Shadow Hand by Anne Elisabeth Stengl
The baroness began undoing the buckles on the unfortunate Fleet-Arrow’s boots. “Come help me, lovey,” she said with a smile at Felix that was simultaneously winsome and commanding, a formidable combination. “You look as though you’ve seen a fright! Have you never hit a man before?”
“Not with an urn,” Felix admitted. “Won’t she tell someone we’re assaulting guardsmen in here?”
“Who, Dovetree?” The baroness giggled and, with a surprisingly vicious tug, pulled the first of the guardsman’s boots free. “No, she is loyalty herself. Absolutely devoted to me. Do hurry, sweetness!”
Felix, in a bit of a fog, obeyed, kneeling and working at the armor buckles and straps with the trembling fingers of his good hand. Between the two of them, they stripped the man to his linens. Then, at the baroness’s direction, they rolled their victim onto a rug and dragged him to the adjacent dressing room beyond the study. This was made difficult by Felix’s wounded wrist, but the baroness proved stronger than she looked.
“Lionheart was a bit squeamish himself about hitting the page boy,” she said conversationally as they went. “What little mouses young men are these days! My dear baron wouldn’t think twice about clunking another fellow over the head if it served his purpose. But then, I suppose there aren’t many men like my dear baron!”
Her dear baron against whom she was actively plotting. Felix rolled his eyes heavenward and began to think longingly of his nice quiet home up north, that which so recently had seemed dull. He thought he maybe could do with a little dullness just about then.
The baroness flung open a wardrobe, and a page boy tied up in curtain cords blinked out at them. Felix nearly dropped his hold on the guardsman.
“There’s someone in your wardrobe, my lady!” he gasped.
“Of course,” said she with a disarming smile. “How are you, Cubtail? Head feeling better?” she asked the boy, who was gagged but who shrugged agreeably enough. He even slid over obligingly as Felix and the baroness hefted the guardsman into the wardrobe. The baroness then hurried to grab a number of belts and the sash off a dressing gown, with which she trussed up the unconscious guardsman with shocking expertise.
“Now, sit tight and don’t make a peep,” said the baroness, patting the page boy on the head before she shut the wardrobe door once more. She turned to Felix. “Let’s see about getting you into that uniform!”
“It’ll never work, you know,” Felix said as he followed her back to the study and the pile of discarded armor and leathers. “I’m too pale, for one thing. And they’ll spot me by my accent, for another!”
“Oh, it’ll be too dark up in the tower for them to see you, and you won’t need to talk,” said the baroness, holding the breastplate to Felix’s chest. “This doesn’t fit right.”
“It’s upside-down,” said Felix, taking it from her. “Why won’t I have to talk?”
“I’m sending Dovetree up with you. She’ll say the wine is from me, in thanks to those noble souls willing to risk life and limb for the sake of my dear baron, and so on. They’ll sip the wine, they’ll fall over unconscious, and you’ll get Lionheart to let you in.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Felix in last feeble protest as he pulled the guardsman’s jerkin over his head and the heavy boots on his feet, “why you need me for all this. I’m not even a Southlander!”
“But you jumped to save Lionheart.”
“Yes, but that was . . . different.” He didn’t think it worth trying to explain the vision of Prince Aethelbald standing in midair. It didn’t make sense in his own mind anyway; he might just choose to forget it.
“Besides,” the baroness continued in what was probably intended to be a comforting tone, “if they catch you, they probably won’t execute you, you being the crown prince of our strongest ally. They wouldn’t think twice about hanging Dovetree, or me, for that matter! But you might just pass it off as a lark and be no worse for wear.”
Somehow, this wasn’t the reassurance Felix might have wished.
“I only wish she’d seen fit to tell me of this mad scheme of hers a few minutes before expecting me to carry it out.”
Lady Dovetree led the armored guard with the shuffling gait through the corridors of the Eldest’s House, muttering angrily as she went. He dared not respond for fear of having his accent overheard. He wasn’t certain he could speak above his thudding heart in any case.
“I mean, she’s a dear old thing,” said the lady-in-waiting. She carried a bottle in the crook of one arm and a couple of flagons emblazoned with rampant panthers in the opposite hand. “But she is so forgetful! Imagine concocting an elaborate plot like this and forgetting to inform the chief participants?”
It was about four o’clock in the morning, and the House had quieted down since the explosive events of the previous day. Nevertheless, Felix couldn’t help looking over his shoulder, terrified that someone would overhear Lady Dovetree’s complaints (justified as they might be). They progressed on their way unimpeded, however. Felix, the bandages on his wrist hidden beneath a flowing guardsman’s sleeve, bore with him a sack full of what he assumed were supplies for Lionheart and the imprisoned baron. Knowing the baroness, she’d probably stuffed it full of pastries and confections and neglected to add little extras like water.
But it wasn’t his plan. And it wasn’t his rebellion. In fact, it wasn’t his business at all, and Felix was dragon-eaten if he could figure out how he’d ended up stuffed into an ill-fitting Southlander uniform and following this strange girl (who was very pretty, if rather ill-tempered) through these silent halls.
“Aethelbald wants me to help,” he muttered, quietly enough that Lady Dovetree couldn’t hear above her grumbling. It wasn’t a reason that made a great deal of sense. But somehow, Felix knew that he would keep on this strange course until the end. He would do anything for the Prince of Farthestshore.
They met almost no one until they reached the Great Hall. Here, at the heart of all the dire doings, the House was alive and throbbing with fear. Barons whom Felix did not know whispered together, exhausted from many hours of hopelessness but unable to retire to their beds for rest. Guardsmen stood along the fringes, their commanding officers conferring with the barons, all equally at a loss.
When one of the guardsmen stopped Dovetree and questioned her, she said brusquely, “A message from the baroness to the duty guard of North Tower. She sends succor to them in thanks for their efforts.”
The guardsman looked rather longingly at the wine in Dovetree’s arm but let her pass, never so much as glancing at the sweating Felix, who kept his head down, hiding beneath his spiked helmet. They proceeded with a few more similar pauses across the Great Hall and at last to North Tower itself. Dovetree, her peevish mutterings now suppressed, moved with an assured stride that impressed Felix. One would never guess she was about treasonous doings that could easily get her hanged were she caught.
They climbed the stairs, which were dark and difficult to navigate, for none of the kings of the last many generations had thought to install lamp sconces in this particular stairwell. When they wound at last to the top, however, they found three guardsmen sitting in a pool of lamplight. Three chamber doors stood behind them, but it wasn’t difficult to pick out behind which Lionheart and his prisoner were ensconced. That door, the one on the far right, was battered and dented from all the attempts to break through.
“Greetings from Baroness Middlecrescent,” said Dovetree crisply as they stepped into the guardsmen’s vision. At the sight of an elegantly dressed lady-in-waiting, the guards quickly pulled themselves to their feet, standing at attention and surreptitiously tugging their armor straight. “My lady wishes to express her thanks for noble duty in the face of need.”
The guards exchanged looks at this. After all, sitting outside a locked door didn’t strike any of them as a particularly noble duty. But they had been up here in the silent dark, ineffective and frustrated, for several hours now while great men below plotted (equal
“Keep up the fighting spirit, men,” said Dovetree, reclaiming the flagons. “Silent Lady grant you strength, and all that.”
“Silent Lady shield us,” they muttered in halfhearted response.
Dovetree turned and started back down the tower stairs. Felix, surprised, hurried after. He waited a few turns before reaching out in the dark and catching what he hoped was her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” he whispered. “They didn’t fall asleep! What are we supposed to do?”
“We aren’t doing anything,” Dovetree replied, shaking him off. “I have fulfilled my part of the plan. Now you will fulfill yours. Don’t worry,” she added in a kindlier voice, “they’ll nod off any moment now. You’ll have your chance. Wait here.”
With this, she left, and Felix stood alone in the darkness, clutching the sack of supplies. His mouth was very dry, and sweat soaked his stolen garments, though it was not hot up here in the tower.
But he had only to wait a few moments before he heard a heavy thunk overhead, followed soon after by a thickened voice saying, “Lumé, mate, what are you . . .” This trailed off into another thunk swiftly followed by a third. Soon after, snoring.
Perhaps the baroness would prove a cunning conspirator after all.
Lionheart guessed that he had probably been more tired than this upon occasion. During that long voyage to Noorhitam in the Far East, Captain Sunan of the good ship Kulap Kanya had made Lionheart work for his passage. Those were some long days followed by sea-sickening nights . . . and sometimes even the nights were spent freezing up in the lookout, too high above the deck for anyone’s comfort as the ocean rolled and murmured secretive threats beneath him.
Certainly those had been far more exhausting times, the threat of death by falling or drowning as present as the current threat of hanging.
But somehow, this was no comfort.
Lionheart stood and stretched again, pacing the narrow space between the heavy door and the window. He would have to sleep eventually. He glanced at the baron. He could feel his prisoner’s gaze, though shadows hid his face. Even bound hand and foot, the baron was too dangerous to leave unwatched. And he showed no signs of sleep himself.
I’ll die of pure exhaustion, Lionheart thought as he looked out the window at the sky. Stabbed by a unicorn, assaulted by dragons, threatened by kings and emperors alike. But I’ll die for lack of sleep at the end.
It seemed comically appropriate. But he couldn’t manage a laugh.
By now the clouds had rolled on, and the stars were making the final turns of their nightly dance. In another hour, the inky blackness would give way to blue, and another hour after that the sun would rise.
What sort of world would it shine down upon? What sort of future?
The sound of armored bodies collapsing beyond the door brought Lionheart whirling about. He didn’t know what had caused those sounds and wondered if the desperate barons below had thought of a new instrument with which to assault his barricade. He strode quickly back to his post and placed his ear to the door but heard nothing more than the pound of his heart in his throat.
Then at long last, he heard a voice. It was too low to understand, but Lionheart guessed it was male. He made no response and, after a tense half minute, the voice repeated, louder:
“Leonard? Leonard the Lightning Tongue?”
Lionheart recoiled from the door as though bitten. As far as he knew, no one in all the Eldest’s court knew of his jester name and the identity he’d assumed during his five-year exile while Southlands was dragon occupied.
“Leonard, are you there?” The voice sounded as though it was trying desperately not to be overheard. “Please answer!”
“Who is that?” Lionheart demanded.
“It’s Felix. Prince Felix of Parumvir. We met in Oriana two years ago, if you remember. You performed for my family.” A pause, then, “And I saw you again in the Village of Dragons.”
Lionheart stared at the door, and if he were a dragon himself, his gaze would have burned it to cinders in a moment. But had he not seen the royal insignia of Parumvir? And now that he thought of it, he had glimpsed Felix in the Great Hall during the mad abduction. In the frantic terror of enacting the baroness’s plot, he’d seen without recognizing the lad who had brought down a guard and quite possibly saved Lionheart’s neck. Felix . . . Una’s brother . . .
“That’s not my name,” Lionheart said. He could feel the baron’s gaze upon his shoulders, but he refused to look around.
“I know,” said the voice beyond. “I know all about what happened. Una told me later, you know, after the Dragon was killed. She’s . . . she’s married now, had you heard? To Prince Aethelbald?”
Lionheart nodded, which was foolish, but he couldn’t quite find words to respond. A silence followed during which he knew the baron was putting together pieces of a story Lionheart did not wish him to know. He demanded, “What are you doing up here, Prince Felix? It’s not safe.”
“The baroness sent me with supplies for you.”
A hissing curse from behind told Lionheart that the baron had overheard. Now whatever suspicions had been brewing in his mind were confirmed. Lionheart’s neck wouldn’t be the only one forfeit at the end of this foolish adventure.
“I’ve drugged the guards,” Felix persisted. “Or, well, I didn’t personally. But they’re drugged, and you can open the door and take these supplies. I can’t guarantee they’ll help much, but better than nothing, right?”
Better than nothing. They might be just enough to give Lionheart time for that fool sylph to catch his fool cousin, to send Prince Foxbrush, Hawkeye’s legitimate heir, reeling back into the court of the Eldest, fey addled but alive.
“How do I know you are who you say you are?” Lionheart demanded. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
Another pause, during which Lionheart felt his rising hopes slowly crumbling away.
Then Felix said: “I know the name of the Queen of Arpiar, Ruler of the Unveiled People, Mistress of the lands between the Karayan Plains and the Sevoug Mountains beyond Goldstone Wood. She is Varvare, daughter of Vahe and Anahid, servant of the Prince of Farthestshore.”
“Rosie,” Lionheart whispered.
And with the name came a sudden wash of peace over his soul. Whatever happened now, she was safe. She sat upon her throne, come into her rightful inheritance. He could not hurt her anymore.
“Rosie . . .”
He heaved the heavy bolt out of its brackets and undid the iron locks and bracings. With a groan of relief, the door inched open, and Lionheart saw Felix’s pale face in the lantern light beyond, wearing a spiked Southlander helmet.
“Take it, quick!” Felix said, pushing the sack through the doorway into Lionheart’s arms. “I don’t know how long the drugs will—”
“Not long enough for you, wolf-bit pup!”
A gauntleted hand fell upon Felix’s shoulder and hauled him back. Lionheart cursed and put his shoulder to the door, trying to slam it closed, to drop the bolt again. But strong men on the other side pushed against him, and their combined strength was more than his. The guardsmen broke through, and Lionheart hadn’t time to so much as go for his knife. Two of them fell upon him, pinning his arms and bringing him to his knees. The third struck him three times across his face. Still he struggled against them and might have freed himself.
But more guards poured through the door then, guards who had been waiting in the darkened stairway. Outmatched by far, Lionheart fell on his face, his arms twisted behind him.
“Did you think we were fools to fall for such a trick?” said the guardsman who had struck Lionheart, flexing his fist. He turned to Prince Felix, who stood in the grasp of more strong men who had stripped the helmet and breastplate from him.
“But you drank the wine!” Felix protested, furiously.
“Th
“Who told you?” Felix turned as a movement in the stairway caught his eye, and he saw Lady Dovetree appear at the top of the stairs, very pretty with her arms crossed over her chest. “You?” he cried.
“Don’t be angry, Prince Felix,” said she. “They’ll probably not hang you, and now I can be certain they won’t hang me either. I love the dear baroness, of course, but not enough to die for her!” And she laughed at this, a cruel sort of laugh that belied any declarations of love.
The Baron of Middlecrescent rose then, cut free from his bindings. He rubbed his wrists thoughtfully, and a guardsman offered him a cloak to cover his naked torso. He drew it about himself with kingly dignity and strode to the doorway without a glance to his right at Lionheart upon the floor, or to his left at Prince Felix. Nor did he look at his wife’s traitorous servant but fixed his gaze straight ahead, moving as though none of them mattered or existed.
But at the top of the stairway, he said over his shoulder, “Bring them.”
12
TWELFTH NIGHT. Twelfth Tithe.
Is this fear? Is this desperation? Is this . . . is this hope?
So many strange sensations, all of them an agony. Oh, to be free of these bodies! Oh, to be made whole once more, to be established, to be strong! To rule and be ruled.
The beating of these many hearts, large and small, all beat as one, joined in purpose.
Our purpose.
My purpose.
She bled out upon her kingdom. She took her own life, and she bled, and she died.
New blood must flow for life to renew. So eat them, devour them, take them deep inside and drink of their lives.
Twelfth Night. Twelfth Tithe.
Then, come Thirteenth Dawn . . . renew!
They traveled the fey Paths of the land as naturally as Foxbrush might have strolled the halls of his mother’s house, and they carried him un-protesting along with them. It was like being swept out with the tide, though his feet trod on uncertain soil beneath. All around him the surviving Faerie beasts of the land were silent with the focused intensity of the hunt. Their desire to drive Cren Cru from this land that had been their home was stronger than their desire for life. Even though, if they succeeded, they themselves would have to leave the land forever.