Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6)(95)
“You brought him here yourself!” the woman said, her voice tense with anger. “You told me you heard the song of the Lumil Eliasul, and you followed it to him. Is that not sign enough for you? Does that not tell you of our Lord’s will?”
“I hardly need remind you,” the Faerie man replied, his voice too light and cheerful to be sincere, “that the will of the Lumil Eliasul is not always so easy to interpret as all that. To be sure, I believe I was led to this Sun Eagle of yours. However, I don’t believe that means we should swallow his every word like rich cream and do anything he asks of us.”
“What then? Do you think the Prince would bid us toss him to the lion?”
“I’m not saying it hasn’t crossed my mind—”
“Don’t play the fool, Eanrin. Not now. That is never the way of our Lord, and you know it. We are here for the protection of mortals and immortals alike.”
“Yes, but protecting this fellow doesn’t necessarily include traipsing off back to the South Land again, leaving our watch unguarded.”
The woman heaved an exasperated sigh. “That’s not what I’m proposing, and you know it. I will take him myself to the South Land and learn if what he says is true. If it is, and my people are in more danger than when I last left them, I will remain and help.”
The Faerie man did not respond. Nidawi strained her ears for some moments but caught only the sound of his breathing. Then he said, “Remain and help, eh?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll return when?”
“I don’t know when.” She snapped this last, sharp as an iron snare. Even Nidawi blinked and drew back a little from the bush before pressing her ear to it once more.
The Faerie man, still bright as a morning song, said, “And that’s exactly why, if you insist upon this mad little scheme—rushing off without a word from the Prince and so forth—I intend to go along.” His voice hardened a little then. “Someone needs to make sure that spinning head of yours stays attached at the neck.”
“And leave our watch unguarded?” she replied.
“I’ve checked the gate locks. They’ll hold well for a spell or two. And if I have my way, we’ll be gone no longer than a lick of my whiskers, which isn’t time enough for anything too dreadful to happen, even in the Between.”
“I don’t need you along, Eanrin.”
“I say that you do.”
Nidawi waited for more, but no indication of plans or pursuits came. At last she crept back and found Lioness waiting nearby, growling softly, her tail flicking across the forest floor.
“They’re leaving soon,” Nidawi whispered. She wore the form of a woman, not yet old but lined about the face with sorrow and rage. Her wild hair was tied back from her face and held in place by sticks and bits of bone, as if she were dressed for battle, though she was armed only with her four strong limbs and her long, curved fingernails. “When they do, they’ll take one of their dragon-cursed Paths, and we shan’t be able to see them. But you’ll smell them, Lioness, and we’ll follow. They shan’t be able to stay on the Path forever!”
Lioness nodded solemnly, her growl never letting up.
They watched again, two predators crouched at the door. At length that door opened, and out stepped first the woman, her head covered with her long scarf, then— Then! Then! Oh, then came him! That hated one! Nidawi and Lioness bared their teeth, and only with difficulty did they not leap forth and give themselves away.
Last of all came the golden Faerie man, and he shut and secured the door behind them. With the woman leading the way, the hated one limping from his wounds (Nidawi and Lioness smiled at this and tasted again his blood in their mouths), and the Faerie taking up the rear, they stepped onto their fey Path and vanished from the view of their stalkers.
Lioness was up in a second, her nose to the pursuit, and Nidawi raced along behind, suddenly a child, clapping her hands and urging terrible, eager things. They took a Faerie Path of their own, one that ran parallel to that of their prey, carrying them leagues with each stride. And the Wood parted and fell away on either side of them, watching their progress with grudging interest to which Nidawi paid no heed. Her attention was on the hunted.
Until she caught another scent.
“Lioness!” she gasped, reaching out and clutching her companion’s tail. “Lioness, do you smell that?”
Lioness’s great head came up, and her round, black-tipped ears pricked as she swung her heavy gaze a little to one side of their Path. The trees came into focus around them, tall and threatening, but this bothered neither the lion nor the Faerie. They sniffed and they stared and they listened.
“Cren Cru!” said Nidawi, her grip on the lion’s tail tightening. “Cren Cru! He comes after his own in another body! A small, weak one!”
Lioness’s lips curled back in a red snarl. Then she bounded forward, and Nidawi, still holding on to her tail, bounded after. Hers was not a mind for plotting or plans, but she had a certain spontaneous cunning about her that could be, and often was, deadly.
A gleam of light ahead; the glow of the Bronze. They pursued it, away from their previous prey, but only for the moment. Then they saw them—it—her! They saw their enemy, clad in that strange, frail body bleeding from claw wounds at the shoulder, skin flushed with fever.