Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(32)

And his brain immediately countered: What? No! Where do you get that crazed notion? You saw him just yesterday, and he was sick, to be sure, but very much alive. Don’t be a fool, Leo, and get on your way!

Thus fortified, Lionheart shook himself and began jogging across the grassy field on to one of the near roads. In his groundsman’s garb, he passed unnoticed among other groundskeepers, who nodded his way but otherwise ignored him and went about their work. Morning was swiftly lengthening toward noon, and there was no time to waste in chitchat. Lawns must be cut, hedges must be pruned, mulches must be laid.

So Lionheart progressed unimpeded. He was surprised as he went to see the extent to which the Eldest’s gardens had recovered; indeed, he did not remember seeing them so well tended when he had made this same trek from the gorge just the day before.

Or had it been the day before?

The unwelcome thought stirred in the back of his brain, but Lionheart shook it off and quickened his pace. The Prince’s Path was not clear to him now, but somehow he knew he still pursued it as he hastened toward the familiar towers and minarets of his father’s house, less familiar now since the Dragon’s evil work, but the home of his childhood nonetheless.

Flags flew high from every peak and tower, many long, scarf-like tassels on the wind, blue and red and silver. Lionheart frowned when he saw these. Had they not been gold and white flags just yesterday, in honor of the crown prince’s coming marriage? Who had replaced them with the Eldest’s colors and the standard of the rampant panther?

Lionheart’s road joined with the larger road leading from across Swan Bridge and Evenwell Barony. Here he was obliged to walk along the verge, however, for the road itself was crowded with carriages and horsemen hastening on through the Eldest’s parklands toward the House itself. This was strange, Lionheart thought. Should not the Baron of Evenwell be leaving in the wake of the crown prince’s canceled wedding? Why should he only now arrive, a day late?

Lionheart’s heart said, Your father is dead.

To this, Lionheart’s brain responded, If that is true, why aren’t the flags at half-mast?

It was a fine rebuttal, and Lionheart refused to follow it up with any further questions. He merely quickened his pace, dodging to keep from being run over by one of the rumbling carts.

The nearer he drew to the Eldest’s House, the more details came into view. Every window, every arch, every balustrade and gable was festooned in thick garlands of starflowers. Only, not real starflowers. These, he saw upon closer inspection, were made of paper.

But starflowers were in full bloom that time of year, and the garlands should be real!

It is months later, whispered Lionheart’s heart. The starflowers have ceased to blossom. And your father is dead.

It’s just a few flowers! Maybe they withered early this year. Because of the dragon smoke, his brain replied, angry now.

The roads near the house were more crowded still, and Lionheart was obliged to walk in the dirt and grass, for there was no room for him among the carriages and horses and beautifully dressed men and women. Entourages bearing the standards of every barony in the kingdom glittered past, heralded by trumpets or criers as they drew near the House gates. He saw the flash of a flag from Milden, glimpsed the livery of powerful Shippening lords, and . . . light of Lumé above! Was that coach approaching from the Eldest’s City sporting the royal insignia of Parumvir?

They wouldn’t come so far, said Lionheart’s heart. Not King Fidel, nor even Prince Felix. They wouldn’t come so far for a wedding.

But they might for a funeral.

No! Lionheart’s brain immediately countered. Not a funeral! Besides, the flags aren’t at half-mast.

In the bustle and to-do, it took very little effort to slip around through the back ways, cross the kitchen gardens, and enter the Eldest’s House by way of the scullery door. Here he was assaulted by an army of smells: everything from the fresh blood of slaughtered animals, to heady spices of various chutneys and deviled vegetables, to the sweet tangs of candied fruits, and the warmth of creamy sauces. Kitchen hands glared his way, and one of the minor cooks brandished a skewer so threateningly that Lionheart (who had been stabbed by a unicorn and lived to tell the tale) leapt back in horror and made a hasty retreat.

He escaped the kitchens into the servants’ passage and climbed up to the main house. All the while, his heart was saying, They’re preparing a feast. You know what that means.

A feast, I’ll grant you! his brain replied. But not for a funeral. These are preparations for celebration, not mourning. And the dragon-eaten flags are not at dragon-eaten half-mast!

Then suddenly, on a narrow stair in the shadowy space between the sundered worlds of the servants and nobles, Lionheart stopped and pressed his back to the wall.

“My father is dead,” he said, and both his heart and his brain understood it for truth.

He knew now why the barons, lords, and even kings of distant nations were gathering in the Eldest’s House. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.

He whispered one word into the dark: “Coronation.”



The Baroness of Middlecrescent was a simple woman. This isn’t to say she was stupid or even especially foolish, though it might seem so to some unsympathetic observers. She merely held an uncomplicated view of the world and the order of things, held it with a grasp that had only tightened as the years slipped by. She clung to the perspective that people, on the whole, were generally good sorts with good hearts who wanted good things for the good people around them. Not even five years of dragon smoke had been able to shake this perspective. Indeed, in the surrounding darkness, the baroness had found it more vital than ever to cling to what she believed she knew (which isn’t at all the same as actually knowing).