Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(26)

The Near World waited; Southlands waited.

He stepped back quickly. Once more, the Wood closed in on all sides, extending forever. Here in the Between there was no gorge, only darkness and forest and those who dwelled therein. Here in the Between, where Foxbrush and Daylily now wandered, lost as children.

“I can’t go back,” Lionheart said, muttering the words angrily. “I can’t leave Daylily and Foxbrush behind! Must I always be the coward and run away?”

He waited, half expecting to hear his Master’s voice and the distant silver song of the Lord Beyond the Final Water. But there was nothing. Nothing but the voice in his memory.

“Walk with me,” the Prince had told him.

And Lionheart had vowed to do so.

“Dragons eat it,” he snarled and pounded the nearest tree trunk. The tree shivered irritably and dropped a twig on his head. Lionheart brushed it aside, casting about as though desperate for someone to whom he might make an argument.

The sylph wafted closer. “Will you go now to the Near World, savior?” it asked. “The Song Giver is leading you that way. Will you follow him to mortal lands?”

“I—” Once more Lionheart cursed. Then he breathed a heavy sigh. “I must. I’ve doubted and fought and forged my own way too many times.” But he hesitated even so, sensing something more he must do, though he couldn’t guess what. “Are you coming with me?” he asked the sylph.

“No, no,” it replied. “I cannot pass through that gate. The locks prevent the Faerie folk from entering your country.”

“What locks?”

“The locks of Nidawi’s people.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


The sylph laughed then like a whooshing breeze and tickled Lionheart under the chin. “Foolish!” it cried. “You know nothing, but you think you know everything! How mortal you are, how clever, how sad.” Its laughter ended suddenly, and the sylph itself vanished. Lionheart, for a moment, believed himself alone. Then a little voice in his ear said, “Let me fetch the other mortal out of the dance.”

“What?”

“Let me fulfill my duty to you, kind savior. Let me fetch back the mortal you lost and bring him to you. Would that please you?”

“Yes!” Lionheart said. “Yes, that would please me! Find Foxbrush and bring him back. At once, if you can!”

“Farewell, then,” said the sylph. And it was gone. The leaves of the silver-branch trees fluttered gently, the only sign of the creature’s passing. Lionheart stood alone in the Wood Between.

“I should have asked him to find Daylily,” he muttered. But it was too late. And was he now to leave her himself? To return to the safety of the Near World and . . . and what? He’d made his peace with his father. Rose Red no longer waited with faithful friendship; she was long since gone. All his ties there were severed.

“Why, then?” he asked the empty air. “Why would you send me back? Why not let me find Daylily and at least do one good turn by her?”

There was no answer. The Path at his feet pointed to the gate, and Lionheart could not deny it forever.

He passed between the two trees, and the Wilderlands watched him go.



The flock of sylphs crashed through the Wood, singing as they went.

“We have him, and we’ll keep him!

We’ll dance and whirl and sweep him

Through the merry In Between

To places he has never been,

And never more will he be seen

By mortal eye again!”

At first, Foxbrush could not understand the words, so loud was the roaring of the voices singing them. But the deeper they progressed into the forest, the gentler his captors became, as though more certain of their catch. When at last they let him touch the ground once more—pushing and prodding him when he fell to his knees—he could hear their words very well. But his mind could not accept it.

“That . . . that was quite a gale!” he gasped, clutching his shirt, which had been torn to ribbons by snatching branches. A little afraid what he might discover, he felt around, testing his own limbs to make certain they were all still attached.

He found Lionheart’s scroll tucked into his trouser pocket. Somehow, feeling it there made him angry, and anger made him brave enough to stand. He coughed to clear his throat and smoothed down his hair with both hands. “An unusual natural phenomenon,” he said, lying to himself for what comfort a lie might offer. “A powerful summer gale is what that was. Probably several accounts of it in Gullfinger’s Guide to the Natural Sciences.”

The next few moments were spent in far more desperate self-lies as he struggled to convince himself that the winds in the trees above him were not whispering to one another.

“Look at me! I’m a natural phenomenian!”

“A natural phenemenon!”

“A natural phenomonomonom!”

Lionheart was nowhere to be seen. But surely he must be close, perhaps only a few yards away. The Wood was so thick here, it was possible for all manner of things to lie hidden within inches of each other. Foxbrush shuddered. His imagination was not keen even at its best, but one needed very little to begin picturing wild creatures lying low, shielded beneath the heavy fern fronds, ready to leap; or snakes slithering silent paths and just brushing one’s foot.