Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(59)
His brain halted. Until he had some food in his belly and possibly a night’s sleep, he wouldn’t try to pursue that mental path any further.
A drum beat somewhere out in the night. Deep, rumbling booms carried up from below the hill. And suddenly the room erupted with even more children than Foxbrush had realized lurked in the shadows. Two more little girls, skinny and scrambling and ginger haired, shouting, “Ma! Mama!” ran from the room, and Cattail let go of Foxbrush’s heel and nearly knocked her little brother over in her eagerness to follow her sisters. Even Lark left her onions on the fire, grabbed up young Wolfsbane, and bore him out of the room, shouting as loudly as any of her sisters.
“My wife returns,” said Redman, using a stone knife to stir the onions and fish before they burned. “She is Eldest here and she is wise. Years ago when the rivers vanished, all the South Land was thrown into turmoil. But Eldest Sight-of-Day united five of the thirteen tribes, and others since have come under her mark. Suffering invasion as we do, still we have prospered by the Eldest’s leading. The Silent Lady herself trained Sight-of-Day for this role. You know of the Silent Lady in your time?”
Foxbrush nodded, awed to his core. The Silent Lady was the most famous heroine in all Southlander history or legend. “I . . . I thought the Silent Lady died when she fought the Wolf Lord,” he said. Then he added thoughtfully, “Or . . . or hasn’t she met him yet?”
“Oh, she met him,” Redman said, his mustache twitching with a possible smile. But he offered no other explanation.
Soon after, heralded by her eager swarm of young ones, the Eldest herself entered the room, and Foxbrush pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and bowed.
Eldest Sight-of-Day was not a woman of great stature or presence. She was scarcely taller than her oldest daughter, who was tucked affectionately under her arm. Unlike her husband and her children, she was dark as a Southlander, darker even than the women of Foxbrush’s day, with a rich sheen to her hair despite the silver threading the black. She wore long skin robes, and decorative bangles covered her bare arms up to her elbows. No crown marked her status, but a stone necklace, a crude starflower chipped into its surface and decorated with white, uncut gems, lay heavily across her collarbone. Her face was lovely, if lined.
“My children tell me we have a guest,” she said, speaking in her own language so that Foxbrush did not understand. Her eyes swiftly found Foxbrush where he bowed and squinted in his corner. “A guest from foreign parts.”
“Foreign indeed,” Redman said, stepping forward and saluting his wife with a kiss. “But his story can wait until you have rested.” He peered earnestly at her face in the firelight. “You are tired. Was the journey so hard?”
“No, no,” she protested. “The road to Greenwell is easy, with few tributes to pay along the way. But . . .” Here she sighed and shook her head. “Let me sit for a moment.”
She took a place away from the fire, and one of her daughters fanned her with a wide fig leaf. The Eldest’s face was scored with more than fatigue, and she stared without knowing what she saw at the juices of cooking onions running off the heated stone into the sizzling coals.
The children gathered around her, gazing at her with no less adoration than they might have bestowed upon a goddess. Foxbrush listened with care to their talk. He found that he could, upon occasion, pick out a word or two, even an entire phrase. Perhaps their ancient language was not so dissimilar to his own.
Forgotten in his corner, he felt awkward in this setting of family warmth, coupled so strangely as it was to the knowledge of blood and death and dirt etched on every face present, both young and old. Even small Wolfsbane was not untouched by it, and his dark eyes, so odd beneath a mop of curly red hair, were sweet but not as innocent as one might expect in a child of his age.
“I fear I bring evil tidings from Greenwell,” Eldest Sight-of-Day said at last. To Foxbrush’s amazement, she spoke now in Redman’s language, which Foxbrush could understand. At first he was surprised by this. But then he saw that the younger children did not know what she said, and he wondered if she meant to spare them hearing the news she brought. Only Lark, alert and bright-eyed, seemed to follow the conversation.
“I thought as much,” Redman said, motioning to Lark, who brought him carved wooden bowls. He served up their meal as he and his wife spoke. “So the Greenteeth of Greenwell is no longer accepting the agreed-upon tribute.”
“Mama Greenteeth is dead.”
A sudden stillness took the room. Even the fire seemed to shrink into itself. The children, who did not understand, read the gravity in their parents’ faces. The two little girls whose names Foxbrush did not know clung to each other and hid in the shadow of their mother, while Lark took hold of both Wolfsbane and Cattail, drawing them close in silent protection.
Redman cleared his throat and continued serving. “Lark, child,” he said, his voice a deep growl. “Come, help me as you should.”
Lark obeyed, handing out the steaming, aromatic concoction, which the children and the Eldest accepted. Foxbrush, whom Lark seemed to have forgotten, watched hungrily and dared not speak up.
The Eldest selected a small chunk of fish from her bowl and held it between two fingers. “Blow,” she said to her son, and Wolfsbane obeyed, his posy mouth spitting with the effort. The Eldest blew on it herself, then fed him like a baby bird.