Shadow Hand

by Anne Elisabeth Stengl

  “Did you return to Southlands?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “After I was gone?”

  “After you were gone.”

  “But that didn’t matter, did it? You did not come for me.”

  Lionheart tried to swallow. The air was very dry, cold, and still in this place. “I came to make peace with my father.”

  “That is good,” said Daylily, bowing her head so as not to look at him. “He is dying.”

  “He is dead,” said Lionheart. “But I saw him. Before the end.”

  She nodded. Then she said, “What did you do? When you left me, what did you do?”

  “I died.”

  Her icy eyes flashed up at him from under her shielding hair. “A ghost, then? Is that why you’re here?”

  But he shook his head. “Not a ghost. I’m not dead anymore.”

  He wasn’t. In the darkness of this place under that midnight sky, Lionheart’s face glowed. A glow of change, of growth, of life beyond anything Daylily had ever known or experienced. The closest thing to it she remembered seeing was in the face of a newly opened lotus flower just as the first breath of morning touched its petals. It had seemed to respond with a song of color and vibrancy that Daylily herself could not hear but could just barely see.

  It was a sight she hated, for she could not share it. And she hated it now in Lionheart’s eyes.

  She tried to raise her hands as some sort of shield, but the chains on her arms restrained her. She could only turn her head and stare out across the blight of her mind toward a horizon of darkness.

  “Did you find Rose Red?” she asked at last. “Did you save her?”

  Lionheart studied that profile, the crisp lines of her jaw and brow, harder and more stern, yet simultaneously more vulnerable in this barren land. Beautiful Daylily, not so beautiful now. He found it difficult to speak.

  “No,” he managed. “That is, I did find her, but it was not I who saved her. She is safe now though. She is . . .” He stopped, uncertain how to continue, and Daylily heard many things in that silence, things he might not have intended to reveal. “She is safe,” he said. “And she is whole.”

  “By whole, I assume you mean no longer hideous,” Daylily said, still gazing out to the emptiness. “Did you come upon some beauty spell and, just like magic, solve all your problems?”

  “Rose Red was always beautiful,” said Lionheart. “I was simply too blind to see it.”

  How she wished to laugh! How she wished to throw his words back in his face, to ridicule, to . . . to bite.

  To tear.

  To rip.

  The red wolf turned suddenly and lunged at Lionheart. But he did not move, for he had seen already what she was, and he knew that she could not reach him. As he looked at her, tears welled in his eyes, spilled over, and fell to the dust, where they disappeared, unable to touch the dryness.

  “I wish—” He stopped, waiting for his breath to allow more words. “I wish I could save you, Daylily,” he said.

  The she-wolf growled and lunged again, and fresh blood flowed from the bite of the chains. “I don’t want you to save me!” she roared. “I want to kill you!”

  “I see now,” Lionheart said, quiet before that ravening fury. “You bound yourself. Your true self. Deep inside.”

  “But I’ll get free!” the wolf raged. “I’ll get free, and I’ll see you dead! I’ll see them all dead!”

  “You’re killing yourself. From the inside out.”

  “At least I’ll be free from all of you.” Again and again the wolf struggled and tore at the earth and howled and shook her shaggy head. But the stakes held, and the chains, though they groaned, were strong. At last the wolf collapsed again. The bronze stone about her neck weighed her down.

  Lionheart stood looking upon her, and more tears coursed down his cheeks. “I wish I could save you,” he said. “But I understand that I can’t. This is why I wasn’t sent after you. This is why I must remain.”

  “You’ll never come after me! Coward!” The wolf panted, scarcely able to get the words out, so thick were her mouth and throat with foam.

  Lionheart turned even as she hurled curses and abuse at his back. He walked away into the empty plain, each pace taking him farther from her sight. He disappeared at last into the gray and the dark.

  The wolf collapsed and did not breathe, strangled under the weight of the Bronze on her cord.

  The being that wore Daylily’s shape stepped outside, back into the Between, where Daylily sat pressed up against a tree, her head bowed to her chest. Her eyes flickered softly open, and consciousness flowed back in, however unwillingly.

  There. We are safe now. The wolf is dead.

  “No,” Daylily whispered. “No, she isn’t. She always revives.”

  She said no more but waited quietly until Sun Eagle returned. She looked to him as one might look to a stern but adored father from whom one expects protection. Her face was, very briefly, beautiful again in this expression, and Sun Eagle stopped in his tracks, surprised by it. Then he advanced and knelt before her, reaching out to take her hand.

  “It is done,” he said. “The bond is made. The tithe is paid.”

  “Is it well, then?” Daylily asked, her voice simple as a child’s.

  “It is well. Come, Crescent Woman. Our brethren have taken the tithe for Tocho’s death, but that does not mean you may continue to sit here. There is yet much to do.”

  He lifted her to her feet and led her back through the Wood. The little brown bird watched them go, then took to his wings and followed.

  22

  OVER YOUR SHOULDER, like this,” said Redman.

  Foxbrush winced as rough grasses scratched the back of his neck. He shrugged into the shoulder straps of an enormous wicker basket tall enough to extend above his head. It was empty for the moment and therefore light. How heavy it would be by the end of the day was anyone’s guess.

  Lark stood beside him, her own smaller basket slung, her face frowning but not unfriendly. She took the measure of the young man her father assisted, watching as Redman secured the leather straps across Foxbrush’s chest.

  “There,” Redman grunted. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.” He stepped back, looking from Foxbrush to his daughter and back again. He spoke in the North Country dialect, addressing Foxbrush. “I’ll not ask you to look after my girl. She’s a smart little thing, and she’ll look after you, more like! But this is her first time without her da, and, well . . .” He stopped and shrugged, leaving Foxbrush to wonder how he might have finished that sentence.

  Redman turned to Lark and spoke to her in the language of her mother’s people. “You have the tributes?”

  Lark put her hand to a pouch at her waist. “Yes, Da. I’m ready. There are only three totems.”

  “True enough, and you know them all.” Redman crossed his arms and indicated Foxbrush with a slight nod of his head. “Are you sure you’re willing to bring him along?”

  “I can’t fetch the lot on my own,” Lark replied demurely.

  “True. But I can find one of the village boys if you like.”

  Lark made a face at this. One of the village boys would domineer and stick out his chest and do everything to take charge. Where would the fun be in that? She shook her head and smiled up at Foxbrush, who understood none of the conversation taking place between her and her father and offered only a weak half smile in return. He certainly wouldn’t try to take the lead! But to her father Lark said only, “He knows nothing. He needs to learn.”

  “Don’t think unkindly of him, Larkish,” said Redman. She rolled her eyes at his use of her pet name, but he continued, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that heroes come in many shapes, sizes, and forms. Might be we have a hero here in our midst.”

  Lark glanced again at Foxbrush, who was picking at his nails. She’d never seen a man who worried so about his hands. Or his washing. Or his hair! Foxbrush had spent a good portion of
the morning plastering down his hair (which was unusually short) with water and combing it with his fingers. All to no avail; the humid air quickly caught all that thick hair of his up into a curly dark halo.

  A hero? Lark covered her mouth to force back a laugh, then readjusted the basket on her back, saying solemnly, “I’ll take him, Da. I’ll show him the totems.”

  “And back before sunset?” Redman said.

  She nodded. Then she reached out and took Foxbrush’s hand. “Come!”

  With a hesitant look back over his shoulder (which the tall basket made difficult), Foxbrush followed the ginger-haired girl down the hill from the Eldest’s House to the jungle.

  Three days had passed since Foxbrush had made his wild escape attempt. Three days during which he had learned how to tie on a pair of trousers made from animal hide, how to wrap his feet in hide to protect his tender soles, how to eat by pulling meat from the bone with his teeth, and how to sleep with nameless creatures eating, breeding, birthing, and dying in the thatched ceiling above his head.

  Three days of nightmare. Then this morning dawned, and Redman (who’d spent the previous two days repairing the wall Foxbrush damaged) announced that the time had come for Foxbrush to earn his keep.

  Lark led him by the hand as the green of the jungle canopy closed over their heads. Daylight rendered the shadows no less ominous than they had seemed three nights ago. The path was narrow and roots trailed over it in treacherous twists, ready to trip up the unwary. Great fronds reached out to caress Foxbrush’s cheek, and these dripped with wetness from the rain fallen the night before.

  Eyes watched their every move.

  Foxbrush fixed his gaze on the little girl before him, the least threatening sight in his field of vision. Her red hair was shiny with grease, but he had already ceased to smell the body odor of her or any other member of the village. The senses can only stand so much, after all. Besides, he knew he would very soon smell as ripe as any of them.

  Light of Lumé! He needed to get out of this place!

  He closed his eyes for a few paces and let the coos and caws and shrieks of life surrounding him swallow up that thought. He couldn’t leave. Not without Daylily.

  When he opened his eyes, Lark was looking up at him with an oddly solemn expression.

  “We are nearing the first totem,” she said.

  Foxbrush blinked with surprise. Her accent was strong, the cadence a little strange. Nevertheless, it was unmistakably a variation on the Southlander Foxbrush knew. He frowned at her. “Did I just . . . I understood you just now, didn’t I.”

  Lark grinned back, pleased by his reaction. “I speak Northerner as well as my da, better than my ma. My sisters are still learning, so Da and Ma speak in Da’s tongue when they do not want the little ones to know what they say. But I am the oldest. I know.” The gleam in her eye vanished suddenly, and she dropped her gaze, softly repeating, “I know.” She put a finger to her lips then. “We approach the first totem. You must be quiet.”

  “But how do you—”

  “Hush!”

  Her reprimand was enough to freeze Foxbrush’s tongue in his mouth. At a sign from her, he stayed put, watching as she continued up the path, pushing overhanging branches from her way. Soon he could see only the top of her bright head.

  Then he heard her small voice calling (though he did not understand the words): “Crookjaw, restless one, little nimble fingers!”

  Foxbrush ran to catch up with Lark, nearly stumbling over her in his haste. She turned a furious glare up at him and again put a finger to her lips. Then she took a hard, flat cake from the pouch at her side and stepped toward a low stone Foxbrush had not seen before. It was black and nearly hidden in foliage, but Lark uncovered it to reveal the image of an ugly old man’s face, rendered crudely with deep crevices around its mouth and almost no nose. Someone had painted it long ago in garish pigments now mostly flaked away by the elements. Red and blue circles still ringed the closed, heavy-lidded eyes, however, and the cruel lips were orange stained. The top of its head formed a flat surface covered in bits of dead leaves and bird droppings that gave the appearance of hair.

  Lark set the flat cake on the stone. Then she clapped her hands and called again, “Crookjaw! Crookjaw, I bring you tribute! Does it please you?”

  Lark spoke in a singsong, her childish voice sweet. An odd little superstition, Foxbrush supposed. He’d read about such things in his studies, the crude beliefs and practices of older times. Funny, he’d never thought to see—

  A screech erupted overhead.

  The trees began to shake as though blown by a tremendous storm. Had it not been strapped to his back, Foxbrush would have dropped the basket as he hunched and craned his neck. Some dark shadow hidden by thick greenery swung through the branches above, then dropped onto the stone head.

  It was a monkey. A large, smelly, evil-eyed monkey, brown and bearded, picking bugs from its ears with long, many-jointed fingers. It inspected each bug with the eye of a connoisseur. Some it tossed aside. Others it popped into its mouth and ate with great smacking and apparent enjoyment. It did not look at Foxbrush, Lark, or the cake but seemed absorbed in this nasty pursuit.

  Foxbrush hated monkeys, even the little tame things that noble ladies sometimes wore on their shoulders at festivals in his day. But this creature was more hateful still. Its jaw, which looked as though it may have been broken at some point, hung crooked and sagging when it wasn’t munching.

  “Crookjaw, I bring tribute,” said Lark, repeating her singsong chant. She pointed at the cake, demanding, “Does it please you, Crookjaw? Does it please you?”

  The monkey flared its nostrils at her. Then it yawned hugely, displaying a terrible set of yellow fangs incongruously large for its small, wizened face. It extended a hand, fingers wriggling. Lark stepped forward fearlessly, picked the cake off the stone, and dropped it into the monkey’s grasp.

  With a shriek that could shatter glass, the monkey stuffed the cake whole into its mouth and vanished up into the treetops. Birds screamed and fluttered out of its way; the world rained broken branches and falling leaves. Foxbrush covered his head against this storm and felt more than a few unseen items land in his open basket.

  “What was that?” he asked a little breathlessly.

  “The first totem,” Lark replied with a smile. “There are two more on our way to the Twisted Man. Come!”

  She set off without further explanation, leaving Foxbrush to page through his mind for some memory of that strange word. He knew he’d read it before somewhere. And . . . yes! He’d even seen one in the Eldest’s gallery. A totem, a statue from old Southlander history, usually carved in stone, though some decayed wooden totems had been found. The one on display at the Eldest’s House was a hook-beaked bird with furious human eyes, outspread wings, and a flat-topped head such as Foxbrush had just seen. The old Southlanders had purportedly left ritual offerings on these stones to appease godlike beings.

  A ritual he had now witnessed firsthand.

  He adjusted his basket and drew a deep breath of muggy, buggy air. “Tell me, Meadowlark,” he said to the back of the girl’s head, “was that—”

  “Lark. Not Meadowlark.”

  “Very well,” said Foxbrush. “Tell me, Lark, was that one of your gods?”

  The look she turned upon him stopped him in his tracks. “We don’t have gods,” she said.

  “Oh now, don’t be angry,” Foxbrush persisted, falling back into step with her. “I know you people are very religious. You worshipped the Wolf Lord once, and the Dragonwitch—”

  The girl whirled upon Foxbrush with such ferocity that he braced for attack. And, small child though she was, he was not convinced he could fend her off.

  “I never worshiped the Wolf Lord!” she snarled, her dark eyes blazing. In her fury, she kept slipping out of Northerner into her native tongue and back again. But Foxbrush had no trouble understanding her meaning. “Or the Dragonwitch! The Silent Lady bested the Wolf Lord, cal
ling down his death, and he will never plague my people again! My father, mother, and the Smallman King of the North Country battled the Dragonwitch, and the rivers rose to fight her with them! They brought down her Citadel and buried her beneath it, and all this land”—she swept her scrawny arms as though to encompass the entire jungle—“grew up green and thriving in gratitude so that her ruins will never be found again! We have no monster gods in this country, and we will nevermore be bound in slavery! And one day—” her voice broke with the intensity of her passion. She was obliged to draw breath before continuing, and then she finished in a quieter voice. “One day we’ll drive out the Faerie beasts as well.”

  With that, she turned and continued down the winding trail. Foxbrush, cowed, followed quietly behind. He decided not to tell her that it was impossible for a jungle this thick and tall and old to have grown up since her father’s youth. He also decided not to mention that it was impossible for a Silent Lady to call anything.

  But one piece of Lark’s strange speech did linger in his mind. The Smallman King. He knew that story. He’d learned on his nursemaid’s knee long ago how the Smallman King came down to Southlands and battled the Dragonwitch. Accompanied by . . .

  “His scar-faced cousin,” Foxbrush whispered.

  At the next totem, Lark performed a ritual similar to the first, leaving a flat cake on an ugly, painted stone. This time no animal emerged, but after a minute or two, Lark declared, “She is satisfied,” and continued on her way. Her fury seemingly forgotten or forgone, she said, “Eanrin will someday put it in song. The story of my father. He promised.”

  “Eanrin?” Foxbrush said. “You know of Bard Eanrin? Here?”

  “I’ve met him,” said Lark.

  “You’ve met the Faerie Bard, Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus?”

  Lark’s shrug was almost hidden beneath her wicker basket. “Well, I don’t remember it. When I was born he came to honor my da and my ma. Back when the Silent Lady was still with us.”

  “The Silent Lady? With you?”