Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(94)

“I am Eldest of the South Land.”

Even Redman backed down as she spoke, and Kasa turned in surprise and perhaps even an instant of fear.

“I am Eldest of the South Land,” said Sight-of-Day, brandishing her weapon. “Who are you, woman of the Bronze, that you should approach my door and threaten my own?”

Kasa heaved the body of Crookjaw. It flew in an arc and thudded at the Eldest’s feet.

“That is what we’ve come for,” Kasa said. “You owe in tithe for the blood of this Faerie beast.”

Blood. New life . . .

The air trembled with words not spoken but felt by all those present. Foxbrush, who had joined the crowd below, felt Lark squeeze his hand and press against him.

The Eldest, however, cast but a brief glance down at the broken body of the monkey. “We owe nothing. Crookjaw lived in harmony with my people. You have murdered him, and we owe you nothing.”

“Harmony?” said Kasa with a sound that might have been a laugh among her own kind. “The beast attacked one of your own. I saw how it happened. The beast tore at the face of your own village man and would have slain him had I not interceded. And now you owe the tithe for the blood I spared and the blood I spilled.”

The Eldest stepped over the body of Crookjaw, advancing on the giantess. “We owe nothing!” she said. “Crookjaw would never attack one of my people! He had his tribute!”

Kasa turned then. Her gaze swept down from above and fixed upon Foxbrush in the crowd. She raised one muscular arm and pointed directly at him. “Ask the one I saved.”

Blood. Saved. Blood . . .

Redman, the Eldest, and all the village turned to Foxbrush then. Even Lark, clinging to his hand, turned her too-old eyes up to his face. Though he did not move a step, Foxbrush felt as though he was dragged suddenly forward and flung into the midst of an accusing throng. He could read the question in every gaze: Is it true? Are we lost?

“Tell them,” said Kasa. “Tell them the truth of my words.”

“Um.” Foxbrush stared around, finally looking down at Lark. Her face was stricken with hopelessness. “I . . . I ran afoul of Crookjaw,” he whispered, but his voice was caught in the listening silence and seemed to roar in every ear. Then he shook his head, closing his eyes and willing himself to speak despite the pressure of the village stare. “But I don’t think he would have hurt me. Not really.”

He looked up then and met Kasa’s gaze. And she, even from that distance, saw again what she had seen before and felt a waft of coldness pass over her heart.

Then she spoke. When she did, other voices spoke as well, nine other voices from nine other warriors who stood ringing the village, the Bronze shining upon each breast. Their voices rose as one, and they cried out:

The bond is made! The tie cannot be broken! Send us your firstborn!

The sky overhead turned black as night and thunder growled dark threats. In the darkness, the lights of the Bronze shone, beckoning, irresistible.

Lark let go of Foxbrush’s hand. He saw her turn her face to the nearest of the lights, which shone so bright it obscured the one who wore it. She started toward it.

“No!” Foxbrush shouted. He heard other voices, the whole of the village shouting, screaming names and threats and protests. Everywhere around him, children of all ages left the shelter of their parents’ arms and moved toward the gleaming lights. Foxbrush leapt forward and caught at Lark, struggling to grab her shoulder, her arm. But though he felt the warmth of her skin, he could not take hold. She slipped through his grasp like mist and moved on.

More dark figures, shrouded by the storm gloom, moved into the crowd. Young mothers clutching newborns to their breasts found their arms were empty. Fathers catching up little ones found they caught at airy nothing.

And still the voices called:

Send us your firstborn! Send us your firstborn!

Suddenly the bronze lights went out.

The world plunged into crippling blindness. Foxbrush fell to his knees and pressed his hands over his face, trying to hide himself from the dark.

The storm rolled by overhead. The sun dared shine once more. It looked down from the sky upon the desolate village, where fathers and mothers wept and called their children’s names.





6


NIDAWI PROWLED THE SHADOWS, moving slowly on her hands and feet like some long-limbed lion herself, placing each foot and hand silently before its mate. Shadows danced across her face, but fire danced in her eyes as she watched the Haven door. The Haven itself was not constant before her vision. Sometimes she saw a great and beautiful house; sometimes it was only a thick grove of trees. Either way it was unassailable, at least in her current strength.

But the door she could watch. She and Lioness.

Days and nights both passed and did not pass in this realm without time, for nothing was stable and nothing changed. Around the Haven itself—perhaps due to the occupant, who was herself once mortal—time seemed to linger, counting out hours and moments alike. But a few paces beyond, there was only the Wood and immortality. Nidawi cared nothing for time, and in this at least she had the patience of mountains. She watched the gloom of night fall and retreat into the gleam of morning more often than she bothered to count. And still she waited.

She could hear voices now and then. Just now, for instance, on the other side of a hawthorn tangle that was also a hard stone wall, she heard the Faerie man and the mortal woman who had turned her away from their door (the beasts!), arguing. She crouched beneath the branches, listening and sniffing and watering at the mouth in the eagerness of her desire.