Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(127)

They walked through Southlands.

They skimmed over jungles, lakes, rivers.

They passed over fields and towns and villages.

They flew like birds. They swam like fish. They ran like deer through the meadows.

And still they walked behind the Lumil Eliasul, not daring to look at each other for fear of losing sight of him.

And then he stopped, and they stopped as well. They saw him extend his arm, pointing, and they could not have resisted turning their gazes where he indicated even had they wished to.

“See now, King of Here and There,” said the Lumil Eliasul, and he spoke to both of them in that moment. “See now what I have purposed for you.”

They saw orchards. Vast, sprawling, ripening orchards, heavy with golden fruit, alive with birds and bees and . . . and yes, with wasps. These grew in a thriving land, a land that was not Southlands as either of them knew it, but which was Southlands at its heart, at the core of the nation’s spirit. And both of them, man and woman, felt in their own hearts the lurch of love, of kingship.

“Do you see it?” asked the Prince.

They nodded, unable to speak.

“Will you remember it?”

Daylily nodded. Foxbrush said, “I hope so.”

The Lumil Eliasul turned to Foxbrush then and took his ruined hands. He held them tight, and Foxbrush felt strength entering his body, a strength beyond any he had known.

“Now and Then. Here and There,” said the Prince of Farthestshore, and he spoke the words like a name. “This is the truth, and you will hear it, and I will cause you to remember. If you were always to see before you the future I have shown you here, the way would be too easy . . . too easy to ignore, to forego, for why would you need to follow it? And that would be the greatest disaster ever to befall Southlands.

“Instead, I will send you back to that place and time where the air is too thin for you to see my distant purpose. And you will have to walk the Path a single step at a time, trusting that it will lead you safe at last. But I will send you the memory of my promise, and when the road becomes too difficult, you will think on it and you will keep walking, even as I have called you.

“This is the truth, Foxbrush Fourclaw-son: The strength of your hands is the strength of mine.”

Then the Lumil Eliasul let go of Foxbrush and stepped back. Daylily, watching all with hungry eyes, saw that the twisted fingers and roughly healed flesh were unaltered. But she saw something else as well.

Where Foxbrush’s shadow fell, cast by the light shining from those vast, unending orchards, his hands were whole. Though mere shadows, they spoke the truth in strong fingers and sinews, well-knit muscles over delicate bones. And Daylily knew that this was the secret of this man she had known most of her life, but never truly known: He was made of more than her eyes could see. He was made of stronger, firmer stuff.

“Shadow Hand of Here and There,” she whispered.

Somewhere, from a great distance, a voice called. It was a lonely voice, completely lonely as only the wind can be, but without sorrow. It called with a dogged stubbornness that both Daylily and Foxbrush had heard before.

Foxbrush! Where are you, Foxbrush? I am coming for you!

The Prince of Farthestshore smiled. Then he called in answer: “This way!”

The sylph, who had so long searched (without knowing how long, for time did not matter to its breezy consciousness), heard the voice of the Lumil Eliasul and let out a gleeful screech. Then it whipped and blew to this place that was neither in the Near World nor in the Far, nor even in the Wood Between. Summoned by its Lord, it skirted all boundaries of all worlds and came to this place of vision.

“Aad-o Ilmun!”

“And I thank you for it,” the Prince replied with a smile as the sylph, its form only just discernible to Daylily and Foxbrush, cavorted before him. “Are you ready to fulfill your promise to Lionheart?”

“I am,” the sylph replied, eagerly dashing to blow amongst the treetops of the orchard, only to gust back in an instant to where the two mortals stood waiting. “I am ready! Are you Foxbrush?” it asked, turning to Daylily.

“No!” said she hastily, and the sylph addressed itself to Foxbrush then, reaching out to snatch him up.

“Come!” it cried. “Back to your own land! Back to your own time-bound world!”

“Wait!” Foxbrush cried, for the sylph would have carried him off at once if it could. He turned to Daylily, and he found it suddenly difficult to breathe. She was so wild, so disheveled, and so strong, stronger than he had ever seen her. But she was weak as well, he thought, and there was a vulnerability in her eyes that he had not seen— No! This was not true. He had seen something like it once before.

In the look she had given Lionheart the night he left her standing on the dance floor.

“Daylily,” he said, “I won’t marry you.”

She closed her eyes, though only for a moment. Then she looked at him and said, “I know.”

“That is,” he hastened on, “I won’t marry you unless . . . unless it is what you want. Not what your father wants, or the barons or Southlands or politics or . . . or any of those fine excuses they’ve fed you all these years. I won’t marry you for those reasons, because I love you too well.”

He put out his hand, and in that light she saw it as whole, just as the shadow it cast. “Come back with me. Help me save Southlands in whatever capacity you see fit. As my queen or as my friend. Either way I . . . I don’t think I can do it without you.”