Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(15)

Then she twisted her head, wanting to look, afraid to see, so she closed her eyes. And she growled, “I’m not cruel. You made me cruel.”


As always, the moment passed so gently, so thoroughly, that were it not for the increased frequency of its coming, Daylily could have made herself believe it never happened. But it had. And she was no longer going to sit back and let the world go on around her, knowing all the while that she would, in time, destroy everything she touched. Not even Prince Foxbrush deserved that.

The Wood darkened.

In those places where Daylily’s footsteps left the green grass momentarily bent in her wake, something like mist gathered, springing up in sinuous coils. It was only like mist because, unlike mist, it was invisible to a mortal’s eye. But it moved with the same gentle wafting, spreading and contracting and curling as it went. It crawled across the ground, then up the trunks of several trees, gathering in the branches above.

Daylily continued on her way, unaware.

The something-like-mist watched her with invisible eyes. Reaching out tremulous hands, it crawled from treetop to treetop, keeping pace just behind her, high above her head. Like the barest breath or whisper of wind, it rustled the leaves, but she did not notice or turn her head. She did pause once midstep, but only once. Then, with the slightest tensing of a muscle in her cheek, she proceeded.

The invisible eyes watched her go.

Then one invisible being said to another: “I like it!”

“Me too!” said the other. “Let’s tickle it and make it run!”





5


UP UNTIL RECENT HISTORY, Foxbrush would have confidently told anyone who asked that Eanrin, Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus, did not exist.

Eanrin was a figure from nursery tales. Indeed, he was the fictional inventor of nursery tales, including the most famous collection, Eanrin’s Rhymes for Children, a volume on which Foxbrush had been raised and which was solely responsible for the bulk of his childhood nightmares. (Its woodcut illustrations could be rather gruesome, particularly one of the Wolf Lord pursuing the Silent Lady that was not lacking for blood.) This Eanrin character obviously held a higher estimation of children’s abilities to stomach frightening stories than Foxbrush’s stomach had merited.

But Eanrin himself was a story. He was a Faerie bard, a shape-shifting cat, one of the Merry Folk and, according to some stories, even a Knight of Farthestshore. All completely impossible according to the rules of the logical, orderly reality upon which Foxbrush had founded his life.

That was before the Dragon.

Foxbrush sat at his desk, holding the scroll Lionheart had tossed him. He didn’t open it. He didn’t really want to. But he turned it over and over, letting the silky ribbon dangle and the starflower gleam. That flower was an anomaly in itself. Starflowers, the national blossom of Southlands, were red in daylight but turned white under moonlight. However, they never . . . glittered. At least none Foxbrush had ever before seen.

But this one shone like a tiny star. And though it must have been plucked from its vine many hours ago, it showed no sign of wilting.

A trick, perhaps. But somehow, Foxbrush could no longer quite believe this.

Of all the scars the Dragon had left upon Southlands in the wake of his flaming passing, this one pained Foxbrush the most: his inability to believe anymore in the logic of things. In the complete fit-inside-the-box rationality upon which he had always depended. That rationality had never allowed for the possibility of dragons. And then the Dragon had come. That rationality had never allowed for the possibility of poisoned nightmares. And then the nightmares had come.

For a little while after the Dragon departed, Foxbrush tried to convince himself that it had all been some misunderstanding, some large-scale hoax or hallucination. But a man can only fool himself for so long before the truth, however inconvenient, will assert itself once more.

So the Dragon existed. Maybe this Poet Eanrin did as well?

“But, dragons eat it,” Foxbrush growled, squinting at the scroll and the ribbon and the flower, “why would he write to me?”

Then, because no one else was going to answer that question, he slid the ribbon and starflower off, unrolled the scroll, and read what it had to say. His eyes narrowed still more. He fumbled in a drawer, pulled out a pair of spectacles and, shaking himself a little, read it again.

Then he said, “Dragon’s teeth” with very little vim and tossed the scroll onto the desk. It rolled up with a smart snap. The starflower blossom gleamed silver beside it. Its pure, gentle light touched the contours of yet another object on that crowded desk, one that, in the hectic storm of recent emotions, Foxbrush had been almost able to forget.

His love letter. Tossed aside into an unhappy ball.

The worms in his stomach woke up and began chewing once more.

“I myself will go into the Wilderlands and find your lady Daylily. I will return her to you. . . .”


“You will, won’t you, Leo?” Foxbrush muttered, slowly removing the spectacles from his face and shoving them absently into the front pocket of Tortoiseshell’s jacket. “You’ll stride off into the unknown. You’ll play the hero. You’ll save the damsel. And you’ll leave me in your dust yet again.”

He slammed his palm down hard on the desk top, cursing at the sting that shot up his wrist and arm. The next moment, still cursing, he crossed the study and flung open the door of his dressing room, which was, mercifully, empty of Tortoiseshell and his disapproving nose. For Tortoiseshell, a man of dignity and taste, would never have approved his master’s subsequent actions.