Once In a Blue Moon (10 page)

“Your grandchildren are in danger,” said the Demon Prince sweetly. “They will die, slowly and horribly, unless you return to the Forest Kingdom to save them. A war is coming. Country against country, army against army . . . Farms and towns and cities burning in the night, blood and slaughter in the woods, terror on the march. The darkness is rising, the Blue Moon is coming back, and you and I will play the game of Fate and Destiny one last time. And I will finally have my revenge . . . when the Wild Magic is loosed in the world of men forever. Stop me, my dear ones, if you can.”

He vanished, gone in a moment. Nothing left to show he had ever been there, except for the scorch marks his feet had left on the floor. The old dog at the foot of the bed raised his great grey head.

“Oh, bloody hell. Not again.”

“Hush, Chappie,” said Hawk.

TWO

A MARRIAGE IS ARRANGED

O
n a perfect early-autumn day, under a perfect sky, Princess Catherine of the Kingdom of Redhart went running happily through the huge cultivated gardens outside Castle Midnight, along with her lifetime friend and one true love, the King’s Champion, Malcolm Barrett. She was tall and blonde and beautiful, and he was tall and dark and handsome, and they were so much in love that sometimes they would look into each other’s eyes and find it hard to breathe. They ran back and forth across the great sprawling gardens, chasing and being chased, laughing happily as they revelled and sported across the wide lawns. They ran round and round the artfully piled-up rockeries with their tumbling, bubbling streams, raced round and round the massive flower beds that blazed with brilliant colours, and finally in and out of the neat rows of poplar trees, where squirrels chattered angrily at them from the high branches.

Two young people, so happy in love, on a bright autumnal day. Not a cloud in the sky to warn them that a storm was coming.

Princess Catherine had hair so blonde it all but glowed, bouncing halfway down her back in heavy curls. She had eyes as blue as the sky, lips like heart’s blood, and without even trying she was as cool and refreshing as a drink of clear water straight from the well. Her face was high-boned but not harsh, with a merry gaze that could flash with fire in an instant, and a smile that sometimes seemed to go on forever. She was always happy, always laughing—except for when she lost her temper. And then wise men would flee for the horizon, or at the very least hide behind the furniture until she stopped throwing things. Catherine was always very sorry afterwards, and would even help clean up the mess. As the King’s only daughter, she had been thoroughly indulged, and to her credit, she knew that. Anyone who thought they could use her to get to the King, through gifts and flatteries and blatant insincerities, was in for a rude awakening. And quite possibly a good kick in the arse. Catherine had few real friends, by her own choice, and she was fiercely protective of all of them.

Today, as most other days, Catherine was wearing rough boy’s clothes, consisting of a simple tunic and trousers and boots, because she was always off doing something she knew she wasn’t supposed to be doing, like riding, hunting, exploring, and generally getting into trouble. When cautioned, or even scolded, by her father or others, she would just say that expensive robes and dresses and formal clothes weren’t practical. As though that was the answer to everything. If anyone was ever stupid enough to press the point, she would lose her temper. So most people didn’t press the point. The King had long ago given up trying to make her behave like a Princess.

The King’s Champion, Malcolm Barrett, was tall and wide, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders, and surprisingly graceful for his size, thanks to a lifetime of military training. He was Champion because his father had been Champion before him, and it had honestly never occurred to Malcolm that he should want to be anything else. He was slow and thoughtful, never allowing himself to be hurried into anything; except on the battlefield. No one could move faster than Malcolm Barrett when steel clashed on steel and fire roared in his blood.

Malcolm and Catherine had been close friends since they were children, and in love since they were old enough to understand what that meant. To his credit, Malcolm still couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to win Catherine’s favour. He would have died for her, lived for her, conquered a country for her. She was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever dreamed of.

On this particular autumn day, he was wearing simple, practical leathers, and found them almost indecently comfortable after the chain mail and heavy armour he often had to wear for weeks in a row when out on border skirmishes. Though he was always careful to wear the correct ceremonial armour, burnished to within an inch of its life, when he had to make an official appearance at Court as King’s Champion. Unlike Catherine, he understood the need for proper clothes at proper occasions. He wore the same sword all the time, and there was nothing ceremonial about it; it was a broad butcher’s blade in a much-used scabbard. Because it didn’t hurt to remind certain courtiers and politicians and hangers-on that he was always capable of sudden violence, in the King’s name.

But not today. He didn’t need his sword because he wasn’t the Champion today. He was just a young man in love.

The happy laughter of two young people rang joyously through the widespread gardens. Flower beds had been placed in colourful clock faces, with particular flowers carefully laid out so they would bloom only at the correct hour of the day, to spell out the correct time. Fat fuzzy bees hummed loudly, doing their bit.

Extended rows of trees had been carefully pruned and arranged and forced to form long, shadowy tunnels and graceful arches and bowers, their curving branches intertwined in intricate patterns. The whole glorious retreat was full of rich colours and richer scents.

A man-made stream ran lazily through the gardens, cool and bubbling and endlessly inviting, full of the most beautiful and exotic fish that money could buy, in a long, magical Möbius strip, forever refreshing itself. A delicately carved wooden bridge crossed the river at the most aesthetically appropriate point, with high side rails and a shady roof, lit here and there with permanently glowing paper lanterns. And in the very centre of the gardens, dark green hedges had been expertly sculpted into tall towers. They rose high above the gardens, shooting up forty or fifty feet into the sky. Catherine and Malcolm had often climbed these lofty hedge towers as children, even though—or perhaps because—such a thing was strictly forbidden. They scrambled up the leafy sides, plunging their small hands and feet deep into the tightly packed hedges, getting away with it only because they were children. An adult’s weight would have sent them crashing right through the greenery. (Catherine was always the first to make a dare out of it, and Malcolm was always the first to start climbing. Because he would do anything for her, even then. Though no matter how often they raced to the top, he never let her win. He knew she would never have forgiven him that.) Once they reached the tops of their separate hedge towers, they would sit proudly on the very edge, swaying back and forth in the breeze, their small feet kicking out over the long drop, while they looked out across their whole world, spread out below them.

There were always twenty or thirty gardeners working at once, watering and weeding their way across the gardens, but none of them looked up from what they were doing to watch Catherine and Malcolm at play, in what the gardening staff understandably thought of as
their
gardens. Anyone else, the staff would have glared cold death looks at them for venturing into their territory and not showing the proper appreciation for all the hard work that had gone into it. But they made an exception for Princess Catherine and her young man. Because the staff knew that the young lovers cared for the gardens almost as much as they did.

The King hadn’t walked through his gardens for as long as anybody could remember.

Catherine and Malcolm paused to admire the great cloud of shocking pink flamingos scattered across the artificial lake. Almost unbearably garish, with their impossibly long, curving necks and spindly legs, the flamingos had supposedly started out as Unreal things, magical creatures, like so many that had roamed Castle Midnight back in the day. But the flamingos had become increasingly real, generation by generation, and it had been a long time since they’d been any colour but pink. There wasn’t much Unreal left in Castle Midnight these days, to everyone’s quiet relief.

The Princess and the Champion moved on, hand in hand, and then chased each other round and round the great Standing Stone until they were breathless and giddy. Though tired as they were, neither of them leaned on the Stone. A tall outcropping of jagged black stone, lumpy and shapeless, it was old, very old. Some said older than the Castle itself. The old name for the Stone, among the peasants and farmers, was The God Within. There were many places in Redhart where the ancient beliefs still persisted: that a forgotten pagan god or devil still stood imprisoned or asleep within the Standing Stone, waiting to reemerge in Redhart’s hour of greatest need.

And whether you considered that a good or a bad thing depended on which versions of the old stories you listened to.

The Standing Stone was quite definitely Unreal, but almost everything else of that nature was gone. Ghosts no longer wandered the Castle corridors at night, the Castle’s rooms stayed where they were supposed to, and the gargoyles up on the roof were just stone carvings. The Wild Magic had departed from Castle Midnight, and from most of Redhart, and nearly everyone agreed that while this might be less romantic, it was quite definitely safer for all concerned.

Catherine grabbed Malcolm’s broad wrists in her tiny hands, and spun him round and round till both of them were giddy, and then she pulled him forward till they were face-to-face, eyes bright, mouths stretched in smiles that seemed like they would last forever. Catherine moved in closer, till their noses were almost touching and they could feel each other’s breath on their mouths.

“I think we’ve been engaged long enough,” said Catherine. “I think . . . it’s time we got married!”

Malcolm laughed. “I thought I was supposed to ask you?”

“You were taking too long,” said Catherine.

“What about your father, the King?” said Malcolm.

“He knows all about us!” said Catherine. “Always has. He knows everything that goes on. If he didn’t think you were suitable, he’d have broken us up long ago.”

“I meant,” said Malcolm, “that it is traditional for the King to set the date for a Royal wedding.”

“He’s been taking too long,” said Catherine. “I think a month from now will do nicely. I’ll tell him.”

“You do that,” said Malcolm. “I’ll watch. From a safe distance, and preferably while hiding behind something.”

“You’re not frightened of Daddy, are you? He’s just an old softie, really.”

“To you, maybe. To me, he is my King.” Malcolm looked at her thoughtfully. “And besides, don’t I get any say in any of this?”

Catherine pouted playfully. “You do want to marry me, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” said Malcolm.

“Love me?” said Catherine.

“Love you,” said Malcolm.

“Forever?”

“Forever and a day.”

They kissed, and then she squealed delightedly as he picked her up off her feet and swung her round and round. Such a happy day, and everything to live for. They had no reason at all to suspect bad news. In fact, when Malcolm finally put Catherine down, and they looked round to see an official Court herald making his way steadily through the gardens, in his official tabard of crimson and cream, obviously looking for someone . . . it never even occurred to the Princess and the Champion that the herald might be looking for them. Until he finally spotted the two of them and headed determinedly in their direction. Looking pale and unhappy, but determined.

“What could he possibly want with us?” said Catherine, frowning for the first time. “I haven’t broken anything important for ages.”

“Not everything is about you,” Malcolm said fondly. “It could be there’s been another border incursion by Forest forces and the King wants me to go out on patrol again.”

“Oh, boring!” said Catherine.

“For you, maybe,” said Malcolm, amused. “Just because we call these encounters skirmishes, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real battles. Good men die, on both sides, every day, fighting over that stupid stretch of land.”

Catherine placed both her palms on his chest and gazed into his eyes, immediately contrite. “I do worry about you when you’re away from me. Just because you’re the Champion, it doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Malcolm said solemnly.

“Take care of yourself,” said Catherine. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, my Princess.”

They both looked round, and moved just a little apart, as the herald finally arrived and lurched to a halt before them, more than a little out of breath. He’d been searching for them for some time, they could tell. The herald saluted them both and launched quickly into his memorised message, because he really didn’t want to be stopped or interrupted, as he knew they were going to want to do.

“Princess Catherine, sir Champion, King William commands that you both attend him at the current session of Court. Immediately. As in right now, no excuses, no stopping off along the way. The King has an important announcement to make, affecting both of you. That’s it—thank you. I really must be going now—goodbye.”

And he was off and running, back through the gardens at full pelt, before they could even think to try to question him. Which was not a good sign. Catherine and Malcolm looked at each other.

“What the hell was that all about?” said Malcolm.

“An official announcement, in front of the whole Court, that affects both of us?” said Catherine. “It can’t be . . . I haven’t even talked to him about the marriage yet!”

“If this was a happy thing,” Malcolm said slowly, “the herald wouldn’t have bolted like that. I’ve never seen anyone run so fast who didn’t have someone on horseback chasing him. No. I think . . . this is something to do with the worsening military situation between Redhart and the Forest. Maybe the negotiations have broken down, at last. Maybe, just maybe, this is war.”