Moonkind (Winterling) (8 page)

Fourteen

Rook crouched outside the Way that led into Fer’s land, waiting for sunrise, when it would open, and picturing plump, juicy rabbits roasting over an open fire. His stomach growled, and he growled back at it. He was tired from the long run across the prairie, and he knew Fer’s stupid wolf-guards were not going to listen to him. The whole situation made him cranky.

At last the sun came up. The Way opened, and he stepped through into the clearing in the Summerlands.

Rain pounded down from a gloomy sky. Rook was soaked in an instant. He pushed soggy hair out of his eyes to see, and something hit him hard from the side. Down he went, onto the sodden grass with the wolf-guard girl sitting on his chest; a fierce fox-girl grabbed each of his arms. “Get
off
,” he yelled, and tried to squirm out of their grip.

The wolf bared her teeth. “Where is Ladyfer?” she snarled. “She left here with you, Puck, and she hasn’t come back.”

Oof, the wolf-girl was heavy. “She’s in trouble,” he gasped. Rain slashed into his eyes; the wolf-guard loomed over him, a dripping shadow.

“If she’s in trouble, Puck, it must be your fault,” the wolf-guard growled. “Come on. You’re not wanted here.” She climbed off him and jerked him to his feet, holding him by the front of his coat. The fox-girls were still gripping his arms. A male wolf-guard stepped up and grabbed him by the collar from behind.

“Is it biting time?” the wolf behind him asked; his breath was hot and stinky on the back of Rook’s neck.

“You’ve been eating rabbits, haven’t you,” Rook gasped.

The girl wolf-guard scowled. “Yes, bite him if he gives us any trouble.” She looked over her shoulder. “The Way is still open.” She and the fox-girls dragged him toward it; the wolf-guard pushed. “Out you go again, Puck.”

He struggled, but there were too many of them.
“No,”
he protested.

From the direction of the forest he heard a whinny; he squinted through the rain, and saw Phouka, his mane and tail bedraggled, prance into the clearing. “Brother!” he shouted.

Phouka trotted across the clearing, pushed a badger-man out of his path, and stood blocking the Way; then he gave a snort that sounded like the horse equivalent of a laugh.

Rook summoned up a grin. It
was
a little funny, after all: Fer’s people trying to shove him out the Way like this, when he’d come here because their Lady needed help.

“Puck,” the wolf-girl warned.

He wiped the smile from his face. “Look, you stupid wolf—” he started, growling.

No, wait. That wasn’t the way to convince her. He dredged around in his memory and came up with her name. “Fray,” he said. That got her attention; she leaned closer.

At that moment, Fer’s bee, which had been hiding from the rain under the embroidered collar of Rook’s coat, crawled out and then onto Fray’s hand, where she was gripping him.

With a cry, the wolf-guard let him go; she cupped her hands and the bee sheltered inside, safe from the rain. “The Lady’s bee!”

“See?” Rook asked. He glared down at the fox-girls; they glared back, but released his arms. The other wolf-guard let him go too. He shrugged his sopping-wet coat straight again. “The bee came to warn me. Your Lady is in trouble.” With his wet sleeve, he swiped the rain off his face. “I can help her, but I need your help to do it.”

A grumble of thunder echoed across the sky. The rain came down harder, a chilly, gray curtain. He shivered. Come
on
, Wolf.

“All right,” the wolf-guard said, and nodded toward the forest. “We’ll get out of the rain, and you’ll tell us what’s going on.” Then she leaned closer to Rook and dropped her voice into a rumbling growl even lower than the thunder. “But if you are trying to trick us, Puck, you will regret it for the rest of your short and miserable life.”

In the morning, Fer woke up and realized that she wasn’t alone.

At the edge of the tower perched a big, gray-and-white bird.

She sat up. At her movement, the bird—a seagull, Fer realized—fluttered its wings, but then it settled down again. It looked bedraggled; its feathers were ruffled, as if it had been flying for a long time. Maybe the steady wind had blown it here.

“Hello,” Fer said, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

The seagull cocked its head and looked at her out of one beady, golden eye.

Fer’s stomach growled. “I’m hungry,” she told the seagull.

She straightened her patched jacket, combed her short hair with her fingers, and climbed down the narrow steps to the ground. To her surprise, the seagull swooped down to perch on a rock next to her.

“You’re somebody to talk to, anyway,” Fer said. Her mouth felt even drier than it had the day before. Her stomach growled again, like a deep, empty pit. The kelp was not going to be much of a breakfast.

She eyed the seagull. It eyed her back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to eat you.”

If Rook were here, she found herself thinking, he’d want to eat the seagull.

“No,” she told herself. “I’m not going to think about Rook.” Or the dead Lady, or any of that. The only thing she had to focus on was surviving this prison.

In the tower, she’d found the shard of rock, and that had saved her. Maybe she’d missed something when she first explored the island. She went over every inch of ground again, followed by the curious seagull, looking for something that might help her. Halfway through the morning, she crawled down to the lower part of the island, where the waves flung themselves onto the rocks and then sucked back in a foaming rush. All along the edge of the sea was seaweed and, clinging to the rocks, clusters of sleek, black mussels. As a wave washed out, Fer edged down, ripped up a handful of the mussels, and retreated to the higher rocks. The mussels felt cold and heavy, and were covered with seaweed that looked like moss. She set them down on a patch of warm rock.

The seagull hopped up beside her.

Fer licked her lips. She was
so
thirsty, and so hungry. If she smashed the shells open, the mussels might be juicy and delicious. But . . .

Mussels didn’t have eyes or brains, and they weren’t like cows or pigs or chickens, but they were meat. She knew what Grand-Jane would have to say about that—and at the thought of her grandmother she felt a sudden, fierce pang of lonesomeness that made a sob catch at her throat. No tears, though; her eyes were too dry.

The seagull reached down with its long, yellow beak and tapped at one of the mussels.

Fer sighed. “You’re right,” she croaked. “I’m not going to eat these.” Anyway, it was water she needed most, not food. She gathered them up in her hands and tossed them back onto the rocks at the edge of the island.

By afternoon, her stomach had stopped growling. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand. “I’d better stay out of the sun,” she whispered. And out of the wind, which blew and blew without stopping. The seagull hunched and turned its beak into that wind, looking like an old man wearing a gray raincoat.

Fer huddled in the shadow of the tower. As the sun marched across the sky, the shadow moved, and she moved with it.

Nobody was coming. The bubbles of laughter were all gone. Her eyes felt gritty and her mouth felt as dry as paper. Her words were drying up too.

Fifteen

The Summerlands had moved well into autumn since Rook had left with Fer. The rain had thinned to a chilly drizzle, and fog crept in among the roots and dying ferns. In the gray air, the red and yellow and orange leaves of the trees glowed like a banked fire in a bed of ashes. The leaves of the Lady Tree, a huge, silver-barked beech tree, were a deep purple brown; raindrops dripped from every twig.

Rook crouched just inside the door of Fer’s house in the Lady Tree’s branches. A cold breeze blew in from outside, but he didn’t want to go farther into the room, where it was warmer. His brother Phouka was on the ground below the Tree, waiting. Across the room were Fer’s most trusted people, all frowning and ranked against him and disbelieving every word that he said, curse them. Up where the roof peaked overhead, the rest of Fer’s bees hovered in a grumbling swarm.

He shivered and his stomach growled, the sound loud in the silence. A few last drops of rain spattered on the roof.

He had told them about what had happened at the nathe, how he and Fer had made the mistake with the Birch-Lady’s glamorie. He held up his hand and they’d edged closer to look suspiciously at the bit of shadow-web that was etched across his palm. He didn’t tell them about how Fer had broken the thread that had connected them, but he did tell how Fer had left, and then how her bee had found him.

“It’s a good story,” the wolf-guard Fray said, frowning. “I’m not sure I believe it.”

The bee had settled on his collar again.
Zmmmzimzimrm,
it buzzed.

“See?” Rook said, pointing at it. “The bee says I’m telling the truth.”

Fray shook her head. “Only the Lady can understand the bees, you lying puck.”

Really? “Why are you talking to me, then, bee?” he asked it.

The bee gave a smug buzz.

Curse it. “Look,” he said to Fer’s people. “Night is coming. When the Way opens, I’m going through it whether you are with me or not, and I’m going back to another Way that is guarded by the Forsworn, because Fer is on the other side of it. Maybe I’ll get through, or maybe they’ll kill me, but I’m going.”

Their grim faces watched him.

“I need your help,” he finished, “if you’ll give it to me.” As he spoke, he realized how unlikely that would be. A Lady’s people, helping a puck. It’d never happen. He’d have to go stupidly die trying to get Fer out of whatever trouble she was in, and maybe she would die too.

“Idiots,” he muttered. Wearily he got to his feet and went out, then climbed down a rope ladder to the ground, where Phouka was waiting.

He leaned against the rough bark of the tree; his brother nudged him in the shoulder with his nose. “D’you suppose they’ve got any rabbits around here?” he asked.

Phouka gave his snorting laugh.

“Fine for you,” Rook grumbled. “You eat grass.”

He could eat grass too, in his horse shape. But rabbits were better. He tossed his shifter-tooth under his tongue and shifted into his dog shape, and went out to hunt for something juicy and long-eared and delicious to eat.

Later, as the day grew darker, he loped to the Way, ready to head out and set himself up as a target for Forsworn arrows. At least he’d be full of rabbit when they got him; that was something.

As he entered the clearing, his ears twitched; he shifted into his person shape and cocked his head, listening. Then, from behind, came Fer’s bees in a glittering swarm. They swooped past and spun into a buzzing whirlwind all around him. Then they hovered over his head as if waiting.

They
were
waiting.

“You’re coming?” he asked.

Their answer was a muted roar of a buzz—
yes
, it meant.

“You
are
talking to me,” Rook muttered. That didn’t make any sense at all.

From behind him came the sound of heavy footsteps in the misty woods; he turned to see the wolf-guard Fray; she had a long knife sheathed at her waist. With her came one of the twin fox-girls—Twig, he thought it was—and following them came Phouka.

Fray strode to the middle of the clearing, a few paces from where the Way would open, and folded her arms. “We’re going to save our Lady,” she said. “But you’re coming with
us
, Puck; we’re not going with
you
. Understand? The bee made a mistake. It should have come to us. We’re in charge. We’re giving the orders.”

“And you—” The tiny fox-girl narrowed her eyes and folded her arms just like the much larger wolf-girl. “You’re obeying the orders.”

“Oh, sure,” Rook said warily.

“All right, then,” Fray said.

“All right,” the fox-girl echoed.

They stood in silence, waiting for the Way to open. Phouka stamped impatiently. The bees hovered over Rook’s head; the one bee was clinging to his coat collar. His clothes were still damp from the rain; as the night drew on the air grew colder, and he started shivering. He’d shift into his dog shape for its warm fur, except that he had to tell them some things.

“Look, Fray,” he started.

“We don’t want to talk to you, Puck,” the wolf-guard said, staring straight ahead.

“Just listen, then.” He kept going before she could tell him to stop. “We could have a problem when we get to the Way I told you about.” He’d had time during the long afternoon to think it through. It was going to be tricky. He’d have his teeth and fierceness in his dog form, and Phouka could fight, and the bees might be even better allies. Fray and the fox-girl were loyal to Fer—and Fer was loyal to them—but if there was any fighting . . .

“Those Forsworn I was telling you about,” he went on. “The ones guarding the Way where Fer is. They’re Lords and Ladies, and they’re wearing glamories. They might be hard to resist.”

The wolf-guard gave a sharp nod; she and the fox-girl exchanged a glance. “Fer is our Lady, and she’s sworn to us, too,” Fray said gruffly. “We won’t be ruled by anyone, especially not these Forsworn ones.”

Good. But they’d still have to be careful.

At last the long afternoon ended; the sun went down behind the heavy clouds, and the Way opened. They followed the bee through the winding trail of Ways until they came to the Way that led to the prairie land. They went through that wide-open Way . . .

And walked straight into an ambush.

The bees gave the first warning, shooting ahead as Rook stepped into the long prairie grass with the wolf-girl beside him and Phouka and the fox-girl, Twig, right behind. An arrow scraped across Phouka’s shoulder, and he whinnied and shoved past Rook as he shied away.

“Get down!” Rook shouted, and pulled Fray with him as he fell. Arrows whizzed over their heads. He peered through the waving grasses. Thirty paces away, the Forsworn were lined up, tall and proud; one of them, a delicate bird-man, pulled another arrow from his quiver and gracefully pulled back his bow, ready to shoot; two of the others held long knives, the fourth a drawn bow.

If only Fer were with them, Rook found himself thinking—she was as good an archer as they were.

The glamories of the Forsworn were dazzling under the brilliant sun and the clear, blue sky. They were too bright, really. More dazzling than a glamorie should be. Rook blinked away the glare and with his puck-vision caught a glimpse of the ancient creatures cowering behind the blaze of beauty.

“Now what?” Fray asked.

“I thought you were giving the orders,” Rook muttered. He glanced back. The Way out of the prairie lands stood open fifteen paces behind them, a wide space shimmering among the waving grasses and flowers. Phouka had galloped out of range of the Forsworns’ arrows; Twig crouched next to Fray, her sharp teeth bared, as if she was ready to fight. The bees hovered in a buzzing cloud just overhead. “I think we can fight them,” he answered. It’d have to be the bees that gave them a chance. “If we—” he started, but the Forsworn interrupted.

“Give the puck to us,” one of the Forsworn Lords shouted. “Give him to us, you Summerkin, and we’ll give you your Lady and let you go.” He stepped closer; the other Forsworn, a Lord and two Ladies, started to glide sideways through the grass, surrounding them.

Fray turned to Rook, frowning.

He could practically
see
her deciding to hand him over. “They’re lying,” he whispered. “They are not going to let Fer out of wherever they’ve put her.”

“You don’t know that, Puck,” Fray growled back.

“You idiot!” he snarled. “They’re Forsworn.” He gripped her shoulder and gave her a little shake. “Their glamories are hiding their lies from you. We have to fight them!”

Fray blinked and shoved his hand away. The fox-girl edged closer, watching Rook with sharp eyes.

Before the wolf-guard could make her decision, the bees made their move. With a shrieking buzz they broke away from where they’d been hovering over Rook’s head and shot through the air like golden arrows, straight toward the Forsworn.

“Come on!” Rook shouted, and as he leaped to his feet, he shifted into his dog shape and charged. He took a bound and felt an arrow flit past him, and caught a quick glimpse of Fray and Twig following him, Fray drawing her long knife from its sheath.

Hopefully they were coming to help, not grab him for the Forsworn.

Rook leaped past an archer cowering from a swarm of bees and, ducking a slash from a Lord’s knife, bore him to the ground, snarling—but, keeping his promise to Fer, he was careful not to touch him with the forepaw that had the shadow-web stuck to it. Quickly he shifted into his person shape and the Lord rolled him over in the long grass and raised his knife to stab. Rook laughed and popped the shifter-bone into his mouth, and the Lord dropped the knife to dodge Rook’s flailing horse hooves as he scrambled to stand on his four legs.

In a flash, Rook shifted again to his person shape and picked up the long knife. Panting, he held it up to the Lord’s throat. “Hold,” he shouted. The Lord froze, still kneeling on the ground. With a wild glance over his shoulder, Rook saw that Fray and Twig each had a Lord or Lady at bay, and Phouka stood over the fourth Forsworn with a hoof on her chest. The bees swooped around them, buzzing and bright against the blue sky. He shot them a fierce grin. They’d won.

Now it was time to go get Fer.