“At least I’ll be free from all of you.” Again and again the wolf struggled and tore at the earth and howled and shook her shaggy head. But the stakes held, and the chains, though they groaned, were strong. At last the wolf collapsed again. The bronze stone about her neck weighed her down.
Lionheart stood looking upon her, and more tears coursed down his cheeks. “I wish I could save you,” he said. “But I understand that I can’t. This is why I wasn’t sent after you. This is why I must remain.”
“You’ll never come after me! Coward!” The wolf panted, scarcely able to get the words out, so thick were her mouth and throat with foam.
Lionheart turned even as she hurled curses and abuse at his back. He walked away into the empty plain, each pace taking him farther from her sight. He disappeared at last into the gray and the dark.
The wolf collapsed and did not breathe, strangled under the weight of the Bronze on her cord.
The being that wore Daylily’s shape stepped outside, back into the Between, where Daylily sat pressed up against a tree, her head bowed to her chest. Her eyes flickered softly open, and consciousness flowed back in, however unwillingly.
There. We are safe now. The wolf is dead.
“No,” Daylily whispered. “No, she isn’t. She always revives.”
She said no more but waited quietly until Sun Eagle returned. She looked to him as one might look to a stern but adored father from whom one expects protection. Her face was, very briefly, beautiful again in this expression, and Sun Eagle stopped in his tracks, surprised by it. Then he advanced and knelt before her, reaching out to take her hand.
“It is done,” he said. “The bond is made. The tithe is paid.”
“Is it well, then?” Daylily asked, her voice simple as a child’s.
“It is well. Come, Crescent Woman. Our brethren have taken the tithe for Tocho’s death, but that does not mean you may continue to sit here. There is yet much to do.”
He lifted her to her feet and led her back through the Wood. The little brown bird watched them go, then took to his wings and followed.
22
OVER YOUR SHOULDER, like this,” said Redman.
Foxbrush winced as rough grasses scratched the back of his neck. He shrugged into the shoulder straps of an enormous wicker basket tall enough to extend above his head. It was empty for the moment and therefore light. How heavy it would be by the end of the day was anyone’s guess.
Lark stood beside him, her own smaller basket slung, her face frowning but not unfriendly. She took the measure of the young man her father assisted, watching as Redman secured the leather straps across Foxbrush’s chest.
“There,” Redman grunted. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.” He stepped back, looking from Foxbrush to his daughter and back again. He spoke in the North Country dialect, addressing Foxbrush. “I’ll not ask you to look after my girl. She’s a smart little thing, and she’ll look after you, more like! But this is her first time without her da, and, well . . .” He stopped and shrugged, leaving Foxbrush to wonder how he might have finished that sentence.
Redman turned to Lark and spoke to her in the language of her mother’s people. “You have the tributes?”
Lark put her hand to a pouch at her waist. “Yes, Da. I’m ready. There are only three totems.”
“True enough, and you know them all.” Redman crossed his arms and indicated Foxbrush with a slight nod of his head. “Are you sure you’re willing to bring him along?”
“I can’t fetch the lot on my own,” Lark replied demurely.
“True. But I can find one of the village boys if you like.”
Lark made a face at this. One of the village boys would domineer and stick out his chest and do everything to take charge. Where would the fun be in that? She shook her head and smiled up at Foxbrush, who understood none of the conversation taking place between her and her father and offered only a weak half smile in return. He certainly wouldn’t try to take the lead! But to her father Lark said only, “He knows nothing. He needs to learn.”
“Don’t think unkindly of him, Larkish,” said Redman. She rolled her eyes at his use of her pet name, but he continued, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s that heroes come in many shapes, sizes, and forms. Might be we have a hero here in our midst.”
Lark glanced again at Foxbrush, who was picking at his nails. She’d never seen a man who worried so about his hands. Or his washing. Or his hair! Foxbrush had spent a good portion of the morning plastering down his hair (which was unusually short) with water and combing it with his fingers. All to no avail; the humid air quickly caught all that thick hair of his up into a curly dark halo.
A hero? Lark covered her mouth to force back a laugh, then readjusted the basket on her back, saying solemnly, “I’ll take him, Da. I’ll show him the totems.”
“And back before sunset?” Redman said.
She nodded. Then she reached out and took Foxbrush’s hand. “Come!”