Foxbrush hated monkeys, even the little tame things that noble ladies sometimes wore on their shoulders at festivals in his day. But this creature was more hateful still. Its jaw, which looked as though it may have been broken at some point, hung crooked and sagging when it wasn’t munching.
“Crookjaw, I bring tribute,” said Lark, repeating her singsong chant. She pointed at the cake, demanding, “Does it please you, Crookjaw? Does it please you?”
The monkey flared its nostrils at her. Then it yawned hugely, displaying a terrible set of yellow fangs incongruously large for its small, wizened face. It extended a hand, fingers wriggling. Lark stepped forward fearlessly, picked the cake off the stone, and dropped it into the monkey’s grasp.
With a shriek that could shatter glass, the monkey stuffed the cake whole into its mouth and vanished up into the treetops. Birds screamed and fluttered out of its way; the world rained broken branches and falling leaves. Foxbrush covered his head against this storm and felt more than a few unseen items land in his open basket.
“What was that?” he asked a little breathlessly.
“The first totem,” Lark replied with a smile. “There are two more on our way to the Twisted Man. Come!”
She set off without further explanation, leaving Foxbrush to page through his mind for some memory of that strange word. He knew he’d read it before somewhere. And . . . yes! He’d even seen one in the Eldest’s gallery. A totem, a statue from old Southlander history, usually carved in stone, though some decayed wooden totems had been found. The one on display at the Eldest’s House was a hook-beaked bird with furious human eyes, outspread wings, and a flat-topped head such as Foxbrush had just seen. The old Southlanders had purportedly left ritual offerings on these stones to appease godlike beings.
A ritual he had now witnessed firsthand.
He adjusted his basket and drew a deep breath of muggy, buggy air. “Tell me, Meadowlark,” he said to the back of the girl’s head, “was that—”
“Lark. Not Meadowlark.”
“Very well,” said Foxbrush. “Tell me, Lark, was that one of your gods?”
The look she turned upon him stopped him in his tracks. “We don’t have gods,” she said.
“Oh now, don’t be angry,” Foxbrush persisted, falling back into step with her. “I know you people are very religious. You worshipped the Wolf Lord once, and the Dragonwitch—”
The girl whirled upon Foxbrush with such ferocity that he braced for attack. And, small child though she was, he was not convinced he could fend her off.
“I never worshiped the Wolf Lord!” she snarled, her dark eyes blazing. In her fury, she kept slipping out of Northerner into her native tongue and back again. But Foxbrush had no trouble understanding her meaning. “Or the Dragonwitch! The Silent Lady bested the Wolf Lord, calling down his death, and he will never plague my people again! My father, mother, and the Smallman King of the North Country battled the Dragonwitch, and the rivers rose to fight her with them! They brought down her Citadel and buried her beneath it, and all this land”—she swept her scrawny arms as though to encompass the entire jungle—“grew up green and thriving in gratitude so that her ruins will never be found again! We have no monster gods in this country, and we will nevermore be bound in slavery! And one day—” her voice broke with the intensity of her passion. She was obliged to draw breath before continuing, and then she finished in a quieter voice. “One day we’ll drive out the Faerie beasts as well.”
With that, she turned and continued down the winding trail. Foxbrush, cowed, followed quietly behind. He decided not to tell her that it was impossible for a jungle this thick and tall and old to have grown up since her father’s youth. He also decided not to mention that it was impossible for a Silent Lady to call anything.
But one piece of Lark’s strange speech did linger in his mind. The Smallman King. He knew that story. He’d learned on his nursemaid’s knee long ago how the Smallman King came down to Southlands and battled the Dragonwitch. Accompanied by . . .
“His scar-faced cousin,” Foxbrush whispered.
At the next totem, Lark performed a ritual similar to the first, leaving a flat cake on an ugly, painted stone. This time no animal emerged, but after a minute or two, Lark declared, “She is satisfied,” and continued on her way. Her fury seemingly forgotten or forgone, she said, “Eanrin will someday put it in song. The story of my father. He promised.”
“Eanrin?” Foxbrush said. “You know of Bard Eanrin? Here?”
“I’ve met him,” said Lark.
“You’ve met the Faerie Bard, Chief Poet of Iubdan Rudiobus?”
Lark’s shrug was almost hidden beneath her wicker basket. “Well, I don’t remember it. When I was born he came to honor my da and my ma. Back when the Silent Lady was still with us.”
“The Silent Lady? With you?”