“But sylphs care nothing for mortal time,” the Eldest said. “I’m not surprised if, caught in their dance, this man was dragged away from his time. But I find it hard to believe that he and his lady would both end up in or near the same small slice of their history. The sylphs may have left her anywhere in the Wood, at any time, both past and future.”
Redman acknowledged this with a nod. “You’re right, my love. But perhaps our Foxbrush here is guided by another hand. A hand that could direct even the wild dance of the sylphs.”
In silence, the Eldest and her husband shared an understanding glance, the significance of which entirely escaped poor Foxbrush. Then the Eldest turned to him, and there was sympathy in her eyes. “I pity you, poor man. A sylph dance is a dreadful thing, or so the Silent Lady tells us. But answer me this, if the Fiery One of Greenwell is indeed your lady, do you know if she makes a practice of slaying Faerie beasts?”
“Um. Not . . . not so far as I’m aware,” Foxbrush said hesitantly. After all, if he was honest with himself, there was a great deal about Daylily he did not know, and a great deal more he did not understand. Oddly enough (perhaps it was the presence of young Lark and her sharp resemblance), he found himself remembering the first time he’d met Daylily—Daylily the warrior-king Shadow Hand, fighting monsters and leading armies, even if only in imagination.
He frowned suddenly and put his hand to the pocket of his torn trousers, where he had secreted Leo’s scroll before making his escape. The scroll was gone. He must have lost it during his flight through the jungle.
A dullness settled in his heart at this. One more loss. One more failure. But at this point, what difference did it make?
“Not so far as I am aware,” he repeated softly, looking down at the bowl of onions and fish. “But . . .” He recalled Leo, hooded and shadowy in the Baron of Middlecrescent’s chamber. What was it he had said? “I wouldn’t put anything past Lady Daylily.”
“Was this red lady at Greenwell when you arrived?” Redman asked his wife.
“I’m afraid not,” said the Eldest, accepting a piece of flatbread from Lark and using it to spoon her meal. “They said a strange young man also came from the jungle and took her away again. Another mortal, they insisted, but wild and bloodstained. And he too wore a bronze stone.”
Redman studied his wife. She would not meet his gaze. “What are you not telling me?”
She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed slowly. Then she said, “The night following Mama Greenteeth’s death, all the firstborn children of the village vanished.”
The silence that followed was like darkness. It fell upon the room with sudden, obscuring terror, made more dreadful by the lack of understanding it brought.
“All of them?” Redman repeated at last, his voice scarcely making a dent in the weight of that silence.
The Eldest nodded.
“Light of Lumé,” Redman breathed. It was a prayer for protection. But somehow Foxbrush felt that the shadows drew closer to that small cooking fire and the red-lit faces gathered round it.
The Eldest said, “The strangers, the red lady and her companion, demanded tithe for Mama Greenteeth’s death. They said the bargain was struck in Greenteeth’s blood.”
“And did the men and women of Greenwell put up no fight?”
“There was no one to fight. Voices called in the night, and they tell me there were lights like shining candles. The children stepped from their parents’ homes and vanished without a trace. That was three days ago now.”
Redman put both hands to his scarred face, hiding for a moment from all that was dreadful and crushing upon his soul. Only slowly did he lower them again, looking around at his children. His gaze lingered longest on Lark. Then he turned to his wife with a snarl in his voice.
“We must find them. We must find these two warriors and recover the lost children.”
The Eldest shook her head. She held her breath for fear of a sob escaping. But she set aside her bowl and put out a hand to her husband. “There is more to this than we yet know, my love,” she said, her voice thick in her throat. “More to these Bronze Warriors. We must learn before we can fight.”
“And meanwhile, what if they strike again? What if they kill more totem beasts and demand yet another tithe?”
The Eldest simply shook her head, for she had no answers to give.
Foxbrush sat with his meal cooling in his hands. Hungry though he was, he had no will to eat, not with the strange, sad scene playing out before him. Everything they said was incomprehensible to him.
Quietly he set aside his bowl and got to his feet. Still no one looked his way.
“Your pardon,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster while clad only in his trousers, his feet bare, his torso still smeared with Lark’s healing medicines. The Eldest and Redman looked up at him as though surprised by his continued existence. “Your pardon,” he repeated, “but I must be on my way now. If you would have someone point out the road to this Greenwell, I would be obliged. . . .”