Read Online Shadow Hand (Tales of Goldstone Wood Book #6) by Anne Elisabeth Stengl - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anne Elisabeth Stengl
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loved. “None of that matters now. I am here. And I am sorry, and . . . and you did right. You are a great Eldest, the ruler of Southlands. And you are a good father.”
The Eldest nodded and turned once more to the window. His brow relaxed, then wrinkled again, and he leaned forward, squinting into the dusky garden. “Lights Above, is that the queen?” he said, his voice quavering. “What is she doing out at this hour? Quickly, boy, go tell her of her error before it gets too dark.”
6
A NEW PAIR OF EYES . Young eyes.
Eyes a hundred years old are still young . Eyes a thousand years old are still young. It’s all a matter of comparison.
These young eyes are keen and see many things, even blurred as they are by tears.
Tears . . . such a strange sensation! Not just the feel of water upon flesh or the burning inside the head . Tears fountain up from the soul. They wash or they drown, but they never truly cleanse. Not a soul such as this.
A strange feeling is a soul, especially one so fierce.
Look through these eyes into the Wood and wander, searching, searching, searching.
A gate into the Near World . That is what we—it—they—I! That is what I want! That world would be a good place to start again. And this one loves that world, loves that Land that is the only land to him. But he cannot find it. Looking through these eyes, there is only the Wood forever and ever.
The tears are blinding. Why must this soul sorrow? Only in death can there be new life. Why can they never understand? Why must they always—
Crescent Woman.
Long ago, he had called it the Gray Wood. Now it was simply the Wood to him as to all others, for it was not solely gray. All colors and no colors might be found in its ever-shifting deeps. He had learned this very soon upon entering (so long ago it seemed to him, for he could scarcely remember the day), and in learning, he had been afraid.
The young warrior did not fear the Wood now, however, as he moved through its depths. Blood stained his arms and neck, blood not his own. He would wash it off eventually, but for now he wore it as a badge of honor to the memory of the beloved dead.
And the watching eyes of the Wood drew back, trembling.
Few things might frighten him now, this stern-faced warrior whose features may have seemed youthful, save for those bloodstains. Around his neck he wore two cords of rough-woven fibers. On one was strung a stone that gleamed like gold or bronze. It was this that caught the eyes of the Wood and left the warrior with a clear path through the gloom.
But it was the second cord that drew his searching fingers. On it were strung two beads. One was red, painted with the crude image of a panther. The second—this one the warrior touched even now, unconscious and tender—was blue and painted with a white six-petaled flower.
Not far off, he heard the songs of sylphs. Their voices drew him up sharply, and he stood as still as a wildcat poised at the beginning of a hunt, his nose uplifted to catch scents, his head tilted to receive all possible sounds. The sylphs were near and they were singing, which meant they were on their lonely hunt. From the sound of the song, they had caught someone and even now dragged that luckless victim of their love into the deeper Wood.
The warrior would have gone on his way without a second thought. Sylphs, after all, are strange beings with their own customs, and while many might consider them foes, they were no danger to him or his at present. So he would have passed into the shadows and vanished from this story altogether, save that his nose caught a scent that brought him up short.
“Crescent Woman!”
The warrior turned and pursued the sylphs.
They moved in a swirling nexus, creatures of air and invisible beauty, unable to hold on to physical form for more than mere moments. In those moments, one might catch a glimpse of a face neither male nor female, of hair long and streaming, of eyes dark beyond existence, like
The Eldest nodded and turned once more to the window. His brow relaxed, then wrinkled again, and he leaned forward, squinting into the dusky garden. “Lights Above, is that the queen?” he said, his voice quavering. “What is she doing out at this hour? Quickly, boy, go tell her of her error before it gets too dark.”
6
A NEW PAIR OF EYES . Young eyes.
Eyes a hundred years old are still young . Eyes a thousand years old are still young. It’s all a matter of comparison.
These young eyes are keen and see many things, even blurred as they are by tears.
Tears . . . such a strange sensation! Not just the feel of water upon flesh or the burning inside the head . Tears fountain up from the soul. They wash or they drown, but they never truly cleanse. Not a soul such as this.
A strange feeling is a soul, especially one so fierce.
Look through these eyes into the Wood and wander, searching, searching, searching.
A gate into the Near World . That is what we—it—they—I! That is what I want! That world would be a good place to start again. And this one loves that world, loves that Land that is the only land to him. But he cannot find it. Looking through these eyes, there is only the Wood forever and ever.
The tears are blinding. Why must this soul sorrow? Only in death can there be new life. Why can they never understand? Why must they always—
Crescent Woman.
Long ago, he had called it the Gray Wood. Now it was simply the Wood to him as to all others, for it was not solely gray. All colors and no colors might be found in its ever-shifting deeps. He had learned this very soon upon entering (so long ago it seemed to him, for he could scarcely remember the day), and in learning, he had been afraid.
The young warrior did not fear the Wood now, however, as he moved through its depths. Blood stained his arms and neck, blood not his own. He would wash it off eventually, but for now he wore it as a badge of honor to the memory of the beloved dead.
And the watching eyes of the Wood drew back, trembling.
Few things might frighten him now, this stern-faced warrior whose features may have seemed youthful, save for those bloodstains. Around his neck he wore two cords of rough-woven fibers. On one was strung a stone that gleamed like gold or bronze. It was this that caught the eyes of the Wood and left the warrior with a clear path through the gloom.
But it was the second cord that drew his searching fingers. On it were strung two beads. One was red, painted with the crude image of a panther. The second—this one the warrior touched even now, unconscious and tender—was blue and painted with a white six-petaled flower.
Not far off, he heard the songs of sylphs. Their voices drew him up sharply, and he stood as still as a wildcat poised at the beginning of a hunt, his nose uplifted to catch scents, his head tilted to receive all possible sounds. The sylphs were near and they were singing, which meant they were on their lonely hunt. From the sound of the song, they had caught someone and even now dragged that luckless victim of their love into the deeper Wood.
The warrior would have gone on his way without a second thought. Sylphs, after all, are strange beings with their own customs, and while many might consider them foes, they were no danger to him or his at present. So he would have passed into the shadows and vanished from this story altogether, save that his nose caught a scent that brought him up short.
“Crescent Woman!”
The warrior turned and pursued the sylphs.
They moved in a swirling nexus, creatures of air and invisible beauty, unable to hold on to physical form for more than mere moments. In those moments, one might catch a glimpse of a face neither male nor female, of hair long and streaming, of eyes dark beyond existence, like
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