Shadow Hand

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  She did not need to ask which day he meant. Across her mind flashed vividly the memory of a fog-shrouded morning when a young man armed with a stone knife descended the deep gorge and, secured to his own world by only a cord, passed into the Gray Wood.

  The cord had broken. And she had known he would never return.

  “I was frightened at first,” he said. “When I realized what had happened, I thought my heart would burst with terror. But then I heard Bear—my red dog, you recall—baying in the shadows behind me.”

  Imraldera nodded. She remembered the warriors trying to hold back the shaggy hound, which had broken from their grasp and pursued his master even unto certain death.

  “He found me and stayed by my side as we wandered forever in this interminable Wood . . . even as we discovered the secrets of fey folk and Faerie beasts, and the dreadful truths of immortality. Always beside me, my comfort and friend.”

  “Where is he now?” Imraldera asked, afraid of the answer she knew must come.

  Sun Eagle’s mouth twisted bitterly as he continued to stare up above. “Ask Nidawi the Everblooming. Ask her cursed lion.” He drew a shuddering breath, closing his eyes but unable to force back the tear that fell over his dark and hardened face. “They came upon me by surprise. I had never seen her before, never met her or that white devil companion of hers. But they fell upon me when I was vulnerable, and if not for Bear, I should have perished by their bloodthirsty claws.”

  Imraldera wiped away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. Sun Eagle, realizing suddenly that she wept, turned to her, struggling up on one elbow. “Please tell me,” he said, “that you cried such tears for me when you thought me dead.”

  “It was a long time ago, Sun Eagle,” she whispered.

  He nodded. Then he touched the cord around his neck from which hung two beads, the red one marked with a panther and the blue one marked with a white starflower. He hesitated a moment, then tore the cord from his neck and offered it to Imraldera. She looked up, startled.

  “You gave me this. Do you recall?” said he. “You gave me your name mark to carry with me into the Gray Wood. Your father gave me his as well, and it was a mark of honor. But when you gave me yours, Starflower, what did it signify?”

  Imraldera shook her head.

  “Tell me. Please.”

  “That I would wait for your return,” she whispered.

  “But you did not wait.” Despite the bitterness, his voice was gentle. “You are here, far from our homeland. And you speak with a voice now, like a man.”

  “The curse of the old god is lifted,” she replied, her eyes flashing. “The women of the Land are free, and we speak with strength equal to any man’s.”

  “So I have seen,” he said. “So I have heard. But I did not hope to find you alive and liberated. And certainly not so far from hearth and home!”

  She told him her story then, her long, difficult tale, even as he lay back upon the pillows and fingered the cord and the two beads in his hand. As she talked, the light deepened and stars appeared on the ceiling. But a fire came to life of its own magic in a fireplace that looked like the bole of a tree, and Imraldera continued her tale. Even the noise of Nidawi and Lioness faded at last until only Imraldera’s voice and the crackling of the fire could be heard in that room.

  When she finished, Sun Eagle, who had not once interrupted, nodded quietly. Then he again held out the cord and the beads. “You are right,” he said. “It was long ago. It was a different life. And you are not bound to wait.”

  But Imraldera took his hand in both of hers and closed his fingers back around the two beads. “Keep them,” she said.

  His eyes shone bright in the fire and starlight. With renewed strength, he caught Imraldera by the arm. “I must return,” he said. “I have found a way back to the Land. It’s not the Land of our time, but it is our home. And it is full of Faerie beasts who mean it harm. Beasts like Nidawi and her lion, and many worse!”

  “I know,” said Imraldera. “I have seen it.”

  “Then you know what our people face there. You know the work that must be done to protect them.” He tried to pull her closer, but she resisted. “Please, Starflower,” he said, “come back with me. Come back to our country and work with me to free our people once and for all. You saved them from the Wolf Lord; you saved them from the Dragonwitch. Can you leave them now to suffer under multiplied terrors?”

  “I . . . have a duty,” she said, though her voice wavered uncertainly. “I am guardian of this Haven, and I must keep my watch on the gates assigned me.”

  “So you’ll pursue these tasks given you by someone not of our kin? You will labor to protect people not your own and leave the Land to bleed out upon the stones of fey totems? What kind of master would ask this of you?”

  Here, Imraldera rose and pulled her arm from Sun Eagle’s grasp, for he was weak still from loss of blood. “Starflower?” he said.

  “My Lord is good and kind, and whatever task he sets before me is the task I will pursue,” said she, then hurried across the room. But she stopped at the door and looked back. “I will help you, Sun Eagle. I will see that you have safe passage back to the South Land.”

  “And will you stay with me?” he asked.

  She did not answer. Perhaps she did not know what answer to give. She stepped from the room, shut the door, and stood a moment in the hall. Candles in their sconces shone a warm glow around her, illuminating the orange fur of a big cat who sat a few paces down the passage, his back to her, grooming his white paws without a care in the world.

  He looked around, blinking as though surprised. “Oh, so you emerge at last?” His tail flicked once across the floor. “Have a nice chat?”

  “I am escorting Sun Eagle back to the South Land,” Imraldera said coldly before turning the other way down the hall, hastening from the cat and his questioning gaze. “Just as soon as he’s well enough.”

  “Is that so?” Eanrin stepped up into his man’s form and hurried after, his long strides soon catching up. “And what of Nidawi the Everblooming?”

  “If she wants him, she’ll have to kill me first.”

  The bite of those words was enough to stop Eanrin in his tracks. He stood in the passage and watched Imraldera disappear into her library.

  “Well, dragons eat our eyes,” he growled. “So that’s how it is, eh?”

  5

  DUST BECAME MUD when mixed with the blood seeping through the dressing and rough fabric on her shoulder. But Daylily passed through the jungle, led by the light of the Bronze, which gleamed like a beacon and warned away all those who watched her from tree and bush. She walked with a swiftness that belied her pain and the dizziness in her head, driven by a strength not her own.

  Find him. Find him.

  She came to the gorge and slid down, unable to see the dirt trail, careless of her safety. And when she reached the bottom she did not stop for rest but staggered into the Wood.

  Night gave way at once. She stood in the shadows of the trees, but these shadows danced with dappling sunlight at her feet, and all was cast in green and gold around her. The Bronze, still bright, no longer seemed to glow in her hand. But it pulsed in a driving rhythm that matched the throb in her wound, and she walked as it led her.

  A bird sang to her from nearby, and she recognized his song.

  “Let it go. Let it go, Daylily!”

  The throb in her head was too great for her to stop and listen, or to comprehend anything but the drive.

  Find him. Find him.

  Shadows quickened. From various reaches of the endless Between, they flowed, stalked, marched, and even danced. Then, before she realized what was happening, Daylily stood surrounded by her brethren, Advocates and Initiates alike.

  They carried children in their arms, and more children stood behind them, heads bowed as though weighted by heavy chains.

  Daylily felt the beat of her heart speed up to match the rhythmic heartbeats of her brethren. A furious pace
that would have burst her open had she belonged to herself anymore. The Bronze in her hand surged with power, reaching out to the Bronze they wore.

  The horned giantess, Kasa, stepped forward, her great hooves shaking the earth. She carried a newborn baby in one hand.

  “Initiate,” she said. “Where is your Advocate?”

  “I don’t know!” Daylily replied, her voice small before the terror of this creature. Her eyes fixed upon the newborn, which lay quietly, eyes full of Bronze light. “He was attacked by a white lion and chased into the Wood. I could not follow him!”

  The giantess studied her as a cat might study the bird upon the lawn. But she said only, “You must find him. Thirteenth Dawn approaches. The twelve must be one on Twelfth Night, and the final blood must be given.”

  The final blood must be given.

  “Of course!” said Daylily, desperate and breathless, for she understood nothing yet simultaneously felt that it all made complete sense, and this frightened her far more than the looming presence of Kasa or the lurking shadows of her brethren or even the silent children. “The final blood must be given! But how do I find him? Where has he gone?”

  The shadows began moving on the fringes of her vision. One by one, Advocates and Initiates alike passed on through the Wood and disappeared, dragging the children behind them. Only Kasa remained, and she only for a moment. “Time draws nigh,” she said in her voice as deep as a bull’s. “Find your Advocate. We will complete the securing of the tithe. But find your Advocate.”

  Desperately, Daylily reached out. Her hand, by some power not her own, stretched toward the baby in Kasa’s arms. For a moment, it wasn’t her hand at all.

  You can’t let this happen! said the wolf inside her.

  Then Kasa was gone, taking the baby with her. Daylily stood alone in the green Between, clutching the Bronze until it cut her flesh. Her shoulder throbbed and her face was gray with pain.

  But she took a step. Then another.

  And across the vast, unknowable reaches of the Wood, Bronze called to Bronze. Daylily walked on fevered footsteps, and the trees made way before her.

  It certainly wasn’t the most reliable of calendars. But it was all Foxbrush had in this world where hours were told only by the lengthening of shadows, and months by the ripening of fruit in the trees.

  Or by the growth of a man’s beard.

  Foxbrush lifted a hand to inspect the bush that his face had become. Places on his cheeks utterly refused to grow more than the thinnest layer of fluff, giving him a lopsided and patchy appearance. But eventually the rest had grown so thick and soft that most of the thin patches were disguised.

  The hated thing. Too hot for the weather, inconvenient for the unsanitary conditions, and far too hospitable to strange crawling beasties. There was no shaving it, however. Redman had shown Foxbrush how to keep it somewhat trimmed with a stone knife, which was an agony. For the most part, he was obliged to let it have its way with his face.

  He touched it now as he walked down the path from the Eldest’s House, following in Lark’s wake. None of his old friends or acquaintances would recognize him now, four months into this unnatural exile. At least he hoped they wouldn’t! He doubted very much he would recognize himself were someone to hold a mirror up to him. He’d probably scream at what he saw reflected there.

  Foxbrush grinned ruefully at this thought and left the beard alone. Lark had suggested several times that he let her and her sisters braid it as they braided their father’s beard. “Keeps it out of your mouth,” she insisted. But that was a line Foxbrush the dandy could not quite bear to cross, even now.

  The morning was cooler than previous mornings, still warm but hinting at the relief of rainy seasons to come. Autumn swiftly approached, and the elder figs in the orchard were already producing their third crop. Foxbrush had been delighted to learn that these resilient trees could produce four rich harvests in a single year, so swiftly did the fruit ripen. And what a bounty each time! He had never before tasted elder figs, but he knew with the first bite—after Lark showed him how to peel away the skin, which split at the stem and came off like a bandage—that he did indeed taste the near-mythic edible gold about which he’d read so much.

  Of course, the folk of the village were not the only ones to appreciate this bounty. Thus, every morning, Foxbrush followed Lark and a cluster of children down to the orchard. (He was still not considered strong enough to participate in men’s work but was shuffled off with the young folk every day.) Armed with tiny blowguns and darts dipped in a stinging, itch-inducing poison, they established themselves at intervals throughout the orchard, prepared to fend off any birds, monkeys, lemurs, or other determined connoisseurs of the elder fig’s riches.

  On this particular day, Foxbrush and Lark took up their regular position on the southeastern fringe of the orchard, lounging in the shade beneath a large tree. Lark enjoyed this task above all others. As important as it was, it also gave her rare opportunity to sit back and rest her tough little feet. She was quite the imperious mistress upon occasion as well, sending Foxbrush running at her command if she felt disinclined to rise and chase off animal thieves herself.

  Contrary to her prediction, Redman had not killed his daughter for the aid she’d lent the Red Lady of the Bronze. Indeed, he’d not so much as raised his voice either to her or to Foxbrush when they’d confessed their deeds and shown him the hole in the side of the house. He’d merely sighed and said, “Well, I’ve had good practice repairing that wall by now, haven’t I?”

  With those gentle words, shame had heaped upon the heads of the two culprits. And not a sign had been found of Lady Daylily in all the surrounding countryside, nor a rumor of the Red Lady come whispering to the Eldest’s village. Other rumors came instead; tales of Faerie warriors, also wearing bronze stones, slaughtering fey beasts and declaring their blood price to the mortals of the Land.

  More and more firstborn children disappeared every day.

  Foxbrush sat beneath the tree, twiddling the blowgun in his fingers, seeing neither it nor the trees he was supposed to be guarding. Rather his mind’s eye saw the girl who was his intended bride.

  “Powers beyond our knowledge drive us, Foxbrush,” she’d said.

  What power drove Lady Daylily; Daylily with her commanding voice and breathtaking strength? She was the one who drove! Had she not commanded him from the moment he first met her?

  Yet not even she was strong in the end.

  He frowned, his gaze shifting from the blowgun to his feet, skin clad and covered in dirt. What path did he walk that had led him here and left him? Left him with knowledge he could not use and a heart bruised and sore with sorrow.

  But that wasn’t the whole of it. He frowned even as the thought passed through his head. Yes, he was heartsick, no denying it. But he was also strangely . . . glad. Here he was, smelling like a pig—with an awful growth of brush on his chin, little crawly things residing on his person, and a belly full of equal parts dirt and spicy foods—seated beside a child who stank as much or more than he did.

  And he was, in that moment, glad to be alive. Glad to be in this place. Glad for the man he felt he was becoming; a man who would never have existed otherwise. It was an odd sensation, not one he quite understood. But even this pleased him somehow.

  “What are you smiling at?” Lark demanded. She’d been weaving grasses into a cord on which she intended to string her blowgun.

  Foxbrush, brought back to himself, glanced at her and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You look addled.” Lark tested her cord, which broke under pressure. Disappointed, she tossed the bits of grass aside, then shaded her eyes and looked up into the trees. “Monkey,” she said, pointing. “You try.”

  Making a face but game nonetheless, Foxbrush moved into a crouch, slid the dart into his instrument, and raised it to his lips. He stood slowly, so as not to startle the brown monkey, which was daintily selecting a fruit from a near-ripe cluster. After seve
ral weeks of practice, he’d yet to hit a target. But he’d come close. And this time, if he took careful aim and breathed as Lark had shown him a dozen times, then maybe . . .

  The dart flew through the air. It struck the haunch of the thieving culprit.

  And Crookjaw the Faerie beast turned upon Foxbrush a face of such wrath and vengeance, Foxbrush dropped his instrument in surprise.

  “Flame at Night!” Lark yelped, leaping to her feet. She put a hand to her pouch, but she had not thought to bring totem tributes that morning and had nothing with which to appease the furious Faerie.

  Crookjaw leapt for a near branch but missed and fell to the ground, where he paused to scratch his haunch furiously. Then he was up on his ungainly limbs, his teeth yellow in his sagging jaw as he screeched and hurled himself at Foxbrush.

  “Run!” Lark yelled, and if Foxbrush had not been so terrified, he might have noticed a trace of laughter in her voice. As it was, he found possession of his limbs and turned to flee but tripped over a fig tree root and landed hard facedown. Crookjaw paused to scratch once more, then jumped and landed heavily on Foxbrush’s back, grabbing him by the hair with one hand, by the ear with the other, and pulling. Foxbrush screamed and tried to twist around to fight. He heard an inhuman voice screeching:

  “Evil! Evil mortal! Yeeeeeeee! Stick me with needles? Stick me with itchy sticks? Yeeeeeeee!”

  “Crookjaw! Crookjaw! Take your tribute, Crookjaw!” Lark cried out in chant, flinging fallen figs at the monkey and laughing still. Crookjaw, surprised, hopped off of his victim, stuffed a fig into his mouth, screamed again, and once more fell to scratching.

  Foxbrush took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. Crookjaw bared his ugly teeth and crouched to spring at him once more. Foxbrush raised his hands to defend himself against the onslaught.

  But it never came.

  The orchard shook under the beat of enormous hoofs. The three of them, Lark, Foxbrush, and the Faerie, turned as a great giant burst through the fig trees, breaking branches. She was twice as tall as a man, muscular and fur-covered, with wild hair and great elk’s antlers springing from her head. Her cloven feet struck the ground in thudding assault, breaking roots and stones as she went.