Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Page B

throws himself facedown upon the stones. But he cannot resist looking up again.
    The Prince’s face is resplendent with an unbearable light that banishes the poison from the air. He speaks to the Lady. “Life-in-Death,” says he, “you must let him go.”
    “No!” The Lady is twice the Prince’s height, and her voice is foul with hatred. “You cannot have him!”
    Do they speak of the dead Dragon? But no, the Lady turns and in three strides is at Lionheart’s side. She plucks him from the stones like a helpless kitten and shakes him. “You cannot have him! He’s mine!”
    The Prince steps down from the Dragon’s carcass and approaches. Lionheart is helpless in the Lady’s grasp, yet he can scarcely bear to look at the Prince. He wails and tries to cover his eyes, but his arms hang useless at his sides.
    “Let him go,” says the Prince.
    “I won him. We played our game, my brother and I, and I won him!”
    “Let him go.”
    “He is nothing without me. Nothing! If I release him, he will lose everything he holds dear. His life will be over!”
    “Better that than the Life-in-Death you offer,” says the Prince. He is unarmed, but the Lady trembles as he strides ever nearer. “Let him go.”
    With a final shriek, the Lady draws back her arm and flings Lionheart with all her strength. He flies through the darkness, straight toward the carcass of the Dragon he never fought.
    Flames leap into his eyes.

    Lionheart startled awake when a candle’s light shone in his face. He sat up in his chair. The room was stuffy with the curtains drawn, but simultaneously cold without a fire. Daylily stood before him, holding a bronze candleholder with both hands. The flickering flame cast strange shadows on her face, emphasizing the hollows under her eyes.
    “Lionheart,” she said, “you were moaning in your sleep.”
    He stood up, straightening his shirt and shaking his head to drive the weariness away. Not that it helped. “What are you doing in here, Daylily?” His voice was thick.
    She said nothing at first, merely gazed up at him. Were those tears he saw gleaming in the candlelight? “I’ve just heard,” she said.
    “Just heard what?” The memory of his dream remained vivid in his mind. The smoking carcass on the street.
    “My father told me.” Her hand trembled, and the candle flame flickered. “The Council of Barons has been called.”
    Her words drove everything else from Lionheart’s head. He stood still, gazing into those blue eyes of hers, and for a moment he thought how beautiful she had once been.
    “That’s it, then,” he said.
    “I . . . I’m afraid so.” She licked her lips. Was she uncertain what to say? Daylily was never uncertain. It was not part of the pattern that made up the Lady of Middlecrescent. Yet there was hesitancy in her eyes as she put out a trembling hand and touched his. “Leo.”
    He pulled back sharply, stepping out of the glow of her candle, back into the deepest shadows of the room. She took a shuddering breath. When she spoke again, however, her voice was steady. “I cannot marry you now.”
    The Lady’s words returned to him: “He will lose everything he holds dear.”
    “Of course not,” said Lionheart. He turned his back on Daylily and her candle, his shoulders hunched. “Of course not. I understand.”
    “Please, Lionheart—”
    “Go away now, Daylily.” His voice was unnaturally calm. “Go away. Marry Foxbrush. Tell him that I hope he enjoys the task of fixing what cannot be fixed and bearing the blame when it remains broken.”
    She did not reply. Gliding like a ghost, she made her way to the door, pausing a moment to look back. Then, surprising herself, she said, “You should never have banished Rose Red.” Lionheart whirled to face her again, but she could not see his expression in the dark. He could see her, she knew, so she raised her chin, her face set in a calm mask. “You should never have banished Rose Red,” she repeated. “If you can,