Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(46)

“I’ve got to get out of here!”

Then he turned to the wall, grimacing but determined. After all, it was only made of mud.





15


PRINCE FELIX OF PARUMVIR WAS BORED.

The advantage to this was that a bored face could easily be mistaken for an expression of solemn dignity. So he told himself he must look extraordinarily solemn and dignified now as he stood with the Parumvir ambassador to Southlands on one side and the Duke of Gaheris on the other, crammed into a high gallery in the newly rebuilt Great Hall of the Eldest’s House.

Felix had been pleased enough when his father sent him as emissary from Parumvir to the coronation of the new Eldest. He’d never been to Southlands before. Indeed, he’d never been farther south on the Continent than Beauclair. And Parumvir, in recent history, had become rather . . . well, he hated to say, but it had somehow become a little small.

A lad cannot travel deep into the Wood Between and the worlds beyond without finding his former world tight about the seams upon his return. An adventure down south was just what he needed, both he and his father, King Fidel, had agreed.

So here he was now, stuffed into a suit of peacock hues and a stiff collar dripping with jewels, far too hot for this southern clime, slowly melting away into a puddle of former princeliness. All for the sake of crowning some fellow who, rumor had it, was nothing short of a usurper.

“What happened to Lionheart?” Felix had asked Sir Palinurus, the ambassador at whose sumptuous house in the Eldest’s City the prince was being hosted. “Was he not Eldest Hawkeye’s heir? I heard some rumor about him.”

Felix had heard more than rumor; he had actually met Lionheart in strange worlds beyond the borders of the mortal realm. But he’d never quite managed to talk to him or discover more than a few hints of his story. So he listened with interest as Sir Palinurus explained Prince Lionheart’s disinheritance and his cousin Foxbrush’s subsequent rise to power.

“All right. But then this Foxbrush fellow, he ran away?” Felix persisted. Rumor traveled swiftly across the Continent, yet Felix wasn’t much of a gossip hound and found himself woefully lacking in details.

“Oh indeed, my prince!” Sir Palinurus agreed with almost as much vigor as a fishmonger’s wife sharing a juicy tidbit. “On his very wedding day, he and the lady in question both vanished! It is rumored the former Prince Lionheart was seen upon the grounds that day, and some say that he abducted and murdered them both out of vengeance.”

Felix, standing in the gallery now, mulled over this piece of information. He didn’t think he believed it. Lionheart was a scamp and scoundrel who’d caused more than a little trouble in Parumvir, and Felix hadn’t a great deal of love in his heart for the former prince, but . . .

But he had seen Lionheart lying dead upon a dark stone, stabbed through the heart by a unicorn’s horn. And he had seen him return to life and stand in the presence of the Prince of Farthestshore.

These weren’t memories Felix dared to share with any of those around him. No one would believe him, not even after all the recent doings with dragons and myths come to life. But he knew what he had seen.

Lionheart was no murderer. So perhaps Prince Foxbrush was not murdered?

It didn’t matter, Felix decided with a shrug as he attempted to loosen his collar. All around him the Eldest’s Hall was crowded with a glory of noblemen and women, holy clerics in robes of an old style, barons and dukes and kings of distant nations, all come to see the new Eldest of Southlands crowned. And really, was it any of Felix’s business whom these dragon-eaten foreigners chose to make their king? He had only to stand here, representing his nation with dignity (or boredom), as was right and proper.

Some cleric began to chant, and others joined in. A solemn procession of men and women in holy garments marched stolidly up the hall, bearing incense and starflowers according to some old custom with which Felix was unfamiliar. The various barons of Southlands marched in the wake of the holy orders, each carrying the shields of their baronies, and they were also crowned in starflowers.

Somehow, the sight of all those artificial blossoms made Felix think of Dame Imraldera. He couldn’t say why, exactly. Most things made him think of Dame Imraldera these days. She had saved his life, after all. And she was so very . . . wonderful.

His young heart sank to his stomach in a manner miserable yet not altogether unpleasant, and he lost himself momentarily in a melancholy dream. One day he would find her again. One day he would . . .

Hang on! Lord Lumé above, what was that?

Felix tried not to crane his neck too obviously as he watched the newest spectacle coming down the aisle. It was, he gathered, the soon-to-be queen, a plump, pleasant-faced woman squeezed into sumptuous garments that all but smothered her short figure. She was surrounded by ladies of the court, including the ambassador’s wife, all of whom carried great bundles of paper starflowers in their hands.

And holding up her train in the back was the tallest, gawkiest, most shuffle-footed page boy Felix had ever seen in his life.

“Lionheart!” he whispered.

Felix knew him at once. Dressed in servants’ livery several times too small for him, his head bowed and only partially hidden beneath a floppy, flower-rimmed hat, he clung to the train of the queen-to-be and did everything in his power to make himself unnoticeable. Surrounded as he was by all the grandeur of the courtly ladies, he very nearly succeeded.