Mopping. Lionheart’s face hardened, though he managed both a smile and a bow. Here he was, so near to his goal, and reduced to a household drudge.
He caught Una’s eye. Her face was alight with laughter. In that moment, it made him sick. He excused himself with another bow and hastily exited the room. The lute slapped against his side as he went. The hall outside was dark with only a few of the candle sconces lit, illuminating some of the paintings. Lionheart marched to the end where that small painting rested and gazed once more upon that white face, that face he hated so.
My darling—
“Lionheart.”
The sound of his own name startled Lionheart so badly, he thought his heart might stop. He whirled and saw someone approaching through the gloom of the hall. It was the Prince of Farthestshore, that man who visited Oriana to court Princess Una.
Lionheart swallowed, then bowed deeply. After all, he was only a jester and an extra mop. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” he said in what he hoped was a cool voice. “May I help you?”
“Lionheart, I know who you are.”
Lionheart straightened up and found himself gazing into the Prince of Farthestshore’s eyes. They were kind eyes, though perhaps a little sad. But they gazed right down into his soul, and Lionheart did not like that.
“I . . . forgive me, Your Highness. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Prince of Farthestshore would not break his gaze, and struggle though he might, Lionheart at last had to look away. “Maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said. “I am Leonard the Lightning Tongue, jester to kings and emperors.”
“Yes, you are,” said the Prince. “But you are also Prince Lionheart, exile of Southlands. And you seek to defeat the Dragon.”
Lionheart felt his face paling. His whole body went cold. He licked his lips and tried to speak again. “You . . . you are mistaken—”
“No, prince, I am not.” The Prince of Farthestshore’s voice was gentle. It irked Lionheart no end. He wanted to run, to escape those kind eyes, to never again hear that voice. “Why,” asked the Prince, “have you not returned to Southlands? Why have you not returned to face the Dragon?”
“I . . . I am from Southlands,” Lionheart admitted. “But there’s no use in facing the Dragon. He cannot be fought.”
“Not if you do not face him,” said the Prince. “And even then, there is only one way he can be defeated.”
Lionheart thought of Una’s ring. He’d seen it gleaming on her hand again as she clapped and applauded his performance. Strange that something so small, so insignificant should hold so much power. But the oracle had spoken, and Lionheart did not doubt her words. He remained silent.
The Prince of Farthestshore said, “You will have to die.”
Lionheart shot a quick look at the Prince’s face. Still those kind eyes burned into his. A thousand words rushed to his mouth. How dare this stranger come lecture him! Had he not suffered enough these last five years? The labor, the humiliation—and it only promised to continue. Did he need to have this upstart, who knew nothing of the trials Lionheart had experienced, telling him what to do? Speaking so blithely of things he couldn’t possibly understand? Had he gone to the oracle in Lunthea Maly? Had he sought out hidden Ay-Ibunda? Had he, with his fine clothes and fine manners, any idea what it meant to suffer the Dragon’s work?
And here he was, courting Princess Una, who by all rights should have been Lionheart’s to pursue. If the world were fair, if the gods were just, he, Lionheart, should be here as a prince with a rich retinue to seek her hand. Yet here he was, a floor-scrubber and Fool, barely permitted to lay eyes upon her. In that moment, Lionheart believed he hated the Prince of Farthestshore.
“I can help you,” said the Prince. “If you will follow me, I will help you defeat the Dragon.”
Lionheart’s face was as stone. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, good Prince,” he said. “If I did, perhaps I could help you. I am nothing but a humble jester, however, and these things of which you speak are beyond my knowledge.”
He bowed again and, though he knew it was unendingly rude, turned and marched down the hall, leaving the Prince standing beside the Dragon’s crude portrait. His heart was racing so fast with fury and determination, he thought he might explode. He wished the Dragon was before him right now and that he was armed with a sword. He would hack the monster limb from limb with hardly a thought!
The Lady enfolded his mind in her arms.
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. How could he possibly? You know what you’re doing. You have a dream to follow.
“I know what I’m doing,” Lionheart growled. He tore the jester’s hat from his head and mangled it in both hands.
I will not let you die. I will see your dream fulfilled.
“I’ll kill the monster yet. And I’ll sit on the throne of my fathers. Silent Lady help me!”
She won’t help you, sweet prince. I will.
8
THE NETHERWORLD