Crookjaw screamed and scrambled for the safety of a tree. But he never reached its boughs. Kasa’s great arm shot out and caught him in mid leap. The Faerie monkey screeched and bit at her hand.
She broke him like a doll made of rushes. Then she turned and fixed her yellow eyes upon Lark.
Yelling inarticulately, Foxbrush flung himself between the giantess and the girl. He stood in Kasa’s shadow, and the sunlight shot into his eyes between her branching antlers. He put up both hands in defense, clenching and unclenching his fists. Her cleft lip twisted in a smile at the sight, and she advanced, the dead body of Crookjaw dangling in her grasp.
“Will you stand up to me, mortal, and deprive me of my due?” she asked, and the rumble of her voice and the scent of wildness on her breath could have knocked him over. Foxbrush staggered but did not fall.
She took another step. One of her great feet could crush the life out of him. Nothing could stand in her way. Still he stood with the child clinging to him from behind, and though he could not speak or even move for terror, he did not back down.
Kasa looked into his eyes. And she saw something that made her stop.
The King of Here.
The King of There.
A shudder passed through her, an understanding she could not fully understand. But she stood where she was and advanced no more. Then she said:
“The tithe is due.”
It was then that Foxbrush saw the Bronze about her neck. “The firstborn!” he breathed and he felt Lark tighten her grip on his shirt from behind. She had seen it too.
“Where is the mistress of this land?” Kasa demanded. “I will speak to her alone.”
Neither Foxbrush nor Lark could answer. Kasa looked at them, avoiding Foxbrush’s eyes. Then she swung the body of Crookjaw up over her shoulder, turned, and marched off through the orchard toward the village.
Foxbrush collapsed. His knees simply gave out, and he could not have supported himself a moment longer if he’d wanted to.
“Hurry! Hurry!” Lark cried, grabbing his shirt and pulling. “We’ve got to get to the village! That Bronze Warrior is looking for my ma!”
“Ughh uh,” said Foxbrush, which wasn’t as articulate as he’d hoped. He was fairly certain his heart had stopped and he was probably dead.
“Get up!” Lark cried, kicking him in her urgency. “We’ve got to find my ma!”
The reverberations of Kasa’s footsteps quaked the ground as Foxbrush and Lark, hand in hand, hastened through the orchard in her wake. Within a few paces, they heard the village warning drums beating, but the sound could scarcely carry above the thunder of Kasa’s approach.
She strode through the center of the village, and all fled her path. Up the hill to the Eldest’s House she went, and from that vantage point she was visible throughout the village, her great antlers tearing at the sky, the body of Crookjaw swinging limply. She bellowed for all to hear:
“Where is the mistress of this land?”
No one spoke. No one answered. All gathered together at the base of the hill, armed but afraid to make a move. They stared up at the giantess and believed they looked upon their doom.
“Where is the mistress of this land?”
Then one voice called out in answer: “The Eldest will not be summoned like a slave.”
The crowd made way as Redman stepped through. He walked from their midst and up the hill toward Kasa, his ugly face full of threats, his red hair shining in the sun. “She is not to be bullied or intimidated,” said he. “You will deal with me!”
Kasa looked down upon his approach and sniffed. Her nose was flat and slitted, yet her face was still beautiful after the beauty of Faeries. Her golden eyes narrowed. “You are not king. You are not bound to this country by the beat of your heart and the pulse of your blood.”
Redman stood just below her now, caught in the depths of her shadow so that his hair no longer shone. Other shadows gathered in the sky as thick black clouds rushed in to shroud the sun. And yet Redman’s one good eye gleamed with fierce fire.
“My heart beats for the Eldest, and my blood flows in the veins of the children she has borne by me,” he said. “I am fit to speak for the South Land.”
But Kasa stamped impatiently, and she frothed at the mouth like a massive horse champing at the bit. Her mighty hooves tore turf and stone.
“Where is your queen?” she demanded. And again, “Where is your queen?”
Redman, armed with a stone-headed hand plow, took another threatening step forward. He would have fought, and he would have died. Kasa’s eyes promised as much.
But in that moment, the Eldest appeared in the doorway of her house. Her youngest child toddled in her shadow, weeping, and she carried a spear in her hand. She strode forward, clad all in white, and she was a tiny, childlike figure herself before the might of Kasa and the Bronze. But she called out a warrior’s challenge in a fierce voice:
“I am Eldest of the South Land.”
Even Redman backed down as she spoke, and Kasa turned in surprise and perhaps even an instant of fear.
“I am Eldest of the South Land,” said Sight-of-Day, brandishing her weapon. “Who are you, woman of the Bronze, that you should approach my door and threaten my own?”
Kasa heaved the body of Crookjaw. It flew in an arc and thudded at the Eldest’s feet.
“That is what we’ve come for,” Kasa said. “You owe in tithe for the blood of this Faerie beast.”
Blood. New life . . .
The air trembled with words not spoken but felt by all those present. Foxbrush, who had joined the crowd below, felt Lark squeeze his hand and press against him.
The Eldest, however, cast but a brief glance down at the broken body of the monkey. “We owe nothing. Crookjaw lived in harmony with my people. You have murdered him, and we owe you nothing.”
“Harmony?” said Kasa with a sound that might have been a laugh among her own kind. “The beast attacked one of your own. I saw how it happened. The beast tore at the face of your own village man and would have slain him had I not interceded. And now you owe the tithe for the blood I spared and the blood I spilled.”
The Eldest stepped over the body of Crookjaw, advancing on the giantess. “We owe nothing!” she said. “Crookjaw would never attack one of my people! He had his tribute!”
Kasa turned then. Her gaze swept down from above and fixed upon Foxbrush in the crowd. She raised one muscular arm and pointed directly at him. “Ask the one I saved.”
Blood. Saved. Blood . . .
Redman, the Eldest, and all the village turned to Foxbrush then. Even Lark, clinging to his hand, turned her too-old eyes up to his face. Though he did not move a step, Foxbrush felt as though he was dragged suddenly forward and flung into the midst of an accusing throng. He could read the question in every gaze: Is it true? Are we lost?
“Tell them,” said Kasa. “Tell them the truth of my words.”
“Um.” Foxbrush stared around, finally looking down at Lark. Her face was stricken with hopelessness. “I . . . I ran afoul of Crookjaw,” he whispered, but his voice was caught in the listening silence and seemed to roar in every ear. Then he shook his head, closing his eyes and willing himself to speak despite the pressure of the village stare. “But I don’t think he would have hurt me. Not really.”
He looked up then and met Kasa’s gaze. And she, even from that distance, saw again what she had seen before and felt a waft of coldness pass over her heart.
Then she spoke. When she did, other voices spoke as well, nine other voices from nine other warriors who stood ringing the village, the Bronze shining upon each breast. Their voices rose as one, and they cried out:
The bond is made! The tie cannot be broken! Send us your firstborn!
The sky overhead turned black as night and thunder growled dark threats. In the darkness, the lights of the Bronze shone, beckoning, irresistible.
Lark let go of Foxbrush’s hand. He saw her turn her face to the nearest of the lights, w
hich shone so bright it obscured the one who wore it. She started toward it.
“No!” Foxbrush shouted. He heard other voices, the whole of the village shouting, screaming names and threats and protests. Everywhere around him, children of all ages left the shelter of their parents’ arms and moved toward the gleaming lights. Foxbrush leapt forward and caught at Lark, struggling to grab her shoulder, her arm. But though he felt the warmth of her skin, he could not take hold. She slipped through his grasp like mist and moved on.
More dark figures, shrouded by the storm gloom, moved into the crowd. Young mothers clutching newborns to their breasts found their arms were empty. Fathers catching up little ones found they caught at airy nothing.
And still the voices called:
Send us your firstborn! Send us your firstborn!
Suddenly the bronze lights went out.
The world plunged into crippling blindness. Foxbrush fell to his knees and pressed his hands over his face, trying to hide himself from the dark.
The storm rolled by overhead. The sun dared shine once more. It looked down from the sky upon the desolate village, where fathers and mothers wept and called their children’s names.
6
NIDAWI PROWLED THE SHADOWS, moving slowly on her hands and feet like some long-limbed lion herself, placing each foot and hand silently before its mate. Shadows danced across her face, but fire danced in her eyes as she watched the Haven door. The Haven itself was not constant before her vision. Sometimes she saw a great and beautiful house; sometimes it was only a thick grove of trees. Either way it was unassailable, at least in her current strength.
But the door she could watch. She and Lioness.
Days and nights both passed and did not pass in this realm without time, for nothing was stable and nothing changed. Around the Haven itself—perhaps due to the occupant, who was herself once mortal—time seemed to linger, counting out hours and moments alike. But a few paces beyond, there was only the Wood and immortality. Nidawi cared nothing for time, and in this at least she had the patience of mountains. She watched the gloom of night fall and retreat into the gleam of morning more often than she bothered to count. And still she waited.
She could hear voices now and then. Just now, for instance, on the other side of a hawthorn tangle that was also a hard stone wall, she heard the Faerie man and the mortal woman who had turned her away from their door (the beasts!), arguing. She crouched beneath the branches, listening and sniffing and watering at the mouth in the eagerness of her desire.
“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.
A roar shattered the stillness of the Wood, echoing on into worlds and demesnes beyond. And Daylily, clutching the stone that dragged her forward against all her will or strength, looked up into the
descending doom of the lion and screeching Faerie queen.
“What was that?”
Imraldera paused midstride and turned to the sound of that echoing rumble. The blur of trees sliding past hardened into the solid growth of the Wood around them as she and her companions stopped.
“The white lion,” Sun Eagle said. His voice was thin, for though he had recovered much from his wounds under Imraldera’s care and the influence of the Haven, he was still weak from blood loss. But his head came up and his eyes were bright as he stared off in the direction from which the roar had come. “She is near. But not so near as I thought.”
“No, indeed. I thought she was right on our tail a moment ago,” Eanrin agreed, craning his neck as though to somehow see through the trees themselves. “Sounds like she’s on the hunt, all right. But if we’re not her prey, than who is?”
“We should go after. We should find out,” said Imraldera, but there was a question in her voice. After all, Sun Eagle was not strong, and the idea of walking into the waiting jaws of the lioness and her wild companion was unappealing from any perspective.
“I think . . . not,” Eanrin said, though he hesitated. “We’d do best to put some distance between ourselves and those two mad girls, if you know what I mean.”
Imraldera agreed but Sun Eagle said nothing. He continued looking after the sound, which by now had died away into nothing. He sniffed the air and bowed his head. Then without a word, he continued on his way, passing up even Imraldera and storming on at a tremendous speed despite the pain that must even now be shooting through his leg. It was as though some force other than himself moved his body and his limbs.
Where he walked, a Path opened up. But it was not the Path they had been following a moment before.
Imraldera saw this and frowned. It seemed a safe enough way, however, and it led the direction they had been following all along. With a whispered curse, she took a step after.