Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(61)

The Eldest said, “The strangers, the red lady and her companion, demanded tithe for Mama Greenteeth’s death. They said the bargain was struck in Greenteeth’s blood.”

“And did the men and women of Greenwell put up no fight?”

“There was no one to fight. Voices called in the night, and they tell me there were lights like shining candles. The children stepped from their parents’ homes and vanished without a trace. That was three days ago now.”

Redman put both hands to his scarred face, hiding for a moment from all that was dreadful and crushing upon his soul. Only slowly did he lower them again, looking around at his children. His gaze lingered longest on Lark. Then he turned to his wife with a snarl in his voice.

“We must find them. We must find these two warriors and recover the lost children.”

The Eldest shook her head. She held her breath for fear of a sob escaping. But she set aside her bowl and put out a hand to her husband. “There is more to this than we yet know, my love,” she said, her voice thick in her throat. “More to these Bronze Warriors. We must learn before we can fight.”

“And meanwhile, what if they strike again? What if they kill more totem beasts and demand yet another tithe?”

The Eldest simply shook her head, for she had no answers to give.

Foxbrush sat with his meal cooling in his hands. Hungry though he was, he had no will to eat, not with the strange, sad scene playing out before him. Everything they said was incomprehensible to him.

Quietly he set aside his bowl and got to his feet. Still no one looked his way.

“Your pardon,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster while clad only in his trousers, his feet bare, his torso still smeared with Lark’s healing medicines. The Eldest and Redman looked up at him as though surprised by his continued existence. “Your pardon,” he repeated, “but I must be on my way now. If you would have someone point out the road to this Greenwell, I would be obliged. . . .”

Redman frowned at him, his ugly face far uglier in the firelight. “You’re going to set out now, in the dark, on a road you’ve never traveled?” He made a scoffing noise and did not bother to go on, so ludicrous did this idea strike him.

“Please,” said the Eldest, more kindly, “stay a little. You’ll not find your red lady, even if she is the one you seek. My men, expert trackers all, searched the whole of that area for any sign of her or her companion. They found nothing save this on the lip of the well.” She put a hand into a pouch at her side and withdrew a slip of dirtied silk, once white. This she handed to Foxbrush, who took it with a shudder. A scrap of Daylily’s wedding gown.

“I must find her,” he said, clenching the sorry remnant into his fist.

“As must we,” said Eldest Sight-of-Day. “We must find them all and the children they stole. Stay with us, stranger. You may be able to help. Not tonight. Not in the dark. The dark is full of too many hungers.”

Foxbrush felt his legs giving way at those words and hastily sat before he disgraced himself further. He curled his knees to his chest and studied the fire even as Redman and the Eldest conferred together in low tones. Their words trailed with the smoke up through the hole in the roof, for Foxbrush could no longer listen or even try to comprehend.

He saw Daylily in the flames. Daylily, his resentful bride.

Daylily, the monster slayer.

For the first time since all these dreadful events began, his heart beat with terror for someone other than himself.

Lark, sitting beside her mother, watched Foxbrush. Then she crossed to him, picked up his bowl, and placed it in his hands. She took a seat beside him. “Eat,” she said and grinned, which was an odd but welcome sight in that room of solemn fears.

Foxbrush, who never ate without silver, grimaced down at his bowl. Worms—that’s what the cold onions resembled, coiled round the chunks of fish and spices. Grimacing but feeling the pressure of Lark’s gaze, he selected a sliver of onion and popped it into his mouth.

The explosion of heat on his tongue was enough to make him choke. Sweat broke out on his nose, and his eyes watered.

Lark giggled. “Hot,” she warned rather late. Then she scrambled to her feet, all elbows and knees, and scampered to a dark corner of the room. She returned with a bowl of goat’s milk, which Foxbrush drank gratefully despite the taste of grass and mud and lingering goat. It cooled the burn, and he could then taste the variety of flavors so rich upon his tongue. Cinnamon and sugar, peppers and ginger, along with spices he did not recognize combined in ways he had never before imagined. Yes, there was also a taste of dirt—one to which he must become adjusted in this era of dirt—but if anything, it enhanced the whole. He had never, in all the royal banquets and feasts at which he had dined, tasted anything like this.

“Good?” Lark asked.

He managed a smile, braced himself, and took another bite. “Good,” he said, gulping down more milk.



Far beyond the village borders, a wind stirred the tops of the jungle trees. In that wind a voice called eagerly, Foxbrush! Foxbrush! Where are you? I’m coming for you, Foxbrush!





21


BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE WOOD, Daylily was breathing properly. But with breathing came words, and she moaned and whimpered and made a fool of herself. Sun Eagle told her to be silent, and his command was sharp enough to shut her mouth at least until they’d descended the gorge and regained the shadows of the Between.