Shadow Hand

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  Eanrin caught her arm.

  “Oh, is that how we do things now?” he said. “Our Lord’s Path disappears, and we just pick up the next one that comes along?”

  “Don’t lecture me, Eanrin,” she said without a great deal of vim. She was tired, and she hated to admit that she was beginning to think the cat-man might be right. It irritated her, and she tried to shrug his hand off but failed. “You know as well as I that there are many safe Paths in the Wood. It doesn’t have to be one we know to be good.”

  “And you’re just going to assume that any Path this Sun Eagle of yours follows is good, is that right?”

  “Stop calling him ‘mine,’” she growled. “It’s beneath you to be so spiteful.”

  “Spiteful? When was I ever spiteful?” said he. But his voice was no longer the cheerful tease Imraldera had come to know so well. It was more like a cat’s than ever, but like a wild cat’s, full of suspicion. “Look, I haven’t felt right about this all along. Not since I first found him and carried him back. I don’t deny that part was right, but the rest of this? Tell me, have you heard even a whisper of leading from the Lumil Eliasul?”

  Imraldera stared hard at his hand holding her arm, as though to burn his fingers with her gaze. She drew a deep breath and scowled up at him. “No. I haven’t. But that does not mean we are doing wrong. We’ve been given our mission: to protect, to guard. And we’ve our own good sense and experience from which to draw, as well as what we know of our Lord’s will. I believe this is the right course.”

  He let her go and she turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest in a mirror image of the stance he also assumed. Sun Eagle marched on ahead as they glared at each other, and the Wood watched, both frightened and amused.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Eanrin said.

  “Not especially, no.”

  “Isn’t that a shame, then? Because I’m going to tell you what I think, and you’re going to listen, and if you can’t give me a fair answer, it’ll be dragon fire to pay, you mark my words.”

  “We don’t have time for this.”

  “We always have time. We’re in the Between. And it’s about time someone took time to stop and think before rushing off into the unknown at a word from some savage mortal!”

  “Savage?” Imraldera snarled out the word. Her face was flushed and she felt the heat of mounting battle inside her. Reasonably, she knew she should back down and step away from this fight that could accomplish nothing. Yet there she stood, rising to the bait, her mouth filling with words like weapons to hurl at her companion’s head. “You keep saying savage, Eanrin. Is this what you think of me, then? Am I nothing more than a savage to you? Because I am what he is.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I am! I am of the Hidden Land Behind the Mountains! I was born of mortal earth and mortal blood! I was raised by mortal hands the same as he, breathing the air he breathed, living the life he lived.”

  “The life he lived, eh?” The cat-man’s voice was smooth as butter. “If my memory serves, you were poisoned and cursed to lose your voice, while he and all the menfolk of your precious Hidden Land beat you down at their convenience—when they could be bothered to acknowledge your existence at all.”

  “They are my people!”

  “Your people? Your enslavers, rather!” He took another step forward, towering over her. For the first time in all the long ages she had known him, Imraldera saw Eanrin for the dangerous creature he was; a creature older than she could imagine, a creature as much animal as he was man, and all otherness and wild fey menace. His golden eyes snapped with anger, and his teeth looked sharp as a cat’s in that near darkness under the trees.

  “This is what I think, Imraldera,” he said. “I think you’ve lost your head over this man who once had a hold on your affection. Don’t deny it, and don’t tell me it was too long ago! I think you’ve forgotten all that good sense you claim. I think a few pretty words from him, and you’d drop everything you’ve worked for since you saw to the Wolf Lord’s death, everything you’ve striven for since you accepted the knighthood. You—”

  “Stop now, Eanrin,” she said, and the muscles in her cheeks tensed with the grinding of her teeth.

  But Eanrin rushed on, his words an angry torrent now. “You think you can’t put a foot wrong? You think because the Prince has seen fit to use you for his good purpose that you can now start deciding what that good purpose is? Look at this Path we walk! It’s not one of our own, and you don’t know where it will lead, yet because he walks it, you’re willing to go tripping along, sweet as you please!”

  “You don’t even know Sun Eagle, and yet you distrust him. You’ve given him no opportunity to prove himself.”

  “You don’t know him either! You know only what you’ve stored up in that mortal memory of yours, and I’m here to tell you it’s not so trustworthy as you seem to think.”

  Her eyes blazed. She would have struck him in that moment had she not caught at the last shreds of her self-control. Instead, she said coldly, “I see no reason for you to continue with us, then. I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and walking what Paths I choose. I will do as I have purposed, and I’ll do it alone.”

  “Alone? Ha!” The cat-man tossed back his head in a mirthless laugh. “That’s a fine joke, that is! So you really believe I’m going to just let you go marching off to certain doom and folly?”

  “If you’re so certain it’s doom and folly, you can turn around and wash your hands of it!”

  “That I won’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I love you.”

  The Wood held its breath. A hundred invisible creatures watched from hidden places, biting nails, eyes bulging. Their ears rang with the shouts, the accusations, but all these faded away into this one final, quiet declaration. They watched and they did not move, even as Imraldera stood like stone, unable to breathe or speak or even think.

  The poet took a step, closing the distance between them. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know,” he snarled. Then, because he could not bear the look in her eyes, he caught her face between his hands and kissed her; kissed her hard, for he had already seen what her answer would be when she found the ability to speak, but he could fool himself still, in this small moment before the answer came.

  Imraldera wrenched away, stepping back so suddenly that she would have fallen had he not deftly caught her upper arm. “No,” she gasped, frightened out of her anger. “No, no, no. This is all wrong.”

  “Wrong?” Eanrin whispered, unable to look at her now.

  She put a hand to her heart, uncertain that it still beat, and was surprised to feel it pounding a thunderous pace beneath her palm. She drew a tremulous breath and closed her eyes. “Eanrin, I didn’t think . . . I’m sorry, I never even . . . I don’t know what to . . .”

  She stopped and let that horrible silence linger again, for horrible as it was, it was better than anything she tried to say.

  Eanrin spoke softly. “I know. You don’t love me.”

  “No, no please. I do care about you! But we are knights; we serve together.” She took hold of his hand and removed it from her arm. His fingers were icy cold. “We can’t . . . there could never be . . . Dragon’s teeth, Eanrin, what about Lady Gleamdren?”

  “Who?”

  Now Imraldera felt the anger returning, heightened by embarrassment and an odd sensation of shame and even fear. She stepped away from him, shaking her head and glaring furiously. “That woman to whom you’ve dedicated centuries’ worth of romantic poetry! Poetry I’ve been copying for more than a hundred years myself! How . . . how could you?”

  Afraid she would disgrace herself with tears and render this whole unbearable scene beyond unbearable, Imraldera turned her back on the poet, pressing her hands to her heated face. He growled behind her, “You know Gleamdren means nothing to me. You’re making excuses. You love this Sun Eagle.”

  “No,” she said quickly, witho
ut looking round. “No, you don’t understand.”

  “But you’ll throw away everything for him. This man you were to marry.”

  “I was pledged to him. It wasn’t my decision.” She lowered her hands and raised her head, putting her shoulders back like a soldier ready for battle. “But this is my decision. And I will do as I have purposed. And I hope—” Her voice faltered but she struggled on. “I hope that we can somehow—”

  A hideous shriek shattered the air, and both knights startled and turned to see the figures moving through the shadows of the trees. The first was a great white lion; the second was Nidawi, and she clutched a young redheaded maiden before her, her long claw-like nails held threateningly at the girl’s throat.

  “Cren Cru!” Nidawi cried. She was old as a hag, but muscled and lithe, and her wild white hair was held back with equally white bones. “Look what I have, Cren Cru! I’ve got you, and I’ll hurt you if you don’t show your wicked face!”

  Eanrin and Imraldera stared at the horrible figure. They did not know the girl captive in Nidawi’s clutches, her arm twisted behind her to the point of breaking, blood running down her neck from five thin nail cuts. They saw only that she was mortal and in great pain.

  And she wore a bronze stone about her neck.

  “What is this? Are you preying on mortal maidens now?” Eanrin cried, his wrath more potent than he had ever known it to be. Quite exhilarating, in fact, ready to carry him off on a tidal wave of destruction. He drew a knife from his belt and leapt forward.

  Lioness moved into his way, roaring, the hair on her back bristling. Eanrin, without changing pace, sank down into cat’s form, dwarfed by the massive bulk of the lion but equally vicious. He threw himself at her head, and she was too slow to evade the slash of his claws, which left red lines down her white face. But she caught him with her second swing, the thunk of her paw sending him flying. He struck a tree and landed in the form of a man, groaning.

  “Eanrin!” Imraldera cried, then turned on the Lioness and Nidawi. She strode forward shouting furiously, “Drop that girl at once!”

  “Girl?” said Nidawi, gnashing her white teeth. “Is that what you think this thing is? A girl? Don’t you see the Bronze? Don’t you know it?”

  But Imraldera saw only the poor mortal, sick and near to fainting, blood running down her pale white skin. Imraldera had no weapon, but she flung out her hands and spoke a sharp word like a command.

  And the tree behind Nidawi rose up as though from a long sleep and swung a branch at the Faerie queen’s head. It struck her, and she dropped the girl, who fell to the ground, landing on all fours.

  For a moment, Imraldera glimpsed a red, bloodstained wolf.

  Mine!

  A sensation of pure instinct—driven, hungry, desperate instinct—filled the Wood with a potency as hot as fire, as cold as ice, as sure as the oncoming storm. Daylily rose and looked beyond Nidawi, who was grappling with the tree, to a place in the shadows where Sun Eagle suddenly stood.

  Mine!

  Nidawi, pulling away from the tree—which sank back into itself and its quiet watchfulness—saw Sun Eagle as well. She sprang for him, and he, though his leg must have wrung with pain at every step, dodged her assault and swung out his stone knife, slashing one of her long, muscular arms.

  Lioness screamed her fury at the scent of Nidawi’s blood. Sun Eagle turned as she sprang, and braced himself, his knife in both hands. Lioness, her eyes red, descended like lightning, her claws tearing, her mouth open and hungry for vengeance.

  She fell upon his blade, which plunged deep into her huge, ancient heart.

  They landed in a heap, and silence followed the thud of their bodies. Eanrin, picking himself up, and Imraldera, hastening toward Daylily, stared at that mass of white stillness. Then it moved, heaved, and the carcass of the lion fell to one side as Sun Eagle emerged from beneath.

  “NO!”

  Nidawi, suddenly no longer the powerful hag but a tiny child, screeching with a heartbreak that children should never know, rushed upon the body of Lioness, even her enemy forgotten as the shattering of unbearable grief broke her into sobs. “No! No, get up, Lioness!” She pulled and tore at the fallen beast’s body, screaming and gasping between screams.

  Sun Eagle, moving swiftly but with a jerking and unnatural pace that betrayed the pain of his wounds, stepped to Imraldera’s side. “Come with me, Starflower?” he asked.

  She stared at him, unable to speak. Then she took a step back.

  His face was a mask. He reached out and took hold of Daylily’s hand. “Please,” Daylily whispered, “please, we must—”

  The brightness of the Bronze flared up and hid them, and when it faded, they were gone. Nidawi cast herself upon the body of the fallen lion, still screaming, no longer able to hold herself upright.

  “Go to her.” Eanrin’s voice was low in Imraldera’s ear. She turned to him, stricken, and he would not meet her gaze. “Go to her. Offer her comfort if you can. I’ll follow the other two.”

  “She . . . she would have killed them . . .” Imraldera whispered as though making an excuse. But she could not go on.

  Eanrin touched her face. “Go to her,” he said again. Then he too was gone, leaving Imraldera in the Wood with the inconsolable Faerie queen.

  Afraid her legs would betray her, Imraldera moved to the side of the broken beast and knelt. She gently stroked Nidawi’s hair. The ancient child did not seem to notice but went on weeping noisily, casting her voice to the heavens one moment, burying her mouth deeply in the fur of her friend the next.

  Then, as sudden as the fall of night, Nidawi sat up. “This is your fault!” she shouted at Imraldera, her voice trembling as though the sorrow were both terribly new and terribly old. “You should have given him to me! Now he’s killed her too! Cren Cru has taken everything!”

  She stood up. Though she did not change size but remained the tiny child, she put out her arms and gathered up the enormous bulk of the white lion. Then she too vanished.

  Imraldera sat alone beneath the spreading trees. And she bowed her head with deeper shame than she had ever before experienced.

  “My Lord,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  Deep in the forest, a wood thrush sang, and his voice carried over the vast distance to touch her ear, saying, “Won’t you return to me?”

  Imraldera wept.

  7

  LIONHEART’S HEAD came up with a start. He hadn’t been asleep, had he? No, he knew better than to sleep again. He groaned a soft curse and twisted his neck, which crackled disconcertingly. All right, maybe he had nodded off. But really, who could blame him?

  Though the baroness had seen to it that kindling was provided, Lionheart had not bothered to light a fire in the grate, preferring the tower—and his troubles—sunk into the oblivion brought by night. Now, as he returned wearily to consciousness, he began to think differently. Up here in the tower, where the wind whistled in the eaves and all the world was far below, he was so isolated.

  But then, he’d been cut off since his father spoke that final word when the Council declared its decision:

  “I hereby strip my son, Lionheart, of all right of rule, both now and evermore. Leave my presence, my son.”

  Lionheart got to his feet. He could hear by the baron’s breathing that Middlecrescent was not asleep. He could almost feel the baron’s enormous eyes watching him. Surely not even an old bloodsucker like Middlecrescent could see in the dark. Could he?

  Pretending to be unaware of the baron’s gaze, Lionheart crossed to the tower window. It was little more than a lighter patch of darkness, for the sky was not only heavy in the small hours after midnight, it was also cloud covered, making it darker still. Not even the relief of the moon’s silver eye could be had on a night such as this. But the Eldest’s City was alight with fear and uncertainty, lanterns burning like the fallen children of Hymlumé. And directly below in the courtyard, torches were lit, and Lionheart could see the shadows of angry men go
ing to and fro.

  “You know the truth.”

  Lionheart stiffened at the sound of the baron’s voice but hoped he did not betray the icy chill down his spine. He refused to turn but continued looking down into the courtyard.

  “The crown should be mine.”

  Lionheart heard the baron shifting in his bindings behind him.

  “Your cousin is a fool at best. A weak man. Not the leader Southlands needs in this time of crisis. It was a blessing, not a curse, when he disappeared those months ago. Indeed,” and the baron’s voice shifted to a smooth, softer lilt, “I was tempted to bring it about myself.”

  “Tempted to murder?” Lionheart said, making no attempt to disguise the disgust in his voice.

  “Tempted to make the hard decision for the good of the nation. As every true king must.” The baron rose heavily to his feet. Lionheart had given his captive enough rope to allow him to stand, but not enough that he could take so much as a step away from the iron ring in the wall. Middlecrescent drew himself up to his full height and breadth and spoke with an earnestness Lionheart had never before heard from him.

  “You know the truth, deep in your heart. You’ve known it for years now. When the Dragon fell from the sky, who kept Southlands strong? When your father, your mother, and your fool cousin Foxbrush were imprisoned in this very house at the Dragon’s mercy, who maintained unity among the barons? Who dealt with shortened resources, with isolation, with panic and gradually spreading anarchy as poison filled every beating heart? Who was it, Lionheart? Tell me, who?”

  Lionheart did not answer. He put out a hand to support himself against the wall, glad once more for the darkness. A burden of fear and guilt weighed him down, and though he listened, he could hear no song or leading. Only the baron’s words like daggers in his back.

  “Your mother would have known. Had she been alive when the Council made its decision, she would have backed me. She would never have let Hawkeye name such an imbecile his heir. The hope of Southlands? Bah!”

  “That’s . . . not true,” Lionheart said slowly. “Mother always liked Foxbrush.” Actually, his mother had always seemed to prefer her nephew to her son, which had done nothing to foster good feeling between the cousins. Somehow, Queen Starflower, stern and masterful as she was, had seen something in Foxbrush that she believed her son lacked. Had she survived the Occupation, Lionheart did not doubt she would have supported her husband’s decision to instate Foxbrush as heir.