Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(13)

In the place over Lionheart’s heart, there was a hole. And around this hole were dried bloodstains.

“I have come,” Lionheart said, “to make peace with my father. I returned to Southlands with no other purpose in mind, and I certainly did not intend to arrive on your wedding day. But now that I’m here, you will find I am no longer a running man.”

Lionheart leaned across the desk until he was nose to nose with Foxbrush. The intensity of his eyes made Foxbrush stagger. He would have sat down had his chair not been overturned.

“I shall go to my father now, and I shall say to him what I have purposed in my heart. And then, Prince Foxbrush”—he spoke the title with some bitterness—“I myself shall go into the Wilderlands and find your lady Daylily. I shall return her to you, and you will marry her, and you will rule my kingdom, and you will take my place. And then you will never see me again.”

Lionheart was at the door before Foxbrush opened his mouth to speak. Even then he could find no words, so he stood there gaping when his cousin paused suddenly and looked back at him. Evening shadows hid Lionheart’s face, but his voice was clear enough.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

With a faint whoosh and thump, an article landed by Foxbrush’s feet. He looked down and saw a scroll tied with ribbon. A starflower blossom tucked into the ribbon gleamed ghostly white in the gloom.

“That’s from Eanrin, Chief Bard of Iubdan Rudiobus,” Lionheart said. “The Lady of the Haven bade me give it to you with her compliments.”

“Wh-what?” said Foxbrush, his forehead wrinkling with something between ire and confusion. “What are you talking about? What is this, Leo?”

“Read it and find out,” his cousin replied. The next moment, he was gone.





4


ONE MIGHT ASSUME, were one to know Lady Daylily personally, that she was a young woman who could handle herself with aplomb in any given situation. She was, after all, a baron’s daughter with a strong streak of domineering lineage flowing in her veins. She was one of those people who never turned her hand to anything unless she was certain to excel, the result being nothing short of constant excellence to the public eye. She danced, she sang, she painted landscapes, she rode, she spoke three languages besides her mother tongue, and she was reasonably confident that, were women in these rather restricted modern times permitted to study fencing using real blades rather than the padded wooden poles deemed “appropriate,” she could have bruised the hide of any courtly gallant who stopped running from her long enough to take the beating.

Aside from these outward talents, rumor had done a fair job of adding mystery to Middlecrescent’s fairest flower. Some said Daylily had journeyed across the country alone with Prince Lionheart’s demon servant and yet managed not to fall bewitched. Some said that when the Dragon first came to Southlands, Daylily had rescued Lionheart out from under his very nose, dragging him to safety, the prince being poisoned with dragon fumes at the time.

Some even said Daylily had ventured into the very depths of the Dragon’s realm, to the seat of his power in the Netherworld, and that it was she who finally, through courage and great cunning, had liberated Southlands from his foul claws, driving him from the kingdom.

A woman like that . . . well! How could she possibly be afraid of anything? Or anyone?

The problem was, even those who knew Lady Daylily personally did not actually know her. There wasn’t a soul alive who guessed what went on inside her mind.

No one knew about the wolf.

This was probably for the best, Daylily decided as she pushed her way through a thick growth of ferns. What they didn’t know couldn’t tear their throats out in their sleep, and everyone was better off for that.

So she pressed on into the Wilderlands, surprised (or as surprised as one as self-possessed as Lady Daylily could be) at how cool it was. After her flight across the Eldest’s grounds on a hot summer day, coolness ought to have been a relief, of course. But this coolness was beyond mere shade.

It reminded her of one childhood summer when she’d been sent on her own to visit her old maiden aunt. She’d stepped through the front door into the entry hall and had a sudden, overwhelming feeling of . . . frost. The house was empty; the aunt away for the afternoon, the servants had taken the opportunity to slip out on personal errands. Other than her goodwoman waiting outside and the carriage man at the gate, Daylily was quite alone.

Except not quite alone. The smell of her aunt lingered everywhere, like a haunting presence of faded lavender perfume and strong drink (faintly disguised by chewed mint leaves) taking on a life of its own, peering around every corner.

Daylily had stepped back outside, slowly so as not to let that smell know how it chilled her. “I’ll not be visiting Auntie today after all, my goodwoman,” she had said before returning to the carriage without another word.

The Wilderlands was cold like that. Cold and watchful, uninviting and silent.

But Daylily was not inclined to retreat. The more still the air grew, the more frozen the silence, the more determinedly she strode, yanking her skirts with uncaring rips every time they caught on branch or stone. She liked that sound. It was like the sundering from her old life made audible.

And she thought, I should have done this years ago.

She didn’t expect to survive. No one who entered the Wilderlands ever came back, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to guess why not. But for the moment, she didn’t care. She gloried. Had she been the type to crow in victory, she would have crowed! Instead, she merely smiled grimly and grabbed her skirt in both hands to give a particularly violent tug when it caught in a thornbush. The tear ran almost to her knee that time.