Lionheart guessed that he had probably been more tired than this upon occasion. During that long voyage to Noorhitam in the Far East, Captain Sunan of the good ship Kulap Kanya had made Lionheart work for his passage. Those were some long days followed by sea-sickening nights . . . and sometimes even the nights were spent freezing up in the lookout, too high above the deck for anyone’s comfort as the ocean rolled and murmured secretive threats beneath him.
Certainly those had been far more exhausting times, the threat of death by falling or drowning as present as the current threat of hanging.
But somehow, this was no comfort.
Lionheart stood and stretched again, pacing the narrow space between the heavy door and the window. He would have to sleep eventually. He glanced at the baron. He could feel his prisoner’s gaze, though shadows hid his face. Even bound hand and foot, the baron was too dangerous to leave unwatched. And he showed no signs of sleep himself.
I’ll die of pure exhaustion, Lionheart thought as he looked out the window at the sky. Stabbed by a unicorn, assaulted by dragons, threatened by kings and emperors alike. But I’ll die for lack of sleep at the end.
It seemed comically appropriate. But he couldn’t manage a laugh.
By now the clouds had rolled on, and the stars were making the final turns of their nightly dance. In another hour, the inky blackness would give way to blue, and another hour after that the sun would rise.
What sort of world would it shine down upon? What sort of future?
The sound of armored bodies collapsing beyond the door brought Lionheart whirling about. He didn’t know what had caused those sounds and wondered if the desperate barons below had thought of a new instrument with which to assault his barricade. He strode quickly back to his post and placed his ear to the door but heard nothing more than the pound of his heart in his throat.
Then at long last, he heard a voice. It was too low to understand, but Lionheart guessed it was male. He made no response and, after a tense half minute, the voice repeated, louder:
“Leonard? Leonard the Lightning Tongue?”
Lionheart recoiled from the door as though bitten. As far as he knew, no one in all the Eldest’s court knew of his jester name and the identity he’d assumed during his five-year exile while Southlands was dragon occupied.
“Leonard, are you there?” The voice sounded as though it was trying desperately not to be overheard. “Please answer!”
“Who is that?” Lionheart demanded.
“It’s Felix. Prince Felix of Parumvir. We met in Oriana two years ago, if you remember. You performed for my family.” A pause, then, “And I saw you again in the Village of Dragons.”
Lionheart stared at the door, and if he were a dragon himself, his gaze would have burned it to cinders in a moment. But had he not seen the royal insignia of Parumvir? And now that he thought of it, he had glimpsed Felix in the Great Hall during the mad abduction. In the frantic terror of enacting the baroness’s plot, he’d seen without recognizing the lad who had brought down a guard and quite possibly saved Lionheart’s neck. Felix . . . Una’s brother . . .
“That’s not my name,” Lionheart said. He could feel the baron’s gaze upon his shoulders, but he refused to look around.
“I know,” said the voice beyond. “I know all about what happened. Una told me later, you know, after the Dragon was killed. She’s . . . she’s married now, had you heard? To Prince Aethelbald?”
Lionheart nodded, which was foolish, but he couldn’t quite find words to respond. A silence followed during which he knew the baron was putting together pieces of a story Lionheart did not wish him to know. He demanded, “What are you doing up here, Prince Felix? It’s not safe.”
“The baroness sent me with supplies for you.”
A hissing curse from behind told Lionheart that the baron had overheard. Now whatever suspicions had been brewing in his mind were confirmed. Lionheart’s neck wouldn’t be the only one forfeit at the end of this foolish adventure.
“I’ve drugged the guards,” Felix persisted. “Or, well, I didn’t personally. But they’re drugged, and you can open the door and take these supplies. I can’t guarantee they’ll help much, but better than nothing, right?”
Better than nothing. They might be just enough to give Lionheart time for that fool sylph to catch his fool cousin, to send Prince Foxbrush, Hawkeye’s legitimate heir, reeling back into the court of the Eldest, fey addled but alive.
“How do I know you are who you say you are?” Lionheart demanded. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”
Another pause, during which Lionheart felt his rising hopes slowly crumbling away.