Daylily shook him off. But her normal calm had returned, falling over her features in a disguise. “Of course you are, Leo,” she said. “Of course you are.”
Lionheart left her. He did not see her sink to her knees. He did not see her weep. No one did. And when she finished, Daylily vowed it would never happen again.
She had her dream. And it was dust and ashes.
2
SO IT WAS THAT LIONHEART, within a few weeks of his return to Southlands, found himself once more climbing the mountainside above Hill House.
What a relief it was to have left his retinue behind and to once more be alone. During his long journey from Parumvir back to his homeland, he had many times wished so desperately for company. Anything to distract his mind from those memories of fire, of ice, of the Brother and Sister.
But once back in Southlands, Lionheart found that company was almost unbearable to him. Perhaps he imagined it, perhaps he did not . . . but everywhere he went, he thought he heard whispers behind his back.
“Did he face the Dragon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he defeat him? Are we saved?”
“Shhhh!”
For now, they treated him as a hero returned. And there was so much work to be done, so much lost that would take years of labor to reclaim! They would have to trust their prince, to work alongside him, for the sake of his father, for the memory of his dead mother, for the renewing of the kingdom.
But today, he had other business to attend. Solitary business.
Bloodbiter’s Wrath was much smaller and more flimsy than Lionheart remembered. But the beanpole felt right in his hand as he passed through the garden gate and on up the beaten path. He met no one on the way to the sapling tied with a red scarf. The sapling had grown since last he’d passed this direction. It was beginning to show signs of what it might be as a mature tree. But though its color had faded to a near-camouflaged brown, the scarf was still tied to the same branch. And the deer trail still twisted into the forest beyond.
Lionheart made the plunge. The air was so clean up here, smelling of dirt and roots and old leaves . . . hardly a trace of dragon smoke. Lionheart drew long breaths and felt once more the thrill of the hunt. Though, of course, this hunt was different from the first. For one thing, he knew what it was he hunted. And he knew, with a good measure of confidence, where he would find his quarry.
The Lake of Endless Blackness had long since vanished, taking its rickety dam along with it. But Lionheart knew its location better than he knew his own rooms back home. He stepped across the stream, using Bloodbiter’s Wrath as a support, sticking it deep into the mud, and plopped down on the far bank. For some time, he simply sat there, inhaling the mountain air, allowing his mind to pursue memories, memories that, for once, filled him with neither shame nor dread. He recalled the first time he had encountered the veiled and wafting specter in the forest. He remembered his disgust when he realized she was nothing but a girl. He remembered stick-and-leaf ships sunk with acorns, and muddy adventures when the dam broke and was repaired. He remembered ambushing the postmaster’s boy.
The postmaster’s boy, who had seen a monster.
Lionheart bowed his head, trailing the beanpole back and forth in the stream, sometimes with, sometimes against the current. He remembered the first time he had seen the monster. When he raised his face again, there were tears in his beard.
“Rose Red,” he said softly to the stream and the trees and anyone who might listen, “you said once that if I had any trouble, to sing out and you’d come. Well, I have plenty of trouble. And I need you. If you’ll come.”
“Bah!”
Lionheart startled and turned about where he sat. The goat stood behind him, chewing her cud and gazing at him through half-closed eyes.
“Hullo, Beana,” he said. “I see you survived anyway.” He got to his feet and approached the goat, one hand out to stroke her head. She dodged and gave him a look that can be seen only on an irate goat’s face. Lionheart gave up. “If you’re here, Rose Red’s got to be close.” He looked into the forest, though he knew it was useless. Rose Red would not be found unless she wanted to be.
“Please, Rosie,” he said. “I’m . . . I’m lost. I need you.”
He felt her behind him. How she came to be there, he didn’t know, but he knew as surely as he breathed that she stood there.
“Don’t look around, Leo,” she said.
He gulped. Then he slowly started to turn. “Rosie—”
“No! Please!”
He stopped, licking his lips. “I know already,” he said. “I know you’re without your veil.”
“I cain’t—” Her voice was so small, more frightened than he’d ever heard it before. She hardly sounded like the spunky mountain-climbing companion he’d once known. “I cain’t bear to have you see me like this.”
“But, Rosie, I already saw,” he said. “Remember? All those years ago, when you took me to the cave to show me the mountain monster?”