THE SOUND OF CONSTRUCTION followed Daylily everywhere she went in the Eldest’s House. Without needing to be summoned, workers from all across Southlands had flocked to the home of their king following the Dragon’s departure, desperate for work, equally desperate to see the glory and stability of their sovereign restored. It was a hopeless venture, but it gave them purpose and something on which to focus their minds other than that ever-pressing question:
Will the Dragon return? And when?
Daylily revealed nothing of her thoughts, but deep inside she despised those busy worker folk. As if their industry could ever wipe away the scars the Dragon had left upon the land during those five years of enslavement.
Five years! That thought hurt to contemplate. She’d not sensed the passing of time, at least not in years. She remembered the smoke; she remembered the poison. All too clearly Daylily remembered watching her dreams burn before her eyes time after time. She felt as though she had lived a thousand lifetimes and died a thousand deaths. But five years had escaped, unnoticed.
She remained at the Eldest’s House at first because she was too weak to travel; later because she dared not return to her father’s welcoming arms. When the baron sent messages requiring her presence in Middlecrescent, she used the king’s seal to respond that Lady Daylily is indispensable to the Eldest at this time, etc. And so far, her father had enough problems of his own, resettling Middlecrescent, to come chasing after his wayward child.
Daylily could hide awhile longer.
She spent much of her time alone. She could not bear the fresh faces of those come to work on the House, so hopeful and so skittish all at once. They all bore some marks of the Dragon’s work but were comparatively unscathed. What did they know of poison? What did they know of darkness? Little to nothing, otherwise they wouldn’t bother to rebuild.
But none of these thoughts showed upon Lady Daylily’s face. She sat at her bedroom window, watching the north road, and said nothing. They’d learn the futility of their actions in the end.
It was by thus quietly watching that Daylily became the first person at the House to spot Lionheart returning up the road.
She knew him instantly, though he was much too far away for her to discern his features. Something in the way he walked reminded her of the gawky boy she had once known. She was on her feet and out the door in a moment. Her movements were deliberate. She did not hasten down the hall or the stairway. Hastening gave one a sense of flight, or pursuit, so she always moved with a precise grace. By the time she reached the outer court, half the household knew of the prince’s return, and a great shout had gone up among the staff, the construction crews, and those who had returned to dwell within their Eldest’s walls.
Only a handful remained silent. These included the Eldest, Sir Foxbrush, and the nobles who had been imprisoned during those five years.
Daylily came to stand on the front steps beside the Eldest and near Sir Foxbrush (who rarely raised his somber gaze from his feet these days, though his hair was always perfectly oiled). The rubble of the Starflower Fountain had been mostly cleared out by now, so the view from the front steps across the courtyard to the gate was unobstructed. She saw the gates swing open, heard the shouts from the wall as guardsmen hailed their shabby prince.
She saw Lionheart walk through.
Not on horseback as he should have been, a triumphant hero returning to his homeland. Like a vagabond he came, shabby in dress and bearing. A beard covered half his face, like a mask.
But he was Lionheart, Prince of Southlands. And he was home.
The crowd grew but stayed back to give him a clear path across the courtyard to the steps where his father waited. Lionheart squared his shoulders as he neared, and Daylily watched his eyes darting about, resting first on the Eldest, then seeking familiar faces among the others gathered there. His gaze rested briefly on her before passing to Foxbrush and on.
Daylily set her mouth. He would not find the one he sought. She wondered if anyone had yet informed the prince of his mother’s death.
The Eldest reached out to his son. Lionheart mounted the stairs, took his father’s hands, and bowed over them.
“Welcome home,” said the Eldest.
“Father,” said Lionheart. His voice was changed, no longer boyish but deep. “I . . . I have ensured that the Dragon will not return to Southlands.”
The Eldest said nothing for a long moment. His face was aged almost beyond recognition after years spent breathing in those poisons. His eyes were faded as well and not too quick at disguising his thoughts. But he smiled a sad smile and took his son in his arms, repeating only, “Welcome home.”