Shea could remember that fury as if it had only beat in her veins a moment before. Lionboys. They were all fools. They all claimed that the stars drove them, forced them onto distant paths. They all claimed that the skychildren were bound by the fate of their births. Well, Shea knew better now. She knew that a sun could make decisions, could decide her fate, even if she wasn’t born under one of the night signs.
Why didn’t the lions listen to their mothers? Why didn’t they do what was right? Why didn’t they let the old order of the world work?
“Crestman,” Shea began, uncupping her hand. The young soldier took a step away, lowering his head and shaking it, like a bull tossing away flies from its ears. “I didn’t mean –” she began, and fumbled for words. “I thought that.…”
Shea trailed off, helpless to explain what she had thought. Maybe if she were an owl she could have explained. Maybe then, she would have had the words to tell this boy that she had not meant to harm him. She stepped forward and grasped for his wrist with her rough, callused hands.
Crestman leaped away as if her touch burned him, and his cry of protest broke through Shea’s foggy misery. Before she could say anything, though, she saw that Crestman had drawn his dagger from the sheath at his waist. The curved blade glinted in the malevolent sunlight, and Shea stepped back in surprise. “Boy! No need for steel!”
Before she could continue with her startled exclamation, Crestman hissed and jerked his chin toward Shea. No, not toward her, she realized with a sick flip of her belly. Past her. Over her shoulder. Shea forced herself to breathe, forced her numb fingers to scramble toward the kitchen knife that hung at her own waist. She turned about slowly.
Shea and Crestman were quickly surrounded. A company of soldiers had weapons trained upon them, curious crossbows that nestled along their forearms. The archers were children, every one of them peering up at Shea with young eyes that knew too much. Each boy’s hair was lashed back from his face, savagely woven into a warrior’s clout.
Even as Shea struggled for a breath, she could make out the tips of the arrows set in the miniature weapons. The bows might be small, the archers might be young, but Shea had no doubt that the glinting iron arrowheads could gouge out her life.
Even as she registered the threat, an icy cage clanged shut around her heart. Her breath froze in her lungs, and she clutched at her torn and soiled dress, clawing at her chest to unlock the iron bars, to make the pain disappear. Her fingers buzzed and jangled, as if she’d slept with her head across her arm for too long. She fought for another breath, and another, but the tingling in her hand crept up her arm.
She never should have boxed Crestman’s ear, she thought absurdly. She never should have beaten the boy. A gasp escaped her lips, sounding suspiciously like a sob. She stretched her tingling hand toward the scarred lionboy, muttering his name as she fell to her knees.
Crestman’s only answer, though, was to grip her by her hair. His fingers twisted cruelly against the nape of her neck, and he forced her to stay upright in the leaf mold along the path. Shea cried out, pushing feebly against his hand, but she was no match for the boy’s strength. “Crestman!” she gasped, but he only twisted harder.
As if in reply, the pain beneath her breastbone leaped higher, cutting off her breath, forcing her to gasp like a trout dangling on a line. A child’s voice piped across the clearing. “Keep your arrows trained on both of them! This may be a trick!”
Crestman swore, a more vicious oath than any he had used while he sought sanctuary with Shea and her skychildren. “Don’t you recognize me, boys? I’m one of you! I’m a soldier in King Sin Hazar’s army. I’m helping this woman. I’m trying to help her breathe!”
As if to reinforce his claim, Crestman gave one last vicious tug to Shea’s hair, pulling her upright. The motion forced some air past the metals bars that enmeshed her chest, but her heart squeezed again, forcing that hard-gained breath from her lungs. Black clouds roiled up from the edges of her sight, and she toppled forward to the grass. The last thing she saw before the world faded to starless night was Crestman’s twisted face and the blood that snaked from his boxed ear to his filthy tunic.
Shea heard people moving around her before she was able to open her eyes. There were grunts and the sound of shifting bodies, the angry murmur of orders. She could make out the smell of a rich stew, and her belly clenched at the aroma of meat. There was also the ripe smell of fresh-baked bread, powdery and clean.
Shea wondered who had drugged her, and what potion they had used. She was so tired.… Tired like when she’d brought her son into the world. Like when she’d birthed her swandaughter, fast and furious, bringing the girl forth while the stars still shone auspiciously in the sky. Then, she’d had the ladies from the village to help her, to lift her head, to feed her rich broth.
There were no comforting women’s voices in the room, though, and no infant nestled in swaddling clothes by her side. Of course not, Shea thought. Of course there were no infants. She was well past that foolishness. Catching a deep breath and holding it in her lungs, Shea forced her eyes to open.
And when she’d looked around her, she almost wished that she could go back to sleep, back to her strange, confused dreams. She was in a cottage, a single room with a large hearth and a crackling fire. This cottage, though, was nothing like any room she had ever seen before.
The wooden walls were lined with books, leather-bound tomes more precious than all of Father Nariom’s treasures back home. A table sat beneath the one window that Shea could see, and it was covered with dusty glassware and piping, looking like the rejected remnants of a lamp-maker’s wares. Another table lurked in the shadows of one corner, and it appeared to be covered with dusty jars. By squinting, Shea thought that she could make out bones inside the jars.
The rafters were strung with wreaths. Shea could decipher dried apples and braided onions and various herbs. Mixed among the foodstuffs, though, there were more ominous hangings – long curved blades and military banners stained with a muddy brown that looked like dried blood.
As Shea turned her head, she could peer at another shadowy corner, which was dominated by a tall, wooden stand. On the cross-bar of the stand stood a bird, a bird that Shea had never seen before in the forests of Amanthia. The creature was feathered in brilliant blue. Its body was the size of a chicken, but it was longer and more streamlined, like the shape of a sparrow. It had a sweeping tail, lush with the same azure feathers as its body. As Shea blinked, the bird spread its wings, and she could see that its under-feathers were a pearly grey, the same grey that traced around the creature’s yellow eyes. Shea watched it raise one foot to its mouth, cleaning its four claws with a cat’s methodic care. The bird’s tongue was thick and black and flexible, like a snake. When it had finished grooming its foot, it started preening its massive blue and grey wings. Only when the creature had finished that task did it turn about on its stand, thrusting its neck forward and crying out in a child’s voice, “Feed me! Feed me now!”
Shea started at the talking bird, raising trembling hands to make a protective sign in front of her eyes. Surely she was being punished by all the Thousand Gods, punished in a place where even the birds spoke aloud. She closed her eyes and started praying to the gods, praying for deliverance from this creature, from her certainly imminent death.
“Shea!” The old woman heard her name, but she refused to open her eyes, refused to see the demons that the Thousand Gods had sent to torture her. “Shea! You’re awake! We’ve waited so long!”
Shea thought that she recognized Crestman’s voice, and she felt his fingers on her arm. There was nothing for it, she couldn’t live the rest of her life with her eyes clenched shut. If the Thousand Gods were going to strike her down, punish her for leaving her children alone and unattended, she might as well accept that punishment now. She forced her eyes open, ordering herself to ignore the momentary exhaustion that threatened to send her spiraling back into the starless darkness.
When
she blinked, she could make out the lionboy, his face pale in the shadowy hut. He brushed his hair back nervously, fighting back wisps that had escaped from his battle-braid. The action drew attention to the scar high on his cheekbone. “Shea, you had us worried!”
“Us?” she managed to croak, and the single word taught her how dry her throat was. She realized that her body craved water – cool, sweet water – even more than her belly twisted around the aroma of the cooking food.
“Me, Shea. Me and Davin and Monny and the others.”
“I – I don’t understand.” Shea heard the plaintiveness in her voice, the rough edges like tears that haunted her words. Afraid that she would break down, afraid that she would cry in front of the child who was her charge, Shea forced herself to utter one more word: “Water.”
For just an instant, Crestman looked confused. She saw a hundred stories flit across his face. He looked like her own children, when they came in from the fields, alight with some new tale, some new observation. She knew that she should listen to him, she should hear what he had to say. That would make her a good mother. That would make her a proper sunwoman. She was too tired, though. Too tired to hear. Too tired to speak.
She felt Crestman’s arm around her shoulders, supporting her head. A clay mug was raised to her lips, and she swallowed gratefully, once, twice, three times. The boy tilted the mug a little too quickly, and precious water trickled down the corner of her mouth, escaping her eager lips. “That’s good, boy,” she said, though, when she had drained the cup. “You’re a good lion, Pom.”
She knew there was something wrong there, that she had made some mistake. She was too tired, though, to correct herself. There was time enough to do that after she had slept. After she had dreamed.…
The next time that Shea awoke, it was nighttime in the cottage. She could turn her head toward the window, but she could make out nothing but inky darkness. The wood fire still burned on the hearth, but now it was little more than embers, glowing coals that sent out the smoky scent of wood. Shea glanced at the talking bird, but it was asleep, blue head tucked neatly under its azure wing.
Shea was thirsty again, and her belly burned with hunger. She caught a deep breath against the back of her teeth and pulled herself into a sitting position.
“Cor!” A child’s voice startled Shea, and a twinge shot through her chest. Her breath was already short, and she felt as if a band were tightening around her flesh, a broad strip of leather soaked in water and left to dry and tighten in the cottage’s close air.
“Hush!” she replied automatically, as if she knew the person who had spoken, as if she knew who she might be awakening in the hut.
“I’ll not be quiet! You can’t order me about!”
Shea eased an elbow beneath her, steadying herself as she rolled over on her pallet. A young boy sat beside the fire, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a grimy fist. The child’s bright red hair had worked loose from his soldier’s braid; it stood out from his head like flaming straw in a just-harvested field. His face was spattered with freckles, across the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks. In fact, the only flesh spared the sprinkling of dark flecks was the smooth patch beneath his left eye. A scar, carving away the child’s birthright.
“Who are you, boy?” Even as Shea shrugged herself upright, past the shortness of breath, past the pain in her chest, she realized that she had seen this child before. He was the one who had faced her in the clearing in the woods, the one who had leveled an iron-tipped arrow toward her heart.
“You’re the visitor here,” the child pouted. “You should name yourself first. That’s what Davin says.”
“Davin? Who’s Davin?”
“Name yourself first.”
Before Shea could reply, she heard a familiar voice. “You might as well give him your name. He won’t be quiet until he’s won.” Crestman’s voice was filled with resignation, but Shea barely managed to smother the joyful smile that tried to twist her lips. Crestman was still alive. Alive and well enough to speak.
“My name is Shea,” she said to the red-headed boy.
“I’m Monny.” The child beamed his satisfaction at having won the little battle. Shea noticed that his eyeteeth were overlong in his mouth, as if he were a wolf. Nonsense, she told herself, shaking her head at her lingering exhaustion. There was nothing sinister about the child. He’d just lost his milk-teeth, and the adult replacements were too big for his mouth. Shea forced herself to focus, to think reasonably.
“Thank you, Monny,” she said. “Where are we? What happened to me in the woods? Did you shoot me?”
“Shoot you! Why would I do that?”
Crestman answered before Shea could puzzle out an explanation. “You fell, Shea. You clutched at your chest and fell, before any of the children could shoot you.”
“I didn’t imagine them, then? There are more?”
“Aye.” Again, Crestman answered. Shea could see that Monny did not like being ignored. The younger boy shifted from foot to foot, and his fingers curled into fists at his side. “More than a score. They’re outside, though.”
“Outside? It’s too cold for boys to sleep outside.”
“It’s not too cold for the troops of King Sin Hazar!” Monny responded eagerly, looking as if Shea had questioned his birthright. “We sleep outside every night. That makes us tough for the king. That makes us good soldiers for him.”
“But you shouldn’t – ” Shea began to protest, but Crestman cut her off.
“You won’t get anywhere arguing with him. He serves King Sin Hazar. He’s proud of his service.”
Shea heard the message behind Crestman’s words, the warning that she was speaking with the enemy. Only as Shea leaned back on the pallet did she realize just how much danger she might be in. She’d been found on the road with a deserter from King Sin Hazar’s troops, found by the king’s own soldiers. Why was Crestman still alive? Why hadn’t he been bound and carried off to the king’s justice?
“Here.” Monny thrust a bowl toward her, apparently oblivious to the questions that floated through the old woman’s head. “Davin said you should eat when you awaken. Not too much, and not too fast, but he said you’d be hungry.”
“Who is this Davin?” Shea asked again. She started to reach for the bowl, but her hands trembled too much for her to grasp the thing. Crestman came and sat beside her. She let herself lean against him, at the same time wondering what could have happened to her, how she could have become so weak. Crestman reached for Monny’s wooden bowl, but the child pulled it back.
“Davin said that she was to eat, not you.”
“I’m not going to eat it, boy. I’m going to feed it to her.”
“How can I trust you? You were hungry enough when Davin gave you your own bowl.”
“I’m a captain in King Sin Hazar’s army, boy. You can believe me now, or you can believe me when I’ve taken stripes out of your skin.”
“So you say,” Monny muttered, but he let the larger boy take the bowl. “You say you’re a captain, but so far, we’ve seen nothing to prove it.”
“I told you this woman would back me up, when she awakened.” Shea heard the sharp edge on Crestman’s voice, as sharp as the elbow that he surreptitiously dug into her side. This exchange was important. She should concentrate. Crestman glared at the boy. “Do you always doubt your king so obviously and so vocally?”
“Goodwife.” Monny turned to Shea. “This one’s been telling stories. He says you would vouch for him when you awakened.”
“Aye,” Shea agreed. “But let me eat a little, first. We’ve been over a week on the road.” Even as Shea offered up her excuse, she realized that she might already be contradicting some story that Crestman had told. The lionboy, though, did not tense as he raised her bowl, and his face remained smooth as he fumbled at a small table beside her, lifting up a wooden spoon.
“Aye, let her eat, Monny. She’ll tell you our story soon enough. She’ll tell you all about our journey from
the north. She’ll tell you about being nursemaid to the king himself, to King Sin Hazar and to Princess Felicianda, when they were children. She’ll tell you all about her life in the castle.”
Shea nodded, not even able to wonder at the stories she would have to spin. Instead, she chewed on the piece of meat that Crestman eased into her mouth. The venison was tough, but full of flavor, and her mouth flooded with water as she worked the morsel around with her tongue. As she swallowed, she felt a tendril of strength begin to uncurl, easing its way into her limbs. Her arm still felt strangely numb, but her fingers and toes were beginning to thaw. Crestman fed her a bite of potato, which she chewed thoroughly, and then she felt obligated to answer at least one of the questions that floated behind the young Monny’s eyes.
“Aye, child. This one tells the truth. I come from the castle, from the Sw – ”
Crestman started to choke, as if he were the one eating the tidbits of stew. Even as the lionboy coughed, bouncing Shea up and down on her pallet, she realized the mistake that she had almost made. Of course, if she were the king’s nurse, she would not have come from the Swancastle. She’d be from Amanth, far to the north. There was nothing in the made-up tale that told why she’d been walking to the Swancastle, though. Nothing at all.
“Careful, boy,” Shea said, and shifted as if she would ease the choking Crestman. He glared at her in the dim light of the cottage, and she wanted to apologize, wanted to tell him that she was not one for spying and telling tales. She was a sunwoman, after all! What could he expect?
“And you, Grandmother,” Crestman said, filling her mouth with another bite of meat. “You be careful as well. It was an honor for the king to entrust you to my care, and I’d feign disappoint him by your starving now. Finish chewing. Then we can talk.”
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