Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6) (3 page)

Dragons eat those Aja merchants and their insipid green teas! How
could
they compete with the dark and hearty Southlander brews?

For the right price they could.

No matter which way he looked at it, Prince Foxbrush saw only ruin, ruin, and more ruin. Southlands was approaching collapse. That collapse might yet be a few years away, a decade even. But from where he sat with these reports swimming before his eyes, the final crash even now swept toward them.

“Dragons blast that . . .” Foxbrush stopped. There was no curse quite appropriate to curse the Dragon himself.

This marriage was the last-ditch effort to perform the miracles expected of a prince. With Daylily’s fortune safely sequestered away in the royal treasury, he would have funding enough for his Great Experiment. Foxbrush’s severe mouth softened at one corner with what might have been a smile. His gaze traveled from the reports to a large basket of figs sitting to one side of his desk. The Great Experiment, with which he would prove to the world the rightness of his rule, the justice of his reign, the majesty of his—

“Great hopping Lights Above!”

Foxbrush leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backward with a
thunk. He scrabbled through the papers, his hands shaking with sudden terror. Where was it? Hadn’t he tucked it under the fig basket, out of sight? He couldn’t have left it in the open! Could he? Oh, cruel, cruel fate! Oh, agony! Oh—

“Tortoiseshell!”

His man appeared at the study door. “Your Highness?”

“Did you see a letter among my things when you tidied up this morning?”

“The one addressed to Lady Daylily, Your Highness?”

Foxbrush’s stomach landed somewhere near his ankles. “Yes. Yes, that’s the one.” His gaze as desperate as a condemned man’s, he whimpered, “Where is it?”

“I thought it best to deliver it with all due haste, Your Highness.”

“You thought . . .”

“Yes, Your Highness. This being your wedding day, I wished no delay in any correspondence between you and the lady in question.”

Foxbrush tried to speak. “Uuuah . . .”

“Did I do right, Your Highness?”

With gargantuan effort, Foxbrush swallowed. A continental shift could not have been more agonized. “When did you deliver it, Tortoiseshell?”

“I put it in the lady’s hand not a quarter of an hour ago. I happened upon it while— Pray, Your Highness, where are you going?”

Good Tortoiseshell’s words, spoken with such concern, fell upon deaf ears. Prince Foxbrush, mumbling inarticulate curses or prayers (it would be difficult to say which), was already out of the study and into the hall, where he realized he was in his shirt-sleeves, a state of undress not to be borne even under direst circumstances. So he dashed back into his dressing room, crying, “No time! No time!” to a baffled Tortoiseshell, whom he pushed from his way as he snatched the nearest available jacket. This turned out to be Tortoiseshell’s. As the household livery was not intended to go over a blousy affair such as Prince Foxbrush’s shirt, it was a mercy to everyone concerned that Tortoiseshell was twice Foxbrush’s size. The jacket bagged across the prince’s thin shoulders and flapped out from his sides like wings as he, thus attired, flew through the corridors of the Eldest’s House.

An army of invading guests from across the nation, from as far as Beauclair and the northern kingdoms of the Continent, had fallen upon the House in the last few days. Few recognized the prince, new as he was to the title and half clothed as a valet. Those who did spot him each had some congratulation to make, some remark upon the occasion, the newly rebuilt Great Hall . . . something to stop Foxbrush in his tracks. He, squirming with embarrassment (for he had been brought up to be polite), squeezed and sidled and dodged like a mosquito skimming the surface of a pond.

At last he came to Middlecrescent’s series of apartments. And here he faced another, more dreadful obstacle.

“Great Iubdan’s beard and mustache!” Foxbrush gasped.

The hall was flooded with women.

Although a bridegroom is a useless enough specimen on his wedding day, the women jointly make up for his lack. Every one, be she friend, relative, nodding acquaintance, or total stranger, seems to have some vital role, which she pursues with as much chatter and flutter and perfume and feminine grace as possible. And each and every one is on the lookout for one particular person.

Foxbrush’s jaw sagged in dismay. Ducking his head and muttering “Pardon” as he went, he took the plunge, scraping along the wall, hoping against all reasonable hope.

“Just
what
do you think you are doing?”

It was all over now.

Upon that signal, every woman, matron or maid, turned her predatory gaze upon him and pounced.

“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day!”

“Trying to sneak a peek before your time, you naughty boy!”

Foxbrush, pinned to the wall, put up his hands, hidden beneath Tortoiseshell’s too-long sleeves, to ward off the hosts of femininity attacking from all fronts. “Please,” he protested, his voice hoarse in his thickened throat. “Please, I need to talk to her, just one moment, I beg you!”

“That’s what they
all
say.” A severe personage, possibly a maiden aunt, with stubble on her chin, made gorgeous in silks and embroidered veils
after the old Southlander style, stepped forward from the throng. Someone had gilded her fingernails so that they looked like the talons of some otherworldly eagle as she jabbed a finger into Foxbrush’s breastbone. “Nefarious!” she declared, and the surrounding women either laughed or growled their agreement.

Foxbrush was on the brink of muttering whatever feeble excuse sprang first to his lips and making good his escape when mercy fell in the form of a most unexpected angel.

“Lumé’s light, if it isn’t you, dear boy!”

At the voice of the mother of the bride, even the most avenging aunt must give way.

The crowd parted with a rustle of petticoats and creak of supportive wires to admit the passage of Baroness Middlecrescent. She was a creature made impressive by connection and influence rather than by any personal attribute, but this was hardly her fault. Her once renowned beauty long since turned to plumpness and good humor, she wielded the power of her husband’s title with all the cunning of a monkey playing the organ grinder’s instrument. Which is to say, none at all.

“What a delight!” cried the baroness, for it was her way to see joy and sunshine even where storm clouds gathered. She reached out and took Foxbrush’s hands in her bejeweled fingers, pressing them as though he were a long-lost son she had not seen in years rather than the scarcely known, soon-to-be son-in-law with whom she’d dined the night before.

“Have you come to see my dear ducky?” she asked, and it took the following statement before Foxbrush realized she meant Daylily. “Ducky” was not a diminutive one would naturally apply to the Baron of Middlecrescent’s daughter. “She looks glorious, simply
glorious
in her gown. You won’t even believe it! But then, you’ll see her in another few hours, so you’ll have to believe it then.”

The other women drew back, casting Foxbrush dire looks but not daring to interject as the baroness prattled on. “We had it made for her for the last wedding, you know, to your dear cousin. It was such a shame when they called that wedding off, but then, you’re probably not so disappointed,
are you, lucky boy that you are! And now she gets to wear her beautiful gown all over again, and could the day
be
happier?”

Any moment could be the crucial one. Any moment could be too late.

“Please, baroness,” Foxbrush gasped, scarcely able to speak under the heavy scrutiny surrounding him. “Please, I’ve got to see Daylily, just for a moment.”

“Certainly not, young man!” the maiden aunt interrupted sternly. But the baroness silenced her with a wave. Then, turning another smile upon Foxbrush, she said, “I do hope you’ll call me ‘Mum.’”

“Please . . . Mum?” Foxbrush whispered, and his ears burned.

“Why, of course you may!” the baroness said with the most brilliant of smiles. She took Foxbrush by the elbow and led him through the protesting gathering.

“Niece of mine, you cannot!” cried the maiden aunt, appalled.

“I don’t see why not,” the baroness replied, reveling in her power. “It’s their wedding after all. I don’t see why they shouldn’t see one another.”

“Think of tradition!” someone pleaded. But the baroness said only, “Bother tradition!” and flung open the door to Daylily’s dressing room.

It was as empty as an unused tomb, and equally as quiet, save for the gentle breeze murmuring in the curtains.

“That’s odd,” said the baroness, tapping her chin with a fingertip. “I could have sworn she was just here with her goodwoman, getting fastened up . . .”

“If you please, my lady.”

Foxbrush and the baroness turned to the bobbing women in white servants’ linen who appeared at the baroness’s elbow. “Lady Daylily sent me and all her waiting women from the room when the letter arrived for her. Told us not to come back till she called, if it please you.”

“Well, it doesn’t please me,” said the baroness with a sniff. “What letter? When did it arrive?”

“Nearly half an hour ago, my lady. I thought you knew. I couldn’t say whom ’twas from.”

Foxbrush, who had gone a deathly shade of gray, moved as one dream-
wandering into the room and across to the window. The open window lead onto a veranda supported by tall pillars hung with stout starflower vines.

A girl would need a great deal of strength to climb down one of those pillars into the garden below. A great deal of strength or motivation.

“Flown the coop,” said the maiden aunt,
tsk
-ing like a cicada in summer. “And small wonder. That’s what comes of breaking tradition. A groom should
never
try to see his bride before the ceremony!”

I
F IT
COULD
KNOW
SORROW
,
it would weep
.

If it could know frustration, it would gnash its teeth
. Had it possessed teeth, that is.

If it could know
anger, it would tear apart the trembling Wood through which
it rushed, uprooting trees, laying waste to all that was
green and growing.

But it was a being of instinct
, not thought, not emotion. And its instinct said only:

Try
again. Try again.

So Daylily ran away from her wedding.

This was her second attempt at a wedding, but her first wedding gown, for though she was the only daughter of the most powerful baron in all
the land, not even he had the finances to waste on a second round of matrimonial finery. Not since the Dragon’s coming.

She had never liked the gown to begin with. It was her mother’s taste. Regarding weddings, it was usually best to let mothers have their way, and Daylily had made no protest when her ladies had piled on the silver (she’d have preferred gold) and trimmed her out in pearls (she’d have preferred topaz), and pinched her cheeks to make them glow (she was always too pale these days). The result was gaudy enough to impress even the most critical dignitary from the farthest nation of the Continent.

She didn’t mind in the least when she heard the hem rip, leaving pearls and lace trimming in the clutching arms of an old, thorn-rich rosebush as she passed.

The world existed in a state of balance, or so the wise said. Up, by necessity, needed down. Hot, without question, required cold. Spring thaw reached out to winter frost; midnight darkness longed for noonday sun. And, if one wanted to get a bit
spiritual
about it, the melodies of the sun must be countered by the harmonies of the moon.

Many would think the balance between Lady Daylily—beautiful, strong, fiery Lady Daylily—and the rather less impressive young man who was contracted to become her husband sometime within the next three hours should please even the wisest theorists. But tip the balance too far in any one direction, and all chaos ensues. Lady Daylily’s equilibrium had reached its tipping point. In fact, she was pretty certain it had flipped right on its head.

The elegant lawns of the Eldest’s grounds, a once fine setting for the gem that was the Eldest’s House, had given way to spurs and thistles, which tore at the bride’s feet as she made her escape. At any moment, she would hear hoofbeats behind. At any moment, she would hear the shouts of her father’s men.

She tore delicate white gloves from her hands and sent them flying like freed doves fluttering to the ground behind her. Still running, she put her hands to her throat and, unwilling to work the clasp, ripped away the necklace of silver filigree set with enough pearls to fill an oyster bed. It shattered, and pearls fell like rain in her wake. Let the ants gather them and take them to their queen. May she have much pleasure from them!

And still, no pursuit. Such luck was too good to hold. Daylily pulled at the laces of an outer corset, leaving it in a heap behind her, and suddenly she could breathe and run with redoubled speed. For the first time since her flight began, she believed she might reach her goal in time.

The Eldest’s grounds ended abruptly at a cavernous gorge. Far below, the Wilderlands’ thick treetops veiled what else might lurk down there. Once, it was said, great rivers had flowed through the land, carving these myriad gorges. But the rivers were long gone, the Wilderlands had spread to fill their dry beds, and no one ever ventured down the ancient paths into the shadow of those trees.

Indeed, Southlands would not be the united kingdom it was today were it not for the mighty bridges—unparalleled architectural marvels—that spanned the gorges, arching above the treetops and linking barony to barony.

Daylily drew near to Swan Bridge. Evenwell Barony lay beyond; she could see the bridge keeper’s house on the far side, small as a doll’s from this distance. The bridge keeper would hail her if he saw her crossing. He would not let her pass into Evenwell but would hold her until her father’s men came. And then they would drag her back.

She stopped at the stump of a once mighty fig tree. Like most of the patriarchal trees of the Eldest’s grounds, it had been torn apart by the Dragon, its ragged stump now the only remaining testament to its existence. Here, the lady fumbled with the clasps of her shimmery overskirt embroidered in silver leaves, edged in still more pearls. With a certain amount of ripping, she freed herself at last and stepped from the collapsed billow of silk and wire structuring, wearing only her underdress . . . which was still far too sumptuous and heavy for what she had in mind. For now, however, it would have to do.

She reached into her bodice and pulled out the prince’s fool letter.

There, on the edge of the gorge, feeling the wild exhilaration of dangerous heights, she drew a long breath and read the scrawled lines again. Not a man alive could have deciphered the expression on her stone-quiet face. But when she came to the end, she crumpled the letter with both hands and tossed it over her shoulder.

When she spoke, it was without malice but with a deep resignation. “That’s what I give for your fine sentiments, Prince Foxbrush.”

A spasm shot through her body. Hands clasped to her temples, she doubled over. Then, neck craning, she turned her head as though trying to catch a glimpse of something that stood upon her back.

The moment passed.

The lady straightened, her shoulders squared. “It’ll drive me mad if I stay,” she whispered.

Perhaps it had driven her mad already. Why else would she, on her wedding day, stripped of her glory down to her underdress, her dainty shoes worn to shreds, hike up her skirts and, taking a narrow dirt path that was all but invisible, ancient and worn as it was, descend to the waiting darkness of the Wilderlands below?

She only knew she had no choice.

“I’ll disappear,” she told herself. “I’ll disappear even as Rose Red did. And like her, I’ll never come back.”

In the quiet by the old fig tree stump, a bird with a speckled breast alighted on the ground and pecked gently at the discarded letter lying there.
Tut, tut, tut. O
-lay, o-leeeeee!
he sang.

But Daylily was too far away to hear.

There was no wedding.

Yet there was still a wedding feast. Far too much of Baron Middlecrescent’s coin had been spent on fine foreign and expensive delicacies meant to impress dignitaries from far and wide. And the baron declared he would be dragon-blasted before he let any of those sniveling foreigners trundle back to their colder climes without at least one fabulous Southlander meal with which to season their recounting of the day’s extraordinary events.

The Eldest was not consulted on proceedings. He, dribbling slightly at the mouth, was hastily bundled off to his royal chambers and tucked away out of sight, the crown removed from his head, the silken cloak removed from his shoulders. Stripped of this finery, he looked little better than the
drooling beggar at the city gates. He smiled wanly at his servants and asked after his wife, who had died long ago.

The prince was not consulted either, nor was he offered any of the wedding feast, however hungry he might be. His pride shredded to utter rags, he still managed to clothe himself in just enough dignity
not
to beg, “Might I have a bite of the, you know, the fish, maybe?”

No, he sat quietly, if hungrily, in a corner of the baron’s study, doing everything in his power not to let his stomach growl and draw the furious eye of his prospective father-in-law.

The baron was not a man to storm or rage. That reaction might have been more bearable. Good shouting never hurt anyone, and often the shouter vented all that pent-up emotion in the shouting itself, leaving little energy for any real action. But the baron did not shout.

From the moment Foxbrush, flanked by the baroness and the maiden aunt, found the baron and informed him of his daughter’s disappearance, Middlecrescent went . . . quiet. His eyes, rather too large for his face to be handsome, may have narrowed a little; his nostrils may have flared; his mouth compressed. But when he spoke, it was in a voice of such calm that his wife went into hysterics on the spot.

“I see,” he said. Then after another long breath, in an equally mild tone, he said, “Summon my guard.”

When the baron spoke in that way, no one hesitated to obey. He went on to give a series of commands, including an order for the baroness to shut herself up in the North Tower so as not to make a scene. He also sent for barons Blackrock and Idlewild, both trusted men in his entourage, though officially his peers.

To Foxbrush he said only, “Stay by me and, for Lumé’s sake, don’t speak. I can’t stand the sound of your voice just now.”

Foxbrush hadn’t made a peep since.

Now he sat in that same corner of the baron’s study, still clad in Tortoiseshell’s jacket, and the light outside was waning so that maids were summoned to light the lamps and, alas, the fire, though it was far too hot and Foxbrush’s chair far too near the blaze. He contemplated the merits of either removing the jacket or relocating his seat. Both ran the risk of
calling attention to his corner, however, so he remained where he was, sweating, his hands pressed over his rumbling stomach.

A series of people, both common and courtly, progressed under the baron’s scrutiny. First Daylily’s goodwoman, who could only repeat what she had told the baroness already: A certain letter had arrived for her lady and, upon receiving it, her lady had sent everyone from the room.

“And you did not find this strange?” the baron asked.

“Oh no, your grace,” the goodwoman replied. “My lady has often done as much. She likes her privacy.”

The baron chewed on that information, asked a few more curt questions, and dismissed the goodwoman. Foxbrush heard him muttering to himself, “Who could have sent the letter? What might it have contained?”

Foxbrush, no matter how deeply he searched, could not find the courage to provide that information. He sat and sweltered and starved, wishing with a general sort of vagueness that he had never been born.

Late in the day, the baron’s captain of the guard entered, ushering a group of ragged characters, both men and women, before him. Who could they be? Rebels? Outlaws? Brigands? And what could they possibly add to the sorry story unfolding?

“Groundskeepers, my lord,” the captain said, which was a bit of a letdown. Like captives, the six or seven individuals arranged themselves before the baron, heads down, hands clasped. They were of all ages, from just past childhood to quite elderly, but each shared a certain rough-cut freshness indicative of those who work soil and tend green growth for a living. They also looked surprisingly guilty.

“Why have you brought these to my attention?” the baron asked in the same tone a schoolmarm might ask a student about a wormy apple.

“These people, my lord, are the last to have seen your daughter today. At least, so they claim.”

“Groundskeepers?” The baron raised his eyebrows, which made his eyes look bigger still. Then, as though performing a task distastefully beneath his dignity, he addressed those gathered. “All right, speak up. Where did you see the Lady Daylily?”

A woman who appeared to be the leader of the group stepped forward,
touching her forehead and scraping respectfully. “My lord,” she said, “we’re keepers of the South Stretch grounds down near Swan Bridge, and we were taking our ease on this day of happiness—”

“Get to the point.”

Stoneblossom, for it was she, cleared her throat and spoke as clearly as she could through her nerves. “We saw her ladyship, dressed in her wedding clothes, making her way rather quick-like on the path to Swan Bridge.”

“Alone?”

“As far as we could see, my lord. Which was pretty far, I might add.”

“And how did you know it was the Lady Daylily?”

“Oh, it’s hard to mistake her ladyship! There’s not another maid in Southlands boasts a head of ginger hair like hers! Not as would be dressed in pearls and silks.”