Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(111)

When one of the guardsmen stopped Dovetree and questioned her, she said brusquely, “A message from the baroness to the duty guard of North Tower. She sends succor to them in thanks for their efforts.”

The guardsman looked rather longingly at the wine in Dovetree’s arm but let her pass, never so much as glancing at the sweating Felix, who kept his head down, hiding beneath his spiked helmet. They proceeded with a few more similar pauses across the Great Hall and at last to North Tower itself. Dovetree, her peevish mutterings now suppressed, moved with an assured stride that impressed Felix. One would never guess she was about treasonous doings that could easily get her hanged were she caught.

They climbed the stairs, which were dark and difficult to navigate, for none of the kings of the last many generations had thought to install lamp sconces in this particular stairwell. When they wound at last to the top, however, they found three guardsmen sitting in a pool of lamplight. Three chamber doors stood behind them, but it wasn’t difficult to pick out behind which Lionheart and his prisoner were ensconced. That door, the one on the far right, was battered and dented from all the attempts to break through.

“Greetings from Baroness Middlecrescent,” said Dovetree crisply as they stepped into the guardsmen’s vision. At the sight of an elegantly dressed lady-in-waiting, the guards quickly pulled themselves to their feet, standing at attention and surreptitiously tugging their armor straight. “My lady wishes to express her thanks for noble duty in the face of need.”

The guards exchanged looks at this. After all, sitting outside a locked door didn’t strike any of them as a particularly noble duty. But they had been up here in the silent dark, ineffective and frustrated, for several hours now while great men below plotted (equally ineffective and doubly frustrated). As Dovetree poured out and passed the wine their way, they took it gratefully enough and drank deeply.

“Keep up the fighting spirit, men,” said Dovetree, reclaiming the flagons. “Silent Lady grant you strength, and all that.”

“Silent Lady shield us,” they muttered in halfhearted response.

Dovetree turned and started back down the tower stairs. Felix, surprised, hurried after. He waited a few turns before reaching out in the dark and catching what he hoped was her shoulder.

“Where are you going?” he whispered. “They didn’t fall asleep! What are we supposed to do?”

“We aren’t doing anything,” Dovetree replied, shaking him off. “I have fulfilled my part of the plan. Now you will fulfill yours. Don’t worry,” she added in a kindlier voice, “they’ll nod off any moment now. You’ll have your chance. Wait here.”

With this, she left, and Felix stood alone in the darkness, clutching the sack of supplies. His mouth was very dry, and sweat soaked his stolen garments, though it was not hot up here in the tower.

But he had only to wait a few moments before he heard a heavy thunk overhead, followed soon after by a thickened voice saying, “Lumé, mate, what are you . . .” This trailed off into another thunk swiftly followed by a third. Soon after, snoring.

Perhaps the baroness would prove a cunning conspirator after all.



Lionheart guessed that he had probably been more tired than this upon occasion. During that long voyage to Noorhitam in the Far East, Captain Sunan of the good ship Kulap Kanya had made Lionheart work for his passage. Those were some long days followed by sea-sickening nights . . . and sometimes even the nights were spent freezing up in the lookout, too high above the deck for anyone’s comfort as the ocean rolled and murmured secretive threats beneath him.

Certainly those had been far more exhausting times, the threat of death by falling or drowning as present as the current threat of hanging.

But somehow, this was no comfort.

Lionheart stood and stretched again, pacing the narrow space between the heavy door and the window. He would have to sleep eventually. He glanced at the baron. He could feel his prisoner’s gaze, though shadows hid his face. Even bound hand and foot, the baron was too dangerous to leave unwatched. And he showed no signs of sleep himself.

I’ll die of pure exhaustion, Lionheart thought as he looked out the window at the sky. Stabbed by a unicorn, assaulted by dragons, threatened by kings and emperors alike. But I’ll die for lack of sleep at the end.

It seemed comically appropriate. But he couldn’t manage a laugh.

By now the clouds had rolled on, and the stars were making the final turns of their nightly dance. In another hour, the inky blackness would give way to blue, and another hour after that the sun would rise.

What sort of world would it shine down upon? What sort of future?

The sound of armored bodies collapsing beyond the door brought Lionheart whirling about. He didn’t know what had caused those sounds and wondered if the desperate barons below had thought of a new instrument with which to assault his barricade. He strode quickly back to his post and placed his ear to the door but heard nothing more than the pound of his heart in his throat.

Then at long last, he heard a voice. It was too low to understand, but Lionheart guessed it was male. He made no response and, after a tense half minute, the voice repeated, louder:

“Leonard? Leonard the Lightning Tongue?”

Lionheart recoiled from the door as though bitten. As far as he knew, no one in all the Eldest’s court knew of his jester name and the identity he’d assumed during his five-year exile while Southlands was dragon occupied.