Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6) (31 page)

But Eanrin rushed on, his words an angry torrent now. “You think you can’t put a foot wrong? You think because the Prince has seen fit to use you for his good purpose that you can now start deciding what that good purpose is? Look at this Path we walk! It’s not one of our own, and you don’t know where it will lead, yet because
he
walks it, you’re willing to go tripping along, sweet as you please!”

“You don’t even know Sun Eagle, and yet you distrust him. You’ve given him no opportunity to prove himself.”

“You don’t know him either! You know only what you’ve stored up in that mortal memory of yours, and I’m here to tell you it’s not so trustworthy as you seem to think.”

Her eyes blazed. She would have struck him in that moment had she not caught at the last shreds of her self-control. Instead, she said coldly, “I see no reason for you to continue with us, then. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and walking what Paths I choose. I will do as I have purposed, and I’ll do it alone.”

“Alone? Ha!” The cat-man tossed back his head in a mirthless laugh. “That’s a fine joke, that is! So you really believe I’m going to just let you go marching off to certain doom and folly?”

“If you’re so certain it’s doom and folly, you can turn around and wash your hands of it!”

“That I won’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because I love you.”

The Wood held its breath. A hundred invisible creatures watched from hidden places, biting nails, eyes bulging. Their ears rang with the shouts, the accusations, but all these faded away into this one final, quiet declaration. They watched and they did not move, even as Imraldera stood like stone, unable to breathe or speak or even think.

The poet took a step, closing the distance between them. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” he snarled. Then, because he could not bear the look in her eyes, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her; kissed her hard, for he had already seen what her answer would be when she found the ability to speak, but he could fool himself still, in this small moment before the answer came.

Imraldera wrenched away, stepping back so suddenly that she would have fallen had he not deftly caught her upper arm. “No,” she gasped, frightened out of her anger. “No, no, no. This is all wrong.”

“Wrong?” Eanrin whispered, unable to look at her now.

She put a hand to her heart, uncertain that it still beat, and was sur
prised to feel it pounding a thunderous pace beneath her palm. She drew a tremulous breath and closed her eyes. “Eanrin, I didn’t think . . . I’m sorry, I never even . . . I don’t know what to . . .”

She stopped and let that horrible silence linger again, for horrible as it was, it was better than anything she tried to say.

Eanrin spoke softly. “I know. You don’t love me.”

“No, no please. I do care about you! But we are knights; we serve together.” She took hold of his hand and removed it from her arm. His fingers were icy cold. “We can’t . . . there could never be . . . Dragon’s teeth, Eanrin,
what about
Lady Gleamdren
?”

“Who?”

Now Imraldera felt the anger returning, heightened by embarrassment and an odd sensation of shame and even fear. She stepped away from him, shaking her head and glaring furiously. “That woman to whom you’ve dedicated
centuries’
worth of romantic poetry! Poetry
I’ve
been copying for more than a hundred years myself! How . . . how could you?”

Afraid she would disgrace herself with tears and render this whole unbearable scene beyond unbearable, Imraldera turned her back on the poet, pressing her hands to her heated face. He growled behind her, “You know Gleamdren means nothing to me. You’re making excuses. You love this Sun Eagle.”

“No,” she said quickly, without looking round. “No, you don’t understand.”

“But you’ll throw away everything for him. This man you were to marry.”

“I was pledged to him. It wasn’t my decision.” She lowered her hands and raised her head, putting her shoulders back like a soldier ready for battle. “But
this
is my decision. And I will do as I have purposed. And I hope—” Her voice faltered but she struggled on. “I hope that we can somehow—”

A hideous shriek shattered the air, and both knights startled and turned to see the figures moving through the shadows of the trees. The first was a great white lion; the second was Nidawi, and she clutched a young redheaded maiden before her, her long claw-like nails held threateningly at the girl’s throat.

“Cren Cru!”
Nidawi cried. She was old as a hag, but muscled and lithe, and her wild white hair was held back with equally white bones. “Look what I have, Cren Cru! I’ve got you, and I’ll hurt you if you don’t show your wicked face!”

Eanrin and Imraldera stared at the horrible figure. They did not know the girl captive in Nidawi’s clutches, her arm twisted behind her to the point of breaking, blood running down her neck from five thin nail cuts. They saw only that she was mortal and in great pain.

And she wore a bronze stone about her neck.

“What is this? Are you preying on mortal maidens now?” Eanrin cried, his wrath more potent than he had ever known it to be. Quite exhilarating, in fact, ready to carry him off on a tidal wave of destruction. He drew a knife from his belt and leapt forward.

Lioness moved into his way, roaring, the hair on her back bristling. Eanrin, without changing pace, sank down into cat’s form, dwarfed by the massive bulk of the lion but equally vicious. He threw himself at her head, and she was too slow to evade the slash of his claws, which left red lines down her white face. But she caught him with her second swing, the thunk of her paw sending him flying. He struck a tree and landed in the form of a man, groaning.

“Eanrin!” Imraldera cried, then turned on the Lioness and Nidawi. She strode forward shouting furiously, “Drop that girl at once!”

“Girl?” said Nidawi, gnashing her white teeth. “Is that what you think this thing is? A girl? Don’t you see the Bronze? Don’t you know it?”

But Imraldera saw only the poor mortal, sick and near to fainting, blood running down her pale white skin. Imraldera had no weapon, but she flung out her hands and spoke a sharp word like a command.

And the tree behind Nidawi rose up as though from a long sleep and swung a branch at the Faerie queen’s head. It struck her, and she dropped the girl, who fell to the ground, landing on all fours.

For a moment, Imraldera glimpsed a red, bloodstained wolf.

Mine!

A sensation of pure instinct—driven, hungry, desperate instinct—filled the Wood with a potency as hot as fire, as cold as ice, as sure as the oncoming
storm. Daylily rose and looked beyond Nidawi, who was grappling with the tree, to a place in the shadows where Sun Eagle suddenly stood.

Mine!

Nidawi, pulling away from the tree—which sank back into itself and its quiet watchfulness—saw Sun Eagle as well. She sprang for him, and he, though his leg must have wrung with pain at every step, dodged her assault and swung out his stone knife, slashing one of her long, muscular arms.

Lioness screamed her fury at the scent of Nidawi’s blood. Sun Eagle turned as she sprang, and braced himself, his knife in both hands. Lioness, her eyes red, descended like lightning, her claws tearing, her mouth open and hungry for vengeance.

She fell upon his blade, which plunged deep into her huge, ancient heart.

They landed in a heap, and silence followed the thud of their bodies. Eanrin, picking himself up, and Imraldera, hastening toward Daylily, stared at that mass of white stillness. Then it moved, heaved, and the carcass of the lion fell to one side as Sun Eagle emerged from beneath.

“NO!”

Nidawi, suddenly no longer the powerful hag but a tiny child, screeching with a heartbreak that children should never know, rushed upon the body of Lioness, even her enemy forgotten as the shattering of unbearable grief broke her into sobs. “No! No, get up, Lioness!” She pulled and tore at the fallen beast’s body, screaming and gasping between screams.

Sun Eagle, moving swiftly but with a jerking and unnatural pace that betrayed the pain of his wounds, stepped to Imraldera’s side. “Come with me, Starflower?” he asked.

She stared at him, unable to speak. Then she took a step back.

His face was a mask. He reached out and took hold of Daylily’s hand. “Please,” Daylily whispered, “please, we must—”

The brightness of the Bronze flared up and hid them, and when it faded, they were gone. Nidawi cast herself upon the body of the fallen lion, still screaming, no longer able to hold herself upright.

“Go to her.” Eanrin’s voice was low in Imraldera’s ear. She turned to him, stricken, and he would not meet her gaze. “Go to her. Offer her comfort if you can. I’ll follow the other two.”

“She . . . she would have killed them . . .” Imraldera whispered as though making an excuse. But she could not go on.

Eanrin touched her face. “Go to her,” he said again. Then he too was gone, leaving Imraldera in the Wood with the inconsolable Faerie queen.

Afraid her legs would betray her, Imraldera moved to the side of the broken beast and knelt. She gently stroked Nidawi’s hair. The ancient child did not seem to notice but went on weeping noisily, casting her voice to the heavens one moment, burying her mouth deeply in the fur of her friend the next.

Then, as sudden as the fall of night, Nidawi sat up. “This is
your
fault!” she shouted at Imraldera, her voice trembling as though the sorrow were both terribly new and terribly old. “You should have given him to me! Now he’s killed her too! Cren Cru has taken
everything
!”

She stood up. Though she did not change size but remained the tiny child, she put out her arms and gathered up the enormous bulk of the white lion. Then she too vanished.

Imraldera sat alone beneath the spreading trees. And she bowed her head with deeper shame than she had ever before experienced.

“My Lord,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

Deep in the forest, a wood thrush sang, and his voice carried over the vast distance to touch her ear, saying, “Won’t you return to me?”

Imraldera wept.

L
IONHEART
’
S
HEAD
came up with a start. He hadn’t been asleep, had he? No, he knew better than to sleep again. He groaned a soft curse and twisted his neck, which crackled disconcertingly. All right, maybe he had nodded off. But really, who could blame him?

Though the baroness had seen to it that kindling was provided, Lionheart had not bothered to light a fire in the grate, preferring the tower—and his troubles—sunk into the oblivion brought by night. Now, as he returned wearily to consciousness, he began to think differently. Up here in the tower, where the wind whistled in the eaves and all the world was far below, he was so isolated.

But then, he’d been cut off since his father spoke that final word when the Council declared its decision:

“I
hereby strip my son, Lionheart, of all right of rule,
both now and evermore. Leave my presence, my son.”

Lionheart got to his feet. He could hear by the baron’s breathing that
Middlecrescent was not asleep. He could almost feel the baron’s enormous eyes watching him. Surely not even an old bloodsucker like Middlecrescent could see in the dark. Could he?

Pretending to be unaware of the baron’s gaze, Lionheart crossed to the tower window. It was little more than a lighter patch of darkness, for the sky was not only heavy in the small hours after midnight, it was also cloud covered, making it darker still. Not even the relief of the moon’s silver eye could be had on a night such as this. But the Eldest’s City was alight with fear and uncertainty, lanterns burning like the fallen children of Hymlumé. And directly below in the courtyard, torches were lit, and Lionheart could see the shadows of angry men going to and fro.

“You know the truth.”

Lionheart stiffened at the sound of the baron’s voice but hoped he did not betray the icy chill down his spine. He refused to turn but continued looking down into the courtyard.

“The crown should be mine.”

Lionheart heard the baron shifting in his bindings behind him.

“Your cousin is a fool at best. A weak man. Not the leader Southlands needs in this time of crisis. It was a blessing, not a curse, when he disappeared those months ago. Indeed,” and the baron’s voice shifted to a smooth, softer lilt, “I was tempted to bring it about myself.”

“Tempted to murder?” Lionheart said, making no attempt to disguise the disgust in his voice.

“Tempted to make the hard decision for the good of the nation. As every true king must.” The baron rose heavily to his feet. Lionheart had given his captive enough rope to allow him to stand, but not enough that he could take so much as a step away from the iron ring in the wall. Middlecrescent drew himself up to his full height and breadth and spoke with an earnestness Lionheart had never before heard from him.

“You know the truth, deep in your heart. You’ve known it for years now. When the Dragon fell from the sky, who kept Southlands strong? When your father, your mother, and your fool cousin Foxbrush were imprisoned in this very house at the Dragon’s mercy, who maintained unity among the barons? Who dealt with shortened resources, with isolation, with panic
and gradually spreading anarchy as poison filled every beating heart? Who was it, Lionheart? Tell me, who?”

Lionheart did not answer. He put out a hand to support himself against the wall, glad once more for the darkness. A burden of fear and guilt weighed him down, and though he listened, he could hear no song or leading. Only the baron’s words like daggers in his back.

“Your mother would have known. Had she been alive when the Council made its decision, she would have backed me. She would never have let Hawkeye name such an imbecile his heir. The hope of Southlands? Bah!”

“That’s . . . not true,” Lionheart said slowly. “Mother always liked Foxbrush.” Actually, his mother had always seemed to prefer her nephew to her son, which had done nothing to foster good feeling between the cousins. Somehow, Queen Starflower, stern and masterful as she was, had seen something in Foxbrush that she believed her son lacked. Had she survived the Occupation, Lionheart did not doubt she would have supported her husband’s decision to instate Foxbrush as heir.

The thought was a bitter one. Lionheart bowed his head.

“Then she was a greater fool than I’ve always believed,” said the baron. “She knew what Southlands needs. A strong Eldest. A ruthless Eldest, even. A man who can bring it back from the brink of collapse and see it thrive once more!”

Lionheart did not answer, and silence fell for a little while. Even beyond the door, all was quiet. Were guards still stationed there, they might have fallen asleep for all the sound they made.

“You know this is true, Lionheart. You know it as well as I.” The baron shifted, tugging uselessly against his bindings. “So why are you giving up your life for the sake of a cousin you know will never be fit to sit on your father’s throne?”

It was a fair question. As much as Lionheart would have liked to ignore it, he knew it was fair. He didn’t want to see Foxbrush in his father’s—in
his
—place. Could there be a greater disaster for Southlands? Could there be a worse fate?

And could there be a keener shame than watching his cousin and rival
take everything that had ever been meant to be Lionheart’s? Foxbrush deserved none of it!

Lionheart leaned his head against the window frame. The window itself was open, but though the high winds blew cold around the tower, they offered no relief. “My Path led me here,” he whispered.

“What?” the baron demanded, tilting his head.

“My Path led me here.” Feeling as though he might collapse under the weight of words he did not wish to speak, Lionheart turned. As he turned, the moon emerged from behind a cloud and lit him from behind while simultaneously falling into the baron’s enormous eyes. “It led me here, and here I’ll stay until it leads me on.”

“Your path has led you to your death,” said the baron. But his voice was less confident now. For in that moment, he could see what Lionheart could not. He saw the moon shining, and it looked to him like a gentle eye, watchful and concerned. He saw how its light fell upon Lionheart’s hair and seemed to shine there as a crown. And he saw the thin wisp of cloud that drifted across the moon and took the shape of some enormous bird, wings spread in gathering protection, a creature of monstrous and mythic proportions, a creature of power and benevolence and wrath.

The baron quaked. Slowly he sank back down upon the floor.

The vision passed and clouds swallowed up the moon, leaving the high tower in darkness again. Lionheart, exhausted, returned to his post by the door. How tempting it was, for a moment so brief it might not have existed at all, to open it and give way. To let the course of history progress as it wished, with strong men in power and a hope for a brutal revival. To let himself be carried off, a traitor to be tried by the Council and hanged. To give up. To give in.

But he stood with his back to the door and crossed his arms. “My Path led me here,” he whispered. “And here I’ll stay.”

They were silent for so long, they might each have drifted off in the darkness to realms of far dreams.

Suddenly the baron said, “Who helped you?”

“What?” Lionheart frowned and peered through the gloom at the prisoner he could not see. “What did you say?”

“I know you could not have done this alone. You could not have secreted away these ropes of mine, or the kindling, for you would have been recognized. You had help from the inside. Who was it, Lionheart? Was it Blackrock? Or Evenwell? Disloyal dogs at heart, I know, for all their protestations of friendship.”

“No,” Lionheart said and hastily added, “There was no one, baron. I acted alone.”

“Liar.”

“Well, yes. But I’ll say no more.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll get it out of you. Before you hang.”

Lionheart made a face. His throat was parched for want of water, and his stomach was empty. The threat of death made none of this more bearable, and he growled, “Do what you like, baron. You’ll not get a word from me. Despite what you might think, I do still possess some shreds of honor.”

“Honor?” said the baron, musing over the word. He was quiet again for some time. Then he said, “So it
was
a woman.”

How anyone could come to that conclusion based off Lionheart’s words was testimony to a keen, near-animalistic cunning. Like a scent hound following the culprit across marshy ground, so the baron pursued a line of reason, however faint and untraceable it might be to another.

“Think as you will,” Lionheart said, perhaps too quickly.

“A woman,” said the baron again, musingly. “How intriguing this game becomes. Now, I wonder what—”

He broke off with a gasp. Lionheart, glad for the reprieve, took a seat on the floor and rested his tired head in his hands. He began to wonder if the night would never end.

The baron spoke with gentle venom: “I’ll have her hanged as well.”

Lionheart looked up sharply, and his heart began to pound. He must be mistaken. He must have fallen asleep, into some dreadful nightmare. He must have invented that sound from the shards of a tired mind pushed over the brink. He
must
have.

Because he couldn’t bear to believe he’d truly heard tears in the baron’s voice.