Faery Rebels (5 page)

Bryony sprang from the ground and flashed after the crow, wings buzzing furiously. In a heartbeat she had passed him and swung about to hover in the air, waiting to see what he would do.

She did not have to wait long. With a mad gleam in his eye he turned on her, and she was forced to flee. But even as the crow pursued her, Bryony felt no fear. A crow in full health was a swift and deadly flier, but she had wounded this one, and now he could barely keep up with her.

Bryony darted across the yard and into the shadow of the Oak, weaving her way easily between its wide-spaced branches. But just before she reached the trunk, she veered aside—while the crow, dazzled with pain and rage, smashed straight into it. She heard an awful crunch, a slithering sound followed by a thump, and then silence.

A shaft of golden light shot from the Oak as its topmost window burst open. Bryony caught a glimpse of Queen Amaryllis’s fair, furious face and raised a hand in
salute before circling back to find out what had become of her enemy.

Now that the frenzy of their combat had subsided, Bryony was disappointed to see that the crow lying crumpled across the Upper Knot Branch was not Old Wormwood, after all. It was a smaller crow, too young and inexperienced to be a good fighter—no wonder she had defeated him so quickly. Exhilaration fading, she lighted beside him with dagger drawn, ready to stab him the instant he moved. But there was no need, for his eyes had gone dull and his wings hung limp as rags. She prodded him gingerly with one foot, then jumped back as he slid off the branch and tumbled to the ground below. Her enemy was dead.

Only then did Bryony notice that her arm was bleeding. Light-headed, she folded to her knees as Bluebell exclaimed from the window above her: “Great merciful Gardener! Is that
Bryony
?”

“Go and fetch her,” said Queen Amaryllis’s voice. “Bring her to me.”

A moment later Bryony felt someone tugging her to her feet. “Ugh,” said Bluebell, and the supporting hands were hastily withdrawn. “She’s filthy.”

That was, unfortunately, true. Crows were dirty creatures at the best of times, and not all the blood on Bryony was her own. She turned her head, discovering at the same moment that her neck ached dreadfully, and saw Bluebell
regarding her with wary, almost fearful eyes.

“One moment,” said the Queen. “What is that weapon she carries?”

Bluebell bent to inspect the dagger still clutched in Bryony’s hand. “It appears to be made of metal, Your Majesty. A strange sort of knife.”

“Metal? What kind of metal?”

The Queen’s attendant touched the blade gingerly, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “Steel, my lady. Safe, I think.”

“Bring it, too,” said the Queen. Then she paused and added, “Have her bathe first.” She pulled back her shining head and closed the window.

“You heard Her Majesty,” said Bluebell. “You had better come with me.”

Sometime later, bandaged from wrist to elbow and freshly dressed in the cleanest tunic and breeches she could find, Bryony followed Bluebell up the last turn of the Spiral Stair to the Queen’s chambers.

As Bluebell, with lamp in hand, led her along the corridor Bryony stole quick glances into the rooms they passed. The first archway revealed a small audience chamber draped in scarlet curtains; next came a private bath with fixtures of polished stone and a mirror even larger than Wink’s; and last and most interesting, a library littered with open volumes and scribbled sheets of paper, as
though the Queen had been interrupted in the middle of some urgent study. Only one last door remained, and it was closed. Bluebell stopped and gave the brass knocker a respectful tap.

“Enter,” came the Queen’s voice from within.

Bluebell opened the door. “Your Majesty, Bryony is here.”

“Very well. You may leave us.”

The Queen’s attendant bowed her head and retreated. Bryony was left standing alone in the doorway, gazing about the chamber and thinking how much it reminded her of the House—though the furnishings here were older, and beginning to look a little worn. There was a wide feather bed with a post at each corner, and a table with two chairs upholstered in delicate needlework. The window, twice the size of any other in the Oak, looked straight out at the House—but it was closed now, the curtains drawn.

On the room’s far side stood a dressing table topped by an oval mirror, and there sat Amaryllis, combing her hair. She did not look up as Bryony approached and performed the ritual curtsy. Only when she had finished did Amaryllis put down her comb and turn gracefully in her seat, drawing her dressing gown about her.

“Precisely what did you mean by your reckless behavior?” she inquired.

Bryony met the Queen’s blue eyes with her own black ones. “To kill a crow, Your Majesty.”

“And so you did,” replied Amaryllis. “But why were you out so late at night?”

Bryony opened her mouth and shut it again, her color deepening. How could she explain without admitting that she had been to the House? At last she said, “Your Majesty, I hoped to rid our people of a dangerous enemy. And…I wanted to test my new weapon.”

“Ah, yes.” Amaryllis held out her hand. “Show me this metal knife of yours.”

Bryony drew the dagger from its sheath and held it out to the Queen, who took it in her long, white hands. “It appears,” she said dryly, holding the sharp edge up to the light, “to be effective. How did you come by it?”

Bryony bit the inside of her lip, unsure of how to answer.

“I asked you a question,” said the Queen. Her tone was mild, but as she spoke her shining wings lifted and spread wide, a wordless reminder of her magical power.

“I stole it,” said Bryony. “From the House.”

“Where the humans live.”

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to make a habit of disobeying my commands and risking your life?”

Bryony straightened her shoulders. “Your Majesty, I needed a better weapon to fight crows with, and I could see no other way to get it. Yes, I risked my life then, and I risked it again tonight, and I will continue to risk my life as long as
you call me your Hunter, because that is my duty.”

The Queen was silent a moment. Finally she said, “Disobedient you may be, but you are also courageous. I know of no Hunter who has ever killed a crow. Very well, you have my pardon—this time. But beware, child. You are no match for a human, and I do not wish you to enter their House again. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good.” Amaryllis folded her wings and turned back to the mirror, laying the knife down on the dressing table. “How then shall I reward your bravery?”

Bryony drew herself up. “Your Majesty…I would like to change my name.”

“Is that all?” asked the Queen. “But that privilege has always been yours; surely you knew that. Tomorrow, when I confirm you publicly as my new Hunter, you may choose for yourself whichever common-name you please.”

“But you wouldn’t let me choose just
any
name,” said Bryony. “Not the one I really want.” She gestured to the blade upon the table.

The Queen sat back in her chair, regarding Bryony’s reflection with narrowed eyes. “Do I understand you rightly? You must know that none of our people has ever taken such a name.”

“I know.”

“You are determined to be different, aren’t you?” the
Queen murmured, and then in brisker tones, “Very well. I shall announce your choice to the others tomorrow. But should you die in battle, that name will not pass to your egg-daughter.”

“That’s all right,” said Bryony. “I wouldn’t want it to. Your Majesty, may I withdraw? I am…tired.”

“You may.” The Queen picked up the dagger, turned, and held it hilt-first out to her. “Here is your weapon: I give it to you. And if anyone should ask how you came by it, you will tell them so—that you received it as a gift from me.”

Which would satisfy the other faeries’ curiosity about where the blade had come from, without letting them suspect that their Hunter had visited the House. Looking into Amaryllis’s level eyes, Bryony felt a surge of admiration: No wonder she was the Queen. “I will,” she said, taking the knife with care.

“Then you are dismissed,” said Amaryllis.

Bryony curtsied and backed out of the room. Bluebell met her in the corridor, clucking disapproval at the weapon in her hand. “Really, Bryony—”

“No.”

“‘No’? ‘No’ what?”

“From now on,” said Bryony firmly, “you can call me Knife.”

“T
his will hurt a little,” warned Valerian, her scissors poised above the line of stitches in Knife’s arm.

“It can’t hurt any worse than it did when you put them in,” said Knife. “Go on.”

Valerian sighed and set to work, while Knife stared at the wall of the Healer’s room and tried not to flinch. She hadn’t reckoned on this when she became a Hunter. Oh, she had known that the work could be dangerous, and that she was bound to get injured now and then. But after living all her life in the safety of the Oak she’d had very little idea of what being wounded felt like, or how long it would take to recover. Even now, with her first battle scar still livid and tender upon her skin, it was hard to believe how close she had come to death, or how fortunate she was that the injury
had not been worse. Skin and muscle would heal, given time, but if it had been her wing…

Knife repressed a shudder. Best not to even think about that.

“Do you think,” said Valerian, putting down the scissors and looking at Knife with her searching gray eyes, “that you may have done enough now, at least for a while?”

“Done enough what?” Knife said, not quite meeting the Healer’s gaze. She hopped off the table and stretched her arm experimentally. The skin pulled a little, but it already felt better without the stitches.

Valerian wiped her hands on a towel and began untying her apron. “I think you know what I mean, Knife. Not that I mind having new and interesting injuries to treat, but if you wanted everyone in the Oak to know that you’re a good Hunter, I think you have already proven that quite sufficiently.”

Knife blinked. Was Valerian actually trying to have a
conversation
with her? The idea was so bizarre, so unfaerylike, that it took her a moment to think of a reply. “I know that,” she said. In fact she had known it for some time, for as soon as the news that she had killed a crow had reached the rest of the Oakenfolk, they had become much more respectful toward her. It had taken them a few days to adjust to her new name, but not even Mallow dared to order her about anymore.

“Then why,” asked Valerian in a voice edged with impatience, “do you keep taking such terrible risks?”

There was no easy answer to that question. “Because I have to,” Knife replied, and it was true, although she knew Valerian would never understand. How could she explain to someone who had spent decades quietly holed up in the Oak, content with her books and her surgeon’s kit, that being a heartbeat from death was the only way to truly feel alive?

“Well,” said Valerian, “try not to do too much with that arm for another week or so. A few stretching exercises each morning and night, and this ointment”—she handed the pot to Knife—“worked well into the skin, should help it heal. But come and see me, if you please, before you do anything too strenuous.”

Knife nodded.

“Then I give you good evening,” said Valerian, and let her go.

Days passed, and the pain in Knife’s arm subsided; Valerian examined the scar and reluctantly pronounced her fit for duty. By then the Oakenfolk were clamoring for meat, tallow, and other necessities, and Knife found herself so busy that she had no time to visit the House or even think about the humans. All her spare moments were spent on exercise and weapons practice, trying to get her weakened muscles
back into fighting shape; by the end of the day she was so exhausted that she simply fell into bed and lay there senseless until morning.

When the workers arrived, however, backing their metal wagons into the House’s front drive and filling the once-quiet Oakenwyld with their appalling mechanical din, it was impossible not to take notice. At first the Oakenfolk were terrified, and it was all the Queen herself could do to reassure them. Then, as the pounding and screeching went on day after day, their fear turned to resignation, and finally to impatience.

“What are they doing in there, anyway?” demanded Campion one night at supper. “Knife, you should know, if anyone does. Have you seen anything?”

Knife was tempted to ask the Librarian what she was prepared to offer in exchange for the knowledge, but she knew bargaining would be futile when she had so little information to offer. “They’re changing the inside of the House,” she replied shortly, helping herself to a third serving of roasted finch and shoving the empty platter back down the table.

“What for?”

“I don’t know.” She had watched the downstairs bathroom being gutted; she had also noticed that the study had been moved to the upper floor. But the humans—
her
humans—were still away from the House more often than not, so she
had no idea why these drastic changes were necessary.

“So many humans in the Oakenwyld now,” said Linden, one of the Gatherers, with a shudder. “Too many.”

“They’ll be gone soon enough,” came Thorn’s voice flatly from the end of the table. “And your bleating isn’t going to make them move on any sooner, now, is it?” She pushed back her bench and stalked away.

“What’s she so angry about?” asked Knife, but her only answer was a series of shrugs. Only Wink looked troubled by Thorn’s outburst, but a moment later she returned to her meal as though nothing had happened, leaving Knife wondering if she had seen that anxious look at all.

Eventually the commotion in the House subsided, and the workers packed up their wagons and drove away. Over the next few days Knife made a survey of the renovations and found that outside the front step had been replaced by a wooden ramp, while inside the former study now contained a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a double bed. The workers seemed to have done something to the stairs as well, but as no window overlooked the staircase, Knife could not be sure. All that noise, all that fuss—why?

Fortunately, she did not have to wait long for an answer. That night George and Beatrice returned to the House together, and Knife crouched beside the back door, watchful and listening.

“He’ll be out on the fifth,” said the man, methodically buttering a scone.

His wife stopped with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “He—said that?”

“They told me. When I stopped to see him today.”

“But he didn’t speak to you?”

George’s jaw tightened. “No.”

“You told him he’s coming home?”

“I told him. He just looked at me.”

Beatrice lowered her head, the lines around her mouth deepening.

“He’ll be all right once he gets here,” said her husband. “You’ll see.”

“It’ll be nice,” said Beatrice, with desperate brightness, “to have him home again. Won’t it.”

“Yes,” said George in a thin voice, “very nice.”

“You’re wanted by Her Majesty,” called Bluebell from the top of the Spiral Stair, and Knife, four turns down on her way to breakfast, stopped short. “What?” she said.

“I said, the Queen wants you. At once.”

Grudgingly Knife turned around and trudged back up to the landing where Bluebell stood. “Why?” she asked.

Bluebell ignored the question. Instead, she walked briskly along the corridor, pulled aside the curtains, and ushered Knife into the Queen’s private audience chamber.

“I have summoned you,” said Amaryllis from her throne, “because I have just received news that the crow known as Old Wormwood has returned.”

Knife was startled. How could he have come back to the Oakenwyld without her knowing it? But the Queen went on:

“One of the Gatherers reported that a large crow attacked their party just after dawn, as they were heading toward the wood. They were fortunate enough to find places to hide before it could harm them, but two of the workers had nervous fits and had to be carried back. I would prefer that this not happen again.”

“You want me to kill him?” asked Knife.

“I would not ask you to take such a risk,” said the Queen. “He has killed one Hunter already; I do not wish to lose another. No, your task will be to escort the Gatherers whenever they go out. Their work is vital to our survival, and nothing must be permitted to hinder them.”

Guard duty. Inwardly Knife groaned, but she kept her voice polite as she said, “For how long?”

“As long as the threat remains. I trust you will still be able to carry out your own duties while you wait for the Gatherers to finish theirs?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

Knife bowed and left the room with every appearance of calm, but her thoughts were in turmoil. The Gatherers had spotted Old Wormwood before she did—that was a serious blow. It was the Hunter’s task to watch for predators, and she had failed in that duty….

“Did the Queen tell you?” said a timid voice at her elbow, and Knife turned to see Holly, the Chief Gatherer, standing there.

“About Old Wormwood?” she said. “Yes.”

“He’s huge.” Her eyes were haunted. “And fast—I’ve never seen a crow move that fast before. He pecked a hole straight through Linden’s basket.” She shuddered visibly before going on: “So will you be coming with us tomorrow? The others—we all want to know.”

“I’m coming,” said Knife.

“You’ll meet us right at sunrise? And you’ll stay with us all the way to the forest and back again?”

“I’ll bring my bow,” Knife told her. “And I’ll keep close watch. I won’t let the crow get near you.”

Color rushed back into Holly’s face, a pink wave of relief. She bobbed a curtsy and hurried back down the Spiral Stair.

Knife followed in gloomy silence, fingers drumming on the sheathed blade at her side. There was no help for it: Her duty was clear. She must put her curiosity about the humans aside, and concentrate on the task the Queen had given her.
The double load of work would be exhausting, and now it might be weeks before she found out what had happened to Paul.

It would be so much easier if she could put the humans out of her mind, convince herself that they didn’t matter. But she couldn’t forget the woman’s stricken face, or the man’s voice cracking on the words
very nice.

Perhaps she was getting too attached to the humans.

Over the next few days Knife carried out the Queen’s command, watching over the Gatherers as they worked. Once she had seen them safely across the open field, she busied herself with her own duties, hunting when they foraged and dressing her kills while they unloaded their baskets at the Oak. All the while she kept an eye out for Old Wormwood, but there was no sign of him.

Sometime during that week—though when exactly, Knife never knew—Paul arrived at the House. Despite her weariness, Knife did everything she could to catch a glimpse of him, but he always seemed to be in his room with the curtains drawn, or the lights turned out, or both.

“He doesn’t say a word to me all day,” Beatrice sobbed. “Never a single word. He looks through me like I’m not there.”

“There’s no excuse for it,” her husband said, setting down his teacup with unnecessary force. “There’s nothing
wrong with his tongue, or his brain. It’s just stubbornness, that’s all.”

“George, don’t,” implored the woman. “Be patient with him. He’s been through so much—we don’t know what might be wrong.”

And I don’t even know what he
looks
like
, thought Knife in frustration.
A blight on Old Wormwood
,
and the Queen
,
and all her precious Gatherers, too—this has been the longest week of my life.

That week, however, came to an abrupt and spectacular end when Knife, with eight weary Gatherers in tow, climbed up the slope at the Oakenwyld’s western border to find a peculiar obstacle blocking their way to the Oak. Through a gap in the hedge Knife glimpsed a flash of sunlight on polished metal, the black-edged curve of an enormous wheel. With a chopping motion she directed the others to lie flat, and crawled beneath the bushes to examine the monstrous machine more closely.

She assumed it was some new gardening tool that the humans had left on the lawn, but as soon as she emerged from the hedge she realized her mistake.
Great Gardener. It’s him.

He sat upon a silver throne, a book laid open on his knees: a young king, uncrowned and plainly dressed. He was slim, with broad shoulders and long arms wiry with muscle, and Knife thought he must be nearly as tall as his
father when he stood. The wind blew his pale hair across his brow; he shook it back with an impatient movement of his head—

And froze, staring. At her. At Knife.

She couldn’t move. Her mouth worked dryly; her hand quivered on the hilt of the dagger at her hip. All the while those blue eyes regarded her unblinking, while wonder dawned on Paul McCormick’s face. She was only just out of reach; one lunge would put her in his grasp. But he did not move.

“Paul!” came a shrill cry from the direction of the House.

He turned his head toward the sound, and the spell shattered; Knife dove back through the hedge to find the shivering Gatherers waiting for her.

“I’m coming to bring you in,” Beatrice shouted across the lawn. “It’s time for tea.”

“What do we do?” whimpered Clover, her nails digging into Knife’s arm. Knife grimaced and shook her off.

“Just wait,” she breathed. “He’ll be gone in a moment.”

They all went still, listening to the crunch of footsteps on the fresh-mown grass. Just visible on the other side of the hedge, the woman’s stocking-clad legs appeared. “There now,” she said, and the wheels of the silver throne turned toward the House.

“You were right beside him,” whispered Holly in Knife’s
ear. “So close—to a
human
. Weren’t you afraid?”

“No,” said Knife distractedly, watching Paul’s seated figure shrink toward the House and finally vanish through the back door. She turned to the others. “It’s safe now. Pick up your baskets and let’s go.”

“Did he see you?” squeaked another voice.

Knife ducked under the hedge and began walking toward the Oak, not looking back.

“Of course not,” she said.