“What?” the baron demanded, tilting his head.
“My Path led me here.” Feeling as though he might collapse under the weight of words he did not wish to speak, Lionheart turned. As he turned, the moon emerged from behind a cloud and lit him from behind while simultaneously falling into the baron’s enormous eyes. “It led me here, and here I’ll stay until it leads me on.”
“Your path has led you to your death,” said the baron. But his voice was less confident now. For in that moment, he could see what Lionheart could not. He saw the moon shining, and it looked to him like a gentle eye, watchful and concerned. He saw how its light fell upon Lionheart’s hair and seemed to shine there as a crown. And he saw the thin wisp of cloud that drifted across the moon and took the shape of some enormous bird, wings spread in gathering protection, a creature of monstrous and mythic proportions, a creature of power and benevolence and wrath.
The baron quaked. Slowly he sank back down upon the floor.
The vision passed and clouds swallowed up the moon, leaving the high tower in darkness again. Lionheart, exhausted, returned to his post by the door. How tempting it was, for a moment so brief it might not have existed at all, to open it and give way. To let the course of history progress as it wished, with strong men in power and a hope for a brutal revival. To let himself be carried off, a traitor to be tried by the Council and hanged. To give up. To give in.
But he stood with his back to the door and crossed his arms. “My Path led me here,” he whispered. “And here I’ll stay.”
They were silent for so long, they might each have drifted off in the darkness to realms of far dreams.
Suddenly the baron said, “Who helped you?”
“What?” Lionheart frowned and peered through the gloom at the prisoner he could not see. “What did you say?”
“I know you could not have done this alone. You could not have secreted away these ropes of mine, or the kindling, for you would have been recognized. You had help from the inside. Who was it, Lionheart? Was it Blackrock? Or Evenwell? Disloyal dogs at heart, I know, for all their protestations of friendship.”
“No,” Lionheart said and hastily added, “There was no one, baron. I acted alone.”
“Liar.”
“Well, yes. But I’ll say no more.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll get it out of you. Before you hang.”
Lionheart made a face. His throat was parched for want of water, and his stomach was empty. The threat of death made none of this more bearable, and he growled, “Do what you like, baron. You’ll not get a word from me. Despite what you might think, I do still possess some shreds of honor.”
“Honor?” said the baron, musing over the word. He was quiet again for some time. Then he said, “So it was a woman.”
How anyone could come to that conclusion based off Lionheart’s words was testimony to a keen, near-animalistic cunning. Like a scent hound following the culprit across marshy ground, so the baron pursued a line of reason, however faint and untraceable it might be to another.
“Think as you will,” Lionheart said, perhaps too quickly.
“A woman,” said the baron again, musingly. “How intriguing this game becomes. Now, I wonder what—”
He broke off with a gasp. Lionheart, glad for the reprieve, took a seat on the floor and rested his tired head in his hands. He began to wonder if the night would never end.
The baron spoke with gentle venom: “I’ll have her hanged as well.”
Lionheart looked up sharply, and his heart began to pound. He must be mistaken. He must have fallen asleep, into some dreadful nightmare. He must have invented that sound from the shards of a tired mind pushed over the brink. He must have.
Because he couldn’t bear to believe he’d truly heard tears in the baron’s voice.
8
FROM THE BASE OF THE HILL, Foxbrush watched the enormous bonfire built near the Eldest’s House, a beacon into the night. Many men and women worked to gather fuel, driving the flames higher and hotter, a defense against the darkness and a light to those who had ventured into that darkness.
The warriors had gone. Led by Redman and Sight-of-Day, men and women alike, they had marched from the village and into the jungle, spreading out in all directions, searching. Surely the Bronze Warriors would have left some sign. Surely they could not have gone far.
“Please!” Foxbrush had begged, catching Redman by the arm. “Please let me come with you!”
“No,” Redman had replied, shaking him off. “You must follow your Path, and it does not lead with me.”
“I can help!” Foxbrush had tried to insist, catching up a weapon and holding it awkwardly. “I know I can!”
But Redman had been adamant. “You must remain here, Foxbrush. Follow your Path.”
Then he had gone, leading the village warriors in desperate hunt, calling Lark’s name as he went. And Foxbrush remained, watching the jungles into which everyone disappeared.
Useless. Shrugged off. Despised.