Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(69)

“Fool enough,” the baron said. He looked strangely . . . small. Stripped of his majestic trimmings, not to mention the hidden weapons, he was almost a pathetic sight.

Yet his eyes were like knives themselves.

“Do you hear that sound, Eldest’s son?” he asked even as Lionheart returned to lean his back against the great, heavy door.

Listening despite himself, Lionheart heard nothing; nothing save a faint murmur far below, the clatter of hooves in the courtyard, and occasional gruff shouts. North Tower stood too high above it all for him to make out any words.

It took him a moment to realize what the baron meant. No one was knocking at the chamber door.

“That is the sound of your doom brewing,” said the baron softly. “First they flung themselves against the breakers, useless and weak. Now they mass for a tidal wave that will sweep you away.”

“Right.” Lionheart offered the baron a grim half smile. “But only if they can get through the door.”

“How long do you think you can hide in here?” the baron persisted, twisting in the attempt to find a more comfortable position. With the rope shortened, his wrists bound together at chin level, comfort became an elusive friend at best. “How long do you hope to prevent me from taking my rightful place as master of this kingdom?”

“At least as long as the supplies hold out,” Lionheart said with a shrug.

“What supplies?”

All along Lionheart had known this was a foolish plan, though, if asked, he would have preferred the word daring. Kidnapping the most powerful man in the nation on his coronation day was perhaps not the wisest notion ever to take a young rebel’s fancy.

But it might have worked. The baroness, after all, had proven a willing and even reasonably cunning ally. Had she not made certain the door to this chamber was open and ready? Had she not sent servants discreetly bearing rope in readiness for her husband’s binding?

Had she not promised to supply abundant food and water for the probability of a long siege?

Trying to appear calm, Lionheart got back up to search the room. The cupboards and the great wardrobe were empty; the sumptuous canopied bed hid nothing beneath but a chamber pot.

“Overlook a little detail, Prince Lionheart?” said the baron, watching as Lionheart climbed up to check the top of the wardrobe, just in case. “I noticed while you slept, and I wondered.”

Lionheart clenched his teeth to hold back the tirade of furious words bubbling up inside. He could not suppress an angry whisper of: “Dragons take that woman.”

The baron’s chin lifted a little, and his great eyes narrowed. “What woman?”

Lionheart dropped down from the wardrobe and stood with his back to his prisoner. How long could he hope to keep this up? He was confident—or mostly so—that no one would break through that door short of setting it ablaze. But how long would it take Foxbrush to return?

How much could one count on a sylph’s word?

“You are going to die, Prince Lionheart,” said the baron. “Either quickly by the hangman’s noose or slowly through starvation. One way or the other, you will die.”

Lionheart turned and regarded the baron. Oddly enough, he felt peaceful despite the looming truth of his captive’s words. “I’ve already died, Baron. I’m not afraid.”

With this, he returned to his place by the door, listening carefully. He knew they were there. They may have given up their pounding assault, but they wouldn’t leave their intended king alone. No, they would be waiting just outside the door, swords drawn.

He closed his eyes, this time not in sleep or even exhaustion. He simply sat there, letting his mind clear. And he listened. He listened more intently than ever before, with more earnest, striving energy than he had ever put into anything. He sat, head bowed, and his heart pounded with the need to hear, the need to know.

What would you have me do, my Lord?

And the voice in his memory, which seemed so long ago now, repeated: “I ask that you return to Southlands and the House of your father.”

He had obeyed, had he not? He had hastened back to King Hawkeye’s side, and they had been reconciled. But there was more.

Frowning, Lionheart now recalled his journey home through the Wood Between. Scarcely had he begun his lonely trek down the still-unfamiliar Path when he saw a familiar face beneath a tall oak tree.

The Lady of the Haven had smiled at his approach.

“Childe of Farthestshore,” she called in greeting, and he gasped in relief at the sight of her.

“Dame Imraldera!” he said, hurrying to her. “Did you not stay awhile at the coronation feast?”

“I did, Childe Lionheart,” she said. “But I left three days ago to ensure that I should meet you here.”

“Three . . . three days?” Lionheart frowned at this. “I just . . . I just took leave of Queen Varvare minutes ago.”

“To be sure,” Dame Imraldera replied. “And soon after you did so, I followed suit, and that is three days gone. And now we are both here.” She laughed. “Time is a funny and a dangerous thing here in the Between. Don’t be afraid. You’ll soon accustom yourself to ways beyond the Near World. Sooner than you think.”

He gave her a shrewd look. “Did you?”

She opened her mouth to reply but paused. Then, with another smile, smaller and more enigmatic than the first, she said, “I am not yet so accustomed as I wish to be. Even now, I scarcely understand the flowing to and fro of Time. What we do now, what we do then, and all the ripples throughout history.”