“And yet,” said Martin, “even in exile, you’ve managed to talk at least two piskeys into conspiring against their Joan and risking their lives to start a rebellion on your behalf. Do you think they’d do that for just anyone?”
Ivy slumped against the door of the stall, weary of the whole conversation. “They’re my friends,” she said. “And they care about the Delve as much as I do. Of course they would.”
Martin leaned closer, bracing his palm on the post above her head. His breath warmed her lips as he murmured, “I think you’re wrong.”
Then he pulled back and walked away.
“Another sandwich, Martin?” asked Marigold.
Outside the kitchen window the sun was setting, slanting between the curtains and laying a golden stripe across the table. Martin slid his chair sideways, out of the light. “I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but no. I’ve had enough.”
He’d avoided Ivy all afternoon—not that she’d made any real effort to seek him out after their conversation in the barn, but he’d still kept his distance from wherever she happened to be. Yet he’d smiled at her when they sat down to dinner, so she didn’t think he was holding a grudge. He seemed more preoccupied than anything, and she wondered what was on his mind.
“I’m going to make up a bed for you in the study,” Cicely announced with pride. “Ivy and I are sharing Molly’s room, and Mum gets the big room across the tunnel—I mean the corridor. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Quite fair,” agreed Martin. “But there’s no need. I won’t be staying tonight.”
“Why not?” asked Cicely.
“Cicely,” chided Marigold, but Ivy’s little sister was undaunted. She kept looking at Martin, expectant.
“As it happens,” Martin said, “I’ve been investigating a mystery of sorts. I’ve just been offered a potentially valuable clue, and I’ve decided it’s worth pursuing. But I might be gone for some time.”
Had he made some new discovery about the spriggans while he was away? Or had her dreams told him more than she’d thought? “For how long?” Ivy asked.
“I’m not sure yet.” Martin rose and inclined his head to all of them in turn. “Good night, sweet ladies. Enjoy the house.” He took a step back, measuring the open window with his gaze—and only then did Ivy guess what he intended.
“Wait!” she cried, but it was too late. His form blurred, and Cicely let out a squeak of astonishment as the ghostly white shape of a barn owl flapped across the kitchen and vanished into the yard.
“Did you see—” she spluttered. “How did he do that?”
“All male faeries can take bird-shape,” said Marigold, picking up Martin’s plate and carrying it to the sink. “They aren’t born with wings like… like most females, so that’s how they fly.”
And knowing Martin, he’d taken owl-shape in front of Cicely just to provoke this conversation. He knew Ivy hadn’t told her family about her shape-changing; apparently he’d decided it was time she did. But what would be the point of talking about it when Ivy could no longer bear to take swift-shape, and she was too weak to change into anything else?
“I wish I could become a bird,” said Cicely wistfully.
“Why?” asked Ivy, rising to help clear the table. “You have perfectly good wings of your own.”
“Only when I’m piskey-size, though, and it’s not like I’ve had much chance to use them. Down in the Delve, they mostly just got in the way.” She rested her chin on her hand. “It doesn’t seem fair that boys get different magic from girls.”
“Piskey magic and faery magic is different too,” Ivy reminded her. “We can do some of the same things, but every group of magical folk has their own specialties. Isn’t that right, Mum?”
Marigold turned on the water and began filling the sink. “So it seems,” she said. “Even different faery wylds sometimes have different approaches to magic—and some faeries are better at certain spells than others. But I wonder if that’s more a matter of familiarity than anything else. It’s hard to cast a spell successfully unless you’ve watched another faery or piskey cast it first. And if you don’t believe you can do something, you probably won’t.”
Perhaps that was why Ivy couldn’t turn herself into a peregrine. Because deep down, in spite of her longing, she didn’t really believe. How could a small, skinny piskey-girl become something so fierce and powerful?
“Could Mica learn to turn himself into a bird, then?” asked Cicely. “If he saw Martin do it?”
“He wouldn’t even if he could,” said Ivy. “He told me once that piskeys don’t do that kind of thing.”
“Why not?” When Ivy didn’t answer, she turned to Marigold. “Mum, do you know?”
“I’m not certain,” Marigold replied, reaching for a dishcloth. “But I think it might have something to do with the spriggans.”
Ivy nearly dropped the cutlery she was holding. “Spriggans? What about them?”
“When I was growing up in the Delve, I heard a droll-teller say that spriggans could change their form at will,” Marigold said. “It was one of the things that made them so terrifying, because there was no way to tell what they really looked like. But piskeys were different, he said, because they were true to their own nature. They might grow larger or smaller, but their bodies would always look the same.”
True to their own nature. Mica had said something like that the first time Ivy had asked him about shape-changing, too. Was that why he’d turned his back on Ivy when he realized she could take swift-form? Because in his eyes, that made her no better than a spriggan?
“Ugh.” Cicely made a face. “I never thought of that. Do you mean spriggans could even disguise themselves as piskeys, if they wanted?”
“I don’t know,” said Marigold. “Perhaps.” She took the dishes Ivy had stacked and slid them into the dish-water. “But I’ve never seen a spriggan, and I doubt they still exist. Now both of you, clear out and leave the washing-up to me. You’ve done enough work for today.”
Hidden behind the carn, the boy wrapped his thin arms around himself and wept until he felt hollow. But the tears had dried on his wind-burned cheeks before the knockers sheathed their knives, shouldered their thunder-axes, and disappeared.
Once the quietness of the valley had felt comforting, like a well-kept secret. Now it was deathly, and the boy had no desire to stay any longer. But where could he go? His old foster-clan might take him back, but first he’d have to find their winter lodgings, and that would be far from easy. Traveling on foot with little magic to protect himself, he’d fare no better than his mother had, and likely worse.
Perhaps he could hide among the humans for a while. He’d heard of spriggans who’d slipped their hungry babes into human cradles, and others who disguised themselves as wandering crowders to beg meals and shelter. He had no fiddle and not even a blind woman could have mistaken him for a baby, but perhaps some kind-hearted humans might take pity on him nonetheless.
Of course the carn held wealth aplenty, but the boy knew better than to use it. The coins in the Grey Man’s hoard were ancient, and the humans would be sure to ask where they’d come from. No matter how the boy hedged, it wouldn’t take them long to guess he’d found treasure—and then they’d never let him go until he led them to it. That would not only be a betrayal of his father’s last wish, it would be the worst disgrace that any spriggan could suffer, and no clan would ever welcome him again.
So his pockets would have to stay empty, even if his belly did too. But he should at least look through the ruins of the fogou before he left. Not that he had any hope his people were still alive, but he might find a weapon or some provisions to take with him. The boy pushed himself upright and started down the slope into the valley.
If the destruction had looked horrifying from above, it was worse at close quarters. The once-solid roof of the tunnel had shattered into cracked slabs and jagged shards plunging deep into the earth, and the twisted bodies of spriggan warriors lay tumbled in the wre
ckage. Telling himself not to look at their faces, the boy clambered down into the pit and began his search.
It didn’t take him long to find a knife, though it wasn’t easy to pry it out of the dead warrior’s hand and even longer to undo the sheath that went with it. The boy was so thin that he had to wrap the belt around himself twice, but the leather was only slightly torn, so it should hold. He tugged his ragged shirt down over it and kept searching.
He was picking his way among the rocks, his eyes on a dusty scrap of fabric that looked like a cloak, when something shifted beneath his feet. He tried to leap clear as the stone tipped over, but his feet skidded out from under him, and with a cry he tumbled into the dark.
He landed hard on the floor of the tunnel, dirt and pebbles showering around him. Instinctively he flung his arms over his head, expecting to be crushed. But the rock had stuck fast on an outcropping, and moved no further. The boy uncurled, licking blood from his bitten lip, and got to his feet.
He’d landed on the floor of the passage, but there was no easy escape from this level: both ends of the fogou had collapsed. His best chance was to climb the jagged pile of rocks in front of him, if it would hold. The boy spat into his palms, rubbed them together, and started to climb.
The first stone he stepped onto on held firm, as did the next. But he’d scarcely put his weight on the third stone when it dislodged in a heart-juddering shower of rubble, leaving him dangling by his fingertips. Gritting his teeth, he toed for a new foothold…
And a hand closed around his ankle.
The boy clung to the rock pile, too shocked to move. Terror seized him as the hand groped his leg, and he bit his lip to stifle a scream. Then a groan floated up from below him: “Help… me.”
He’d seen the fogou collapse, dust billowing from the wreckage. Surely no spriggan born, no matter how strong or cunning or even lucky, could have survived such devastation. Yet as he wavered those fingers clutched at him again, weak but undeniably real.
Swallowing his fear, the boy dropped to the floor and began digging at the pile with both hands, pulling out rocks and tossing them aside. Before long his fingers were bleeding and his back ached, but he kept working doggedly until he’d cleared a space large enough for the trapped warrior to crawl out.
Something inside him had hoped, against all reason, that his father had survived. But as the man’s head and shoulders emerged and he saw that blunt-featured face with its bristling black beard, he knew better. It was Helm, the Grey Man’s oldest and most trusted companion.
“So, lad,” Helm wheezed, heaving the rest of his body free. “You got away. Anyone else?”
The boy shook his head.
“Ayes, well.” Helm coughed again. “We can’t all be lucky at once.” He dropped his forehead against his blood-streaked arm and lay panting a moment. Then he gripped the stones with one big hand and staggered to his feet.
His hair was grey with rock-dust, and an ugly gash crossed his brow. His sleeves and trousers were ripped in several places, showing bloody scrapes beneath. But his stout leather jerkin was intact, and his limbs looked whole.
“The Grey Man’s dead. Shaper rest him.” Helm fell back against the wall of the tunnel, gazing up at the light filtering through the rocks above. Grime had settled into the lines of his face, making him look craggier than ever.
“He shoved me away, when the roof cracked,” he said. “Then he used the last of his power to shield me, so I wouldn’t be crushed with the rest. The greatest spriggan chief in all Kernow, giving up his life for an old soldier with barely a coin to his name. And do you know why?”
The boy shook his head.
“I asked him—begged him—to let go.” Helm’s eyes were dark beneath his bushy brows. “It was my place to die with my chief, and I thought the knockers would finish me off anyway. But he told me I had to live, and look after his son.”
Heat pricked the boy’s eyes, though he’d thought all his tears long spent. He’d failed in nearly every way a son could fail his father, but the Grey Man had died thinking of him.
“That would be you, lad,” said Helm gruffly, clapping him on the back. “A sorry little mouse as ever ate crumbs, but we’ll make a man of you yet.” He jerked his head toward the shifting heap of rubble. “We’ll give our folk a proper farewell, and then be on our way.”
“Ivy.”
The whisper was so soft she would never have heard it, if it hadn’t been a hand’s breadth from her ear. Ivy’s eyes flew open to find Martin stooping over her in the darkness, holding a finger to his lips.
“We need to talk,” he said, glancing at Cicely’s blanket-huddled shape on the far side of the bed. “Get dressed and meet me outside.” Then he vanished.
Ivy slid out of bed, her heart hammering, and pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and slim trousers. The house was dark and utterly still, the sky outside so thick with cloud that not a single star shone through. She combed her curls with her fingers, shook off the last foggy remnants of sleep, and willed herself out into the night.
Martin stood by the corner of the barn, waiting for her. He straightened as she approached, and it struck her that he seemed ill at ease—almost, if she hadn’t known him better, shy.
“I thought you’d gone,” she said.
His smile was half grimace. “So did I, at first. But then I thought… it was only fair to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I may have found the other spriggans. Or at least one of them.”
“What? Where?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Martin admitted. “It may be a trick, or even a trap. That’s why I didn’t say anything before. I hadn’t decided whether it was worth the risk.” He leaned against the stone wall, gazing across the field to the dark line of trees beyond. “But this time when I went to see Thom Pendennis, he asked me straight out if I was human. And when I asked what sort of question that was, he told me I wouldn’t be the first spriggan who’d come into his shop to sell treasure.”
Ivy drew a sharp breath. So Thom had known, or at least suspected, all along. “Go on.”
“He told me there’s an older spriggan named Walker who’s been bringing him bits of his family trove for years. He wondered if I knew him, and when I said no, he looked surprised. ‘I’d thought he must be an uncle of yours, or some sort of relative at least,’ he said. ‘You look so much alike—’”
Martin’s voice cracked on the last word, and he turned his head away. He had to clear his throat before he spoke again. “He offered to arrange a meeting, but I said I’d think about it. Thom’s a shifty little man, and I had a feeling I might be better off trying to find this Walker on my own.”
No wonder he’d been gone so long. “But you haven’t?” Ivy asked.
“No. So I’ve decided to take my chances with Thom after all,” he said. “No doubt he’ll want a bribe of some sort, or at least a reward if all goes well. But if Walker can tell me what happened to the other spriggans, or lead me to them… it’ll be worth it.”
The leaves stirred, and an apple fell with a thump from the tree at the corner of the barn. The clouds thinned and frayed apart, revealing the flashing lights of an airplane gliding west toward the sea. Ivy watched until it vanished, then said, “Well, I’m glad. I hope you find them.”
“Come with me.”
She looked at him, startled. He sounded serious, but surely he couldn’t mean it?
“What I said this afternoon—it was something splenitive and rash, as Hamlet would say.” His mouth bent wryly. “It would be foolhardy to attack your aunt, and you’d have little chance of surviving if you did. But if you’ve already warned your friends in the Delve about the poison, and they’re doing all that they can…” He spread his hands. “Do they need you any more? And now that Molly’s gone and your mother and sister are settled, do they really need you either?”
He did mean it. “But I can’t go to London,” Ivy stammered. “I’m supposed to meet Jenny and Matt again in two days, a
nd Molly’s promised to ring and tell me… something important. And anyway, I can’t fly.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Ivy said in frustration. “I’ve tried everything. It’s no use.”
“Then ride on my back, like you did before.” He took her hand. “But I need your eyes, Ivy. I need your dreams. I need someone to help me know the truth when I find it. I don’t want to do this alone.”
Ivy felt as though the Great Shaft had opened beneath her, and she was falling into it stomach-first. “Martin, I can’t.”
He released her abruptly and stepped back, his jacket rasping the stones. “What you really mean,” he said, “is that you don’t want to.”
“It’s not that—I have responsibilities! There are people counting on me, and it wouldn’t be right to—” She broke off, then added heavily, “I’m not like you, Martin. I can’t drop everything on a whim and run away.”
His expression turned icy. “My apologies,” he said. “I shouldn’t have troubled you with my whim.”
Oh, no. Had she really put it that way? “I didn’t mean,” she began, but Martin cut her off with a gesture.
“It doesn’t matter; I understand. Your loyalties are with your own people, as they should be. Steady and constant as the earth itself.” He clapped a hand to his heart and bent in a cool mockery of a bow. “Farewell, fair cruelty.”
“Martin, wait!” cried Ivy. “I haven’t told you—”
But he was already gone.
When Ivy woke the next morning she felt hollow, as though a cold wind were whistling through her bones. She’d never had the chance to tell Martin about her latest dream, and now he was gone—perhaps only for a few days, but it could also be weeks, or forever. After all, what reason had she given him to come back?
She could only hope that in finding Walker and perhaps the rest of his fellow spriggans, Martin would also find rest from his wandering. Because if he knew what it felt like to have a home and a people, maybe he’d understand why Ivy had made the choice she had.
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