then, about her change? Lionheart did not like to be the one to tell him.

  He stalled. “Princess Una of Parumvir?” Foolish! How many princesses named Una could there be?

  But the Prince merely responded, “The same.”

  Lionheart forced himself to meet the Prince’s gaze. “What makes you think I would have seen her?”

  “You have heard of the situation in Parumvir?”

  “Yes,” said Lionheart slowly. “Dragon-ridden. And the capital is controlled by the Duke of Shippening now, is that right? A great pity. I liked King Fidel. He was kind to me during my . . . my exile.” He was blathering, he knew, and the thought made him angry. He broke off short, then finished, “But that is all far from here, and I have much to occupy my mind in my
own kingdom.” Why did his every word sound like an excuse?

  “Una is missing.”

  “So I understand.”

  “She fell in love with you.”

  A long silence held the room. Light shone through the window, striking the back of Lionheart’s chair and falling on the face of the Prince in a golden bath. Otherwise, the room was full of shadows. The voice of the Lady whispered from the various corners, as though she flitted from one shadow to the next, an imprisoned bat struggling for freedom. Hate him! she hissed. Loathe him!

  Lionheart said, “What makes you think that?”

  “I guessed.”

  Lionheart shrugged and tried to keep his voice light. “Well, if it bothers you, I have no intention of—”

  “Answer my question,” said the Prince. “Have you seen Princess Una?”

  Lionheart could no longer hold his gaze. He dropped his head. “Yes, I have. She came here not even a week ago. Alone.”

  The Prince said nothing.

  “At first I wondered how she had come here by herself,” Lionheart continued. “But . . . she explained in no uncertain terms.”

  “She came to you as a woman?”

  “Yes. But I saw the change.”

  The sun moved slowly across the afternoon sky, deepening the shadows in the room. Yet even as it shifted from the Prince’s face, his eyes retained the warmth of its glow. Was that pity in his eyes? It made Lionheart sick. He would not be pitied!

  “See here,” he said, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I am sorry about what became of her. I am. But there isn’t a solitary thing I can do about it now, is there?”

  Silence. Silence and the cold screams of the Lady.

  “A lot of things happened during my exile,” he rushed on. “Most of them I wish to forget. She was kind to me when I needed a friend, and . . . and I appreciated her kindness. Perhaps I implied more than I felt, but that is hardly—”

  “Did you?”

  There was no reproach in the Prince’s voice. But in that moment, Lionheart hated him more than anything in the world.