Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(17)

“Father,” he whispered thickly, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” The Eldest turned to him then, and for a moment his old eyes were bright. “Sorry for what, lad?”

“For leaving you.”

“Oh, that’s nothing to be sorry for! You have your other duties. I understand. But you always come back to me, don’t you? Faithful boy.”

Lionheart forced himself to breathe, though it pained him. Tears fell down his face, one from each eye. The last time he wept had been in the gardens of Hymlumé, standing at the crest of Rudiobus Mountain. He’d wept there at the sudden piercing beauty of the Spheres and their Songs and at what they made him realize about himself.

He wept now because he loved his father, and his father was dying. He was a child again, but without the comfort of childhood innocence. So he clutched the Eldest’s hands between his own and let the tears come as they must.

Then the Eldest pulled one of his hands free and rested it on Lionheart’s head. “Ah. It’s you.”

The words were simply spoken. But they went to Lionheart’s heart. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the signet ring on his father’s other hand.

“There was . . . there was some difficulty between us?” the Eldest said, and his voice held a question but also a trace of comprehension. For a moment he was himself, and though he could not remember much, what he did remember was true.

“Yes, Father,” Lionheart managed. “There was some difficulty. But I’m here now, and I’m sorry that I left.”

“Did I wrong you, my son?” the Eldest asked, a world of tenderness in his words and in his hand upon Lionheart’s head. “I’m an old man now, older than I should be. Did I wrong you without understanding?”

Lionheart shook his head. “You did right,” he said. “You did right by me, and I failed to see it. But I see now, and I thank you for what you did.”

The Eldest nodded solemnly. “I used to hate my father sometimes,” he said. “Hard blows are difficult to take with grace. But you know what? I think sometimes his punishments hurt him as much as they hurt me.” He frowned, the creases of his tired face wrinkling slowly, with great effort. “I don’t remember what I did to you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lionheart, and he lifted his face and met his father’s gaze. For a shining moment, each saw the other truly, and in that truth, they each loved. “None of that matters now. I am here. And I am sorry, and . . . and you did right. You are a great Eldest, the ruler of Southlands. And you are a good father.”

The Eldest nodded and turned once more to the window. His brow relaxed, then wrinkled again, and he leaned forward, squinting into the dusky garden. “Lights Above, is that the queen?” he said, his voice quavering. “What is she doing out at this hour? Quickly, boy, go tell her of her error before it gets too dark.”





6


A NEW PAIR OF EYES. Young eyes.

Eyes a hundred years old are still young. Eyes a thousand years old are still young. It’s all a matter of comparison.

These young eyes are keen and see many things, even blurred as they are by tears.

Tears . . . such a strange sensation! Not just the feel of water upon flesh or the burning inside the head. Tears fountain up from the soul. They wash or they drown, but they never truly cleanse. Not a soul such as this.

A strange feeling is a soul, especially one so fierce.

Look through these eyes into the Wood and wander, searching, searching, searching.

A gate into the Near World. That is what we—it—they—I! That is what I want! That world would be a good place to start again. And this one loves that world, loves that Land that is the only land to him. But he cannot find it. Looking through these eyes, there is only the Wood forever and ever.

The tears are blinding. Why must this soul sorrow? Only in death can there be new life. Why can they never understand? Why must they always—

Crescent Woman.



Long ago, he had called it the Gray Wood. Now it was simply the Wood to him as to all others, for it was not solely gray. All colors and no colors might be found in its ever-shifting deeps. He had learned this very soon upon entering (so long ago it seemed to him, for he could scarcely remember the day), and in learning, he had been afraid.

The young warrior did not fear the Wood now, however, as he moved through its depths. Blood stained his arms and neck, blood not his own. He would wash it off eventually, but for now he wore it as a badge of honor to the memory of the beloved dead.

And the watching eyes of the Wood drew back, trembling.

Few things might frighten him now, this stern-faced warrior whose features may have seemed youthful, save for those bloodstains. Around his neck he wore two cords of rough-woven fibers. On one was strung a stone that gleamed like gold or bronze. It was this that caught the eyes of the Wood and left the warrior with a clear path through the gloom.

But it was the second cord that drew his searching fingers. On it were strung two beads. One was red, painted with the crude image of a panther. The second—this one the warrior touched even now, unconscious and tender—was blue and painted with a white six-petaled flower.

Not far off, he heard the songs of sylphs. Their voices drew him up sharply, and he stood as still as a wildcat poised at the beginning of a hunt, his nose uplifted to catch scents, his head tilted to receive all possible sounds. The sylphs were near and they were singing, which meant they were on their lonely hunt. From the sound of the song, they had caught someone and even now dragged that luckless victim of their love into the deeper Wood.