The girl scolded, wringing her hands at the toddler, who smiled naughtily around his stolen mouthful. Then, with a heavy sigh, the girl looked back up the way they had come, and down again to the well. Daylily could see her calculating the distance, her mouth twisting with the effort of her decision.
Then she swept up the little one and, staggering under the child’s bulk, hastened the short distance remaining to the well. Looking over her shoulder and plunking the child back on the ground, she hastily bent and filled her skin without first making an offering.
Nothing happened. But then, Daylily wondered, what did she expect to happen?
“Tithe breaker,” Sun Eagle whispered. “Watch.”
The weight of the skin was too much for the girl, and she was obliged to hold it in both arms. She barked a command to the child and set out up the path, the little one trotting behind. But they had gone no more than three paces when the surface of the well began to writhe and roil.
A face rose up from the water.
It was a face without distinct feature, fluid as water, old and foul, with hair long and green, and teeth longer and greener. Others coming down the path shrieked and dropped their skins, fleeing. And the tall girl, her dark face gone gray with fear, whirled about just in time to see that horrible face rise up, up, up, then swoop down, mouth open, and swallow the toddling little one whole.
The next moment, face and child disappeared back into the well.
The girl screamed. The women screamed. And Daylily found that she too was screaming. “Do something! Do something!” she cried, her horror so absolute that she forgot herself.
Do something. Do something.
Sun Eagle stood and clutched her arm, turning her to him. His eyes were alight, and she thought his grimace might be a smile.
“Prove yourself, Crescent Woman,” he said. “Forge the bond. Rescue the child.”
11
THE HEART IS A PECULIAR THING. It sees and interprets important details long before the brain has started to think there might be something worth noticing. The brain resents this skill, however, and will often spitefully do all it can to repress what the heart might be whispering.
So it was that the moment Lionheart climbed up from the gorge and stood looking across the Eldest’s grounds, his heart spoke quietly inside him: Your father is dead.
And his brain immediately countered: What? No! Where do you get that crazed notion? You saw him just yesterday, and he was sick, to be sure, but very much alive. Don’t be a fool, Leo, and get on your way!
Thus fortified, Lionheart shook himself and began jogging across the grassy field on to one of the near roads. In his groundsman’s garb, he passed unnoticed among other groundskeepers, who nodded his way but otherwise ignored him and went about their work. Morning was swiftly lengthening toward noon, and there was no time to waste in chitchat. Lawns must be cut, hedges must be pruned, mulches must be laid.
So Lionheart progressed unimpeded. He was surprised as he went to see the extent to which the Eldest’s gardens had recovered; indeed, he did not remember seeing them so well tended when he had made this same trek from the gorge just the day before.
Or had it been the day before?
The unwelcome thought stirred in the back of his brain, but Lionheart shook it off and quickened his pace. The Prince’s Path was not clear to him now, but somehow he knew he still pursued it as he hastened toward the familiar towers and minarets of his father’s house, less familiar now since the Dragon’s evil work, but the home of his childhood nonetheless.
Flags flew high from every peak and tower, many long, scarf-like tassels on the wind, blue and red and silver. Lionheart frowned when he saw these. Had they not been gold and white flags just yesterday, in honor of the crown prince’s coming marriage? Who had replaced them with the Eldest’s colors and the standard of the rampant panther?
Lionheart’s road joined with the larger road leading from across Swan Bridge and Evenwell Barony. Here he was obliged to walk along the verge, however, for the road itself was crowded with carriages and horsemen hastening on through the Eldest’s parklands toward the House itself. This was strange, Lionheart thought. Should not the Baron of Evenwell be leaving in the wake of the crown prince’s canceled wedding? Why should he only now arrive, a day late?
Lionheart’s heart said, Your father is dead.
To this, Lionheart’s brain responded, If that is true, why aren’t the flags at half-mast?
It was a fine rebuttal, and Lionheart refused to follow it up with any further questions. He merely quickened his pace, dodging to keep from being run over by one of the rumbling carts.
The nearer he drew to the Eldest’s House, the more details came into view. Every window, every arch, every balustrade and gable was festooned in thick garlands of starflowers. Only, not real starflowers. These, he saw upon closer inspection, were made of paper.
But starflowers were in full bloom that time of year, and the garlands should be real!