Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(12)

But Foxbrush didn’t hear. This was his way when he got caught up in his theories. For the moment, even the horror of his ruined wedding day was forgotten, and his eyes shone as he eagerly clutched the basket of figs, looking down at them as though he gazed upon the jewels of Hymlumé’s garden. “There is a solution,” he said in a low, almost desperate voice. “Figs!”

He plunked the basket back down on the desk and grabbed A History of Southlander Agriculture, fumbling through the pages. “I’ve read all about it. Back hundreds of years ago, the elder fig was the primary export for Southlands. It was like gold grown on trees, so high was the demand!”

Once more Lionheart replied softly, “I know, Foxbrush.”

“Don’t you see? We have elder fig trees all over the country, growing like weeds! The tough old things survived the Dragon’s poison with scarcely a mark on them. They’re thick with fruit, and if we can simply start tending them as we used to and harvest them, we might be able to establish a new trade!” The heat of excitement carried Foxbrush on so that he almost forgot it was his cousin to whom he spoke. “I’ve written to several of the baronies, and at least eight have responded, telling me that their estates are full of old elder figs. Enough, perhaps, to get a good harvest!”

Lionheart crossed his arms, his face solemn as he regarded his cousin. When Foxbrush at last ran out of steam, he said only, “Too bad, then, that elder fig trees don’t produce edible fruit anymore.”

And there was the rub.

Foxbrush’s cheek twitched. He put the book back on the table and eyed the spoiling fruit in the basket. “They weren’t always. Inedible, that is. We used to know how to cultivate them.”

“The brown fig and long hall fig are edible,” Lionheart said, “but—”

“But not in demand,” Foxbrush finished for him. “Not so succulent or sweet.”

Their eyes met over the lamplight. A brief exchange of sympathy, of understanding, such as these two had never before known. In that moment, the weight of all Southlands rested on the shoulders of both cousins, all the impossibilities that would crush a king to death with hopelessness.

But Foxbrush could not bear sympathy from Leo, nor pity either. He turned away. “I keep thinking—”

“Lumé spare us.”

“Shut up, Leo. I keep thinking I’ll find something. If I keep reading, if I keep hunting, I’ll discover the secret to renewing the elder figs. Everything I come up with has been tried before. I’m at a loss, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

“Well, that’s the first step, isn’t it?” Lionheart said, his voice surprisingly heavy. “Admitting your shortcomings?”

Foxbrush’s eyes flashed. “I’ve not given up. I’m not going to run away. Not like—”

“Not like I did.”


“Yes! Exactly!” Foxbrush clenched his fists. “That’s always been your nature, hasn’t it, Leo? Even when we were children, you slipped out to play in the woods all summer while I labored over whatever task was given me. You shirk. You run. And when you can’t do either, you laugh! You were never going to be a good Eldest. You never deserved it, despite your birth. You never deserved the throne, you never deserved her, and you won’t have either now, and thank the Lights Above for justice yet in this world!”

He stopped for breath, his body tensed, prepared for the verbal abuse bound to fall upon his head. Lionheart was always the lightning tongued, able to rip Foxbrush at the seams until he could scarcely stand.

This time, however, Lionheart said nothing.

He sat quietly in the chair that had once been his, before the desk that had once been his, in the study that had once been his. All smiles had fallen from his face. His eyes were open, but he had flinched now and then during Foxbrush’s tirade as though feeling physical blows. When Foxbrush shouted himself into silence, Lionheart remained in this attitude, making no defense, forming no attack. Foxbrush found he could scarcely breathe.

At last Lionheart said, “Well, that at least I did deserve.”

The world shifted and only Foxbrush’s grip on his desk kept him from falling over. “W-what?”

“You’re right, Foxbrush,” Lionheart said. “I never deserved to be Eldest. It was all a matter of birth, not merit.” He raised his gaze to his cousin’s face but dropped it again quickly, and Foxbrush could see him battling with himself. Surely the bitter words would fall at any moment.

It was too much for Foxbrush to bear. He sagged where he stood and groaned. “Of all days, Leo. Of all days! What possessed you to return now?”

Then a whole host of new, swirling, furious thoughts assaulted his brain. Foxbrush pulled himself upright once more, as masterful as he could be in his man’s livery, and pointed a finger at his cousin. “You did this,” he said. “You ruined my wedding day. You! You stole Daylily away, and now you think to intimidate me, and—”

“Really, Foxbrush,” said Lionheart, his voice once more full of that cheek that always made Foxbrush want to smack him. “For a chap without a fig’s worth of imagination, you certainly can spin quite a yarn when motivated. Perhaps if kingdom ruling doesn’t suit you, you could take up penning romances for a living?”

The former Prince of Southlands rose, and though he was no taller than Foxbrush, his presence somehow loomed. For the first time, Foxbrush saw the shirt beneath the groundskeeper’s hood and jacket. It was not something he should have noticed in that moment of tension and fury, but it caught his eye.