Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6) (42 page)

“What defense do you make before these accusations?” he asked.

“None,” said the baron.

“Do you deny that you attempted through trickery and force to take the throne before the due course of law could be decided?”

“I do not deny it.”

“Do you deny that you attempted to execute my cousin Prince Lionheart”—here again the crowd gasped, for Lionheart had not been named ‘prince’ in public for many a long month—“without fair trial?”

“I deny nothing,” said the baron.

“And this good woman, the baroness, your wife. And . . . and . . .” Foxbrush blinked and looked around at Dovetree, who was biting down so hard on the cotton in her mouth that her jaw might actually break. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have no idea who you are.”

“Leave her for now,” said Daylily.

Foxbrush shrugged and addressed the baron once more. “Your sins are many, and your guilt is great. By your own admission, you condemn yourself before the barons of Southlands, all my gathered court, and the ambassadors of our allies.”

The baron looked up into the face of a king. He hated it. Oh, how he hated to admit it, even in the very depths of his heart. But it was a king he faced, not Foxbrush, the malleable boy he had intended for his daughter’s husband. A king in power, and a king with the support of the nation behind him.

“What do you suggest I do with you, baron?” Foxbrush asked.

“I suggest you hang me,” said the baron.

“No!”

Everyone started at the suddenness of the cry. The baroness, liberated
from the noose but still chained at the wrists, scrambled down the scaffold stairs, nearly tripping over her frilly skirts. “No, no, no, don’t say such a thing!” she scolded her husband, wringing her hands in his face. “No one should hang; you know that, my love! Daylily is back, and dear, dear Foxbrush, just as I always told you! And he will be Eldest as is right, and no one—
no one
—should hang!”

With those words, she flung her still-bound arms around the neck of the man who would, but a few minutes before, have seen her dead, and she clung there like a limpet.

For a moment Foxbrush stood baffled by this turn of events. Recovering himself, he said, “You have a single advocate, then, Baron Middlecrescent. Is there another who would speak for you?”

Daylily felt the words reach out and touch her like the coldness of a knife. She was aware of Lionheart’s gaze upon the side of her face, and she knew that he too was transported suddenly back to a cold winter’s day, when an innocent girl with the face of a goblin was brought to trial before an angry mob.
“Is there
no one who can speak for you?”
Lionheart had asked her then.

The girl had looked right into Daylily’s eyes. Daylily had seen the pleading, the desperate hope. And yet she had said nothing.

All of this washed over her, and she reached out to support herself on the scaffolding. Then, as the echoes of Foxbrush’s question faded into silence, she said, “I will speak for my father.”

All eyes fixed upon her, including the baron’s. He watched this unknown creature with fearful eyes. For this was not the girl he had crafted and formed so carefully over the years to fulfill his intended purpose. This wild thing, this wolfish beauty, was something he dared not name. She could not be his daughter. But she looked down upon him, and in those wolf’s eyes he saw, of all strange and horrible things, kindness.

“I will speak for him, my lord,” she said to Foxbrush. “I plead for his life not on his own merit, for indeed, he deserves nothing from you. But I ask you for undeserved grace in light of the grace you have so recently shown me.”

Lionheart thought he must have died in truth, hanged some moments
ago by the neck. For only in some other world beyond the veil of mortal life would he ever have expected to hear such compassion from the mouth of Lady Daylily!

But Foxbrush nodded solemnly. “Very well,” he said. “I will spare his life. But I hereby strip him of all his property and riches, bestowing them upon his rightful heir, Lady Daylily of Middlecrescent. And the former baron will be escorted to the borders of Southlands within a month’s time, never to return. Should he ever be discovered within my realm again, he will be thrown once more upon the mercy of my court.”

So the baron was hauled to his feet, still with the baroness clinging to him, weeping gently in relief for his life. He was escorted out of the yard, with all the eyes of his friends-turned-enemies watching. He cast a last glance back over his shoulder at his daughter and the man who would be her husband.

And he thought,
It was a good plan. It might have
worked.

Then he was hurried into the House under armed guard, and the door shut behind him so that he did not hear the murmur that erupted in the crowd at his going. The murmur soon turned to something like a cheer. Then someone shouted out in a clear, golden voice:

“All hail Eldest Foxbrush!”

“Hail!”
responded the crowd in spontaneous agreement. Hands rose in high salute, and the cheer burst out in good earnest now, as though a coronation had just been held, not a sentencing. Foxbrush, standing on the scaffold with Daylily on one hand and Lionheart on the other (poor Dovetree collapsed to her knees and shivering behind), gazed out into the throng of those who were now his people. And he thought he saw the whole of Southlands, both ancient and future: the wild jungles of yesterday, the shining cities and ripening orchards of tomorrow. He loved it with the love of pounding blood. For he was king, both now and then. He was the King of Here and There.

A bright face caught his eye. A face he almost recognized but couldn’t quite see behind the double eye patches it wore. A brilliant smile and a wave, and the face disappeared into the throng before Foxbrush could even say for certain that he had seen it.

None of this mattered, though. For suddenly Daylily took him by his ruined hands, turned him to her, and pierced him to the quick with the intensity of her eyes. To his relief, she closed them and leaned in to kiss him. He’d never kissed anyone before. But then, he’d never saved lives or passed sentences or ruled nations before either. He could learn as he went, and somehow he didn’t think the learning would be all that bad.

The cheers of the crowd grew, and Felix whooped and hollered as loudly as the rest of them, raising his sprained wrist above his head. For this is how heroic tales should end. Everyone knows it, poets and soldiers, peasants and nobles, ladies and gentlemen and children and grandparents. Everyone knows this: The end of all stories of love and blood should be a kiss. The kiss of true love found and finally recognized.

Lionheart, standing by, grinned at the dazed expression on his cousin’s face and even clapped Foxbrush on the shoulder. He could not quite bring himself to look at Daylily, but that didn’t matter, for neither did she look at him. She smiled as she had never smiled before, and the smile itself turned into a laugh.

She reached up and patted Foxbrush’s cheek. “You’re going to have to shave this beard,” she said.

“Iubdan’s razor, yes!” Foxbrush replied.

I
MRALDERA
STOOD
in the doorway of the Haven. Around this space of existence, twilight was falling, turning the brown and green shadows of the trees to violet and dark blue. She gazed far into the surrounding forest, into the deeper reaches of her watch. Searching the Paths for any sign of . . .

“Ouch.”

She looked down, frowning at the white lion cub that had wrapped itself around her ankle and begun to chew. “Stop it now,” she said firmly, sliding her foot up from between its grasping paws. It blinked cross-eyed up at her, unable to understand why anyone wouldn’t want to be nibbled on. It opened its mouth and offered a roar that was perhaps less impressive than it imagined.

Imraldera shook her head but bent and picked it up, allowing it to gnaw on the end of her head scarf as she turned her attention once more to the forest. Deep amid its shadows she could see lights approaching: faint, many-colored lights like fireflies but constant in their glow. She believed they were coming to the Haven.

“Raaaaawr,” said the lion cub, putting a velveted paw on her nose. A
subtle threat, implying,
I could use my claws if I wanted
to.
Imraldera pushed the paw away and shifted the cub so that it lay like a baby in her arms, its little paws curled over its chest. It blinked sweetly and fell asleep with a suddenness that might as well be magic.

The lights drew nearer in such number that, small though they were, they set the Wood to glowing as they neared. Soon Imraldera’s ear caught the faint sound of a song being sung by a pair of merry voices. One voice she did not recognize, though she thought it belonged to a child.

The other she knew as well as her own.

“For she is a darling, dreadful gel,

Her face so fierce, your heart will quell!

I’ll have no other, have no other

To dance with me but her!

“Oh, she is a darling, dreadful gel,

If you can’t love her, run pell-mell!

She glanced my way, and hard I fell.

I’ll dance with none but her!”

Soon, lit by the fey glow of Nidawi’s rescued people, Nidawi herself came into view of the Haven, a dancing, laughing Faerie child, her elbow linked with Eanrin’s as they sang at the tops of their voices.

Despite the merriment of their song, Imraldera felt her heart lurch at the sight, and she hugged the lion cub more tightly to her. It awoke and shook its head, then turned, ears pricked toward the sound of those approaching. When it scrambled, Imraldera put it down and watched it bound into the clearing beyond the Haven door. There it sat, tail twitching, as Nidawi and Eanrin stepped through the greenery.

Nidawi stopped her singing at once, her eyes fixing upon the cub with a concentration that bordered on ferocious. Her nose twitched, and the vines twining her hair twisted suddenly with alertness.

The cub gazed up at her, its head a little to one side. “Raawwr,” it said, which was probably meant to be intimidating.

“Raawwr!” Nidawi replied, dropping to all fours. She crawled to the cub, and the two of them touched noses, and all the Faerie lights brightened and whispered together, pointing at the scene below.

Imraldera stepped over the threshold, her arms crossed defensively. But her voice was sweet and perhaps a little humble when she said, “I thought you two might like each other.” She avoided Eanrin’s eye but was all too aware when he drew nearer to her. She smiled at Nidawi, who tentatively touched the top of the cub’s head with one finger. “You seem as though . . . as though you might find much in common.”

Nidawi sat up. She did not smile or laugh or show any signs of pleasure. Her face, though clothed in a child’s features, was solemn and quiet, and her eyes looked dark for a moment. Indeed, Imraldera felt her heart stop, and she braced herself for she knew not what.

Then Nidawi said, “I shall call him Lion.”

Imraldera nodded and found she was able to breathe again. “It is an apt name,” she said.

“Rawwr,” said the cub before pouncing on Nidawi’s foot. Nidawi cuffed him and sent him rolling, which pleased him mightily, for he pounced on her hand next and bit it, hard. Anyone other than the Everblooming would have screamed, but Nidawi giggled and picked up the cub. While he dangled in her arms, chewing affectionately on anything he could reach, she turned to Imraldera.

“Tadew is gone,” she said. As she spoke, she lengthened, transforming into a strong woman with a beautiful, sad face. “My demesne was destroyed by the Parasite.”

“I am sorry,” said Imraldera, her heart in her words. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Loss?” Nidawi shrugged, then looked up at the lights surrounding her. They, as though beckoned, flooded down and lit upon her and on the lion cub, who tried to eat them but could catch none. Their colors turned the whole of the evening into a bath of rainbow light, and Nidawi was more beautiful than ever in that glow.

“My children are safe,” she said. “They have lost their bodies, but they have not lost themselves!”

The lights, unable to find places to settle upon Nidawi, turned then to Imraldera. They rushed to her, and she felt the beat of wings, the touch of many tiny hands. And she could hear voices now as they drew closer.

We live! We live! The
Lights Above sing of our lives, and we live!

“Cren Cru is dead,” said Nidawi. “And I, in gratitude to the King of Here and There, have seen to it that no more Faerie beasts will enter the South Land from the gorges below. I and my people have built great, strong bridges as locks, and I have placed wards upon them that will prevent all . . . save perhaps dragons.” She shrugged. “But what can be done about dragons?”

“You are very kind to my people,” said Imraldera. “I thank you for this service on their behalf.”

“Will you then be kind to mine?” Nidawi, shifting the cub into one arm, reached out the other, cupping her hand so that more of her children could sit upon her palm. Then she extended it and all those little lights to Imraldera, as though offering a gift. “Tadew is gone. They have nowhere to go. I cannot take them with me through the Wood, for they will not be safe. I would lose some, and others would die, and others would fall sick, and . . .” Her brow puckered with worry, which did nothing to mar her beauty.

Imraldera put out both her hands. “I will keep your children here,” she said. “They will be safe in the Haven with me, and they may help me in my work if they wish.”

Nidawi smiled and poured the lights from her hand into Imraldera’s. As she did so, the other lights around her rushed to Imraldera as well, whirling around her, pulling her hair and her garments teasingly, laughing and kissing her with the tiniest of kisses all over her face and neck. Then they streamed past her through the door, into the Haven. And soon all the windows were bright with colored glows as they explored up and down this enormous new home that was as a kingdom to them.

The Haven would be a lonely spot no more.

A few lights remained hovering around Imraldera’s shoulders and the top of her head. Nidawi, pleased, smiled at them and melted into the form of a girl just on the brink of womanhood, neither child nor adult
but something in between. The cub climbed up onto her shoulder and chewed on her ear.

“I will leave you, then,” Nidawi said. “I have many Paths to explore, and Lion here will keep me company. When I have found a home for my children, I will return.”

“We will wait for you,” said Imraldera. Then, though she hesitated, she reached out and stroked the lion cub’s ears, which were so soft as to be irresistible, even though he always tried to bite in response. A fitting companion for the Everblooming, Imraldera thought, backing away again.

So Nidawi left, the cub gamboling at her heels. And when she went, the colored glows of her people winked out, one by one. But Imraldera could still feel them and hear them around her, as bright and lively as ever. They simply could not shine as they might wish to without their mother’s presence.

Imraldera stood awhile watching the place where Nidawi had disappeared into the Wood. She tried to think of something to say, and she could feel Eanrin watching her, could sense him also trying and failing to come up with a fitting word.

“That was kind of you,” she said at last.

He didn’t respond. When she dared glance his way, she found him idly pushing at the cuticles of his nails, like a cat grooming his paws. His face was as placid as a calm sea and equally unfathomable.

“To bring Nidawi here, I mean,” Imraldera continued. “I am sure she was grateful in her own way. And I was glad for the opportunity to introduce her to the cub.”

Eanrin nodded and, without looking at her, said, “Once in a while a kindlier instinct takes over and, despite all my best efforts, has its way with me.”

“Oh, come!” said Imraldera, trying to laugh, to make things natural. But a laugh wasn’t natural, and she knew it. Rather, she should have a curt reprimand for him, some sarcastic remark and a scowl.

But nothing was natural now. She wondered if anything ever would be again.

“You’re kinder than you like to let on, Eanrin. Why don’t you come inside and tell me what has happened, for I—”

“I couldn’t save him, Imraldera.”

She felt her heart sinking down to her stomach, to her feet. “I . . . I did not expect you to,” she whispered. Then she watched as Eanrin turned his hands over, and she saw the blisters lining each finger, ringing his palms. Faeries heal far more quickly than mortals can dream, and Imraldera knew that these wounds should long since have vanished. Yet Eanrin held on to them and allowed them to continue giving him pain.

She reached out and tried to take his hands, but he drew them back, tucking them under his arms, his shoulders hunched and his head down.

“I tried to save him,” he said. “I held on to that dragon-eaten stone of his, and I think I might have done it in the end. But . . . but I let go, Imraldera, and Sun Eagle is gone. Vanished in smoke, I don’t know if ever to return.”

How long ago was it now since she’d first wept for the loss of Sun Eagle? It was so difficult to keep track of time. Imraldera put a hand to her heart and felt the swell of sorrow there, and she knew she would weep again. But not now. Not here.

“Eanrin,” she said gently, and there were no tears in her voice, “you did what you could for him. For all of them. Please come inside. Rest awhile, and then tell me what you must.”

“What I must tell you,” said Eanrin, lifting his head but still refusing to meet her gaze, looking instead out to the Wood in the direction Nidawi had gone, “are his final words. He asked me to tell you that you are always with him.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now that is done.”

“Thank you,” Imraldera said. Once more she reached out to him, touching his arm. But her touch seemed to shoot fire through him, and he stepped away, out of her reach, into the growing darkness in the clearing.

“I am leaving,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes. I spoke to the Lumil Eliasul, and he told me that I should go, even as I asked. I am leaving the Haven at once. But don’t worry,” he hurried on before she could make a protest. “You won’t be alone here. The Prince has promised to send more knights, and others as well, squires in need of training. You won’t be alone to keep this watch. Indeed, you’ll have more help than ever, and better help than I can give.”

Imraldera stared at him, and the sorrow in her heart flared up into something else. Frustration, perhaps. Or anger. Something she could not quite name, but it was enough to bring the blood boiling in her ears and her voice snapping a little harshly from her mouth.

“And does my opinion mean nothing in all this? What if I don’t want you to go? What if I don’t want other comrades in this watch? What if—”

She stopped then, for he had given her a look, and in that look she saw a painful hope. One she could not answer. So she stopped and closed her mouth, turning away.

“No, you are right,” she said at last. “It is probably for the best.”

The silence grew so deep around them that she could even hear the voices of Nidawi’s children calling to one another inside, though they could make a sound no louder than a mosquito’s hum. She began to wonder if perhaps the cat-man had slinked away into the shadows without another word, and she could not bear to look and see.

Then he stepped up beside her and took her hand. He pressed something into it, a little scrap of a parchment, and closed her fingers around it. He held on a moment longer than necessary.

“That’s for you to copy,” he said. “Just a little rhyme or two. Copy it out and hold on to it for a while. If you should meet a fellow named Lionheart—a mortal man, a prince—give it to him and tell him it’s for his cousin, Foxbrush.”

She felt then the brush of his lips on her forehead.

“Good-bye, Imraldera,” said Eanrin.

For some long minutes, Imraldera did not enter the Haven but stood in the surrounding evening, holding herself and thinking nothing, for her head and her heart were too tired for thought. Some of Nidawi’s children came to find her and tugged at her hair and clothes, urging her to come inside. She allowed herself to be led down the passage to the library and, at last, to her desk. It sat piled high with neglected work, and someone—one of her new, eager helpers—had lit a candle and trimmed her quill.