Moonblood (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #3) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Read Free Book Online

morning dawned, it was a sorry excuse for a prince that dragged himself from his pillow and faced his own reflection in the glass. His fingers trembled as he trimmed his beard and splashed icy water into his eyes. Then he dressed himself, slowly, in princely apparel of blue and scarlet.
    Today he must ride out with Daylily and her father and other members of his father’s court, through the main street of the Eldest’s City, ending at the mayor’s house, where they would stop and present themselves to the people of Southlands, all smiles and love. And masks.
    Daylily’s cheerless face presented itself in his mind. When she smiled, her eyes did not show it. Not so with Una.
    Lionheart closed his eyes, grimacing as he finished buttoning his doublet and placed a silver crown upon his brow.
    When Una smiled, it filled her whole face, and when she laughed, there was no trace of artificiality.
    “Iubdan’s beard!” The Prince of Southlands swore through grinding teeth. “You gave her up, you fool.”
    You did what you had to do.
    “I had my reasons. And I would do it again if need be!” His unfeeling mirror stared back at him, reflecting only his self-loathing. Lionheart turned away, unable to meet his own gaze.
    He was Prince of Southlands. His kingdom must always come first. He made his way down from his chambers to where the Eldest’s court waited to feast him and his bride.

    The dragon was clothed in the form of a young woman, hardly more than a girl, her back pressed against the cliff. Her dress, which might once have been very fine, was in tatters, darkened by dirt so that its color was indeterminable. Honey-brown hair hung long and straggly about her, partially covering her face. But she pulled some of it back to look up at Rose Red.
    Fire gleamed in her unblinking eyes.
    Rose Red stood like a statue for what seemed a small forever. All the memories of the last few years rushed back into her mind. Memories of a dark Path and a black lake; memories of a ballroom lit with ghostly chandeliers suspended in shadows; memories of dancing to discordant music and of jewels gleaming on rich gowns.
    Memories of dragons.
    The wood thrush sang across the morning. Take heart, dear one.
    Rose Red swallowed and stepped up behind her goat. “Beana told me someone needed help down here,” she said, hoping her voice did not tremble much. “Shoo, Beana,” she added, nudging the goat aside so that she could sidle past her.
    “Bah!”
    The dragon drew back, pressing herself more firmly against the rock. Despite the fire burning so hot inside her that the air steamed from her skin, she did not seem to possess the energy to rise. “Who are you?” she demanded in a harsh voice. But her face was afraid.
    Rose Red put out a hand, speaking as gently as she could, though every instinct warned her to flee. “I am nobody,” she said. “Who are you?”
    The dragon shook her head and suddenly buried her face in her knees. Her body trembled. Could she possibly be cold?
    Don’t be such a coward, Rose Red scolded herself. She ain’t even as old as you! And she’s more frightened than you are. She took another step and spoke in a soothing voice. “Have you come from the Wilderlands? Are you trying to climb to the Eldest’s City?”
    The dragon did not look up but shrugged her shoulders.
    If she was trying to make her way to the city, Rose Red would have to stop her. The last thing the people of Southlands needed was another dragon in their midst. Though this one was a far cry from her dark Father, she was a dragon nonetheless. Poor, pitiable thing. Rose Red stepped still closer. “You are weak and worn,” she said. Then her voice caught in her throat.
    The dragon sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. One of them was gray with ash and soot and had traces of burns.
    The other was covered in scales.
    Rose Red drew in a sharp breath. Her heart raced as the memories returned again, more powerfully than ever, memories of fire and