Summerkin (15 page)

Twenty-one

As night came on, heavy clouds drew in over Fer's grandmother's house, and tiny flakes of snow started to fall. Even in his dog shape, Rook felt the cold creep in under his fur. He lurked around the yard for a while, then found a warmish place under the beehives and settled there.

Inside the house, the rooms went dark, and all was silent. The snow sifted down, fine as ash. He watched it dust the grass and the back steps of the house and the roof. Then a wind came along and blew the dusty flakes into a whirl. He shivered and rested his muzzle on his front paws. Fer's bee nestled inside his ear. It tickled, but at least the bee would be warmer.

He hadn't slept the night before, and he was hungry enough to eat ten rabbits and tired enough to curl up in a corner and sleep for days, but his body felt like a rope stretched tight and about to break. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.

All night he watched. Then all the next day and all the next long, long, sleepless night.

By his third morning in the human world, he felt not like a dog, but a starveling stone statue of a dog, still and frozen.

The sky was lightening to gray when the back door of the house creaked open. Fer's grandmother stepped out, then cast a sharp look around the yard. He kept to the shadows where she couldn't see him.

She breathed out steam in the cold air, and Rook expected her to go back into the house, but instead she pulled a blanket over her shoulders and sat down on the steps.

“I know you're out there, Rook,” she said quietly, but loud enough for his dog-ears to hear.

Grrrr. Fer must have told her his true name.

“Come out from where you're hiding,” she called.

Rook got stiffly to his paws and eased out from under the beehives. Warily, he edged toward the house, his paws crunching on the snow-dusted grass.

She spotted him at once and got to her feet. “Change yourself,” she ordered sharply.

He froze. What?

“I won't talk to you in your dog shape,” she said. “I'm going to ask you questions, and I want answers.”

Oh. Nothing else for it, then. He spat out the shifter-tooth, and the change hit him like a brick to the head. He came out of the darkness to find his cheek pressed to the icy ground; turning his head, he saw Grand-Jane's boots, standing right next to him. He looked up, and up, and there was her stern face, scowling down at him.

“What's the matter with you?” she asked.

He didn't answer, just pulled himself into a crouch, shivering, his head still spinning. Fer's bee circled him once, then settled onto his sleeve, as if it was tired too.

“Where is Jennifer?” Grand-Jane asked.

He shook his head.

He heard her take a sharp breath. “Is she all right?”

“She's—” He coughed. “She's in trouble.”

A silence. Grand-Jane making up her mind, he guessed, about whether to believe him or not. Then, a sigh. “You'd better come inside.” She turned, and he watched her booted feet pace across the grass, then up the stairs and into the house. The door stayed open.

He really, really didn't want to go into the house. The bee gave an encouraging buzz. “All right,” he muttered. Maybe he'd be better off in there than turning into a frozen statue out here. And maybe she'd give him something to eat. After dragging himself to his feet, he followed Grand-Jane inside.

The room was as he remembered from the last time he'd been here. Bright colors, a rag rug on the floor, a square box humming in the corner, a row of magical herbs along a windowsill. And it was warm.

He closed the door and leaned wearily against the wall next to it.

Fer's grandmother faced him across the room. She said something, but he was too tired to make sense of her words. All he could do was stare at her. With an irritated huff, she pointed at a chair next to a table, then went to the noisy box and took some things out of it.

He stumbled over to the chair and sat down, watching her. She'd taken out eggs and butter, and then pulled out a pan and used some kind of magic to start a fire, and started cooking the eggs.

His nose twitched. The cooking food smelled delicious. She cut a slice of bread.
You can have the slice
, he wanted to say.
I'll eat the rest of the loaf
.

At last the food was ready, and she dropped a full plate on the table before him, then set down a fork and knife. His stomach growled. It wasn't fresh rabbits, but it would do.

He spread some butter on a piece of bread and took a big bite. It tasted like ashes, like the old woman had scooped ashes out of a fire pit, molded them into a loaf, and baked it. He choked it down and picked up the fork. Maybe the eggs were all right. He took a bite. The same thing—ashes. He put down the fork and stared at the food.

“What's the matter with it?” Fer's grandmother asked. She stood at the counter, watching him.

He held up his hand. It looked all right, except that it was shaking a little. He clenched it into a fist. So this was how the fading worked. In this world he couldn't eat, and he couldn't sleep, and the air and ground and water were poisonous to him, and that meant it wouldn't be long at all before he was gone.

“Well?” Grand-Jane asked.

Part of him wanted to snarl at her. Stupid human in her tame, deadly, human world. He felt a growl building in his chest.

“Don't you growl at me, Puck,” she said, glaring. “I ask you for the third time—where is Jennifer?”

The question asked three times wrenched the answer out of him. “I told you,” Rook flared. “She's in trouble.” That wasn't enough of an answer, so he went on. “I don't know where she is. In the nathe, maybe. She swore an oath to—” He shook his head. “To something old and evil that wants her land for himself.” Suddenly everything—the human house, the headache, his hunger and exhaustion—it all came down on him at the same time. Fer was lost. She was on the other side of the Way and the Way was closed, and there was nothing he or her grandmother could do about it.

 

When Grand-Jane realized he couldn't eat or sleep, she said she'd make up a special tea for him, one that might help.

“It's not going to help,” he growled at her.

Ignoring him, she went into a workroom next to her kitchen. He followed, Fer's bee clinging to his collar again. As she put a kettle on another magical fire to boil and started mixing herbs, Rook paced, explaining to her what had happened at the nathe, how Arenthiel had stolen the crown and accused Rook of the crime, and how he'd tricked Fer into swearing him an oath, and that Arenthiel would soon become the Lord of the Summerlands, Fer's land. He didn't even bother telling her the worst of it, that his brother-pucks were being hunted down and killed. “It's already too late to do anything about any of it,” he concluded.

“Hmm,” Grand-Jane said, and pointed with her chin at a high shelf. “Get that bottle for me.”

Rook reached up and grabbed a bottle and set it on the workbench beside her.

“So you say Jennifer swore an oath to this creature,” Grand-Jane said. She added a pinch of dried leaves to a mortar. “Why did she do that?”

He didn't want to tell her this part of it. “She thought it was to save my life.”

Grand-Jane's eyebrows shot up. “She must think very highly of you.”

“No,” he shot back. “She was being stupid.”

“Hmm.” Grand-Jane reached for another bag of dried herbs. “Maybe a little peppermint to help with the crankiness.” She added it to the mortar, then tipped the mixture into a little cloth bag, which she put into a mug; then she poured in hot water. She turned and leaned back against the workbench and pointed her bony finger at Rook. “Did you see her swear the oath to that creature?”

He blinked. “No. He told me she did.”

“Then you're the one being stupid. I don't believe for a second that Jennifer swore an oath to someone as evil as you say. That means she must be fighting him for her land.”

He stared at her. Was she right? Was Fer fighting Arenthiel?

She turned and picked up the hot tea and handed it to him. “Now, try this.”

The tea tasted awful, like ashes mixed with rotting leaves, but he choked it down, and it made him feel a little less tired and hungry.

“Now,” Grand-Jane said firmly, pulling more of her bags of herbs from the shelves. “Jennifer will need our help. The Way is closed to us, but if she opens it and comes here, we must be ready.”

Twenty-two

Fer stood at the Way, listening. Phouka stood beside her with his head lowered. She heard his snorting breath as he recovered from the run, and the muttering and rustling of the pucks. But nothing from the Way. It was closed, sealed until morning against those who hunted them. Arenthiel was a dire enough enemy, but she'd have to face Gnar and her dragon-mount too, and Lich and his terribly accurate arrows, and both of them were wearing glamories. She wasn't sure how to fight them, let alone defeat them.

“Come, Lady,” Fray said from behind her. “You must rest so you will be ready for the morning.”

In the clearing, night had fallen. Most of the pucks had shifted back into their person shapes and crouched at one end of the clearing, watching her warily.

Her bees, exhausted, settled onto her hair and shoulders like a golden cloak.

“You all right, Lady Gwynnefar?” came Fray's voice at her shoulder.

Fer nodded. Tired, but okay. And she couldn't think yet about fighting the hunt. She had something else to do first. “I have to get to the Way that leads to the human world.”

Fray frowned. “Lady, you must rest, or you won't have the strength to stop Arenthiel from taking this land. You can't risk saving that puck.”

“He's my friend, Fray.”

“You have other friends,” Fray said darkly. “And that puck would have stolen the crown if Arenthiel hadn't stolen it first.”

“Maybe,” Fer answered. “But I can't leave him in the human world to die.”

“What about them?” Fray asked, pointing at the pucks, who lurked in a surly crowd on the other side of the clearing.

Oh, they weren't going to like this. “I'll talk to them,” Fer said. “Fray, go with Twig to the Lady Tree and start getting everybody ready to fight. I'll be along soon.”

After grumbling about leaving Fer alone with the pucks, Fray left with Twig.

Fer headed across the clearing. The resting bees murmured, lifting, then settling again. The leader-puck stepped forward to meet her.

“What's your name?” Fer asked him.

“Robin,” he answered shortly.

Of course, Robin. The same name Rook used with people he didn't trust. Must be a puck thing. “And they're all Robin too?” Fer asked waving at the other pucks.

The leader-puck gave her an ironic bow.

Fer refrained from rolling her eyes. Pucks . . . ! “Okay,
Robin
,” she said. “The Way is closed, so Arenthiel can't get through until morning with his hunt. That means you have to stay here.”

The painted puck stepped up beside them. He spoke to the leader, not to Fer. “We need an escape route.”

“The Way is closed,” Fer repeated. “There's no way to get into my land, or out.”

The painted puck turned to Fer, and a growl rumbled in his chest. “You're trapping us here,” he said, his eyes narrowed.

“It's so you'll be safe,” Fer shot back. “I'm going into the human world to get Rook, and I'll come back as soon as I can with him, and in the morning this Way will open again and you can leave if you want to.” They stared at her. They didn't have to stay to fight Arenthiel with her, she meant. “All right?” she added.

Their only answer was more growling.

Fine. Typical pucks. She spun around and stalked away from them, across the clearing. Phouka was waiting in the shadows on the other side.

“Your brothers are making me crazy,” Fer muttered as she swung up onto his back.

He snorted in answer and trotted through the forest, heading for the Lady Tree.

When she got there, she met Fray, waiting with Twig beside her. They both stood with arms folded, looking stubborn. They wanted to come with her, Fray said. Twig nodded.

“You won't be safe in the human world,” Fer explained. “You know that. And I need you to stay here and look after the pucks. They're not going to like being trapped here, but it's the only way to keep them safe.”

“All right, Lady,” Fray agreed. “Do you want us to save that for you?” She pointed at Fer's head.

She put her hand up and felt the twig and leaf crown, still fresh and green under her fingers. “No,” she decided. “I'll wear it. And don't worry. I'll be back before morning.”

At least, she hoped she would be.