She’d always liked the two men, and it was good to know that the time they’d spent trapped in the Claybane hadn’t dampened their sense of humor. But did they have to enjoy themselves quite so obviously? Ivy felt a flash of resentment on Jenny’s behalf—until she listened more closely, and realized that some of the men’s chortles were coughs.
Dread tightened Ivy’s chest. If even the piskeys who went outside every day were feeling the effects, the air in the Delve must be even worse than she’d feared. What if she’d been wrong about Gillian’s smoke-spell being harmless? Gillian had been friends with Ivy’s mother once, or pretended to be, so she knew about the poison lurking deep in the mine. Perhaps, in her last act of vengeful malice, Gillian had used her magic to worsen its deadly effects?
She was brooding over the thought when the next pair of hunters emerged, their drab miner’s trousers and waistcoats blending almost invisibly with the bracken. It was Pick and his young son Elvar, a skinny thirteen-year-old who’d just started training for the hunt. As quiet as the others had been noisy, they moved off toward the nearby wood, and soon were lost among the trees.
Minutes passed, and Ivy was beginning to think she’d seen the last hunting party of the evening, when the gorse stirred and a familiar brown cap and pair of broad shoulders emerged from the shadows. A fit, powerfully built young man, as tall for a piskey as Ivy herself was short. He pulled off the cap to scratch his head, and the sunlight glowed in his hair like molten copper.
Mattock. Ivy hadn’t known how much she’d missed that square, honest face of his, until now.
She’d had such good luck this morning in finding Jenny that Ivy half expected her luck to hold. Matt had always taken her seriously when nobody else did: if she told him what was happening in the Delve, he might be willing to help. But before she could land and take her own shape, Matt turned back and called, “Hey! Mica! Are you coming or not?”
Ivy’s hopes deflated. She should have known—Mattock and her brother were practically inseparable. They foraged together every morning and hunted together most evenings; they took turns milking the neighboring farmer’s cows after he’d gone to bed; and when the piskeys of the Delve needed goods that only the human world could provide, it was Mica and Matt who walked to the nearby city of Redruth and did the buying. She’d never catch Mattock alone, let alone convince him not to tell Mica that he’d seen her.
She wheeled to go, but then Matt spoke again, voice cracking in astonishment: “Ivy?”
Ivy’s wingbeats stuttered. Surely he didn’t mean—he couldn’t have guessed—Mica would never have told him—
Yet there he stood with cap in hand, looking straight up at her. Somehow, Mattock knew.
Once Mattock called out to her, Ivy didn’t dare stay any longer. Mica had warned her, even before he knew her secret, that the hunters of the Delve considered taking the forms of birds and animals a kind of blasphemy. If he’d told Matt about her shape-changing, he might have told the other hunters as well…
Ivy turned tail and flashed away, plunging into the shadows of the wood. She zigzagged through the trees, their sparse leaves and twisted branches blurring around her, and shot out across the river valley on the far side. Only when the Delve was far behind did she slow down, her heart still beating wildly with the nearness of her escape.
Yet now that her first shock had passed, Ivy couldn’t understand what had happened. The first time Mica had spotted her in swift form, he hadn’t recognized her at all: in fact he’d slung a stone that nearly killed her, believing she was Martin. So what had made Matt think that the lone swift circling the Delve was Ivy?
Whatever the answer, one thing was clear: her swift-form was no longer a disguise. If she came back to see Jenny tomorrow as promised, she’d have to make herself invisible and climb up to the Engine House on foot.
Gradually her pulse settled, and Ivy stroked on through the darkening sky. In bird-form she couldn’t feel the copper bracelet Martin had given her—like her clothing it was tucked away in some magical between-space, waiting until she took her own shape again. But she resolved to check it as soon as she reached the carn. She needed to talk to someone, and if anyone could help her make sense of what had just happened, it would be Martin.
As she glided through the twilight, watching the glowing lights of human vehicles chase each other along the road below, she wondered how he was faring. He’d seemed enthralled by the treasure they’d taken from the carn, his eyes glittering with pleasure as the riches spilled between his hands. Yet at the same time, he’d been determined to sell it as soon as possible. It was as though the spriggan and faery aspects of him were at war: the part that longed to hoard, and the part that needed to bargain.
Ivy only hoped he wasn’t regretting his decision now. Perhaps he’d been right that the other faeries had no reason to begrudge him assassinating their Empress, but they had little reason to trust him, either. From what little Ivy knew of Martin’s history, he’d met the Empress when he was little older than Elvar or Jenny’s brother Quartz, and he’d gone willingly into her service. She’d groomed him from a ragged urchin into a sleek young courtier, ready to scheme and betray and even kill at her command; she’d even taught him to lie, as few magical folk could. Ivy wasn’t sure what had finally turned Martin against his mistress, but she suspected even he would agree his repentance should have come a good deal sooner than it did…
A dark shape flashed across Ivy’s vision, and something struck her outstretched wing. Knocked off course, she tumbled into a spiral, beak open in a shrill of alarm. She had barely an instant to recover before her assailant plunged at her again.
A hobby! Martin had warned her about these small, fast-stooping falcons, one of the few predators that could catch a swift. She tried to dive, but too late: the hobby was on top of her, talons gripping her body. Ivy screamed again and struggled to escape, but the bird’s grip only tightened. Pain stabbed into her as its claws pierced her skin, and that cruel, hooked beak came down for the killing blow—
A second, stunning collision buffeted Ivy sideways, the hobby tumbling with her. For an instant its death-grasp loosened, and Ivy twisted and beat her wings in a last attempt to free herself. But when she spotted the newcomer who had crashed into them, her courage withered.
She’d hoped it might be Martin in his other bird-shape, come to rescue her. But it was a bigger falcon, raking at the smaller bird with its own powerful talons. The hobby shrieked and dove away, but the other falcon easily overtook them, swerving for another strike. Ivy’s captor veered away from it just in time.
At first Ivy had thought the two birds were fighting over her, but now she understood: the falcon was attacking the hobby itself. And in the confusion of that aerial battle, Ivy realized what she had to do. She stopped her frantic flapping, marshaled her fear-scattered wits, and willed herself into piskey shape.
As her weight increased tenfold, the hobby could no longer hold her. Its claws ripped across Ivy’s ribcage and then she was falling free, the ground rushing up toward her at dizzying speed. She had to change back into a swift before she crashed, but the wind was deafening and her brain was whirling so fast she couldn’t think—
Ivy transformed at the last instant, pulling herself out of the dive a mere stump’s height from impact. The pain in her side took her breath away, but she forced her trembling wings wide and skimmed over the scrubby ground until momentum could carry her no further. Then she changed to her own shape again and collapsed into the heather, spent.
The falcons were still screaming at each other in the distance, but Ivy had no strength to lift her head, let alone care who won the battle. She’d strained every muscle in her arms, her spine ached all the way to her tailbone, and the hobby’s talons had raked deep scratches along her side.
How could she have been so foolish? A lone swift flying through the September dusk, when most of her kind had flown off weeks ago—of course the hobby had been drawn to her. And no wonder Mattock, a hunter
trained to know the habits of birds and animals, had guessed she was an impostor.
She’d been so proud of her ability to take bird-shape, so confident in her powers of flight. She’d thought she could outrun any danger, outfly any predator that crossed her path… but now Ivy understood, with cruel clarity, how foolish and arrogant she’d been.
She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t special. Even in bird-shape, she was small and fragile as ever. And now, no matter what time of year she flew or how many others of her kind flocked around her, Ivy would never feel safe as a swift again.
It was a long time before she could sit up, and the effort forced an involuntary groan from her lips. But she couldn’t lie in the open all night. The sky was almost black now, the air growing cooler, and without the insulation of her close-packed feathers, Ivy was starting to shiver.
This wasn’t the valley she’d been flying for, with its circle of low hills and the carn watching over it. The hobby’s attack had driven her off course, but her directional sense told her she’d landed a good two minutes’ flight south and a half a minute west of her target. Which was no distance at all for a healthy swift in daylight, but an impossible journey for Ivy. Her injuries had left her too stiff and shaky to fly, even if she could muster the courage to do so.
Her only option was to grow to human size and limp to meet Martin on foot. But she felt weak and light-headed, and in her current state she’d be lucky to make it halfway…
Lucky. She had been, hadn’t she, despite everything? If she hadn’t dropped onto a downdraft at the right instant, the hobby would have struck her with both feet, paralyzing her. But it had just missed the first time, giving Ivy a chance to fight back. And then that other falcon had attacked and distracted the hobby until she could escape, so that was two strokes of extraordinary good fortune. If the bigger bird had shown up any later, she’d be dead.
Still, Ivy didn’t feel particularly fortunate at the moment. Blood was seeping through her sweater, and her teeth were chattering. She wrapped her arms around herself and stumbled forward, one labored step at a time.
Come on, she told herself. At least try for the top of that next hill, you can surely make it that far. But the ground was boggy from the morning’s rain, and the ridge was further than it looked. Soon Ivy’s shoes were soaked through, her socks squelching inside them, and it took all her strength to keep pulling her feet out of the mud and slog on. She slipped and fell twice before she reached firmer ground, and by the time she struggled up the rocks to the summit, she was spent. Ivy swayed, gazing dully at the scattered lights of the farms and houses below—all humans, all strangers, all too far away—then limped toward a nearby outcropping in search of shelter.
Her night-vision was fogged with weariness, and her wounded side felt as though it had been flayed and rubbed with salt. The wind up here was harsher than it had been below, but she couldn’t walk any further. Ivy collapsed against the rocks, heedless of the damp ground, and pressed her fingers to the copper bracelet. Was it getting warmer? Between the alternating chills and sweats that gripped her body, it was hard to be sure.
I’m sorry, Martin, she thought foggily. I tried… Then her chin dropped onto her chest, and she fell into exhausted sleep.
When he first heard the muffled sobs in the middle of the night, the boy thought he must be dreaming. Even once he wakened enough to know the sound was real, he couldn’t imagine where it was coming from. Certainly none of the older boys and men sleeping around him, wrapped in their cloaks, had done anything but mumble and snore for as long as he’d shared their company. And since joining the band he’d discovered that crying gained him nothing but a cuff on the ear, so he’d learned to keep his tears hidden.
Which meant it must be one of the women weeping. But why? Spriggan-wives weren’t badly treated, as far as he could tell; they were treasured, protected, sheltered from all harm, and whatever comforts the clan could provide were always given first to them. There were too few females among their people, and they bore children too rarely, for anyone to take their presence for granted.
Yet he couldn’t be sure the women were happy, either. It was hard to know what they were thinking, because their faces, like the rest of their bodies, were invisible. So if he went out into the passage, he’d either see a shadow or nothing at all… and the boy wasn’t sure he liked the thought of talking to a ghost. Not even a living one.
Still, it was hard to lie there, listening to her weep. Perhaps he had better get up after all, if only to hush her before she woke the others. The boy turned over, unwrapping himself from his cloak. Then he tiptoed past his sleeping clan-brothers, careful not to step on their weapons or kick over the pile of cooking gear, and slipped into the passage of the fogou beyond. Groping along the stone wall, moss slippery beneath his fingers, he crept toward the exit.
He’d feared he might trip over the woman before he saw her. But there she sat with her knees drawn up and her head bowed over them, shockingly visible. Her moon-colored hair veiled her face and spilled down her back to the floor, and what he could see of her skin was covered in jewelry—a ring or two on each finger, bracelets stacked from wrist to elbow, and solid armbands that came halfway to the shoulder. A leather purse hung at her side, heavy with coins by the shape of it, and her belt was crusted with gems and gold.
The boy stood paralyzed, his mouth dry. No man of the tribe, not even a boy-child like himself, should ever look at another man’s wife or know the size of his hoard, and he had just seen both. His only chance was to back away quickly, and return to his bed before anyone could suspect—
The woman looked up sharply, like a roe deer scenting danger. He caught a glimpse of the emerald circlet on her brow before she flickered out of sight. “Who’s there?” she demanded. “Show yourself!”
Unforgivable as seeing her had been, disobeying her would be worse. That was the voice of the chief’s own wife, first among all women. Shakily the boy stepped out of the shadows, walked quickly to where she had been sitting, and knelt by what he hoped were her feet. “Forgive me, lady,” he stammered.
The treasure she wore chimed and rattled as she rose. He braced himself for the curse, the spittle, the backhanded blow—but instead an invisible hand, soft despite the weight of the rings, cupped his face and turned it to the light.
“My son,” she whispered, as though he were a wonder.
The Grey Man’s wife, his mother? How could that be? True, he’d been taken from his birth-mother as soon as he was weaned and given to another clan for fostering, and by the time the Grey Man and his band came to claim him he’d had no idea who his parents were. But he’d felt sure he was no one important. How could he be when the chief had never spoken to him, or spared him more than an indifferent glance? All he’d been allowed to do these past few weeks was tag along behind the older boys, carrying whatever burdens they gave him and eating whatever scraps they threw his way. He didn’t even have a proper name.
But if this strange, lovely woman wanted to claim him as her own, it wasn’t his place to tell her she was wrong. He gazed at the air where he thought her face must be, waiting for her to go on.
She was silent so long that he might have thought she had left him, if not for the slight pressure of her fingers against his skin. At last she raised him up, tenderly, and took his hand in her invisible one.
“Come with me,” she whispered. “There are things I need to tell you.”
Alone on the moorland, Ivy stirred against the stones. Her side stung worse than ever, and her skin burned with fevered warmth. She needed shelter, but the night was too black, and her weariness too strong. She slumped, and even the icy rake of wind across her face could not stop her from falling back into exhausted sleep.
“Can you work a spell of silence, little one?” the chief’s wife whispered as she led him toward the fogou’s south exit, a low portal framed by ferns and long grasses. “So no one will hear us, even if they wake?”
The boy nodded, shy and proud. He
held up one hand, feeling the spell take shape and settle across the tunnel behind them. Then he turned to where he thought she must be and said, “It’s done.”
Her lips brushed his temple. “My clever boy.” She made him sit down, then with a faint jingling she seated herself across from him and said, “Look at me.”
The boy squinted, trying to focus on nothing. The air shimmered, the shadows brightened and took shape…
And all at once he could see her, even more beautiful than he’d imagined. Up-slanted eyes like his own, but large and dark as a doe’s. Delicate features in a heart-shaped face, the points of her ears just visible through her silken hair. Chains and pendants draped her neck and spread out across her collarbones, like a breastplate of gold and silver with jewels winking out of it. And spread behind her, quivering, were a pair of glassy wings like a dragonfly’s—wings unlike any he’d ever seen or heard of before, even in the old stories his foster-auntie used to tell him.
“What are you?” he breathed.
She gave a small, sad smile. “Some call us the Pobel Vean, the Small People of Kernow,” she told him. “Others call us the Fair Folk, or faeries.”
The boy gazed at her, too awed to speak. She stroked his hair as she went on, “When I was younger I ran away from home, looking for adventure. I was wild and willful and sure of my power, and I thought I could be happier on my own.” Her hand stilled, then dropped away. “I was a fool. Before long I was captured by a human who… was not kind to me, and if your father hadn’t found me I would have died.”
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