Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Page A
Authors: Anne Elisabeth Stengl
Ads: Link
They will only hinder your work.
“I cannot afford to keep men like those in my service.”
Rid yourself of them as soon as possible. Just as you did the girl.
Rose Red! Her face returned to his mind, twisted in terror as she crouched on the edge of the gorge. His best, his truest friend. A hindrance. But he had not killed her! He had done his best, hadn’t he?
He covered his face with both hands, drew a sharp breath, like a sob. “Get out of my head.”
Oh, my sweet prince—
“GET OUT!” He leapt to his feet, tears staining his cheeks. Without a thought, he reached into the dying fire, took up a handful of embers, uncaring how they burned his hands, and flung them into the darkest corners of the room. Anything to chase out that darkness. Anything to chase away that voice. “Get out! Go away from me!”
Silence crept in around him. And that silence spoke in the voice of the Lady.
You are nothing without me.
Lionheart collapsed to his knees, his wounded hands shaking with pain, the fingers curled. Mingled with the silence was another voice, a voice from his memory, full of fire. And from the darkness emerged a figure, black and more real than real, although it was nothing but a memory too.
“Give me her heart, Prince Lionheart, and I will let you live.”
How could he have done it? How could he have given it up so easily?
“Leave me in peace!” He pulled at his hair with his burned hands, desperate to escape the memory. But he could not. He saw himself groveling before a great black King. He saw his own hand opening, and a small opal ring dropped from his fingers. His own voice cried, “It’s yours. Take it!”
The memory faded. Lionheart stood again in the silence of his rooms. The fire had died, leaving the coldness of tombs behind. He blinked back the last of his tears and sank once more into his chair.
The voice of the Lady returned.
You did what you had to do, Lionheart.
“I did what I had to do.”
There was no other way.
“No other way.”
Now take my hand and walk with me, Prince of Southlands, and I will show you what it means to see your dreams realized.
He looked up into her eyes. They appeared before him in a flash of white, gleaming in the darkness. And her hand, blacker than the shadows in the room, extended to him.
In that moment, the Dragon died.
It was like the shifting of continents, the fall of mountains, the end of worlds. The shock of it rippled throughout the Near World and the Far, and every living thing stopped what it was doing, shivering in terror and awe at they knew not what. Fire burst in their minds, then vanished.
But where Lionheart sat in the darkness of his chambers, the fire did not vanish at once. It grabbed hold of him, plunging him into a dream.
He stands upon an abandoned street in a city he does not recognize. Before him writhes the monstrous form he knows too well, the sinuous limbs and the bat-like wings of the Dragon King. The Dragon lies in the rubble and flames he has made of the city, convulsing in death agonies. Fire rains down upon the world. Lionheart cries out and covers his head, but the flames and ashes fall on him without burning.
All is still for a terrible moment.
Then Lionheart whispers, “I will never fight the Dragon.”
“NO!”
The Lady’s scream blasts the already ruined city, extinguishing the flames of her counterpart. She stands before Lionheart, between him and the Dragon’s dead body. She is as tall as a tree, black as nothingness, save for her streaming white hair, which flows behind her, lashing Lionheart’s face like so many knives. He shies away from her, but she takes no notice of him. She strides through the rubble toward the corpse, wringing her hands and screaming.
“NO! You shall not have this victory!”
For a moment, Lionheart thinks she speaks to the dead Dragon. Then he sees, rising from the ashes, another form he knows: the Prince of Farthestshore.
This time it is Lionheart who screams, and he
“I cannot afford to keep men like those in my service.”
Rid yourself of them as soon as possible. Just as you did the girl.
Rose Red! Her face returned to his mind, twisted in terror as she crouched on the edge of the gorge. His best, his truest friend. A hindrance. But he had not killed her! He had done his best, hadn’t he?
He covered his face with both hands, drew a sharp breath, like a sob. “Get out of my head.”
Oh, my sweet prince—
“GET OUT!” He leapt to his feet, tears staining his cheeks. Without a thought, he reached into the dying fire, took up a handful of embers, uncaring how they burned his hands, and flung them into the darkest corners of the room. Anything to chase out that darkness. Anything to chase away that voice. “Get out! Go away from me!”
Silence crept in around him. And that silence spoke in the voice of the Lady.
You are nothing without me.
Lionheart collapsed to his knees, his wounded hands shaking with pain, the fingers curled. Mingled with the silence was another voice, a voice from his memory, full of fire. And from the darkness emerged a figure, black and more real than real, although it was nothing but a memory too.
“Give me her heart, Prince Lionheart, and I will let you live.”
How could he have done it? How could he have given it up so easily?
“Leave me in peace!” He pulled at his hair with his burned hands, desperate to escape the memory. But he could not. He saw himself groveling before a great black King. He saw his own hand opening, and a small opal ring dropped from his fingers. His own voice cried, “It’s yours. Take it!”
The memory faded. Lionheart stood again in the silence of his rooms. The fire had died, leaving the coldness of tombs behind. He blinked back the last of his tears and sank once more into his chair.
The voice of the Lady returned.
You did what you had to do, Lionheart.
“I did what I had to do.”
There was no other way.
“No other way.”
Now take my hand and walk with me, Prince of Southlands, and I will show you what it means to see your dreams realized.
He looked up into her eyes. They appeared before him in a flash of white, gleaming in the darkness. And her hand, blacker than the shadows in the room, extended to him.
In that moment, the Dragon died.
It was like the shifting of continents, the fall of mountains, the end of worlds. The shock of it rippled throughout the Near World and the Far, and every living thing stopped what it was doing, shivering in terror and awe at they knew not what. Fire burst in their minds, then vanished.
But where Lionheart sat in the darkness of his chambers, the fire did not vanish at once. It grabbed hold of him, plunging him into a dream.
He stands upon an abandoned street in a city he does not recognize. Before him writhes the monstrous form he knows too well, the sinuous limbs and the bat-like wings of the Dragon King. The Dragon lies in the rubble and flames he has made of the city, convulsing in death agonies. Fire rains down upon the world. Lionheart cries out and covers his head, but the flames and ashes fall on him without burning.
All is still for a terrible moment.
Then Lionheart whispers, “I will never fight the Dragon.”
“NO!”
The Lady’s scream blasts the already ruined city, extinguishing the flames of her counterpart. She stands before Lionheart, between him and the Dragon’s dead body. She is as tall as a tree, black as nothingness, save for her streaming white hair, which flows behind her, lashing Lionheart’s face like so many knives. He shies away from her, but she takes no notice of him. She strides through the rubble toward the corpse, wringing her hands and screaming.
“NO! You shall not have this victory!”
For a moment, Lionheart thinks she speaks to the dead Dragon. Then he sees, rising from the ashes, another form he knows: the Prince of Farthestshore.
This time it is Lionheart who screams, and he
Similar Books
