On this particular day, Foxbrush and Lark took up their regular position on the southeastern fringe of the orchard, lounging in the shade beneath a large tree. Lark enjoyed this task above all others. As important as it was, it also gave her rare opportunity to sit back and rest her tough little feet. She was quite the imperious mistress upon occasion as well, sending Foxbrush running at her command if she felt disinclined to rise and chase off animal thieves herself.
Contrary to her prediction, Redman had not killed his daughter for the aid she’d lent the Red Lady of the Bronze. Indeed, he’d not so much as raised his voice either to her or to Foxbrush when they’d confessed their deeds and shown him the hole in the side of the house. He’d merely sighed and said, “Well, I’ve had good practice repairing that wall by now, haven’t I?”
With those gentle words, shame had heaped upon the heads of the two culprits. And not a sign had been found of Lady Daylily in all the surrounding countryside, nor a rumor of the Red Lady come whispering to the Eldest’s village. Other rumors came instead; tales of Faerie warriors, also wearing bronze stones, slaughtering fey beasts and declaring their blood price to the mortals of the Land.
More and more firstborn children disappeared every day.
Foxbrush sat beneath the tree, twiddling the blowgun in his fingers, seeing neither it nor the trees he was supposed to be guarding. Rather his mind’s eye saw the girl who was his intended bride.
“Powers beyond our knowledge drive us, Foxbrush,” she’d said.
What power drove Lady Daylily; Daylily with her commanding voice and breathtaking strength? She was the one who drove! Had she not commanded him from the moment he first met her?
Yet not even she was strong in the end.
He frowned, his gaze shifting from the blowgun to his feet, skin clad and covered in dirt. What path did he walk that had led him here and left him? Left him with knowledge he could not use and a heart bruised and sore with sorrow.
But that wasn’t the whole of it. He frowned even as the thought passed through his head. Yes, he was heartsick, no denying it. But he was also strangely . . . glad. Here he was, smelling like a pig—with an awful growth of brush on his chin, little crawly things residing on his person, and a belly full of equal parts dirt and spicy foods—seated beside a child who stank as much or more than he did.
And he was, in that moment, glad to be alive. Glad to be in this place. Glad for the man he felt he was becoming; a man who would never have existed otherwise. It was an odd sensation, not one he quite understood. But even this pleased him somehow.
“What are you smiling at?” Lark demanded. She’d been weaving grasses into a cord on which she intended to string her blowgun.
Foxbrush, brought back to himself, glanced at her and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You look addled.” Lark tested her cord, which broke under pressure. Disappointed, she tossed the bits of grass aside, then shaded her eyes and looked up into the trees. “Monkey,” she said, pointing. “You try.”
Making a face but game nonetheless, Foxbrush moved into a crouch, slid the dart into his instrument, and raised it to his lips. He stood slowly, so as not to startle the brown monkey, which was daintily selecting a fruit from a near-ripe cluster. After several weeks of practice, he’d yet to hit a target. But he’d come close. And this time, if he took careful aim and breathed as Lark had shown him a dozen times, then maybe . . .
The dart flew through the air. It struck the haunch of the thieving culprit.
And Crookjaw the Faerie beast turned upon Foxbrush a face of such wrath and vengeance, Foxbrush dropped his instrument in surprise.
“Flame at Night!” Lark yelped, leaping to her feet. She put a hand to her pouch, but she had not thought to bring totem tributes that morning and had nothing with which to appease the furious Faerie.
Crookjaw leapt for a near branch but missed and fell to the ground, where he paused to scratch his haunch furiously. Then he was up on his ungainly limbs, his teeth yellow in his sagging jaw as he screeched and hurled himself at Foxbrush.
“Run!” Lark yelled, and if Foxbrush had not been so terrified, he might have noticed a trace of laughter in her voice. As it was, he found possession of his limbs and turned to flee but tripped over a fig tree root and landed hard facedown. Crookjaw paused to scratch once more, then jumped and landed heavily on Foxbrush’s back, grabbing him by the hair with one hand, by the ear with the other, and pulling. Foxbrush screamed and tried to twist around to fight. He heard an inhuman voice screeching:
“Evil! Evil mortal! Yeeeeeeee! Stick me with needles? Stick me with itchy sticks? Yeeeeeeee!”
“Crookjaw! Crookjaw! Take your tribute, Crookjaw!” Lark cried out in chant, flinging fallen figs at the monkey and laughing still. Crookjaw, surprised, hopped off of his victim, stuffed a fig into his mouth, screamed again, and once more fell to scratching.
Foxbrush took the opportunity to scramble to his feet. Crookjaw bared his ugly teeth and crouched to spring at him once more. Foxbrush raised his hands to defend himself against the onslaught.