Shadow Hand
Page 41
The Haven would be a lonely spot no more.
A few lights remained hovering around Imraldera’s shoulders and the top of her head. Nidawi, pleased, smiled at them and melted into the form of a girl just on the brink of womanhood, neither child nor adult but something in between. The cub climbed up onto her shoulder and chewed on her ear.
“I will leave you, then,” Nidawi said. “I have many Paths to explore, and Lion here will keep me company. When I have found a home for my children, I will return.”
“We will wait for you,” said Imraldera. Then, though she hesitated, she reached out and stroked the lion cub’s ears, which were so soft as to be irresistible, even though he always tried to bite in response. A fitting companion for the Everblooming, Imraldera thought, backing away again.
So Nidawi left, the cub gamboling at her heels. And when she went, the colored glows of her people winked out, one by one. But Imraldera could still feel them and hear them around her, as bright and lively as ever. They simply could not shine as they might wish to without their mother’s presence.
Imraldera stood awhile watching the place where Nidawi had disappeared into the Wood. She tried to think of something to say, and she could feel Eanrin watching her, could sense him also trying and failing to come up with a fitting word.
“That was kind of you,” she said at last.
He didn’t respond. When she dared glance his way, she found him idly pushing at the cuticles of his nails, like a cat grooming his paws. His face was as placid as a calm sea and equally unfathomable.
“To bring Nidawi here, I mean,” Imraldera continued. “I am sure she was grateful in her own way. And I was glad for the opportunity to introduce her to the cub.”
Eanrin nodded and, without looking at her, said, “Once in a while a kindlier instinct takes over and, despite all my best efforts, has its way with me.”
“Oh, come!” said Imraldera, trying to laugh, to make things natural. But a laugh wasn’t natural, and she knew it. Rather, she should have a curt reprimand for him, some sarcastic remark and a scowl.
But nothing was natural now. She wondered if anything ever would be again.
“You’re kinder than you like to let on, Eanrin. Why don’t you come inside and tell me what has happened, for I—”
“I couldn’t save him, Imraldera.”
She felt her heart sinking down to her stomach, to her feet. “I . . . I did not expect you to,” she whispered. Then she watched as Eanrin turned his hands over, and she saw the blisters lining each finger, ringing his palms. Faeries heal far more quickly than mortals can dream, and Imraldera knew that these wounds should long since have vanished. Yet Eanrin held on to them and allowed them to continue giving him pain.
She reached out and tried to take his hands, but he drew them back, tucking them under his arms, his shoulders hunched and his head down.
“I tried to save him,” he said. “I held on to that dragon-eaten stone of his, and I think I might have done it in the end. But . . . but I let go, Imraldera, and Sun Eagle is gone. Vanished in smoke, I don’t know if ever to return.”
How long ago was it now since she’d first wept for the loss of Sun Eagle? It was so difficult to keep track of time. Imraldera put a hand to her heart and felt the swell of sorrow there, and she knew she would weep again. But not now. Not here.
“Eanrin,” she said gently, and there were no tears in her voice, “you did what you could for him. For all of them. Please come inside. Rest awhile, and then tell me what you must.”
“What I must tell you,” said Eanrin, lifting his head but still refusing to meet her gaze, looking instead out to the Wood in the direction Nidawi had gone, “are his final words. He asked me to tell you that you are always with him.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now that is done.”
“Thank you,” Imraldera said. Once more she reached out to him, touching his arm. But her touch seemed to shoot fire through him, and he stepped away, out of her reach, into the growing darkness in the clearing.
“I am leaving,” he said.
“What?”
“Yes. I spoke to the Lumil Eliasul, and he told me that I should go, even as I asked. I am leaving the Haven at once. But don’t worry,” he hurried on before she could make a protest. “You won’t be alone here. The Prince has promised to send more knights, and others as well, squires in need of training. You won’t be alone to keep this watch. Indeed, you’ll have more help than ever, and better help than I can give.”
Imraldera stared at him, and the sorrow in her heart flared up into something else. Frustration, perhaps. Or anger. Something she could not quite name, but it was enough to bring the blood boiling in her ears and her voice snapping a little harshly from her mouth.
“And does my opinion mean nothing in all this? What if I don’t want you to go? What if I don’t want other comrades in this watch? What if—”
She stopped then, for he had given her a look, and in that look she saw a painful hope. One she could not answer. So she stopped and closed her mouth, turning away.
“No, you are right,” she said at last. “It is probably for the best.”
The silence grew so deep around them that she could even hear the voices of Nidawi’s children calling to one another inside, though they could make a sound no louder than a mosquito’s hum. She began to wonder if perhaps the cat-man had slinked away into the shadows without another word, and she could not bear to look and see.
Then he stepped up beside her and took her hand. He pressed something into it, a little scrap of a parchment, and closed her fingers around it. He held on a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s for you to copy,” he said. “Just a little rhyme or two. Copy it out and hold on to it for a while. If you should meet a fellow named Lionheart—a mortal man, a prince—give it to him and tell him it’s for his cousin, Foxbrush.”
She felt then the brush of his lips on her forehead.
“Good-bye, Imraldera,” said Eanrin.
For some long minutes, Imraldera did not enter the Haven but stood in the surrounding evening, holding herself and thinking nothing, for her head and her heart were too tired for thought. Some of Nidawi’s children came to find her and tugged at her hair and clothes, urging her to come inside. She allowed herself to be led down the passage to the library and, at last, to her desk. It sat piled high with neglected work, and someone—one of her new, eager helpers—had lit a candle and trimmed her quill.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then she opened up the page Eanrin had given her and read the badly scribbled lines. She frowned and read them again, then a third time. “What dragon-eaten nonsense,” she muttered at last and felt better for it.
Taking up her quill and drawing an empty page before her, she began to write, copying in her neat script of Faerie letters these lines:
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Follow where you will
Your fickle, fleeing, Fiery Fair
O’er woodlands, under hill.
She’ll not be found, save by the stone,
The stern and shining Bronze,
Where crooked stands the Mound alone,
Thorn clad and sharp with awns.
How pleasant are the Faerie folk
Who dwell beyond your time.
How pleasant are your aged kinfolk
Of olden, swelt’ry clime.
But dark the tithe they pay, my son,
To safely dwell beneath that sun!
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Hardened ground you till,
And still your fickle, Fiery Fair
Flees o’er woodland hill.
The wolf will howl, the eagle scream.
The wild white lies dead.
Tears of Everblooming stream
As she bows her mourning head.
Bargain now with Faerie queen,
The Everblooming child,
If safe you would your kingdom glean
From out
the feral wild.
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Heal now the ills
Of your weak and weary Fair,
Lost among the hills.
You would give your own two hands
To save your ancient, sorrowing lands.
Summon now the Faerie beasts
Beneath the spreading tree
Lead them where the darkness feasts,
And this is what you’ll see:
Just at the mirk and midnight hour
Of thirteen nights but one,
The warriors bear their bronzen stones
Where crooked stands the Mound alone.
There you will win your Fiery One
Or see her then devoured.
First let pass the warrior red,
Then let pass the brown.
But when you see her flaming head,
Then throw your weapon down.
No lance, no spear will save the night,
Nor bloodshed on the ground.
This alone will be your fight:
To hold your lady, hold her tight
When once again she’s found.
You would give your heart and life
For she who’ll be your wife.
Her heart will turn within your hold
To a red-hot brand of iron,
To melting, molten, lava gold,
And how your hands will burn!
But hold her fast and hold her tight
And yet you’ll win this terror night.
In broken sleep upon the ground
The dear one lost now lies.
Yet a kiss in faithful friendship found,
And love opens wide eyes.
Oh, Shadow Hand of Here and There,
Crippled now you bide.
But free and fierce is Fiery Fair
Your own, your hard-won bride!
You gave your own two hands
And saved your ancient lands.
The king returns to home and hall,
To throne and crown and glory.
And ever stands he proud and tall,
The crippled Shadow Hand. Recall
You now my ancient story!
About the Author
Anne Elisabeth Stengl makes her home in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband, Rohan, a passel of cats, and one long-suffering dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys Shakespeare, opera, and tea, and studies piano, painting, and pastry baking. She studied illustration at Grace College and English literature at Campbell University. She is the author of Heartless, Veiled Rose, Moonblood, and Starflower. Heartless and Veiled Rose have each been honored with a Christy Award, and Starflower was voted winner of the 2013 Clive Staples Award.
Learn more at anneelisabethstengl.blogspot.com.
Tales of Goldstone Wood
Heartless
Veiled Rose
Moonblood
Starflower
Dragonwitch
Shadow Hand
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
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