On a dark plain under the starless sky, figures began to move.
At first they were nothing more than wafting shadows. But they assembled themselves with dignity, climbing stairs that did not exist to a balcony made of nothing. They carried instruments in their hands: dulcians, pipes and tabors, psaltries, viols, and a great set of richly decorated drums. As they took up these instruments, their shapes became at once both more indistinct and more real; they existed purely for the song they produced.
Soft, sweet, mournfully beautiful melody flowed down from the sky.
What is that? asked the mouth of Daylily that was no longer Daylily’s.
The she-wolf, flattened to the ground, blood dried in her coat, did not raise her head. But her icy eyes glanced up at the figure beside her. “Music,” she said.
We don’t like it.
The she-wolf snorted. “Since when did you start having likes or dislikes? Before or after you stole bodies?”
The figure of Daylily made no answer but watched as more shadow figures moved. These assembled below the musicians, and they formed strange figures and patterns as they flowed in and out from one another, always in time to the song.
“Dancing,” said the wolf. And she sighed. “I used to love dancing.”
Two figures stepped out from among the rest until they may have been the only two. And these, as they danced, became more vivid. A prince in white with a fibula of a seated panther on his shoulder; a lady in a flowing headdress, furs draped across her smooth shoulders. They danced and they smiled into each other’s eyes.
The wolf shook her head. “They never looked at each other like that. Only here in her mind. It was never so beautiful.”
The figure that was Daylily sneered but watched curiously even so.
The music changed. The tune became lighter, merrier, but despite this alteration, the mood of the scene suddenly darkened. The smiles fell from the faces of both dancers.
“Don’t leave me, Lionheart,” said the lady. “Don’t leave me standing here.”
But the prince stepped back, his face a stern mask. He let go her hand, and as he backed away, he disappeared into the surrounding shadows. And the lady stood alone, the merry music falling like sharp glass shards around her.
The she-wolf growled. “I will kill him one day,” she said.
Wait, said the figure of Daylily, frowning. Does he return?
For a moment it looked as though he did. A man of much his build and coloring, also dressed in white, stepped out of the shadows, his arms extended to the lady. She turned to him, her smile momentarily flashing again.
But the man changed. His shoulders bowed, and his stance became awkward. His eyes, large and dark, squinted, either with nerves or nearsightedness. Rather than a fibula on his shoulder, he wore a crown upon his head.
“Let me dance with you, Daylily,” he said earnestly. “Let me take Lionheart’s place.”
And the lady, her face colder than ice, took his hand and allowed him to dance her away, spinning into shadows. The music fell into dissonance and then a silence darker than the blackness of the sky.
“All is lost,” said the she-wolf.
All is mine, said the mouth of Daylily.
“My da will kill me.”
“I doubt that very much,” said Foxbrush with a weak laugh that earned him a scowl from Lark. The little girl knelt on the floor beside Foxbrush’s own pile of animals skins (which he still resisted calling a bed). Daylily lay upon them, lost in some fevered dream that left her moaning.
Foxbrush had managed with some difficulty to carry Daylily most of the way up to the Eldest’s House before he realized that the people of the village would not take kindly to the presence of the “red lady” of whom they’d been hearing. Did they believe in fair trials in this age? He could not count on it.
So he’d left Daylily in the shadows near the jungle and, praying she would still be there when he returned, went to find the only person he felt he could trust.
Lark asked no questions, but after one look at Foxbrush’s face, left her sisters and brother in their small chamber and followed him out into the darkening night. The Eldest, her husband, and most of the villagers were gathered in the big stone central chamber of the Eldest’s House. But there were back ways into the humbler portions of that House. Lark showed Foxbrush and helped him smuggle Daylily in and hide her in his chambers.
“Out,” Lark had said then.
Foxbrush had started to protest. Then he saw Lark begin to peel back the last shreds of Daylily’s ruined underdress and made a swift exit. He stood outside the door (or crouched, rather, for the ceiling was very low) and waited, counting the seconds that felt like years.