None of this made sense to Foxbrush. But he grasped the one detail he did understand and held on like a lifeline. “She was seen there? At Skymount Watch? Where is that? Can he take me?”
“No, I told you,” said Redman, his voice angry now. “She is no longer there. They came and they went. Warriors wearing bronze stones about their necks. Killers of Faerie beasts.”
“But there might be something!” Foxbrush insisted, his eagerness blinding him to the look on Redman’s face. “There might be some sign, some token! She might be held against her will by these warriors you speak of! She is no warrior herself, and she couldn’t kill anything, I know. I must—”
“You must be quiet,” said Redman. And Foxbrush, though he wanted to protest, shut his mouth. “You do not know of what you speak. These warriors wearing the Bronze are moving throughout the Land. The messenger tells me there have been other sightings. And if your Daylily is wearing their stone, she is one of them.”
The villagers gathered did not understand a word passing between their Eldest’s husband and this stranger. They watched with fearful eyes, for the world had become a darker place since even the night before.
“Do you want to know what they demand in tithe for services rendered? For the killing of Tocho?”
Foxbrush didn’t want to know. But he couldn’t speak or even shake his head, so Redman continued: “Firstborns. Children. For every beast they kill, for every life they save. They demand the firstborn children of the Land. And they take them, Foxbrush. They come in the night, these warriors wearing the bronze stones. They came to the five villages nearest Skymount Watch, and they took all the firstborn children, leaving no trace behind.
“Your red lady, Prince Foxbrush, is stealing the blood of the South Land.”
Foxbrush stared at Redman. The words, foreign and dark, filled his head so that he could not comprehend. All was blackness and pain, and he felt his temples throbbing.
The only words clear in his head were two lines from the ballad he had read to the gathered children just the night before:
But dark the tithe they pay, my son,
To safely dwell beneath that sun!
Foxbrush did not leave the Eldest’s village that day. The villagers gathered in the Eldest’s House with Sight-of-Day and her husband to discuss what might be done in light of these dire happenings. Foxbrush, to no one’s surprise, was not invited but sent out among the children.
“What happened?” Lark demanded when Foxbrush appeared and descended the hill. Wolfsbane, balanced on her hip, added his own experimental, “Wha?”
But Foxbrush shook his head, which was full and aching. He continued on past Lark and her little sisters, who fell into step behind him like goslings behind a mother goose. They trailed him all the way down the hill and on through the village, ignoring the looks of those they passed, who did not like or trust the stranger (though they made respectful signs to the Eldest’s children).
“What is it?” Lark persisted as they went. “Is it the Bronze? Have they had more news?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Foxbrush said, which wasn’t entirely untruthful. Lark, however, was unconvinced.
Still carrying her brother, she caught Foxbrush by the sleeve and yanked him to a halt with surprising force for her size. “Don’t talk to me like a child,” she said, which never ceased to sound strange coming from her childish mouth. “What news did the runner bring from the Crescent Land? I know it’s about the Bronze Warriors, and you needn’t try to hide it!”
Foxbrush looked at her hand on his sleeve, then at her. She scowled fiercely, and her three sisters, gathered behind, mirrored her face. Wolfsbane chewed on his fingers, but his eyes were no less solemn than those of his sisters, and they were very dark beneath his mop of red hair.
“We are the Eldest’s children,” Lark said. “We are strong and we are brave. We fear only ignorance. So tell us, wasp man.”
Foxbrush squeezed his eyes against the throbbing in his temples. Then he shook off Lark’s hand. “The Bronze Warriors are demanding firstborn children in exchange for the monsters they kill. Will you leave me in peace now?”
A variety of expressions flashed through Lark’s eyes. Then she bowed her head and took a step back, holding Wolfsbane close and allowing her sisters to close in around her. Foxbrush bit his tongue until it hurt, wishing he’d had the sense to do so before it spoke of what it shouldn’t.
With a bitter curse, he turned and walked away from the children, making for the fig orchards where he had spent that morning. Evening was descending, bringing with it the sultry heaviness of an oncoming storm. All was dark, and the black figs hanging in the branches of the elder fig trees looked ominous, like so many little black heads hung up as a warning by some cruel warlord.