Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(58)

Lionheart stood back, hoping his trembling fingers had secured the knot well enough, at least for now. His breath wasn’t coming quite naturally, but he did not think he’d disgrace himself. Not yet anyway. Another thud on the door signaled the breaking of some poor guardsman’s shoulder. In the narrow landing without, there was no room for a battering ram of any size such as they must have used on the door below.

Lionheart returned to the door and pulled free the baron’s embedded knife. He retrieved his own blade and the key, which he’d dropped in the scuffle, and secured them in his belt. Then, shaking his head at his near forgetfulness, he returned to the baron and pulled off his boots, his cloak, and his outer tunic, discovering quite a number of delicate little instruments in the process. He could only hope he’d found them all.

“You’d better kill me,” the baron said as Lionheart tore the fibula of the rampant panther—the Eldest’s insignia—from his shoulder. “It’s your only option. If you don’t want to see me on your father’s throne, my death is your one hope. So why not add murder to your other crimes. It’ll take the hangman longer to read out your wrongs to the crowd at your execution; buy you a few more breaths.”

The door boomed again. But it held. Its hinges were iron and its frame was stone two feet thick. The door itself was many layers of dense mango wood, seasoned with salt and kiln-dried, made fast with iron fixtures. It did not so much as shudder when struck.

Lionheart sank to the floor, his back to the door, and stared dully across at the baron. He forced himself to draw several long breaths, hoping to ease the bubbling sickness in his belly. He watched the baron’s gaze rove the room and saw it at last fix upon the lock.

It should have been impossible for those enormous eyes to widen. But they did.

“You forgot,” said Lionheart grimly. “You forgot that the Eldest long ago had this chamber transformed into a bolt hole. A supplied man can fend off all assailants from here.”

The baron’s face drained of color. But then he smiled and spat more blood and foam. “For how long, Lionheart? Until the Council of Barons decides to reinstate you? To crown you Eldest?”

Lionheart shook his head. “I’m not so patient as that, baron,” he said wryly. “We have only to wait for Foxbrush’s return.”

“Foxbrush?” The baron laughed mirthlessly. “You’ll risk your neck for the sake of that dullard?”

“He is my father’s chosen heir.”

The baron laughed again, his voice nearly drowning out the shouts of the assailants behind the door. “A poison-addled choice, and well you know it. And a choice that means nothing now. He’s dead.”

Once more they struck the door without. Lionheart held the baron’s gaze for longer than he would ever have believed possible. In the end, however, he broke first and buried his tired face in his hands.

I vowed to follow you, his heart whispered desperately. Is this right? Is this what you would have of me?

But he heard no answer beyond the shouts of those who would kill him the moment they broke through.





20


THIS WILL STING.”

Foxbrush did not understand the child’s words and was therefore unprepared when she slapped a greasy poultice to the cut on his heel. He yelped loud enough to draw the attention of all the children gathered in the room.

The child, another redheaded girl, younger than Lark, glared at him. Then she called over her shoulder to her sister, “He won’t sit still!”

“Grab his ankle,” Lark replied from her place over the cooking fire.

Once again Foxbrush did not understand. So when the little girl grabbed hold of his foot in both her hands and pulled, he resisted for a moment. Then, grimacing, he allowed her to straighten his leg and reapply the poultice. Surely a child that small couldn’t mean him any real harm, no matter how dirty her face.

He sat in a stone room in the main square of the Eldest’s House, his back to the wall. He could not remember the last time he’d sat on the floor. Certainly never a dirt floor like this! But there was little to no furniture in the house, merely skin rugs and a few rickety chairs that looked at least as uncomfortable as the floor, if not more so. Therefore he sat where he was, surrounded by children.

The girl tending him was called Cattail—Kitten by her father. She took her meticulous time over her duties with all the gravity to be found in a child of seven or eight. Meanwhile, a baby boy stood behind her, sucking his fingers and grinning wetly every time Foxbrush glanced his way.

Children were not Foxbrush’s area of expertise. He hadn’t much liked children even when he was counted among their number. And these children were stranger than any he’d known back then, like small adults with round, solemn faces and eyes that had already seen their share of death.

They were, truth be told, a bit frightening.

Redman sat by the central fire, helping his oldest daughter finish preparing a meal. He ground spices beneath a stone while Lark spread slices of onions and gingerroot and tiny smoked fishes over a cooking stone. They sizzled, and the air was soon full of a strange but pleasant mixture of aromas.

Foxbrush’s stomach growled. A mournful wave washed over him at the sound, bringing the too-near memories of his wedding day, uncelebrated, and his wedding feast, untasted. How long had it been now since he’d eaten? Hundreds of years? Or, as he seemed to have fallen back in time, perhaps he’d never eaten at all?