Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(112)

“Leonard, are you there?” The voice sounded as though it was trying desperately not to be overheard. “Please answer!”

“Who is that?” Lionheart demanded.

“It’s Felix. Prince Felix of Parumvir. We met in Oriana two years ago, if you remember. You performed for my family.” A pause, then, “And I saw you again in the Village of Dragons.”

Lionheart stared at the door, and if he were a dragon himself, his gaze would have burned it to cinders in a moment. But had he not seen the royal insignia of Parumvir? And now that he thought of it, he had glimpsed Felix in the Great Hall during the mad abduction. In the frantic terror of enacting the baroness’s plot, he’d seen without recognizing the lad who had brought down a guard and quite possibly saved Lionheart’s neck. Felix . . . Una’s brother . . .

“That’s not my name,” Lionheart said. He could feel the baron’s gaze upon his shoulders, but he refused to look around.

“I know,” said the voice beyond. “I know all about what happened. Una told me later, you know, after the Dragon was killed. She’s . . . she’s married now, had you heard? To Prince Aethelbald?”

Lionheart nodded, which was foolish, but he couldn’t quite find words to respond. A silence followed during which he knew the baron was putting together pieces of a story Lionheart did not wish him to know. He demanded, “What are you doing up here, Prince Felix? It’s not safe.”

“The baroness sent me with supplies for you.”

A hissing curse from behind told Lionheart that the baron had overheard. Now whatever suspicions had been brewing in his mind were confirmed. Lionheart’s neck wouldn’t be the only one forfeit at the end of this foolish adventure.

“I’ve drugged the guards,” Felix persisted. “Or, well, I didn’t personally. But they’re drugged, and you can open the door and take these supplies. I can’t guarantee they’ll help much, but better than nothing, right?”

Better than nothing. They might be just enough to give Lionheart time for that fool sylph to catch his fool cousin, to send Prince Foxbrush, Hawkeye’s legitimate heir, reeling back into the court of the Eldest, fey addled but alive.

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” Lionheart demanded. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

Another pause, during which Lionheart felt his rising hopes slowly crumbling away.

Then Felix said: “I know the name of the Queen of Arpiar, Ruler of the Unveiled People, Mistress of the lands between the Karayan Plains and the Sevoug Mountains beyond Goldstone Wood. She is Varvare, daughter of Vahe and Anahid, servant of the Prince of Farthestshore.”


“Rosie,” Lionheart whispered.

And with the name came a sudden wash of peace over his soul. Whatever happened now, she was safe. She sat upon her throne, come into her rightful inheritance. He could not hurt her anymore.

“Rosie . . .”

He heaved the heavy bolt out of its brackets and undid the iron locks and bracings. With a groan of relief, the door inched open, and Lionheart saw Felix’s pale face in the lantern light beyond, wearing a spiked Southlander helmet.

“Take it, quick!” Felix said, pushing the sack through the doorway into Lionheart’s arms. “I don’t know how long the drugs will—”

“Not long enough for you, wolf-bit pup!”

A gauntleted hand fell upon Felix’s shoulder and hauled him back. Lionheart cursed and put his shoulder to the door, trying to slam it closed, to drop the bolt again. But strong men on the other side pushed against him, and their combined strength was more than his. The guardsmen broke through, and Lionheart hadn’t time to so much as go for his knife. Two of them fell upon him, pinning his arms and bringing him to his knees. The third struck him three times across his face. Still he struggled against them and might have freed himself.

But more guards poured through the door then, guards who had been waiting in the darkened stairway. Outmatched by far, Lionheart fell on his face, his arms twisted behind him.

“Did you think we were fools to fall for such a trick?” said the guardsman who had struck Lionheart, flexing his fist. He turned to Prince Felix, who stood in the grasp of more strong men who had stripped the helmet and breastplate from him.

“But you drank the wine!” Felix protested, furiously.

“That wine wasn’t drugged,” said the leader of the three. “We were told to play along and let you get the door opened for us. Worked like a charm.”

“Who told you?” Felix turned as a movement in the stairway caught his eye, and he saw Lady Dovetree appear at the top of the stairs, very pretty with her arms crossed over her chest. “You?” he cried.

“Don’t be angry, Prince Felix,” said she. “They’ll probably not hang you, and now I can be certain they won’t hang me either. I love the dear baroness, of course, but not enough to die for her!” And she laughed at this, a cruel sort of laugh that belied any declarations of love.

The Baron of Middlecrescent rose then, cut free from his bindings. He rubbed his wrists thoughtfully, and a guardsman offered him a cloak to cover his naked torso. He drew it about himself with kingly dignity and strode to the doorway without a glance to his right at Lionheart upon the floor, or to his left at Prince Felix. Nor did he look at his wife’s traitorous servant but fixed his gaze straight ahead, moving as though none of them mattered or existed.