A WHOLE YEAR HAD PASSED since Rose Red vanished behind the gate.
Beana paced the circumference of the Eldest’s grounds every day, seeking some way in. The days and nights blended into one another, and for some while she lost track of time entirely; it scarcely mattered in that ever-present gloom of smoke. But she woke from an uneasy sleep one day and realized that a year had gone by. And still, not a sign of her girl. Nor of any weakness in the Dragon’s stronghold.
“Why don’t you come?” she whispered, reaching out to touch the barred gates, straining her eyes to see inside the Eldest’s courtyard. The Dragon’s courtyard. But the smoke was too thick. For all Beana could see, the House might have completely vanished. “Why don’t you come deliver these people?”
She listened for a reply but heard nothing. Beana bowed her head.
“Give her what she needs, my Lord. I beg you. Since I cannot help her, give her what she needs to walk your Path in safety.”
When Beana spoke again, she sent her voice through the bars, deep into the swirling smoke, desperate for it to carry across distances greater than she could guess.
“Remember the Name, Rosie.”
Beana had warned her of the Paths.
Warned may not be the right word. But when Rose Red was a little girl, she had taken Beana’s words as a warning. The Paths were dangerous unless used with great care. They crisscrossed the entire world, and one could follow them across vast distances in a moment. But sometimes it wasn’t a moment . . . sometimes it was a thousand years. One must choose a Path carefully.
Some Paths were good. One could follow these and be certain to reach the right destination in a right time. Others, however, were malevolent or controlled by those with malicious intent. It was best to avoid a Faerie Path unless one knew for certain who controlled it. With good intentions and a trusting heart, a body could step onto a Path, expecting a clear road through the wood, and end up instead in the depths of a swamp at the mercy of a will-o’-the-wisp, or at the gates of some dark tower to which travelers are lured, imprisoned, and never seen again.
“Most mortal folk can’t see the Paths,” Beana had explained, “but they can stumble onto them just the same and end up in a terrible mess, dragged into the Halflight Realm or into the Far World beyond. They’ll lead you through any place and time, sometimes all at once. Most who follow a Faerie Path never return.
“This is why I’m showing you now, my Rosie. Learn to recognize which Paths are safe and which are not, which will lead you straight and true, and which are no better than snares. And my best advice to you: Don’t use any of them!”
This Path was a trap if ever there was one. Rose Red recalled Leo’s boyhood voice, speaking from across the years: “In my book, there is an engraving of the Gateway to Death. It looks like that. Like a wolf’s head.”
But this was the Path down which Daylily had wandered.
Rose Red passed through the door into the tunnel. It was like stepping off a cliff, that crossing into the Netherworld. This was the Dragon’s Path, more dangerous than any she had encountered on the mountain . . . save the one she’d followed to the Monster’s Cave. At the time, that Path had seemed harmless. But the moment Rose Red’s feet crossed the threshold into the descending tunnel, she realized that this was, in fact, the very same Path she’d walked in the mountains. Only now she recognized it for what it was.
The Path to Death’s world.
“Remember the Name, Rosie.”
The voice touched Rose Red with more force than a mere memory just as she stepped through the doorway. She stopped as her hand let go of the supporting door frame and she stood fully in the darkness of that tunnel. She closed her eyes and pictured her goat, her comforter, her friend.
“But you’re alone now,” she whispered to herself, and her eyes flared open again. “Beana’s gone. You’re alone now, and you’ve got to be strong.”
Rose Red walked blindly down that dark incline. She had never before encountered darkness so absolute. Always her eyes behind their veil could find some light and make use of it to guide her steps. There was no light here, however, no help for her. She must walk forward through that sickening stench, feeling out each step with a tentative toe. At first she was afraid to seek the wall of the tunnel for support, but at length she put out her hand. She nearly screamed at what she felt.
The familiar plaster and woodwork of the stairway.