Nidawi looked for a moment as though she would like to protest. Then, with a sigh, she sank into the form of a child and dashed off, disappearing into the jungle. But her voice carried back for some time, calling, “Beasts! Beasts! Faeries of the Far! To me, to me, to me!”
“Well, that should keep her occupied and, I do hope, out of trouble,” said Poet Eanrin, who stood with his back against a tree, watching all with a bored expression that belied the beating of his heart.
The Prince of Farthestshore turned to him then. “My brother,” he said, “it has been some time since last we spoke. Will you walk with me?”
If Eanrin had been in his cat’s form, his ears would have flattened. But he shrugged coolly enough and fell into pace beside his Lord. They walked together into the shadows, disappearing behind green leaves and vines. Daylily found herself alone. She wondered what the Prince might say to the cat-man. She wondered if he would speak to her. She could not say whether she desired or dreaded such an exchange.
Foxbrush drew nearer, and Daylily pulled herself upright and began, out of habit, to school her face into the cold, calm mask she had worn for so long. But the wolf inside her shook her head, and she thought, Whom do I deceive but myself?
She would not play the fool to her own games. Not anymore.
So when Foxbrush approached the welcoming shade of the jungle, his ruined hands hidden behind his back, she smiled. The sight of her smile took him aback, and he stopped dead in his tracks, staring. His face, behind the beard, twisted into a variety of expressions, none of which Daylily could read, none of them an answering smile.
Suddenly the Prince of Farthestshore stood before them, and they forgot each other and their fears in the far greater fear of his presence. For he was unlike anything they knew, and they could not, with mortal eyes, quite perceive him, not in a bodily form. But he stood there, more real than real, and they felt the brightness of his gaze upon them.
“Come,” he said, and where he went, they followed.
They walked through Southlands.
They skimmed over jungles, lakes, rivers.
They passed over fields and towns and villages.
They flew like birds. They swam like fish. They ran like deer through the meadows.
And still they walked behind the Lumil Eliasul, not daring to look at each other for fear of losing sight of him.
And then he stopped, and they stopped as well. They saw him extend his arm, pointing, and they could not have resisted turning their gazes where he indicated even had they wished to.
“See now, King of Here and There,” said the Lumil Eliasul, and he spoke to both of them in that moment. “See now what I have purposed for you.”
They saw orchards. Vast, sprawling, ripening orchards, heavy with golden fruit, alive with birds and bees and . . . and yes, with wasps. These grew in a thriving land, a land that was not Southlands as either of them knew it, but which was Southlands at its heart, at the core of the nation’s spirit. And both of them, man and woman, felt in their own hearts the lurch of love, of kingship.
“Do you see it?” asked the Prince.
They nodded, unable to speak.
“Will you remember it?”
Daylily nodded. Foxbrush said, “I hope so.”
The Lumil Eliasul turned to Foxbrush then and took his ruined hands. He held them tight, and Foxbrush felt strength entering his body, a strength beyond any he had known.
“Now and Then. Here and There,” said the Prince of Farthestshore, and he spoke the words like a name. “This is the truth, and you will hear it, and I will cause you to remember. If you were always to see before you the future I have shown you here, the way would be too easy . . . too easy to ignore, to forego, for why would you need to follow it? And that would be the greatest disaster ever to befall Southlands.
“Instead, I will send you back to that place and time where the air is too thin for you to see my distant purpose. And you will have to walk the Path a single step at a time, trusting that it will lead you safe at last. But I will send you the memory of my promise, and when the road becomes too difficult, you will think on it and you will keep walking, even as I have called you.
“This is the truth, Foxbrush Fourclaw-son: The strength of your hands is the strength of mine.”
Then the Lumil Eliasul let go of Foxbrush and stepped back. Daylily, watching all with hungry eyes, saw that the twisted fingers and roughly healed flesh were unaltered. But she saw something else as well.
Where Foxbrush’s shadow fell, cast by the light shining from those vast, unending orchards, his hands were whole. Though mere shadows, they spoke the truth in strong fingers and sinews, well-knit muscles over delicate bones. And Daylily knew that this was the secret of this man she had known most of her life, but never truly known: He was made of more than her eyes could see. He was made of stronger, firmer stuff.
“Shadow Hand of Here and There,” she whispered.
Somewhere, from a great distance, a voice called. It was a lonely voice, completely lonely as only the wind can be, but without sorrow. It called with a dogged stubbornness that both Daylily and Foxbrush had heard before.