Where was Swan Bridge?
Sun Eagle turned when the moan escaped Daylily’s lips. He caught her as she sagged, all but fainting. Supporting her, he lowered her to the ground and held her while she relearned to breathe.
“You are out of your time,” he told her, his voice oddly gentle from behind those bloodstains. “Sylphs care nothing for Time themselves and do not understand how mortals may value it.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, staring at nothing. Stroking her hair, Sun Eagle looked around again, and his black eyes swam. “This is not my time either,” he said. “The Gray Wood had not grown up unchecked in the gorges back in my day but was held in place by rivers. The rivers are gone now. The mighty rivers . . .”
His stern face could not be softened by tears but rather was made to seem sterner still, even as he wept. Then it was done. All mourning or celebration passed from him, and he stood, helping Daylily to her feet once more. She clung to him unconsciously, her eyes darting this way and that, frightened as a doe who smells but does not see the panther near.
“There is no bridge for you,” said the warrior, “as there is no river for me. But the Land . . . the Land is ours!”
The Land is mine.
“Come, Crescent Woman.” Sun Eagle turned to Daylily with a look in his eye that may have been a smile. “Let us see what we may find.”
It’s mine.
He led her by the hand away from the gorge. He did not take the beaten trail but instead plunged into the jungle itself, always finding just room enough to pass even where Daylily thought the vines grew as thick as a wall. The air breathed with wildness and youth and heat, baffling Daylily’s senses. Birds she did not recognize flitted after insects and sang their territorial warnings. Snakes twined through the vines, hidden and hood-eyed, watching the strangers pass. Once a monkey swung down to chatter vicious teeth at them, but it fled at one glance from Sun Eagle.
And it was all real. Daylily, who had seen Death’s realm, found herself oddly able to accept it, and her racing heart calmed a little. This countryside was known to her, deep in her heart of hearts. It was like when she was a little girl, and her grandmother had shown her a lovely portrait hanging in the long gallery of Baron Middlecrescent’s home.
“Do you know who that is, child?”
“No, Grandmother.”
“That was me as a young maid. Was I not beautiful then? I was a free-spirited creature, full of life, full of hope, full of passion. But alas!” and the old woman’s voice had become heavy as old sin. “They always break us in the end.”
Remembering, Daylily gazed upon the untamed landscape around her. “They haven’t broken us,” she whispered. “Not yet!”
Sun Eagle stopped suddenly, poised for either fight or flight. Daylily watched him test the air, and then he turned to her with a terrible smile.
“I knew it,” he said. “I knew we must have returned for a reason! After all my searching, the Land has called me home.” His eyes flashed with something Daylily could not understand. “It needs us.”
It needs me!
Sun Eagle took her hand again and led her on through the jungle. “Come, Crescent Woman. Walk cautiously and take care not to be seen. You will prove yourself.”
“Prove myself?” Daylily did not try to free her hand, though part of her wished to. She followed Sun Eagle with the trusting simplicity of a child. “What do you mean?”
“You will fight,” said Sun Eagle without loosening his hold or slackening his pace. “You will fight.”
The countryside grew steadily more tame. She saw signs of cultivation, of furrowed fields. Sun Eagle continued sniffing the air, and whatever he smelled excited him. Then Daylily caught a scent for herself, a strong odor of smoke.
“There is a village near here,” Sun Eagle said. “Greenwell, it was called in my time. It belonged to Eldest Panther Master. But he must be dead long ago.”
Daylily saw the warrior reach up and finger a small bead worn on a cord at his throat, painted blue and white with some figure she could not discern. She did not have a moment to wonder about this, however, for they emerged from the fringes of the jungle and looked out upon the village, just as Sun Eagle had expected.
Daylily knew now where the smell of smoke had come from, for she saw dozens of little fires burning in stone circles, one outside the door of nearly every hut. A squalid, stinking, feeble sort of village, she thought, but well peopled. There were villagers moving about daily tasks, children running on many errands, and old mothers grinding meal by their firesides. She saw men making repairs and herders driving flocks of geese and goats and pigs.
Following a path down from the village came a line of strong-armed women, clad in rough cloths and skins, trailing little ones in their wake.
“There,” said Sun Eagle, pointing to a rock-lined pool of roiling water, a deep, ever-moving well. “The well of Greenwell.” And then he grimaced. “I thought I smelled her. The rivers are gone. Anything may creep from the Wood Between into the Land now. Even her.”
Daylily’s stomach heaved. She could pick out no distinct smell beyond the woodsmoke. Otherwise, all was a noisome blend of unwashed bodies, goat dung, and stinking mud wattle drying in summer heat. “Who?” she asked, her voice a little faint.
“Mama Greenteeth,” Sun Eagle replied. “Look.”
The women approaching the well stopped within a few yards of it, setting down their waterskins and bowing, facedown. Then, one at a time, they drew near the water, which churned with bubbling freshness. Daylily watched as one woman took a flat wafer from her pouch and crumbled it into the water. The crumbs sank and disappeared. Only then did the woman fill her skin and return the way she had come, two small children in tow, back up the path to the village.
Daylily frowned. “Superstition,” she said with the cold superiority of one who is beyond such nonsense.
But Sun Eagle replied, “Not superstition. Ritual. They must pay the tithe.”
“Tithe? What tithe? To whom?”
“Watch.”
One by one, each of the women performed the same odd trick. Some of the cakes were bigger than others, and it seemed to Daylily that those who offered them only took water in proportion to her gift.
Then Sun Eagle said, “Ah! Look there.”
He pointed, and Daylily searched out what he indicated. A tall girl, not yet a woman, came down the path leading a toddling child by the hand. She could not be the child’s mother; a sister, perhaps. But she toted a skin for water over one shoulder and tugged the little one, who was fractious and resisting.
Suddenly the little one plunged a hand into the pouch at the girl’s side and pulled out a wafer cake such as Daylily had seen given to the well. Even as the sister cried out, the child stuffed half the cake into his mouth. The rest fell in crumbles about their feet.
The girl scolded, wringing her hands at the toddler, who smiled naughtily around his stolen mouthful. Then, with a heavy sigh, the girl looked back up the way they had come, and down again to the well. Daylily could see her calculating the distance, her mouth twisting with the effort of her decision.
Then she swept up the little one and, staggering under the child’s bulk, hastened the short distance remaining to the well. Looking over her shoulder and plunking the child back on the ground, she hastily bent and filled her skin without first making an offering.
Nothing happened. But then, Daylily wondered, what did she expect to happen?
“Tithe breaker,” Sun Eagle whispered. “Watch.”
The weight of the skin was too much for the girl, and she was obliged to hold it in both arms. She barked a command to the child and set out up the path, the little one trotting behind. But they had gone no more than three paces when the surface of the well began to writhe and roil.
A face rose up from the water.
It was a face without distinct feature, fluid as water, old and foul, with hair long and green, and teeth longer and greener. Others coming down t
he path shrieked and dropped their skins, fleeing. And the tall girl, her dark face gone gray with fear, whirled about just in time to see that horrible face rise up, up, up, then swoop down, mouth open, and swallow the toddling little one whole.
The next moment, face and child disappeared back into the well.
The girl screamed. The women screamed. And Daylily found that she too was screaming. “Do something! Do something!” she cried, her horror so absolute that she forgot herself.
Do something. Do something.
Sun Eagle stood and clutched her arm, turning her to him. His eyes were alight, and she thought his grimace might be a smile.
“Prove yourself, Crescent Woman,” he said. “Forge the bond. Rescue the child.”
11
THE HEART IS A PECULIAR THING. It sees and interprets important details long before the brain has started to think there might be something worth noticing. The brain resents this skill, however, and will often spitefully do all it can to repress what the heart might be whispering.
So it was that the moment Lionheart climbed up from the gorge and stood looking across the Eldest’s grounds, his heart spoke quietly inside him: Your father is dead.
And his brain immediately countered: What? No! Where do you get that crazed notion? You saw him just yesterday, and he was sick, to be sure, but very much alive. Don’t be a fool, Leo, and get on your way!
Thus fortified, Lionheart shook himself and began jogging across the grassy field on to one of the near roads. In his groundsman’s garb, he passed unnoticed among other groundskeepers, who nodded his way but otherwise ignored him and went about their work. Morning was swiftly lengthening toward noon, and there was no time to waste in chitchat. Lawns must be cut, hedges must be pruned, mulches must be laid.
So Lionheart progressed unimpeded. He was surprised as he went to see the extent to which the Eldest’s gardens had recovered; indeed, he did not remember seeing them so well tended when he had made this same trek from the gorge just the day before.
Or had it been the day before?
The unwelcome thought stirred in the back of his brain, but Lionheart shook it off and quickened his pace. The Prince’s Path was not clear to him now, but somehow he knew he still pursued it as he hastened toward the familiar towers and minarets of his father’s house, less familiar now since the Dragon’s evil work, but the home of his childhood nonetheless.
Flags flew high from every peak and tower, many long, scarf-like tassels on the wind, blue and red and silver. Lionheart frowned when he saw these. Had they not been gold and white flags just yesterday, in honor of the crown prince’s coming marriage? Who had replaced them with the Eldest’s colors and the standard of the rampant panther?
Lionheart’s road joined with the larger road leading from across Swan Bridge and Evenwell Barony. Here he was obliged to walk along the verge, however, for the road itself was crowded with carriages and horsemen hastening on through the Eldest’s parklands toward the House itself. This was strange, Lionheart thought. Should not the Baron of Evenwell be leaving in the wake of the crown prince’s canceled wedding? Why should he only now arrive, a day late?
Lionheart’s heart said, Your father is dead.
To this, Lionheart’s brain responded, If that is true, why aren’t the flags at half-mast?
It was a fine rebuttal, and Lionheart refused to follow it up with any further questions. He merely quickened his pace, dodging to keep from being run over by one of the rumbling carts.
The nearer he drew to the Eldest’s House, the more details came into view. Every window, every arch, every balustrade and gable was festooned in thick garlands of starflowers. Only, not real starflowers. These, he saw upon closer inspection, were made of paper.
But starflowers were in full bloom that time of year, and the garlands should be real!
It is months later, whispered Lionheart’s heart. The starflowers have ceased to blossom. And your father is dead.
It’s just a few flowers! Maybe they withered early this year. Because of the dragon smoke, his brain replied, angry now.
The roads near the house were more crowded still, and Lionheart was obliged to walk in the dirt and grass, for there was no room for him among the carriages and horses and beautifully dressed men and women. Entourages bearing the standards of every barony in the kingdom glittered past, heralded by trumpets or criers as they drew near the House gates. He saw the flash of a flag from Milden, glimpsed the livery of powerful Shippening lords, and . . . light of Lumé above! Was that coach approaching from the Eldest’s City sporting the royal insignia of Parumvir?
They wouldn’t come so far, said Lionheart’s heart. Not King Fidel, nor even Prince Felix. They wouldn’t come so far for a wedding.
But they might for a funeral.
No! Lionheart’s brain immediately countered. Not a funeral! Besides, the flags aren’t at half-mast.
In the bustle and to-do, it took very little effort to slip around through the back ways, cross the kitchen gardens, and enter the Eldest’s House by way of the scullery door. Here he was assaulted by an army of smells: everything from the fresh blood of slaughtered animals, to heady spices of various chutneys and deviled vegetables, to the sweet tangs of candied fruits, and the warmth of creamy sauces. Kitchen hands glared his way, and one of the minor cooks brandished a skewer so threateningly that Lionheart (who had been stabbed by a unicorn and lived to tell the tale) leapt back in horror and made a hasty retreat.
He escaped the kitchens into the servants’ passage and climbed up to the main house. All the while, his heart was saying, They’re preparing a feast. You know what that means.
A feast, I’ll grant you! his brain replied. But not for a funeral. These are preparations for celebration, not mourning. And the dragon-eaten flags are not at dragon-eaten half-mast!
Then suddenly, on a narrow stair in the shadowy space between the sundered worlds of the servants and nobles, Lionheart stopped and pressed his back to the wall.
“My father is dead,” he said, and both his heart and his brain understood it for truth.
He knew now why the barons, lords, and even kings of distant nations were gathering in the Eldest’s House. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He whispered one word into the dark: “Coronation.”
The Baroness of Middlecrescent was a simple woman. This isn’t to say she was stupid or even especially foolish, though it might seem so to some unsympathetic observers. She merely held an uncomplicated view of the world and the order of things, held it with a grasp that had only tightened as the years slipped by. She clung to the perspective that people, on the whole, were generally good sorts with good hearts who wanted good things for the good people around them. Not even five years of dragon smoke had been able to shake this perspective. Indeed, in the surrounding darkness, the baroness had found it more vital than ever to cling to what she believed she knew (which isn’t at all the same as actually knowing).
But now she sat in a quiet, unfamiliar room, listening to the sounds of bustle downstairs, and she wept into her handkerchief. Her simple perspective on the world was being rather roughly handled these days, and it hurt her heart. So she sat and she sobbed, and she could not bring herself to summon her maid as she knew she ought.
The dear, dear Baron would be angry. Oh, he would be livid! He had ordered her to make herself fine and fancy, and to present herself a good quarter of an hour ago, accompanied by heralds and ladies and sounds of trumpets. But . . . well, how could he expect such things of her? It seemed—and she hated to admit it, even down in the very depths of her throbbing heart—it seemed cruel !
So she sobbed all by herself, wondering vaguely if she hadn’t ought to summon one of her ladies only for the company (for one does hate to sob by oneself at such times). She hadn’t quite made up her mind one way or the other, however, when she heard the door opening behind her. “Oh, Dovetree, I was just going to ring for you,” said the baroness, turning.
Then she
screamed.
Lionheart was across the room in an instant, clamping his hand over the baroness’s mouth and, as gently as he could under the circumstances, pushing her back into her chair and pinning her. She was not a strong woman, but she wriggled in such a flurry of lacy dressing gown that he was hard-pressed to keep her in place. But he managed it, holding on and stifling the squeals she made until at last she ran out of air and blinked up helplessly at him.
“I’m going to let you go now,” he said, trying to keep his voice pleasant, though his hackles were raised. “Can you keep quiet if I do?”
He would have liked to suppress the thought, but it struck him how like this was to that time not so long ago when he’d startled a pretty girl by jumping on her from the garden wall (an accident that could very easily have cost him his neck if he hadn’t managed to stifle her screams). What a bungling, awful mess that had led to!
Lionheart shook this thought away as best he could while he gazed down into the baroness’s eyes and tried to make his own expression comforting. Any moment, he expected to hear the sound of footmen or guards pounding their way down the hall. But there was nothing; just the baroness whimpering. “Can you?” he repeated.
The baroness blinked again, then nodded. He took his hand away from her mouth, ready to clamp it back if necessary, but she merely licked her lips and gasped, “What are you doing here? We thought you were dead!”
“Dead?” said Lionheart, frowning and stepping back.
“Yes, dead!” said the baroness, and her gray-streaked hair escaped from its pins and bobbed in tight curls about her forehead. “First you, then Prince Foxbrush and my sweet ducky . . . all disappeared! They say you were spotted about the grounds the day of the wedding, and that you and the crown prince murdered each other over Daylily’s hand, down in the Wilderlands somewhere.” Her eyes widened still more. “Did you not murder each other after all? Or . . . or are you a ghost?”
“I’m no ghost, Baroness, and Foxbrush, last I saw him, was alive.” And now the question he dreaded most to ask. “How long since the crown prince disappeared?”