But Imraldera saw only the poor mortal, sick and near to fainting, blood running down her pale white skin. Imraldera had no weapon, but she flung out her hands and spoke a sharp word like a command.
And the tree behind Nidawi rose up as though from a long sleep and swung a branch at the Faerie queen’s head. It struck her, and she dropped the girl, who fell to the ground, landing on all fours.
For a moment, Imraldera glimpsed a red, bloodstained wolf.
Mine!
A sensation of pure instinct—driven, hungry, desperate instinct—filled the Wood with a potency as hot as fire, as cold as ice, as sure as the oncoming storm. Daylily rose and looked beyond Nidawi, who was grappling with the tree, to a place in the shadows where Sun Eagle suddenly stood.
Mine!
Nidawi, pulling away from the tree—which sank back into itself and its quiet watchfulness—saw Sun Eagle as well. She sprang for him, and he, though his leg must have wrung with pain at every step, dodged her assault and swung out his stone knife, slashing one of her long, muscular arms.
Lioness screamed her fury at the scent of Nidawi’s blood. Sun Eagle turned as she sprang, and braced himself, his knife in both hands. Lioness, her eyes red, descended like lightning, her claws tearing, her mouth open and hungry for vengeance.
She fell upon his blade, which plunged deep into her huge, ancient heart.
They landed in a heap, and silence followed the thud of their bodies. Eanrin, picking himself up, and Imraldera, hastening toward Daylily, stared at that mass of white stillness. Then it moved, heaved, and the carcass of the lion fell to one side as Sun Eagle emerged from beneath.
“NO!”
Nidawi, suddenly no longer the powerful hag but a tiny child, screeching with a heartbreak that children should never know, rushed upon the body of Lioness, even her enemy forgotten as the shattering of unbearable grief broke her into sobs. “No! No, get up, Lioness!” She pulled and tore at the fallen beast’s body, screaming and gasping between screams.
Sun Eagle, moving swiftly but with a jerking and unnatural pace that betrayed the pain of his wounds, stepped to Imraldera’s side. “Come with me, Starflower?” he asked.
She stared at him, unable to speak. Then she took a step back.
His face was a mask. He reached out and took hold of Daylily’s hand. “Please,” Daylily whispered, “please, we must—”
The brightness of the Bronze flared up and hid them, and when it faded, they were gone. Nidawi cast herself upon the body of the fallen lion, still screaming, no longer able to hold herself upright.
“Go to her.” Eanrin’s voice was low in Imraldera’s ear. She turned to him, stricken, and he would not meet her gaze. “Go to her. Offer her comfort if you can. I’ll follow the other two.”
“She . . . she would have killed them . . .” Imraldera whispered as though making an excuse. But she could not go on.
Eanrin touched her face. “Go to her,” he said again. Then he too was gone, leaving Imraldera in the Wood with the inconsolable Faerie queen.
Afraid her legs would betray her, Imraldera moved to the side of the broken beast and knelt. She gently stroked Nidawi’s hair. The ancient child did not seem to notice but went on weeping noisily, casting her voice to the heavens one moment, burying her mouth deeply in the fur of her friend the next.
Then, as sudden as the fall of night, Nidawi sat up. “This is your fault!” she shouted at Imraldera, her voice trembling as though the sorrow were both terribly new and terribly old. “You should have given him to me! Now he’s killed her too! Cren Cru has taken everything!”
She stood up. Though she did not change size but remained the tiny child, she put out her arms and gathered up the enormous bulk of the white lion. Then she too vanished.
Imraldera sat alone beneath the spreading trees. And she bowed her head with deeper shame than she had ever before experienced.
“My Lord,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
Deep in the forest, a wood thrush sang, and his voice carried over the vast distance to touch her ear, saying, “Won’t you return to me?”
Imraldera wept.
7
LIONHEART’S HEAD came up with a start. He hadn’t been asleep, had he? No, he knew better than to sleep again. He groaned a soft curse and twisted his neck, which crackled disconcertingly. All right, maybe he had nodded off. But really, who could blame him?
Though the baroness had seen to it that kindling was provided, Lionheart had not bothered to light a fire in the grate, preferring the tower—and his troubles—sunk into the oblivion brought by night. Now, as he returned wearily to consciousness, he began to think differently. Up here in the tower, where the wind whistled in the eaves and all the world was far below, he was so isolated.
But then, he’d been cut off since his father spoke that final word when the Council declared its decision: