Trying to appear calm, Lionheart got back up to search the room. The cupboards and the great wardrobe were empty; the sumptuous canopied bed hid nothing beneath but a chamber pot.
“Overlook a little detail, Prince Lionheart?” said the baron, watching as Lionheart climbed up to check the top of the wardrobe, just in case. “I noticed while you slept, and I wondered.”
Lionheart clenched his teeth to hold back the tirade of furious words bubbling up inside. He could not suppress an angry whisper of: “Dragons take that woman.”
The baron’s chin lifted a little, and his great eyes narrowed. “What woman?”
Lionheart dropped down from the wardrobe and stood with his back to his prisoner. How long could he hope to keep this up? He was confident—or mostly so—that no one would break through that door short of setting it ablaze. But how long would it take Foxbrush to return?
How much could one count on a sylph’s word?
“You are going to die, Prince Lionheart,” said the baron. “Either quickly by the hangman’s noose or slowly through starvation. One way or the other, you will die.”
Lionheart turned and regarded the baron. Oddly enough, he felt peaceful despite the looming truth of his captive’s words. “I’ve already died, Baron. I’m not afraid.”
With this, he returned to his place by the door, listening carefully. He knew they were there. They may have given up their pounding assault, but they wouldn’t leave their intended king alone. No, they would be waiting just outside the door, swords drawn.
He closed his eyes, this time not in sleep or even exhaustion. He simply sat there, letting his mind clear. And he listened. He listened more intently than ever before, with more earnest, striving energy than he had ever put into anything. He sat, head bowed, and his heart pounded with the need to hear, the need to know.
What would you have me do, my Lord?
And the voice in his memory, which seemed so long ago now, repeated: “I ask that you return to Southlands and the House of your father.”
He had obeyed, had he not? He had hastened back to King Hawkeye’s side, and they had been reconciled. But there was more.
Frowning, Lionheart now recalled his journey home through the Wood Between. Scarcely had he begun his lonely trek down the still-unfamiliar Path when he saw a familiar face beneath a tall oak tree.
The Lady of the Haven had smiled at his approach.
“Childe of Farthestshore,” she called in greeting, and he gasped in relief at the sight of her.
“Dame Imraldera!” he said, hurrying to her. “Did you not stay awhile at the coronation feast?”
“I did, Childe Lionheart,” she said. “But I left three days ago to ensure that I should meet you here.”
“Three . . . three days?” Lionheart frowned at this. “I just . . . I just took leave of Queen Varvare minutes ago.”
“To be sure,” Dame Imraldera replied. “And soon after you did so, I followed suit, and that is three days gone. And now we are both here.” She laughed. “Time is a funny and a dangerous thing here in the Between. Don’t be afraid. You’ll soon accustom yourself to ways beyond the Near World. Sooner than you think.”
He gave her a shrewd look. “Did you?”
She opened her mouth to reply but paused. Then, with another smile, smaller and more enigmatic than the first, she said, “I am not yet so accustomed as I wish to be. Even now, I scarcely understand the flowing to and fro of Time. What we do now, what we do then, and all the ripples throughout history.”
She held out a scroll to Lionheart. “I have something for you. Rather, something for you to deliver.”
Lionheart took the scroll. “I will deliver it as soon as I may,” he said, hesitating. “The Prince of Farthestshore has sent me on a mission, however. I am to return to Southlands, to my father’s house, and make my peace with him.”
“I know,” Imraldera replied. “And while you are there, you will see your cousin Foxbrush. That is a message for him. From Eanrin, but you needn’t tell him so if you don’t wish to. He’ll learn it soon enough.”
“From Eanrin?” Lionheart frowned, studying the scroll.
“Indeed. You may read it if you like.”
As though afraid of changing his mind, Lionheart swiftly slipped the ribbon from its place, opened the scroll, and read. What he saw deepened his frown.
“For Foxbrush?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But . . . but why?”
“Because if he does not receive it now, he never will. And all that you see written there will never come to pass.”
Imraldera laughed at the look on Lionheart’s face. “I know none of it makes sense to you! No common sense, in any case. But perhaps one day your uncommon sense will wake, and the worlds will become more bearable. In the meanwhile, trust me and deliver this message for your cousin.”
Lionheart, shrugging, let the scroll roll up. “I’ll do as you ask, Dame Imraldera, if it is within my power. I cannot guarantee that Foxbrush will see me, however.”
“Make him see you,” she replied. “Make him take it. This is all you must do, but you must do it.”
With those words, she had left him standing alone in the quiet Wood.