Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Page B

roaring of the voices singing them. But the deeper they progressed into the forest, the gentler his captors became, as though more certain of their catch. When at last they let him touch the ground once more—pushing and prodding him when he fell to his knees—he could hear their words very well. But his mind could not accept it.
    “That . . . that was quite a gale!” he gasped, clutching his shirt, which had been torn to ribbons by snatching branches. A little afraid what he might discover, he felt around, testing his own limbs to make certain they were all still attached.
    He found Lionheart’s scroll tucked into his trouser pocket. Somehow, feeling it there made him angry, and anger made him brave enough to stand. He coughed to clear his throat and smoothed down his hair with both hands. “An unusual natural phenomenon,” he said, lying to himself for what comfort a lie might offer. “A powerful summer gale is what that was. Probably several accounts of it in Gullfinger’s Guide to the Natural Sciences. ”
    The next few moments were spent in far more desperate self-lies as he struggled to convince himself that the winds in the trees above him were not whispering to one another.
    “Look at me! I’m a natural phenomenian!”
    “A natural phenemenon!”
    “A natural phenomonomonom!”
    Lionheart was nowhere to be seen. But surely he must be close, perhaps only a few yards away. The Wood was so thick here, it was possible for all manner of things to lie hidden within inches of each other. Foxbrush shuddered. His imagination was not keen even at its best, but one needed very little to begin picturing wild creatures lying low, shielded beneath the heavy fern fronds, ready to leap; or snakes slithering silent paths and just brushing one’s foot.
    “Ahhh . . .” Foxbrush grimaced and tried to straighten the rags of his shirt. “There will be a clear trail back the way I came,” he told himself. “Broken twigs, bent grass, so forth. It’s always so in the books. Gullfinger himself wrote a section on surviving in the wilds, and I’m sure I can remember most of what he said.”
    Even as he spoke, his eyes lifted unwillingly to the tree branches swaying above him as the wind creatures passed through, shushing leaves and breaking twigs, chattering among themselves. Despite himself, Foxbrush heard and understood each word.
    “It’s not as fun as the Fiery One.”
    “It does not billow as that one did.”
    “And it’s not so red.”
    At first, the horror of talking breezes was too much for Foxbrush, and he cringed and clutched the hair at his temples. Then he realized what they had said.
    “Fiery One?” he muttered. “Red . . . Daylily?”
    In a rush, his own fear was forgotten, and he addressed himself to the tossing branches (for he could not see the sylphs themselves). “I say, have you seen my lady Daylily?” He felt the fool indeed and blushed. Did he, after all, expect a breeze to answer?
    Lionheart would.
    The thought niggled at that corner of his mind he disliked admitting existed; the part of him that measured himself against Lionheart and always, always found himself wanting. Foxbrush scowled and, firmly pushing his wind-blown hair down onto his scalp, demanded in a voice he hoped was heroic:
    “Tell me, beings of air and . . . and . . . windiness! Tell me where the Lady Daylily is! Tell me if you have spied her in this dark forest!”
    The sylphs convened upon an oak’s stout limb, lined up like so many curious children at a shop window—or so many equally curious vultures at a dry watering hole—and stared down at their new playmate. One of them pointed.
    “Is it talking to us?”
    “I think it must be.”
    “Does that mean it loves us?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “It’s a bit boring, don’t you think?”
    “Shall I pinch it?”
    Foxbrush heard each word as it rang through his ears to his still-protesting brain. Then the oak branch groaned as though under enormous