Somehow he had to get into the palace and present his letter to the steward. King Grosveneur’s seal would undoubtedly carry some weight, but not with idiots like those guards at the gate, who probably couldn’t spoon porridge to their mouths without special instruction. Yet how could Lionheart get past them?
The weight of his problem, the heat of the day, and the long climb up the side of the mountain joined together in a force too great to withstand. Exhaustion worked its own persuasion, and he slept.
You know the Princess Varvare.
The voice sang into his mind while Lionheart lay between waking and sleeping.
She has gone from this world. Beyond reach of my voice.
He groaned and stirred, but his eyelids were too heavy with sleep to open. His body felt oddly paralyzed where he lay amid the roots of the maple tree. His mind felt paralyzed too, unable to drive out that voice that was not a voice, speaking without language.
My master grows impatient.
Lionheart muttered, “Dragons eat your master.”
Then his eyes flew open and for the briefest moment he saw the Other.
When you see her, you will send her to me. I will wait in the Wilderlands.
Lionheart woke in a cold sweat, still sitting up. His hands had torn up great handfuls of dirt, which he now released. Slowly his breathing calmed, and he crawled out from under the shade of the trees.
“Serves you right,” he whispered, taking comfort in self derision. “Everyone knows you shouldn’t nap in a Faerie Forest. Especially not so late in the day.”
The sun was setting, and the day was cooler. Lionheart was just as much on the wrong side of the wall as he had ever been. He stood awhile, trying to shake off the nightmare. He remembered none of it—almost the moment he woke, the vision had fled his memory—but the sensation of fear lingered. To drive it off, he started walking along the wall of the palace gardens, trailing a hand against the stone blocks as he went.
Suddenly Lionheart turned and looked up the wall.
All he needed was a moment with a housekeeper or the steward, someone with brain enough to recognize King Grosveneur’s seal. If he could just present himself at the palace and bypass those dragon-blasted guards, he did not doubt he would gain entrance.
He must gain entrance. He had a ring to find.
Resolve quickened him. He darted downhill until once more he reached the edge of the Wood, where the trees grew right up against the garden wall. As easily as he had once climbed the mountainside near Hill House, he scaled the trunk of a big oak and scooted along thick branches overhanging the wall. Gaining the wall itself, he looked down.
The sun was setting in earnest now, illuminating some of the world in a brilliant glow but casting the rest into deep shadows. In that awkward lighting, he found it difficult to guess how great the drop below him was, whether it was the same as on the far side, shorter, or longer. But there was nothing for it now. He took a deep breath and jumped.
And landed on top of someone who let out the most ear-splitting scream that ever shattered a man’s eardrums.
They tumbled in the path, Lionheart ending up on top, squashing the slender person, who kept screaming for all she was worth. “Oh, hush!” he cried. “I’m so sorry! I beg you, please, quiet!”
Her screams increased, and he had no choice but to clamp a hand over her mouth. He still had not seen her face, but he could tell she was a young woman, hardly more than a girl. Poor thing, he must have terrified her; but then again, she wasn’t increasing his peace of mind either.
She wriggled in his grasp, still screaming into his hand, though the sound was muffled. “I say!” he hissed between his teeth. “Really, I’m sorry. I had no idea you were down here. Terribly rude of me, I know, but I can’t help making an entrance, it seems, no matter how I try.”
He felt her relax a little in his grip as he spoke, and the screaming stopped. Hoping against hope that it had ended for good, he allowed her to sit up. “Are you quite calm?”
She nodded.
“All right, I’m going to let you go. Please—”
The moment he loosened his hold, she pulled free of him and leapt to her feet, whirling around to face him. In the last glow of the sunset he got his first good look at her. It was the maiden from the garden, her braid messier than ever, her eyes wide with terror.
She was, he noticed, quite pretty.
But she was drawing breath for another great bellow.
Without stopping to think, Lionheart flung himself on his hands and knees before her. He spread out his hands and cried in a voice of despair, “Please! Can you forgive this lowly worm, O gentlest of maidens, for his unforgivable rudeness, dropping in on you, so to speak? Will you forgive him or strike him dead with a dart from your eyes? Oh, strike, maiden, strike, for I deserve to die— No! Stay!”