“Will you come back to my father’s house, then?”
She nodded. The people of Southlands hated her. They wanted to kill her. But somehow, she would serve the prince even so.
Lionheart, as he had done those long years ago, took her hand and kissed it. “There was never such a one as you, Rose Red,” he said. “Bless you a thousand times!”
So they started back down the mountain, Lionheart leading the way with his beanpole, Rose Red trailing behind with Beana. Perhaps it wasn’t the joyous ending to the five long years for which one would have hoped. The hero did not return home triumphant from battle. The girl did not find comfort in the arms of her beloved. But the Dragon was gone, and rebuilding could begin. And they had each other for support. Dawn would find them on the road back to the Eldest’s House, back to whatever new life the day could bring.
And the silver song of the wood thrush echoed through the mountains, calling:
Won’t you return to me?
Prologue
THE UNICORN STOOD before the gates of Palace Var. It guarded the paths to and from Arpiar, watching them with eyes that burned through all tricks and disguises. The roses climbing the stone walls of Var cast their moonlit shadows upon the unicorn’s back in dappled patterns. If a wind swelled, those patterns shifted, but the unicorn never moved.
The Queen of Arpiar could see the unicorn through a window in her chambers, where she lay upon her pillows. She turned her gaze away, closing her eyes.
“My queen,” said her head woman. “The child lives. You have a daughter.”
Across the darkened room, a newborn made no sound as gentle hands wrapped it in red and gold. When the babe had not cried at its birth, the queen had thought perhaps it was dead.
“A daughter,” she whispered. Tears slipped down her cheek. “No.”
Before she could dash traces of weeping from her face, her husband entered. Without a glance for his queen, he went to the cradle and looked inside. He smiled, and though his face was more beautiful than tongue could tell, the queen shuddered at the sight.
“A daughter!” Triumph filled the king’s voice. He turned to the queen and laughed in her face. “A pretty daughter, my pretty bride. With blood as red as the red, red rose. Her name will be Varvare.”
“Please,” his wife spoke in a small voice. “Please, my lord.”
“Please what, sweet Anahid?” The king laughed again and moved to the queen’s bedside. He took her hand and, though she struggled against him, would not release his hold. “You’d think I was disappointed in you. On the contrary, beloved, I could not be better satisfied! You have proven more useful than I dared hope.”
He dropped her hand and addressed himself to her head woman and the other attendants present. “See to it you care well for my darling Varvare. My perfect rose.”
With those words he vanished from the chamber, though the shadow of his presence lingered long afterward.
Nevertheless, the moment he was out of sight, Queen Anahid rallied. She pushed upright on her cushions, turning once more to that sight out her window. The unicorn stood at its post near the roses, and it was hateful to her. But there was one path, she knew, that it did not guard.
“Bring me clothes and a cloak of midnight.” She turned to her attendants, who stared at her. “At once.”
They exchanged glances, but no one moved. In all the realm of Arpiar, not a soul could be found who loved the king. But neither was there a heart that did not sink with fear at the mention of his name. Thus the queen’s servants remained frozen in place when she spoke. The queen stared at them with her great silver eyes, and they would not meet her gaze.
“Will no one serve their queen?” she asked.
They made no answer.
Straining so that a vein stood out on her forehead, Queen Anahid flung back the soiled blankets of her labor and rose from her bed. Her head woman gasped, “My queen!”
In that moment, the princess, who had made no more than a whimper since the time of her birth, gave a cry from her cradle. The piteous sound worked a magic of its own on the assembled servants. One leapt to the cradle and gently lifted the child. Another ran to the queen’s side, and a third did as the queen had asked and brought her clean garments and a cloak as black as the night.
The queen was weak from her labor, but her strength returned in the face of need. She let her servants clothe her, then took and wrapped the deep cloak about her shoulders. “Give me the child,” she said, turning to the youngest of her maids, who stood trembling near to hand, shushing the babe.
“My queen,” her head woman spoke, “are you certain—”
“Do you doubt me?” The queen’s eyes flashed. She took the baby, adjusting the scarlet and gold cloth that bound the tiny limbs tight. She tucked the warm bundle inside her cloak, close to her heart.