Shadow Hand, Page 2

  His man stood behind him at the mirror, brushing invisible nothings from his shoulders. “What do you think, Tortoiseshell?” the prince asked, turning his head to inspect his reflection from a new angle.

  “A dashing figure, Your Highness,” said Tortoiseshell, who knew how his bread was buttered. “Quite striking. And may I congratulate Your Highness on the bold choice of wearing the princely colors rather than the traditional ceremonial white?”

  “You may, Tortoiseshell,” the prince conceded. “I felt it best to reaffirm in the eyes of all the barons my new role as their future sovereign.” Neither he nor his man bothered to comment on the fact that the barons, who had so recently deposed Foxbrush’s cousin and set Foxbrush in his place, could just as easily depose Foxbrush should they feel the need, princely colors notwithstanding. Best not to entertain such gloomy thoughts on a wedding day.

  Besides, in just a few short hours, Prince Foxbrush was to ally himself via marriage to Middlecrescent, the most powerful barony in the kingdom. So long as Baron Middlecrescent was on his side, the new prince had nothing to fear. Nothing besides Middlecrescent himself anyway.

  If he could only get through the ceremony today without mishap . . .

  “Something troubling Your Highness?” asked Tortoiseshell, pausing in his work and studying his master’s face in the glass.

  “Oh no, certainly not.” Foxbrush’s complexion, which was always rather sallow for lack of sun or exercise, had gone a pasty gray since the Occupation. He, being one of the few trapped inside the Eldest’s House for the entire ordeal, had breathed rather more poison than most. It still festered in his lungs.

  Now, to make matters worse, at the very thought of his upcoming nuptials and the subsequent marriage and his soon-to-be bride, his skin broke out in a sweaty sheen. Dark patches appeared under his sleeves.

  Fumbling to undo the fibula, Foxbrush slid out of his fine jacket, putting up a hand to ward off Tortoiseshell’s protests. “No, no! It’s hours yet till the ceremony, and I should hate to, uh, to rumple your hard work. Do lay it aside, my good man, and we’ll array me once more closer to. In the meanwhile, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

  Foxbrush had not had sufficient time in the months since his elevation to adjust to his new role as prince and supportive figurehead of a nation. Having grown up the only child of a reclusive mother, far off in the mountains, away from courtly life, he found the ways of the Eldest’s House a trifle unsettling. Much safer was the world of books and ledgers. A man always knew where he stood with those.

  “I’ll just be in my study,” he said and, quick to avoid Tortoiseshell’s disapproval, stepped from his dressing room into said study. He drew a great breath.

  His work lay on his desk by the window; work to which he had devoted himself since the Council’s decision; work that he would have to let lie for some weeks now due to the wedding trip. A pity.

  No, not a pity! He was marrying of his own volition, and marrying very well at that. Lady Daylily was rich, well connected, and beautiful too, which didn’t hurt anything, though he wouldn’t have minded much if she were a little less beautiful, all things considered. But still, who was he to complain? How many men in the Eldest’s court had desired Daylily as their bride? Lionheart, for one; dozens more besides. Any one of them would give his right hand to marry Middlecrescent’s daughter.

  “Well, I would give both my hands,” Foxbrush growled, though there was no one in the room to be impressed by such avowals. He sat at the desk (he scarcely thought of it as his desk; it had been Lionheart’s for so long) and surveyed his work. Stacks of agricultural reports from every barony and many of the most respected merchants, each more doom-filled than the last. Another orchard failed, another plantation fallen to ruin; export prices rising, reliable sales falling through, competitors out-pricing even the once rich tea trade . . .

  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 join
tly 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!”

  2

  IF 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 H
ouse, 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.