Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(130)

Then she turned and did the same to Lionheart’s and Dovetree’s nooses. And no one moved or spoke, for they all believed they must be dreaming. This wild creature in savage garments made of skins standing protectively before the three prisoners, her face so beautiful and so fierce, could not possibly be Lady Daylily! They must all be dreaming.

Even the baron, standing with his mouth agape, could not find the will to speak a command. His daughter turned on him with the ferocity of a she-wolf, and for the first time in his life, the baron was truly afraid.

Another voice, much gentler than hers, spoke then. Though it was mild, it drew every eye away from the wild apparition of Daylily on the scaffold.

“I have returned.”

Shadow Hand of Here and There. They all knew him at a glance. His untamed black beard, his strange, ancient clothes; the sight, the smell, the sound of old, old days that emanated from his face and every movement of his body as he made his way to the center of the courtyard, walking in a path of new sunlight. His frame was perhaps narrower than they might have expected, but his bearing was upright and his stride commanding, as befit any hero of old.

And while his hands hung at his sides in crippled ruin, the shadow cast by the sun showed strong hands clenched into fists.

He walked up onto the scaffold as a king might ascend the dais of his throne, and he took his place beside Daylily, with Lionheart at his back. He looked out upon those gathered, upon bound Prince Felix, the gathered barons. Last of all, he fixed his gaze upon the Baron of Middlecrescent.

Middlecrescent began to tremble.

“Do you know who I am?” the figure of legends asked.

The baron nodded.

“Speak it, then.”

But Middlecrescent could not find his tongue. So the bearded man raised one of his ruined hands and declared to all assembed there, “I am Foxbrush, chosen heir of my uncle Hawkeye, and rightful ruler of Southlands. Is there any who would contest me?”

Many eyes turned to Middlecrescent, many jaws clenched, many breaths caught. All waited for what they knew must come.

But the baron bowed his head. And he said nothing.

Suddenly Baron Blackrock, who had long resented and hated Middlecrescent for reasons best left unearthed, stepped forward and cried, “Middlecrescent tried to seize the throne before the Council had even declared you dead!”

With that cry, the other barons joined in, and soon the courtyard was a storm of noise. Felix, standing with the Southlander guards, felt the tension go through them; yet another fear of impending war, this time of a more insidious nature: civil war.

But a second wolfish snarl cut through the chaos and brought all the barons to silence, looking over their shoulders for an enemy they could not see. Daylily stepped back again and nodded to Foxbrush.

Foxbrush said, “Bring Middlecrescent before me.”

The guards holding Felix—who were no fools and could sense which way the wind was blowing—left him standing as they joined their brothers surrounding the unresisting baron. They did not need to force him, for he went before their prodding as quietly as a panther, his eyes smoldering but hooded. He looked up at Foxbrush and then went down on one knee before him.

The act was as contemptuous as though he’d spat in the prince’s face. Even backed by Daylily, Foxbrush flinched at the sight and for a moment forgot who he was. Then Daylily touched his arm, and he pulled himself together.

“What defense do you make before these accusations?” he asked.

“None,” said the baron.

“Do you deny that you attempted through trickery and force to take the throne before the due course of law could be decided?”

“I do not deny it.”

“Do you deny that you attempted to execute my cousin Prince Lionheart”—here again the crowd gasped, for Lionheart had not been named ‘prince’ in public for many a long month—“without fair trial?”

“I deny nothing,” said the baron.

“And this good woman, the baroness, your wife. And . . . and . . .” Foxbrush blinked and looked around at Dovetree, who was biting down so hard on the cotton in her mouth that her jaw might actually break. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I have no idea who you are.”

“Leave her for now,” said Daylily.

Foxbrush shrugged and addressed the baron once more. “Your sins are many, and your guilt is great. By your own admission, you condemn yourself before the barons of Southlands, all my gathered court, and the ambassadors of our allies.”

The baron looked up into the face of a king. He hated it. Oh, how he hated to admit it, even in the very depths of his heart. But it was a king he faced, not Foxbrush, the malleable boy he had intended for his daughter’s husband. A king in power, and a king with the support of the nation behind him.

“What do you suggest I do with you, baron?” Foxbrush asked.

“I suggest you hang me,” said the baron.

“No!”

Everyone started at the suddenness of the cry. The baroness, liberated from the noose but still chained at the wrists, scrambled down the scaffold stairs, nearly tripping over her frilly skirts. “No, no, no, don’t say such a thing!” she scolded her husband, wringing her hands in his face. “No one should hang; you know that, my love! Daylily is back, and dear, dear Foxbrush, just as I always told you! And he will be Eldest as is right, and no one—no one—should hang!”