Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(28)

The child stomped through the ferns with the ferocity of an angry elephant, though that ferocity was tempered somewhat by the loud snorts it made as it rubbed its runny eyes. Its voice rose in petulance as it neared. “When I say go away, I mean Go! Away! ”

“I-I’m sorry!” Foxbrush cried, putting up his hands and backing away, for even a child can be intimidating in the Between. “I didn’t mean to offend, I simply—”

“Go! Go, go, go!” the child cried, wiping its nose with a long swipe of its arm, its face wrinkling up into the hideous expression one makes when trying to suppress more tears.

“Please, little boy,” Foxbrush begged, “I don’t want to—”

“LITTLE BOY?”

The child’s shriek turned into an explosion that knocked Foxbrush several yards back until he struck a fir tree whose prickly arms cushioned his fall. He sank to the ground, his eyes staring for all they were worth at the place where the child stood. Only there was no child anymore.

In its place stood the most gorgeous young woman Foxbrush had ever seen.

A white lion leapt into the space between her and him, its mouth a red chasm of snarling.





10


BEFORE, THE WOOD HAD LOOMED THREATENINGLY. Now it shivered as if threatened.

All because of a little bronze stone? Daylily wondered and once more lifted the stone on the cord around her neck, attempting to look at it. It was difficult to see at the pace she was obliged to keep, dragged along behind Sun Eagle, who held her fast by the hand. And the stone swung like a pendulum, almost as though it did not want to be seen. It made her slightly sick.

It is very beautiful.

Was it? Very well, perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was just a lump of bronze melted down in some unknown furnace so that the original emblazoned image on its face was completely unrecognizable. Was the stone once a flattened disk? If so, that was a long time ago. Was that possibly the etching of a profile still visible through the melting?

She was very beautiful.

Daylily could not have told how she knew. But even as she trotted after her bloodstained guide and dropped the bronze stone so that it landed back on her breastbone, over her heart, she knew that whoever’s face had once graced that melted disk had been beautiful indeed. Beautiful and powerful.

And the Wood, looking at it now—at the face or the memory of the face or perhaps simply at the Bronze itself—drew back and gave the warrior and the fire-haired maiden clear passage.

“Tell me, Crescent Woman,” said Sun Eagle suddenly as they went, “do they speak of Elder Darkwing’s son in your day?” His voice was quick and low, as though he feared both to ask the question and to hear the answer.

“Who?” Daylily asked. And that was answer enough in itself.

The warrior ground his teeth and shook his head, angry at himself for even thinking the next question that sprang to his lips but asking it nonetheless. “And the Starflower. Do you know . . . does she yet live?”

“Starflower?” Daylily frowned. “I couldn’t say. I’ve known many Starflowers. The Eldest’s wife, Queen Starflower, she—” For a moment, Daylily could not speak. But somehow the feel of the Bronze above her heart gave her strength. She was safe. She was not at the mercy of that which lived inside her. She was master of herself. “Queen Starflower died when the Dragon came.”

“Dragon? Queen?” It would be difficult to say which surprised the young warrior more. He drew up sharply, and Daylily ran into him, staggering back a pace or two and treading on her dress. Sun Eagle rounded on her, his eyes narrowed, his face fierce. “Don’t lie to me, Crescent Woman. You are of my kin. Your blood and my blood flow from the same source. Do not lie to me.”

Daylily might have been afraid once. But she had entered the Wilderlands of her own choosing; she had danced with sylphs. And she wore the Bronze around her neck. What had she to fear?

A distant part of herself observing from some secret corner watched in surprise as she put up a hand to touch the warrior’s bloodstained face. He, surprised as well, flinched but did not otherwise move, standing cold as stone under her fingertips. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Whose blood is that?”

For a moment she thought he would not answer. For a moment she thought she did not want him to answer.

Then he said, “Dinhrod’s. Dinhrod the Stone.”

“Who was Dinhrod the Stone?”

“My Advocate.”

That distant part of Daylily told her to drop her hand. That distant part of Daylily urged her to back away, to run. That distant part of Daylily felt the danger in those strange words.

But that part of Daylily was bound and paralyzed. She had no reason to heed it now.

“Did you kill him?” she asked and her voice did not tremble.

“No,” Sun Eagle replied. “But I watched him die.”

Glorious death. From which springs life.

Daylily stepped back, her hand still frozen in the air as it left his face. She was cold but did not know it. The Bronze over her heart warmed her. She asked without fear, “Who is my Advocate?”

“I am,” said Sun Eagle. “I found you; I chose you; and you will not disappoint. You have taken the Bronze.”

He turned then and led on through the Wood, depriving Daylily of the chance to ask her final question.