Until today.
With a biting curse, Foxbrush fumbled for his matches, some notion of warming the room with a blaze of burned hopes and dreams brewing in his mind. He struck a light, held it up.
And he screamed, “Iubdan’s beard!”
Across his desk stood the hooded groundskeeper.
“Good evening, Foxbrush,” said he. “It’s been some time.” Then he put back his hood.
“Iubdan’s beard !” Foxbrush cried with redoubled vehemence.
It was Lionheart.
3
THE WOOD WAITED, as it always did.
It had no need to go hunting. In all the long existence of the Between, before and after the advent of Time, it had proven itself the most effective of predators, not by any great cunning or guile but simply by its patience. If it waited long enough, prey inevitably walked into its enfolding arms as into a lover’s embrace. And those whom the Wood embraced, it rarely let go.
For the Wood was full of things that kill: some that meant to, some that didn’t, though the latter were no less deadly.
Daylily, her underdress torn, her hair in disarray, her eyes wild in an otherwise calm face, slid the last few feet down the gorge trail and stood upon the edge of the Wilderlands. She knew what she did, or believed she knew. After all, had she not shut her mouth when Lionheart asked if anyone would defend Rose Red? Had she not shut her mouth and thereby pronounced the poor girl’s sentence as clearly as though she’d spoken it aloud?
And Rose Red had been banished to the Wilderlands. She had disappeared into its shadows even as Daylily, her skirts clutched in both fists, disappeared now, stepping out of the world she knew into a world of half-light remembered from poison-filled dreams.
The ground was soft beneath her feet. Leaves rustled against the hem of her gown. Silence closed in around her, reaching out to touch her face even as the tree limbs stretched down and caught gnarled fingers in her hair. She passed into the Wood Between, ready for any fate to greet her.
Any fate, that is, except the one that did.
Had Crown Prince Foxbrush been asked how his day might conceivably be made worse than it already was, he would not have been able to give an answer. How could it possibly be worse?
But this was only because he wouldn’t have considered the possibility of Lionheart returning.
The match he’d struck burned his fingertips, and he dropped it with a cry, plunging the room back into darkness. For the space it took him to light another and apply it to the nearest lamp, he could pretend that it was all an illusion brought on by fatigue, worry, and hunger. Surely, surely Lionheart could not—
Oh yes, he could.
Foxbrush, holding up the newly lit lamp, leapt to his feet, jostling his desk with violence enough to knock the basket of figs over the edge. Figs landed with thuds and scattered across the tiles like so many rodents escaping a trap.
“You . . . you’re real,” Foxbrush gasped.
“Last I checked,” Lionheart agreed with a grin that looked more wicked than usual in the lamplight.
Foxbrush felt the blood draining from his face. He kept blinking, then squinting, as though to somehow drive away that image before him. But no, there stood Lionheart, large as life, ragged as a beggar in his groundsman’s clothes, his eyebrow raised in just that expression of incredulity Foxbrush had found unbearable from the time they were small boys and forced to “play nicely” together.
But something was different about his face as well. Something . . . Foxbrush couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A sense of depth and height struck him as he looked at this man he despised.
He didn’t like it at all.
“I thought you ran away for good the moment the barons declared their decision.”
“Try to contain your joy at my fortuitous return, cousin of mine,” said Lionheart, bending to retrieve a squashy black fig that had made it as far as his boot. “You know,” he said, resting the fig in his palm as though gauging its weight, “these really are only good for goat food. Perhaps your tastes have developed since I’ve been away?”
A thousand and one thoughts crammed into Prince Foxbrush’s tired brain at once, none of them charitable; it was enough to make him burst, yet too much to make him articulate. So he watched his cousin pick up two more figs and begin to juggle all three.
“I mean,” Lionheart continued, “goats are amazing animals, reputedly able to digest anything. Even black figs, which is pretty impressive when all’s said and done. But you’re looking a little peaked around the edges tonight. Perhaps an invigorating diet is just what you need? A goat I used to know once said—”
“Lumé, Leo!” Foxbrush set the lamp down with such force that the oil in its base swirled in a miniature maelstrom. He reached across the desk to snatch back the figs as though retrieving rare gems from a thief. Not knowing what to do with them once he’d got them, he squeezed them into pulp and seeds, which stuck to his fingers. This in itself was testimony to Foxbrush’s interesting mental state; the prince’s hands were typically clean, each nail well filed and buffed to a high polish.
Lionheart always did have a way of bringing out the worst in him.
“Easy now, Foxy,” said Lionheart, watching the fate of those three figs. “No need to get violent.”
“Violent? I’m not violent. I’m never violent.” Pulling a handkerchief from Tortoiseshell’s jacket, Foxbrush began to wipe at the fig juice, snarling as he did so, “I’m working on a solution to our agricultural crisis. One without violence. Ideally, without squabbling among the barons.”
And there went that wretched eyebrow of Lionheart’s, sliding up his forehead again. “With goat food?” he asked. “What have the barons to say to that?”
“The barons offer no ideas, just arguments,” Foxbrush said. “And since I’m not Eldest,” he continued, “they don’t include me in their various plottings. Not yet anyway. Other than bribes, of course.”
“Of course.” Lionheart nodded. “So, is this something to do with your response to their bribes, then? Inedible, semi-rotten fruit is highly effective when thrown from upper windows.”
Foxbrush opened his mouth to growl an answer but paused a moment. He hadn’t actually considered that possible use for his samples. It wasn’t all that bad an idea, if rather beneath his princely dignity.
He shook his head savagely, however, and rammed the sticky handkerchief back into his pocket. “Always the clown, Lionheart. Always the jester. Meanwhile, Southlands is on the brink of collapse, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’d picked up a hint or two,” Lionheart replied dryly, taking a seat in a well-cushioned rattan chair, far more comfortable in this room that had once been his than Foxbrush was or ever could be. Foxbrush hated him for it. He hated him for many things just then.
Growling, Foxbrush knelt, righted the spilled basket, and hastily began shoveling the scattered fruit back into it. “Our orchards are in trouble,” he said. “Reports come in every day from every barony, telling us of crops and harvests failing. The oldest, richest mango groves have all withered from poison or been pulled up by the roots! There’s scarcely a healthy plantation left in the entire kingdom. Do you understand how this affects Southlands, from the richest baron down to the poorest tenant? How can we trade with the Continent without our primary exports? There are the tea plantations still, of course, but we’ll have to up our prices if we hope to make ends meet, and how can we compete with Aja or Dong Min at increased costs? They didn’t suffer under a dragon’s thumb for five years! They can undersell us with every merchant from here to Noorhitam! We can’t depend on our teas, and we can’t hope for anything from our mangoes.”
“I know.” Lionheart’s voice was very low when he replied, though his mocking smile remained in place. He put out a foot and nudged one of the figs out of Foxbrush’s reach. “Remember, it was my problem before it was yours.”
But Foxbrush didn’t hear. This was his way when he got caught up in his theories. Fo
r the moment, even the horror of his ruined wedding day was forgotten, and his eyes shone as he eagerly clutched the basket of figs, looking down at them as though he gazed upon the jewels of Hymlumé’s garden. “There is a solution,” he said in a low, almost desperate voice. “Figs!”
He plunked the basket back down on the desk and grabbed A History of Southlander Agriculture, fumbling through the pages. “I’ve read all about it. Back hundreds of years ago, the elder fig was the primary export for Southlands. It was like gold grown on trees, so high was the demand!”
Once more Lionheart replied softly, “I know, Foxbrush.”
“Don’t you see? We have elder fig trees all over the country, growing like weeds! The tough old things survived the Dragon’s poison with scarcely a mark on them. They’re thick with fruit, and if we can simply start tending them as we used to and harvest them, we might be able to establish a new trade!” The heat of excitement carried Foxbrush on so that he almost forgot it was his cousin to whom he spoke. “I’ve written to several of the baronies, and at least eight have responded, telling me that their estates are full of old elder figs. Enough, perhaps, to get a good harvest!”
Lionheart crossed his arms, his face solemn as he regarded his cousin. When Foxbrush at last ran out of steam, he said only, “Too bad, then, that elder fig trees don’t produce edible fruit anymore.”
And there was the rub.
Foxbrush’s cheek twitched. He put the book back on the table and eyed the spoiling fruit in the basket. “They weren’t always. Inedible, that is. We used to know how to cultivate them.”
“The brown fig and long hall fig are edible,” Lionheart said, “but—”
“But not in demand,” Foxbrush finished for him. “Not so succulent or sweet.”
Their eyes met over the lamplight. A brief exchange of sympathy, of understanding, such as these two had never before known. In that moment, the weight of all Southlands rested on the shoulders of both cousins, all the impossibilities that would crush a king to death with hopelessness.
But Foxbrush could not bear sympathy from Leo, nor pity either. He turned away. “I keep thinking—”
“Lumé spare us.”
“Shut up, Leo. I keep thinking I’ll find something. If I keep reading, if I keep hunting, I’ll discover the secret to renewing the elder figs. Everything I come up with has been tried before. I’m at a loss, and I don’t mind admitting it.”
“Well, that’s the first step, isn’t it?” Lionheart said, his voice surprisingly heavy. “Admitting your shortcomings?”
Foxbrush’s eyes flashed. “I’ve not given up. I’m not going to run away. Not like—”
“Not like I did.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Foxbrush clenched his fists. “That’s always been your nature, hasn’t it, Leo? Even when we were children, you slipped out to play in the woods all summer while I labored over whatever task was given me. You shirk. You run. And when you can’t do either, you laugh! You were never going to be a good Eldest. You never deserved it, despite your birth. You never deserved the throne, you never deserved her, and you won’t have either now, and thank the Lights Above for justice yet in this world!”
He stopped for breath, his body tensed, prepared for the verbal abuse bound to fall upon his head. Lionheart was always the lightning tongued, able to rip Foxbrush at the seams until he could scarcely stand.
This time, however, Lionheart said nothing.
He sat quietly in the chair that had once been his, before the desk that had once been his, in the study that had once been his. All smiles had fallen from his face. His eyes were open, but he had flinched now and then during Foxbrush’s tirade as though feeling physical blows. When Foxbrush shouted himself into silence, Lionheart remained in this attitude, making no defense, forming no attack. Foxbrush found he could scarcely breathe.
At last Lionheart said, “Well, that at least I did deserve.”
The world shifted and only Foxbrush’s grip on his desk kept him from falling over. “W-what?”
“You’re right, Foxbrush,” Lionheart said. “I never deserved to be Eldest. It was all a matter of birth, not merit.” He raised his gaze to his cousin’s face but dropped it again quickly, and Foxbrush could see him battling with himself. Surely the bitter words would fall at any moment.
It was too much for Foxbrush to bear. He sagged where he stood and groaned. “Of all days, Leo. Of all days! What possessed you to return now?”
Then a whole host of new, swirling, furious thoughts assaulted his brain. Foxbrush pulled himself upright once more, as masterful as he could be in his man’s livery, and pointed a finger at his cousin. “You did this,” he said. “You ruined my wedding day. You! You stole Daylily away, and now you think to intimidate me, and—”
“Really, Foxbrush,” said Lionheart, his voice once more full of that cheek that always made Foxbrush want to smack him. “For a chap without a fig’s worth of imagination, you certainly can spin quite a yarn when motivated. Perhaps if kingdom ruling doesn’t suit you, you could take up penning romances for a living?”
The former Prince of Southlands rose, and though he was no taller than Foxbrush, his presence somehow loomed. For the first time, Foxbrush saw the shirt beneath the groundskeeper’s hood and jacket. It was not something he should have noticed in that moment of tension and fury, but it caught his eye.
In the place over Lionheart’s heart, there was a hole. And around this hole were dried bloodstains.
“I have come,” Lionheart said, “to make peace with my father. I returned to Southlands with no other purpose in mind, and I certainly did not intend to arrive on your wedding day. But now that I’m here, you will find I am no longer a running man.”
Lionheart leaned across the desk until he was nose to nose with Foxbrush. The intensity of his eyes made Foxbrush stagger. He would have sat down had his chair not been overturned.
“I shall go to my father now, and I shall say to him what I have purposed in my heart. And then, Prince Foxbrush”—he spoke the title with some bitterness—“I myself shall go into the Wilderlands and find your lady Daylily. I shall return her to you, and you will marry her, and you will rule my kingdom, and you will take my place. And then you will never see me again.”
Lionheart was at the door before Foxbrush opened his mouth to speak. Even then he could find no words, so he stood there gaping when his cousin paused suddenly and looked back at him. Evening shadows hid Lionheart’s face, but his voice was clear enough.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you.”
With a faint whoosh and thump, an article landed by Foxbrush’s feet. He looked down and saw a scroll tied with ribbon. A starflower blossom tucked into the ribbon gleamed ghostly white in the gloom.
“That’s from Eanrin, Chief Bard of Iubdan Rudiobus,” Lionheart said. “The Lady of the Haven bade me give it to you with her compliments.”
“Wh-what?” said Foxbrush, his forehead wrinkling with something between ire and confusion. “What are you talking about? What is this, Leo?”
“Read it and find out,” his cousin replied. The next moment, he was gone.
4
ONE MIGHT ASSUME, were one to know Lady Daylily personally, that she was a young woman who could handle herself with aplomb in any given situation. She was, after all, a baron’s daughter with a strong streak of domineering lineage flowing in her veins. She was one of those people who never turned her hand to anything unless she was certain to excel, the result being nothing short of constant excellence to the public eye. She danced, she sang, she painted landscapes, she rode, she spoke three languages besides her mother tongue, and she was reasonably confident that, were women in these rather restricted modern times permitted to study fencing using real blades rather than the padded wooden poles deemed “appropriate,” she could have bruised the hide of any courtly gallant who stopped running from her long enough to take the beating.
Aside from these outward talents, rumor had done a fair job of a
dding mystery to Middlecrescent’s fairest flower. Some said Daylily had journeyed across the country alone with Prince Lionheart’s demon servant and yet managed not to fall bewitched. Some said that when the Dragon first came to Southlands, Daylily had rescued Lionheart out from under his very nose, dragging him to safety, the prince being poisoned with dragon fumes at the time.
Some even said Daylily had ventured into the very depths of the Dragon’s realm, to the seat of his power in the Netherworld, and that it was she who finally, through courage and great cunning, had liberated Southlands from his foul claws, driving him from the kingdom.
A woman like that . . . well! How could she possibly be afraid of anything? Or anyone?
The problem was, even those who knew Lady Daylily personally did not actually know her. There wasn’t a soul alive who guessed what went on inside her mind.
No one knew about the wolf.
This was probably for the best, Daylily decided as she pushed her way through a thick growth of ferns. What they didn’t know couldn’t tear their throats out in their sleep, and everyone was better off for that.
So she pressed on into the Wilderlands, surprised (or as surprised as one as self-possessed as Lady Daylily could be) at how cool it was. After her flight across the Eldest’s grounds on a hot summer day, coolness ought to have been a relief, of course. But this coolness was beyond mere shade.
It reminded her of one childhood summer when she’d been sent on her own to visit her old maiden aunt. She’d stepped through the front door into the entry hall and had a sudden, overwhelming feeling of . . . frost. The house was empty; the aunt away for the afternoon, the servants had taken the opportunity to slip out on personal errands. Other than her goodwoman waiting outside and the carriage man at the gate, Daylily was quite alone.
Except not quite alone. The smell of her aunt lingered everywhere, like a haunting presence of faded lavender perfume and strong drink (faintly disguised by chewed mint leaves) taking on a life of its own, peering around every corner.